Sacred Treason

by James Forrester

  Clarenceux was astonished. There were jeweled crosses on the walls and reliquaries in carved niches in the columns. Books were piled high in one of the aisles, next to vellum documents in barrels. He could see a chest full of silver pattens, gilt-silver chalices, and more crosses.

  “Julius, you said money was in short supply.”

  “This is not my property. It belongs to the Church; I simply protect it. Much of it came from the abbeys, taken by abbots, priors, and monastic treasurers to stop it falling into the hands of the old king. Several monastic libraries are here and their archives. As you can see, your chronicle will be safe.”

  “There are no locks,” Rebecca observed. “Anyone could come down here.”

  Julius gave a little laugh. “Exactly. If I had told you that I would place the chronicle somewhere without a lock on it, you would have thought me foolish or mad. But locks tell you where secrets are hidden. Down here, the hidden and the secret are one. There is no need to lock things away—only almighty God and my sons and I know how to find this place. And God and we have an agreement. He won’t tell anyone if we don’t.”

  40

  You have left a trail of devastation across the city,” shouted Walsingham. “I thought when we spoke yesterday, in this very chamber, that the worst you had done was kill a servant boy.”

  “What are you accusing me of?” retorted Crackenthorpe, facing the small man on the other side of the table.

  “It’s not me accusing you. It’s Clarenceux’s manservant, and he has a host of witnesses. Not only did you hang the boy, but you also stole Clarenceux’s horses.”

  “I did not steal them. I took them as compensation for the murder of my brother.”

  “You had no right simply to appropriate another man’s property just because you felt aggrieved. There are courts—”

  “I don’t give a damn about courts. No one kills a member of my family, or blinds one of my men in one eye, and lives to brag about it. No one.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Crackenthorpe. It is not a personal matter. Regard it as such, and you will get yourself killed. You’ll betray me. You failed to keep Clarenceux in your sight—that is what matters most. That he killed one of your men is not my failing but yours. You should have posted more guards. You should have followed him yourself.”

  Crackenthorpe suddenly kicked over the chair in front of him and stamped on it, splitting the struts. He stamped again, then pulled off one of the legs and held it like a cudgel. He pointed it at Walsingham. “So it’s my fault that Clarenceux killed my brother? My fault that Ralph French was blinded? I have a good mind to beat your brains out, here and now.”

  Walsingham stared him down. “Yes, it’s your fault. And beating me won’t change what you’ve done. It will remove your only protector—the only man who will save you from the gallows. You are responsible for the death of that servant boy. And Machyn’s. And that of the Scottish assassin. And the theft of the horses. And the fact that Clarenceux is at large. You have failed on almost every count. If the course of the law were to run freely, you would draw your final breath this very day.”

  Crackenthorpe gripped the chair leg more firmly. “I found Machyn’s will. Not you. And I found Machyn himself too. No one else stayed out that godforsaken night. I waited for hours in the cold and the rain—and not only did I find Machyn but I discovered that Clarenceux was part of the plot. You had not even imagined that he was involved. I protected Draper from the Scots assassin and I found out about the Knights of the Round Table. Don’t tell me I have failed on every count. I have paid a very high price in your service. And I have succeeded in ways you did not foresee.”

  Walsingham stepped around the table until he stood barely five feet from the taller man. His voice was calm. “Do not presume you can speak to me in this manner.”

  There was silence. Suddenly Crackenthorpe smashed the leg of the chair down on the edge of Walsingham’s table, breaking the leg in two. He threw the piece into the fireplace. “I’ll speak how I see things, Mr. Walsingham. I’ll do things my way. I will kill Clarenceux. I have sworn it and I will do it. And if you try to stop me, I will kill you too.”

  “Don’t even think of it. I could crush you.”

  Crackenthorpe laughed. “You? Look at the size of you!”

