“Mistress Lowe, your husband’s here,” she called.
There was very little furniture in the room: just a bed lacking its curtains, a stool, a washing basin, a ewer, and an oak chest. There was no fireplace. Clarenceux saw Rebecca rise from the far side of the bed and turn toward them. He could not see her face, silhouetted by the lamp behind her. He made a small bow.
“Good evening,” he said, looking at her.
She nodded a reply and whispered “good evening” back to him. He noted her voice was weak. He also could see she was wearing a fashionable and expensive dress with elaborate shoulders and upper sleeves—she must have been back to Mistress Barker’s house.
He turned to the innkeeper’s wife. “I presume you are Goodwife Crawley?”
“Sir, I am.”
“Come inside, please.” He closed the door behind her. “Has my wife asked you about a sum of money left here for us some years ago? It was deposited by a man called Henry Machyn.”
She seemed anxious. “Sir, I don’t know that such a sum was ever left here. Maybe my husband knows…”
“Your brother Lancelot told us of the money. Maybe it would help if I reminded you it was left here for collection by King Clariance of Northumberland.”
“Lancelot says a lot of fanciful things. Comes of our having such a father. If he put himself to a hard day’s work, as myself and my husband do, he would have less time for dreaming about knights and kings.”
Clarenceux glanced at Rebecca. She had moved out of silhouette, and he could see the material of her dress, a rich velvet. She was even wearing a small ruff. But he was shocked to see that her face was wet with tears, reflected in the candlelight.
“I do not wish to discuss your late father but the money that was left here. Lancelot said it amounted to twenty pounds. Are you telling me that your brother was lying to us?”
She stiffened and her voice grew defensive. “If ever there was such a sum, it was not so great as twenty pounds. And it may already have been repaid. You will forgive me, but I should be getting back to my drinkers. I will ask my husband to speak to you in the morning.”
She left the chamber abruptly. Clarenceux let her go. He shut the door and sat down on the bed.
“As soon as something good seems to happen, something else comes along to set us back again.” He sighed, took off his robe and cap, and placed them on the chest beside the bed.
Rebecca had not spoken. He turned to her.
“Tell me,” he said gently.
The words tumbled down, dropped like heavy stones from her soul. “Henry’s dead.” Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, and she broke into a moan.
Clarenceux’s heart fell. He got up and moved to hold her, putting his arms around her, feeling her shoulders rising and falling with her grief. He held her tight. It was all he could do.
He remembered his conversation with Henry two nights earlier, and the moment he had read Henry’s prediction of his own death in the chronicle. He recalled all the occasions when Henry had come to receptions at his house or had been at other gatherings. He thought of the many times he had seen him following a funeral cortège, head bowed, dignified, correct, and respectful.
“I went to Mistress Barker’s house after leaving the Bull’s Head,” she said, wiping away her tears. “I was thinking that, if I was going to pretend to be the wife of a gentleman, then I should dress like a gentlewoman. There were soldiers everywhere, as I am sure you saw for yourself, but I walked straight past them. I decided that if you were bold enough to do it, Mr. Clarenceux, then I should be too. But Mistress Barker was solemn when I arrived. She told me the news. She had heard it from an acquaintance of Henry’s called James Emery, who had been told by a friend of his that he had seen Henry’s body being taken to the plague pit.”
“The plague pit?”
“They didn’t even give him a proper burial.”
Clarenceux let her cry into his shoulder. She has now lost everything precious to her: her husband, her daughters, and her home. Perhaps that is why she was so bold as to walk past the guards in Queenhithe and I was not.
“Goodwife Machyn,” he said, “there will be a time for mourning. But first we must have some food. We must eat to keep up our strength. If they are not going to give us the money we came for, then they can put our debt in a shopbook. I will pay at a later date.”
Rebecca broke away from Clarenceux and looked down at the sleeves of the elaborate dress.
“I feel ashamed.”
“Ashamed? Why?”
“Because I have no right to wear these clothes. And I am ashamed not to have been with my husband when he died. Ashamed to be here with you, pretending to be your wife when your real wife is riding down to Devon, no doubt in great fear. You should be with her. You should go after her.”
Clarenceux shook his head. The whole notion of Rebecca’s shame left him confused. “My wife—I know. I agree. I feel it, believe me. But I cannot properly look after her until this matter of the chronicle is resolved. She would not be safe and nor would my daughters. As for your shame… It is just the shock that has made you feel this way.”
“Maybe. I don’t know what has made me feel so…empty of pride.”
He searched for something to say to make her feel proud.
“You look beautiful in that dress. But you look no less beautiful in your own daily clothes. It is simply a finer frame for a lovely picture. So let us not say another word about shame. You are a fine woman and I am proud that you are prepared to pretend that I might be your husband.”
“Honeyed words, Mr. Clarenceux. But you do not need to flatter me.”
“Let us go down to the hall and take some supper.”
She nodded. “You had better put the robe back on.”
“The robe? Why?”
She wiped the tears from her face with her hand. “Look at your doublet. You can still see the dried blood.”
