Sacred Treason

by James Forrester

  Clarenceux’s thoughts kept him occupied for much of the journey. Rebecca too was silent. She found it difficult to understand all that had happened in the last three days. On Friday morning she had woken up as usual with Henry beside her. Later that day, he had told her to go to Mistress Barker’s house and had left with a tearful good-bye that evening. And now he was dead. She was in hiding, her future bound to Henry’s friend. She had even shared a bed with the man, and he had held her, at her request. She could not have predicted any of these things, nor any of the feelings she had had since first calling on Clarenceux. She had met him many times over the years, and even though she had only occasionally spoken to him herself, she listened with admiration to his conversation. His self-confidence and intelligence were very attractive, but she had always seen him as different from her. He was important, a gentleman, educated, and well connected. He was barely a part of the world that she and Henry shared. Or, rather, they were barely a part of his.

  Poor Henry. He had worshipped Clarenceux. “The most noble man of my acquaintance” was how he used to describe him when talking about him. Henry was in awe of his learning and his social position. Clarenceux had been a soldier yet disapproved of war. He spoke with lords and knights yet valued his acquaintances among the lower classes. Never did Henry fail to mention that Clarenceux had been the herald who declared war on France. In Henry’s mind, that portentous moment made Clarenceux’s the voice of England, and the man himself the spokesman of the throne. It was too much—that her fate and his should suddenly have been woven into one and her husband killed.

  “There it is,” said Clarenceux, surprising her out of her reverie.

  Rebecca looked ahead and saw an ancient stone mansion between the leafless trees. It was positioned on a ridge, looking out over the Thames valley to the north, with woods around it. She could see the lead roof of the great hall adjacent to a large crenellated tower and buildings around a courtyard in front, with more buildings behind the hall. There was ivy in places: it was like a castle that time itself had chosen to defend. She could imagine men-at-arms riding out from the gatehouse to tilt at one another. Perhaps their ghosts still did. It was a picturesque but crumbling testimony to the distant century in which it had been built.

  The view of the courtyard from under the gatehouse arch confirmed her initial impression of antiquity. The old windows looking outward from the house had been small, barely larger than arrow slits, but those overlooking the courtyard were much larger. The house had been built defensively, in an age before guns were common. Large stone cisterns caught rainwater from the roof. To one side of the courtyard a spiral stone staircase in a ruined tower led nowhere—or, rather, it ascended into the past. The chamber to which it once had given access had long since vanished: the space in which men and women had talked, argued, fought, loved, and died was now graced only with walls of air.

  A servant boy ran over to take the reins of their horses as they dismounted in the grass-fringed outer court. There seemed to be a large number of servants carrying wood or buckets of water. Clarenceux led Rebecca across the courtyard and through a tall arch into a wide passage. When they turned into the hall she was confronted with a lofty space, sixty feet long and forty feet high. It appeared even more ancient than the exterior, for the walls were decorated with heraldic banners and moth-eaten tapestries, all overlapping with old swords, pikes, and bows. Long trestle tables indicated that the household ate together still, in the old fashion. On the dais was a table, as was usual; but above it was an old baldaquin, a canopy projecting out above the lord’s seat in the center. She had once been in the Guildhall in London and seen something similar, and it seemed like a relic from a remote age. Here was an old aumbry against the wall, its wood dented and dark, close to an old iron-bound chest. It was as if a magic spell had suddenly been broken and she had walked into a house from two hundred years ago, which had been forgotten by the rest of the world.

  There was a sound from a doorway to the left. A short man with a kind, round face appeared. “Good day to you, sir. I am James Hopton, chamberlain to…” He stopped himself and smiled. “Why, it’s Mr. Harley. I haven’t seen you for a long time. To think I was about to welcome you formally as a stranger. I humbly apologize. Here I am: chamberlain, steward, marshal, and general groom to Mr. Julius Fawcett, as I ever was. Sir, it is good to see you again.”

  “Thank you, Hopton. And where is Julius? In his chamber?”