  “Exactly, Crackenthorpe. Look at the size of me. I am the State. I am the force of law. If you kill the body of Francis Walsingham, you have not even begun to touch me. I am just one of the many instruments of her majesty. I hang men like you every day by the hundred—all across the country—and I glory in those hangings, the true measure of my power.”

  Crackenthorpe stared at Walsingham, the black skull cap, the relentless will. “All right. I have made mistakes. But I swear that what I said is true. I will kill Clarenceux. And I will kill anyone who tries to stop me.”

  “First you must find him. Then you must let me interrogate him. Afterward you can do what you want.”

  “I will find him, be certain of it.”

  “And the other Knights of the Round Table—you will find them too.”

  “Draper we have already seen. Nicholas Hill was found in Queenhithe ward by the guards I had posted looking for Clarenceux. He ran as far as the Guildhall before they brought him down.”

  “Has he talked?”

  “He will soon.”

  “I don’t care about his welfare, as well you know, but I don’t want to offer the authorities any more reasons to indict you. Their interference will just make our problems worse. Don’t kill him. What about the others, Michael Hill and Daniel Gyttens?”

  “No sign of them. Yet.”

  “And the blacksmith’s house, the one by which Machyn came and went. Have you identified it?”

  “There are no houses on the walls owned by anyone called Mason. But there are only a limited number of ways into the city. I will know by this time tomorrow.”

  41

  At Summerhill, Julius’s wife, Lychorus, joined them for supper. She was a pleasant, round-faced woman who wore a wide ruff, elegant gold-embroidered clothes, and a radiant smile. It was difficult for Clarenceux and Rebecca to make a meaningful contribution to the conversation, or even to answer all her questions fully and openly. The principal topic was the two Fawcett sons, one of whom was at Oxford and the other in Venice. Rebecca smiled at Lychorus and spoke occasionally but felt awkward, knowing she was behaving falsely, like a woman acting above her station. They retired early, Rebecca to go to bed, Clarenceux to drink wine with Julius.

  Rebecca and Clarenceux were assigned adjacent chambers in the great tower. Hers was as comfortable a room as she could imagine. There was a fire already alight when she was shown to her bed, and the maid helped her undress in front of it. The walls were paneled and covered with bright red, blue, and gold tapestries. The shutters were closed, and the hangings around the bed were clean—newer than almost everything she had seen in the house. The silver ewer was full of fresh water, the basin recently polished. The candles on the table made everything in the room glow in the winter dark. She undressed, snuffed the candles out as was her custom, and got into bed. She lay between clean sheets, listening to the crackle of the fire.

  Clarenceux stayed up drinking sack with Julius until late. The drink made him vulnerable to his sadness. His entire life lay in ruins, he explained. He had lost his home and his wife, his children and his friends. He began to lose himself in wine-soaked self-recrimination.

  “William, I know why you are talking like this. I can see that these are your honest feelings. But I must be honest with you too. You sound full of self-pity. Tomorrow I want you to reflect on this moment and to realize that this was when you were at your lowest—lower even than when you believed you were going to be killed, for then you did not know what you had lost. I am prepared to shelter you and to guard your chronicle. But you must be yourself: your bold, intelligent, well-meaning self. I have no desire to shelter a self-pitying wreck or to risk myself for the sake of a traitor awaitin
g his own betrayal. But a man who has lost almost everything and is still fighting a holy Catholic war because he truly believes he is in the right—he has my respect and my unquestioning service.”

  Clarenceux was left speechless. Julius was exhorting him to be himself, but that now seemed impossible. What Julius was referring to was a man he had been in the past, not the man he was now. He felt hollow. He mumbled a reply: “Believe me, Julius, I am willing to fight…” But his voice trailed off. It was not that he was lying—it was simply that he could see that Julius was right. He was becoming a self-pitying wreck—if he had not already become it.

  Julius gently urged him to go to bed. He stood up, embraced his friend, and walked unsteadily toward the stairs.