37
They were both quiet during the meal. The musicians struck up late in the evening, and people started dancing, but neither Clarenceux nor Rebecca did more than look sadly at the jollity. She cried several times, trying to conceal her tears from both Clarenceux and the other guests at the inn. She drank three mazers of wine, reaching for her cup each time she found herself failing to control her nerves. Then she would smile nervously at Clarenceux and look away.
As they made their way from the hall into the half-light of the screens passage and out into the cold darkness, he took her hand in his. He did it almost without thinking, and Rebecca accepted it. He led the way up to the gallery, feeling for the door with his other hand. He lifted the latch and they entered.
The candle was still burning in its holder on the wall, casting a small gold glow across the room. Neither of them spoke. Clarenceux sat down on the near side of the bed. He assumed that the far side was her preferred place of sleeping, as that was where he had seen her earlier. She knelt down by the washing bowl and rinsed her hands and face, drying them on a linen towel draped over the stool. He watched her for a moment, then directed his gaze at his feet. He took off his robe and laid it across the end of the bed. He unfastened his belt and shoes, placing both on the chest beside the bed. He removed his doublet and ruff, seeing the bloodstains and remembering the fight. It made him feel sick, and he forced his mind away from the memory. Looking away and taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Then he felt the cold as he stood in his shirt and hose. He pulled back the sheets and blankets and got into the bed. He turned on his side, facing away from Rebecca so she would see that he was not watching her.
Rebecca had to remove her dress. No one could have slept in a garment with upper sleeves so stiff with braid and brocade. She started to unfasten it behind her back and then found herself struggling with the ties which were too high for her to reach.
Clarenceux listened to her movements. That is a gentlewoman’s dress. Gentlewomen are dressed by their servants; they do not dress themselves. What Goodwife Machyn is t
rying to do is impossible. He felt sorry for her.
Rebecca stood still, silent, and cold—and growing colder.
“Is everything all right?” he asked quietly.
“I was thinking, did you look in the chronicle for the dinner which took place here? The dinner that Lancelot Heath mentioned, when all the Knights met together.”
“I did. It gives no names. In fact, it says very little: only that it took place.”
She fell silent again, struggling with the dress. Eventually she gave in to the inevitable.
“Mr. Clarenceux, I cannot unfasten this dress. Mistress Barker’s maid helped me into it. I am very sorry, but could I prevail upon you…”
Clarenceux slipped out of the bed and went around to her side. She turned her back to him and bent her head. He looked at her pale neck in the candlelight, then dropped his eyes to the fastening. It was quickly undone. He glanced at her neck again, and her back as the dress parted, and turned away.
“Do you leave the candle alight?” she asked as he climbed back into bed and lay down again, facing away from her.
“Yes. Let it burn down.”
He felt the ropes supporting the mattress shift with her weight. They were loose and had begun to lose their strength, with the result that the mattress sagged greatly in the center. He could sense that she was rigid, on her back, struggling not to roll toward him. He too was holding himself from rolling toward her.
“Mr. Clarenceux,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“This is very awkward. I fear we are bound to touch one another.”
“I think that is a great likelihood, Goodwife Machyn. I apologize if I keep you awake.”
“No, Mr. Clarenceux, it is I who should apologize to you. I would have taken the servant’s bed if there had been one.”
Clarenceux turned over and propped himself with an arm to prevent himself rolling into the middle. He saw her tear-streaked face in the light of the candle and lifted his other hand from under the sheets to put it on her shoulder.
“I feel for you,” he whispered.
She looked at him, shivering now. Cold and nerves—combined, they made her tremble all the more. “Mr. Clarenceux, I know we are only here together out of necessity, but I am grateful—”
“You do not need to keep calling me by my title.”
“Sir, I am only pretending to be a gentlewoman. I am a merchant taylor’s wife—I would not presume to address you in any other way.”
He was silent. He did not want to be the one who corrected her, to use the word “widow.”
“Everything I do is false,” she went on. “Every movement I make seems to be ungentle; every word I say is that of someone lower in class than you…”
“Goodwife Machyn, this anxiety is not going to help you sleep. We must rest. Try to stop shivering.”
She nodded. After a short while she swallowed. More tears fell on the pillow. “Will you…will you hold me for a moment, Mr. Clarenceux?”
Clarenceux put his arms around her shoulders awkwardly, trying to embrace her and yet not draw her close. But she came nearer, nestling against his body in the middle of the bed, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I just feel so…so lost.”
“Goodwife Machyn, you are not lost. I owe you my life for removing the chronicle.” He closed his eyes, remembering seeing Will Terry’s body in Thomas’s arms and Thomas’s tear-covered, lined face.
“You owe me nothing, Mr. Clarenceux. But thank you. Thank you for your understanding. Thank you for your warmth.”