  “No, coming fast to welcome an old friend,” called a voice from the dais. “William Harley, herald of the meritorious and fellow champion of the ancient and glorious dead, I spied you coming from afar. Welcome to you and your companion!”

  Julius was somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age—it was difficult to tell. Long black hair streaked with gray emanated wildly from his scalp in all directions. It was almost a surprise to see that a man with such outlandish hair was clean shaven. He was slim and wore a fur-trimmed black robe over a green velvet doublet trimmed with gold brocade. He was quick on his feet for his age, walking with neat, precise footsteps toward Clarenceux and Rebecca. As he approached she noticed that his eyes were brown and full of sparkle, and his fingers were long and thin, with a gold ring on each one.

  “Julius, heartily I greet you,” said Clarenceux, as he met his old friend with an embrace. “Allow me to introduce Rebecca Machyn, whose husband has produced an antiquarian work of especial interest. Goodwife Machyn, this is Julius Fawcett, gentleman and antiquary, direct descendant of the famous Sir John Fawcett who built this house in the reign of Edward the Third.”

  Julius noticed Clarenceux’s head. The expansive style was set aside in an instant. “You’ve been bleeding.”

  “Julius, I will be straight with you. Perhaps even blunt. Goodwife Machyn and I are trying to evade a royal sergeant-at-arms called Richard Crackenthorpe. He is an agent of Francis Walsingham, who is attempting to uncover a scheme that involved Goodwife Machyn’s husband, Henry Machyn, a man of the old religion. We have reason to believe Crackenthorpe has murdered Henry. He has certainly killed one of my servant boys and destroyed everything in my house. There was a fight, in the course of which I killed one of his soldiers. My wife has fled to her sister’s house in Devon, not far from Exeter, with the children. I come here begging for safety, food, the use of your horses, and advice. If I cannot rely on your support—and, as God is my witness, I can understand why you would not want to shelter us—then just say so, and we will be gone from here and leave you in peace.”

  Julius shook his head. “William, you cannot do me the honor of seeking my protection and then insult me by suggesting I am so inconstant as not to stand by you in your hour of need. If anything were to happen to you, I would not forgive myself. You must stay here. Money is in short supply, as well you know, but I can afford to feed you and shelter you. My noble progenitor, Sir John Fawcett, did not build thirty-five chambers in this house for the sake of my servants.”

  Clarenceux embraced his friend again. “You are a good man, Julius. I knew you would stand by me. Thank you.”

  Julius waited a moment while Clarenceux recovered his composure. “Actually, I have my own reasons for wanting to thwart Francis Walsingham. Did you know he grew up at Scadbury Park, the next manor? I’ve hated the devious little runt since he was ten years old. But let us go up to my study. I have spiced wine and Naples biscuits to warm you. It is chilly in this old hall when it is empty. Warming to the soul but cold to the fingers.”

  ***

  Rebecca learned much about Julius and Clarenceux that afternoon. Both were animated: there was never a lull in their conversation or a moment of idle talk; everything they discussed was a matter of importance. She reflected on how much Henry would have liked to be there, to see his hero talking so earnestly with a man he clearly respected, trusted, and considered his equal in every way.

  They were sitting at a table in the center of a room full of books. She had been impressed by the number of volumes in Clare
nceux’s study, but this upstairs chamber was both lined with books and stacked with them. Piles of them lay on the floor. Some were left open, heaped on one another. Each wall was lined with book presses. Late afternoon sunlight entered the chamber through a courtyard window and she watched the dust twisting and drifting in the air, hearing Clarenceux explain to his antiquarian friend everything that had happened over the last three days.

  She learned how many adversities Clarenceux had kept to himself. He spoke freely with Julius about recent events—about Henry’s visit, the chronicle, his journey across London by night, and his first meeting with Crackenthorpe. The account of his interrogation and subsequent sufferings in the cellar of Walsingham’s house disturbed her. His emotion when describing to Julius the religious conviction he had felt in the cellar moved her. His tears on describing the sight of his dead servant boy in his manservant’s lap made her own heart weep. She had not realized before how guarded he had been in speaking to her.