  As Clarenceux climbed to his chamber, Rebecca sighed in her bed, trying to breathe deeply. A heavy weight seemed to have settled on her chest. She put back the blankets and tried to breathe again. Nerves racked her body—or, rather, the feeling of being so alone. Her life was like a street with houses on either side, and every house was someone else’s home. She just had to carry on walking until she came to the end of that long street, when there would be no more houses, no more people.

  She heard the sound of footsteps on the tower staircase.

  Clarenceux lifted the candle and crossed to the door of his chamber, the old floorboards creaking as he walked. He looked at the door on his left, which he knew was Rebecca’s. He stared at it for some few minutes.

  Inside, she listened, aware of his presence.

  In his mind he saw her looking at him, speaking to him with her eyes. Gradually, the outward reminders of his life came back: Will’s dead body, the smashed furniture of his house, Crackenthorpe’s scarred face, the man he had killed in the street. He thought of Awdrey’s vulnerability and Rebecca’s need for his protection…His life was being torn between the opposites of fear and love. He wished he had been able to see it when Julius had spoken to him but then he had been too dismayed to see anything clearly. Julius had been right to castigate him—but he had been looking from the outside. On the inside, his life was simply a matter of fear and love. And he could embrace either all his fears…or everything he loved.

  Rebecca heard him take another two steps, lift the latch to the adjacent chamber, and close the door.

  42

  Tuesday, December 14

  It was a bitterly cold morning. A harsh frost had whitened the landscape, touching the fallen leaves of the autumn with ice and freezing solid the puddles in the road. As Clarenceux and Rebecca rode back to Greenwich on their hired horses, leading two more borrowed from Julius, they saw the crests of the hills behind them powdered with snow. Long icicles hung down from the thatched roofs of cottages. The rooks in the trees on either side of the road caw-cawed in their gathering, anxious at the hardness of the ground.

  There were few people on the road and none who regarded the travelers with any suspicion. None the less, Clarenceux rode with his velvet cap pulled down low and the collar of his robe pulled high. At Greenwich they returned the horses and set out to ride along the south bank to Southwark. The tower of the old abbey church came into view, as did the spires and towers of the churches north of the river and the houses on London Bridge. They fell into silent thoughtfulness. The nearer they came to London, the greater the danger.

  “Are you worried?” Clarenceux asked.

  She did not grace his question with an answer.

  “We need not both go into the city. You could stay in Southwark.”

  Rebecca brought her horse to a standstill. “If one of us should go alone, it should be me. I will arouse less suspicion.”

  Clarenceux rode on. He was wearing gloves that Julius had given him, but holding the reins, his hands were fists. Rebecca could see that the leather across his knuckles was taut. She urged her horse on.

  “Well?” she asked after a minute more of his silence.

  Clarenceux stared straight ahead at the tower of the abbey. “When Daniel entered the lions’ den, it was a test of faith. And when the king went to the lions’ den in the morning and called out to Daniel, asking him if God had protected him, Daniel replied, ‘God has sent an angel who has shut the lions’ mouths.’” He rode on in silence for a few paces. “It is your choice,” he added, glancing at her. “I hope you will come with me. Your company is a support to me. You keep me mindful of my duty. You give me strength. But ultimately, our fate is in God’s hands. If He wants us to succeed, then He will protect us. He will send an angel to cover the eyes of those watching.”

  “Mr. Clarenceux, do you think you can presume so much? Did almighty God save you from that man at my house when you went there, the one you killed? Did God shield you from the other man who was watching you?”

  “Perhaps He did.”

  “If He did, then you should be thankful and humble, and not so proud as to think He will protect you a second time. Do not put the Lord to the test.”

  Clarenceux stopped and turned to her. “Do you believe we are doing His work, Goodwife Machyn? In your heart, do we have a choice?”

  “Yes, I do believe we are doing His work,” she said, looking him in the eye. “But we do have a choice. We could choose to run.”