38
Clarenceux was drifting in and out of consciousness. The scratching of rats in the walls kept him awake. So did Rebecca, shifting restlessly through the night. There were moments in his half-sleep when he thought he was lying at home, beside Awdrey, and the warmth of the woman beside him made him think of love. But then he would remember where he was, and he would turn both his body and his mind away from Rebecca and the dip in the bed to think about his wife. He thought about the chronicle too, and as soon as he did that, his mind fastened onto a whirling wheel and went around and around, trying to sort out the Knights’ names and dates. He kept pondering June 13, 1550, and June 20, 1557, searching for something that might connect them.
It would not be long until dawn. The candle had burnt down; it was completely dark. He felt Rebecca move again.
“Are you awake?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“What are you thinking?”
She said nothing for a long while. “I was wondering where we are going to go.”
“We will cross the river and go down to Chislehurst. A friend of mine lives there, a gentleman and an antiquary by the name of Julius Fawcett. He is a little outlandish, and very old-fashioned, but he is a good Catholic. He will be able to protect us for a few days.”
Rebecca moved her hand to his shoulder. “And you?” she asked. “What were you thinking?”
He shifted away from her and sat up with his back against the tester. “I was wondering what connects the two dates we know—the thirteenth of June 1550 and the twentieth of June 1557. A saint’s day? Or some other commemoration or anniversary? I don’t know. Henry said that he was sure I would recognize a quotation from the book of Job if I saw one. But what can the Bible have to do with those dates?”
“Both entries in Henry’s chronicle mention St. Paul’s Cross.”
“Yes, the abbot of Westminster and the bishop of Durham both preached there. It is the place where prelates deliver their most important sermons. But beyond that…”
The mattress undulated as she raised herself onto one elbow in the darkness. “What if the other Knights’ dates all relate to sermons preached by powerful men there?”
Clarenceux pictured the cross in London, in the cathedral yard. It was a large timber pulpit with a stone base and a lead roof, surmounted by a gilt cross, and probably the single most visited spot in the whole city. Huge crowds flocked there to listen to preachers: there were dozens of references to it in the chronicle. But there was no writing on it, no inscription. It was just a preaching place. “I can’t see that the cross can tell us anything,” he said.
“Perhaps Henry meant it to be a marker. Maybe all the Knights’ dates relate to a different man preaching at that cross. Maybe the Knights we are seeking are just decoys and the real agents are the people who preached at that place? Maybe it is them we need to see.”
Clarenceux thought about it. If Henry wanted to start a revolution, he certainly would have needed the help of important people, such as the abbot of Westminster and the bishop of Durham. But Goodwife Machyn cannot be right. “The bishop of Durham in 1550 was Cuthbert Tunstall. He died four years ago. And the abbot of Westminster is locked in the Tower.”
“Even so, that might have been what Henry intended when he and the others established the Knights.”
“No. He would not have been so insistent that I contact Heath if the chronicle was simply going to lead us to dead and imprisoned men. What we need are more Arthurian names and dates. Henry said that when all the Knights were gathered, the secret would become apparent to me, no one else. He must have written something into it that only I would know.”
“If we are going to go into Kent,” Rebecca asked, lying down in the warmth of the bed again, “does that not take us farther from the other Knights?”
“Do you want to stay in London and be arrested?”
“Where is your courage, Mr. Clarenceux?”
He swung his legs out of the bed and sat on the edge. “I left it behind, years ago, when the duke of Suffolk marched out of Boulogne.”
“I don’t believe you.”
For a long time he said nothing. “I want to make sure you are safe first. I will come back to London and find the other Knights afterward.”
Now it was her turn to be silent. He heard her move and felt the mattress shift.
“Are you well, Goodwife Machyn?”
“Yes, Mr. Clarenceux. I was just reflecting on how lucky I was. To be married to Henry for so many years. He was a considerate man too.”
39
Monday, December 13
It was a bright midafternoon when Clarenceux and Rebecca arrived in Chislehurst and approached Summerhill, the estate of Julius Fawcett. The wintry sun was going down, casting bright contrasts of shadow and light through the trees at the side of the road. They were riding horses they had hired at Greenwich with money obtained from Crawley, the innkeeper at Mile End. Crawley had relented and admitted that he and his wife had been given a sum by Henry Machyn. Hard times had forced them to borrow from it, and eventually it had all been spent. They had not expected that anyone would ask for it after so many years. In the end, he gave Clarenceux fifty-six shillings, which he claimed was all the money he had in hand and waived the three shillings and elevenpence of their bill. Clarenceux saw that the money was more than enough to pay for the ferry and horse hire and respected the man for his honesty too. He took just forty shillings.
As they rode through Kent, Clarenceux imagined that Summerhill would be to them as a castle was to a medieval knight. It would be their refuge, where they could keep the chronicle safe. There they could take the time to plan their actions and from there they could make sorties. A medieval army did this to impose control on the neighborhood; Clarenceux’s vision was that they would ride to London, enter the city secretly by way of the blacksmith’s gate, and find their way to the houses of the Knights. They could use Machyn’s niece’s warehouse for shelter or, in the north of the city, there were some houses that he knew well near Aldersgate. He had received a royal grant of the income from them when first he had been appointed a herald fifteen years ago, and he had taken it upon himself to inspect them regularly.
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