  Through all the conversation, Julius listened intently, asking questions and clarifying details. Attention turned to the chronicle: both men pored over her husband’s uneven handwriting. Julius had no more idea than Clarenceux about the meaning of the Arthurian names and the dates. But as he remarked, at best they had just four of the nine names and only two dates.

  “I should point out,” said Julius, “if Henry Machyn said that only you will understand the secret of his chronicle, then I have to presume that my knowledge will not help you. All I can really offer you is a safe harbor.”

  “That is something. There must be a hundred hiding places in this old house.”

  “Oh, indeed there are. Although I am sure your enemies are used to searching old houses. But as it happens”—Julius drained the last of his wine—“William, I am going to show you something that you have not seen before. Something I have never even told you about. I must swear you to secrecy.”

  “Of course. And Goodwife Machyn?”

  Julius paused and looked at her. He gave Clarenceux an inquiring look.

  “She has already saved my life once, as you have heard.”

  “Yes, I was listening. But I wanted to hear you say it.” Julius got up from his seat. He took down a large volume from a shelf nearby and placed it on the table. He opened it, so they could see it was a Bible.

  “Both of you, place your hands on it.”

  Clarenceux and Rebecca did so, their two hands side by side on the holy page.

  “Do you both swear never to breathe a word of what you are about to see to anyone else, at the peril of your immortal soul and the judgment of almighty God?”

  “I do,” they both said.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Good. Follow me.”

  Julius led them out of his library and through a series of three chambers with interconnecting doors. The fourth was a small antechamber with a fireplace: Julius’s writing room. Flames quietly flickered around several thick pieces of oak on a pile of ash and embers. The room was warm and light, with a large window facing the courtyard and a large, faded tapestry covering much of the walls. There was a chest and a single chair and table here, together with quill and ink and pen holder, and several piles of dusty books.

  Julius lifted the lid of the chest, took out a couple of lanterns, and removed the candles. Having lit the first candle at the fire, he reinserted it and passed it to Clarenceux. Then he lit his own.

  “Follow me, and be careful on the steps.”

  He lifted a corner of the tapestry and pushed back a piece of oak paneling. Inserting his hand, he turned a handle on the other side and a small, concealed door opened—no more than four feet high. With the candle before him, he bent down and went through. Clarenceux gestured for Rebecca to go before him.

  Beyond the secret door was a straight stone staircase leading down, built within the wall of the tower. It was cold, dank, and dark, and smelled musty. Rebecca and Clarenceux both trod anxiously, feeling the unevenness of the stone steps, running their hands along the cold wall. One story below, there was a chink of light where a second secret door led into a ground-floor chamber: Clarenceux peered through and saw a disused room, the floor piled with papers and rusted horse armor, a shield, and a chest of tarnished pewter plates.

  They continued down, below ground. Here was an undercroft, wholly devoid of natural light. Clarenceux pushed the door and saw by his candle that the room was vaulted and empty apart from a couple of old broken barrels. He turned back to the staircase. From here on down it was a spiral; Julius was still descending.

  “Where does this lead?” Clarenceux asked, hearing the echo of his voice.

  “You’ll soon see.”

  They continued down for another forty or fifty steps. At the bottom, the stairs ended at the mouth of a passage. Clarenceux rubbed his knee, which hurt after the long descent. He lifted his lantern and inspected the rock but he could not identify it in the candlelight. He scraped the surface with his knife: it was soft and, where he had scratched it, white. It was chalk.

  The passage sloped gently. At the upper end, far away, was a vague spot of greenish daylight. The descending tunnel led into complete darkness.