  “I am too angry to run. I am ashamed of what has happened to my family—I have brought ruin on them. I am ashamed that I did not protect your husband. I am ashamed that I killed a man. I am ashamed that I believed that God had performed a miracle for me when I was in the cellar of Walsingham’s house. There were things that Julius said to me last night, as well, that made me feel ashamed. That was my weakest moment…”

  He could not bring himself to say more.

  The bell of Southwark Abbey rang out. Twelve long chimes touched the icy eaves of houses near and far.

  “God will protect us, Mr. Clarenceux. I believe that. Because He is angry too.”

  43

  They left Julius’s horses at the Bell Inn in Southwark as the clock struck one. From there, it was a short walk to London Bridge. The tall houses on either side of the bridge peered over them and darkened the thoroughfare so that it felt more like a narrow alley than a river crossing. The crowds intensified the feeling of being hemmed in: carts and wagons were being driven across, as well as cattle and sheep. Some wealthy men and women were visiting the small jewelers’ shops that proliferated here. The way was too narrow for so many people and vehicles; Rebecca took Clarenceux’s arm and once again pretended they were man and wife, avoiding the women with baskets on their arms and the men leading packhorses.

  Clarenceux walked fast despite his bruised knee, which worried her. There were bound to be watchmen at the gatehouse on the north side of the bridge.

  “Slow down a little,” she muttered as they stepped around another slow-moving cart. “You are drawing attention to yourself.”

  Clarenceux slowed. His gait fell into line with Rebecca’s as they reached the middle of the bridge. His attention remained fixed on the far end.

  Rebecca tried to look ahead to the three men waiting there. Had they been warned to watch out for them? She could see them now: they were armed with side-swords and halberds and wearing breastplates. A fourth man appeared, holding a pike and inspecting a cart that was making its way out of the city.

  “What shall we do?” she whispered anxiously.

  Clarenceux said nothing. He kept walking.

  It is as if he is going into battle, so purposefully he walks. Perhaps the watchmen are less wary of those coming in, expecting that we are still inside the city and more likely to be trying to escape than re-entering it? If we have to run, what will we do? We cannot jump into the river—our limbs would freeze stiff in the cold.

  She turned to Clarenceux and saw his mouth moving. She caught only a few whispered words: “…in our hour…Lord, bless thy humble…”

  They were twenty paces away, fifteen, ten. A feeling of desperation was growing, threatening to take hold of her. She knew that she had to do something. Clarenceux was so cert
ain, walking so determinedly, that she was sure he was going to confront the guards and try to fight all four of them. And they were armed. But what could she do? She held onto his arm.

  One of the guards saw them approaching and held up his hand.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “My name?”

  Rebecca’s heart was pounding. She looked beyond the guard to his three companions: two were not paying attention, but one was watching them.

  “My name?” repeated Clarenceux in the declamatory tone of his profession. “You need to ask me my name? This would not happen in Cambridge. It would not happen in Norwich. Just because I am not riding a horse into the city, you want to know my name, as if I am someone you might haul before a justice of the peace. Well, I am a justice of the peace myself. My name, my good man, is George Courtenay, of Moreton Courtenay in Devonshire, cousin to the late earl of Devon. And this is my wife. What, pray, is your name?”

  The watchman glanced at his fellow guardsmen. “My name is no matter, Mr. Courtenay. I am sorry I had to bother you.”

  “I am sure you are just doing your duty,” Clarenceux replied. “Indeed, perhaps this is fortuitous. We are newly arrived and unfamiliar with all the lanes and streets. Can you please direct us to the parish of St. Dionis Backchurch?” The watchman nodded and turned to point the way. Rebecca wanted to run. The second guard lost interest and looked away.

  “Yes, Mr. Courtenay, it is an easy walk. The bridge leads directly into New Fish Street and then Gracechurch Street. At the crossing with Fenchurch Street, you need to turn right. You’ll see St. Dionis on the other side of the road, about a hundred yards further on.”