  “There are miles of passages under the house,” said Julius, his voice echoing. He held his lantern aloft, illuminating his face as well as the passage. “They are the remains of an ancient quarry. The people who built them were probably looking for flints for their houses, but in so doing, they created a labyrinth. When my ancestor, Sir John Fawcett, bought the manor, he decided to build a fortified house on top and to fortify the passages beneath. The house and passages work together in a most subtle way. Up there, where you see that light, is an opening in the side of the hill, about forty feet beyond the corner of the outer courtyard and thinly covered in ivy. Now, come and look at this. Mind, do not walk in front of my lantern. Keep back behind me.”

  He led them up the passage toward the distant daylight.

  At first he walked at a normal pace but gradually he slowed. “Careful,” he warned. “There. Stop.”

  At first neither Clarenceux nor Rebecca could see anything. The hillside opening was still almost a hundred yards away, and the floor looked as dark and as uneven as the rest of the passage. But then something caught his eye, something not quite right. And as he looked at it, he began to see that the chalk he was looking at was not horizontal, or nearly so, as the floor would be, but vertical, dropping down from the level he stood on. In fact, it was the far side of a shaft, about twelve feet long, and running the entire width of the passage.

  “Take two steps further forward and you would fall into that chasm. It is forty-eight feet and three inches deep—I know because I measured it with a rope when I was a boy. You would land on a series of jagged rocks, placed there by Sir John to break bones, I imagine. And just supposing you managed to survive that, you would have to crawl in complete darkness through the tunnels for about half a mile—if you knew the way out.”

  Clarenceux looked up at the opening. “But why have the entrance outside the house? Why not inside where it would be better protected?”

  “Ah. He was a clever man, Sir John. If he was already in the house, he could just escape into the tunnels the way we came down, by the stairs. But the tunnels allowed him to think differently from his contemporaries. Most castles, you see, had a sally port so their occupants could escape quickly and safely. Using these tunnels, Sir John constructed a means whereby he could enter his house quickly and safely, even if being pursued. As you come into the tunnel, from the daylight you are blinded—it takes your eyes time to adjust. Of course he knew where he was going and would run on into the darkness for sixty-seven paces. Then he would stop and feel for a stone jutting out on the right-hand side of the wall at head height. One step beyond that is a concealed passage to the right, which goes through the chalk there and comes out just to your left. His pursuers would not know about the passage; you can’t see it, even with a lantern, as it’s concealed by the ro
ck. And coming from that direction the shaft resembles the rock floor, just as it does from here. If you are carrying a lantern, you do not even see a shadow. You do not realize there is a gap here until you step and feel nothing beneath your feet and fall into the darkness.”

  Clarenceux shuddered at the thought of falling so far underground—and not knowing what lay below.

  “Did he often need to kill his pursuers, your ancestor?” Rebecca asked.

  “Oh, yes. He was the sort of man who would grow bored in a castle during a siege and attack the enemy for his own amusement. He made enemies easily. A number of them ended up down there. Some of the bones I inspected as a boy might have belonged to wild animals but I expect most were human. Elsewhere in the tunnels there are three or four skeletons of men who died trying to find the way out.”

  “Who else knows their way through the passages?”

  “Outside the family, no one. Only the older servants know there are tunnels here and that the secret passage from my study leads to them. After twenty years’ service they are told. But, even then, they are strictly forbidden to come here. A few other people have been let into the secret from time to time—I sheltered a couple of priests down here last year. But otherwise, this underworld is my family’s own. That is why we have held onto this manor when all our others have been taken or disposed of. And that is why I swore both of you to secrecy. Now, come this way.”

  Julius led them back down the long sloping tunnel to a large cavern, from which several passages led off in various directions. He made one turn then another, his lantern guiding them through the labyrinth. The temperature was warmer than above—warmer even than the hall had been. The air was still and dead. Apart from their footfall, there was no sound at all—except once, when Clarenceux thought he heard the dripping of water.

  After five minutes, they came to what seemed to be a long chapel cut out of the chalk: a nave with columns supporting the roof, and side aisles too. Glints of silver sparkled on the walls. At the end was an altar, covered with an ancient gold-embroidered cloth. Six candles and a gilt-silver crucifix were set upon it. Julius lit the candles, and a golden glow filled the cave.