Sacred Treason

by James Forrester

  “Thank you, I am much obliged,” said Clarenceux, making a polite bow as if he were indeed a foreigner from the southwest of the country.

  “I thought we were Mr. and Mistress Lowe,” said Rebecca as they walked up Gracechurch Street.

  “It came into my mind to say something grandiose,” explained Clarenceux.

  “Will you warn me next time?”

  Clarenceux stopped and looked around. “Let us turn left here, rather than go where they think we were heading. We can call first on Michael Hill, opposite St. Mary Woolnoth. But I think it might be better if we were not to walk together. If Crackenthorpe sees me, there is no need for you to be arrested and tortured too. If they take me, you can slip down an alley and get away. And if that happens, go back to Julius.”

  ***

  The house was a modest two-story building but had glazed windows: a mark of comfort denoting a reasonably prosperous owner. Clarenceux told Rebecca to wait further down the street in case there were soldiers inside.

  He knocked hard on the door with his gloved hand. There was no answer.

  He turned and looked around: a few snowflakes were falling. Two young men in tall, black, wide-brimmed hats and smart velvet doublets walked by at a pace, both laughing at their conversation. A water-carrier’s cart trundled past on solid oak wheels, a large water butt on the back. A moment later a woman in a long brown dress and a white cap appeared. She was carrying a baby and held a toddler by the hand. The child stamped to break the ice in a small puddle as he passed Clarenceux but the mother hauled him on, glancing nervously at the stranger.

  Clarenceux turned and knocked again, firmly. Still there was no answer. He continued to wait.

  Rebecca came over. “That woman, with the children—did you see her?”

  “I did.”

  “She was looking at you all the time. She has gone into the house behind this one, in the next street.”

  Clarenceux knocked again and waited for a few seconds more. There was no sound from within.

  “Very well, let us call there, then.”

  They went around to the house that Rebecca indicated. She stood back and allowed Clarenceux to knock. A shutter opened upstairs and the woman appeared.

  “What?”

  Clarenceux looked up and was about to speak when Rebecca held up a hand to silence him.

  “We need to speak to Mr. Hill,” she called. “He is in danger.”

  “Don’t I know that,” replied the woman. “Soldiers been here all last night and all morning. Wait there.” And with that, she shut the window.

  Clarenceux looked at Rebecca.

  “Woman to woman, it’s sometimes better,” she said. “People like you frighten people like her.”

  A minute later, the door opened a fraction and the woman in the white cap peered out. “Come in,” she said, looking up and down the street behind them. Clarenceux and Rebecca entered. The woman shut the door.

  “This is Mr. William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms,” explained Rebecca, adding “a herald” when she saw the blank look on the woman’s face. “My name is Rebecca Machyn. We know that soldiers are looking for Mr. Hill. They have already killed one of Mr. Hill’s friends.”

  “Killed a man, you say? The soldiers—they came yesterday afternoon. And then again in the evening. Mr. Hill, he didn’t come back home. Mistress Hill was in such a state, not knowing where he was or who had taken him. She is staying with Goodman Sansom and his wife across the way.”

  Clarenceux asked, “Do you know if anyone visited him recently—apart from the soldiers?”

  “But of course, sir. All the time there are comings and goings from that house. Mr. Hill is very well thought of.”

  “Can you direct us to Goodman Sansom’s house?” asked Rebecca.

  “Out of this door, turn right, and then turn left; go past the lane by the church and it’s the third house on the right.”

  “We are much obliged to you,” said Clarenceux, lifting his cap a fraction and turning to the door.

  ***

  Rebecca caught up with him in the street, lifting the hem of her skirt to hurry along at his rapid pace.

  “They’ve started rounding them up already,” she said.

  “Without question.”

  “But even if they arrest just two or three Knights, we are never going to unlock the secret. We need all the names and dates.”

  “And Crackenthorpe has many men,” agreed Clarenceux. “There are just the two of us.”

  It only took them a brisk minute’s walk to reach Sansom’s house. The door was promptly opened by the householder himself. He led them through the front parlor—where piles of sawn wood lay in mute witness to his work fitting wainscoting—to a rear room, newly paneled and warm. There were five triangular chairs—two of them occupied—and a trestle table. In the fireplace a small pot of vegetables was simmering on a trivet placed among the embers on a large pile of ashes.

  Two women sat beside the fireplace. The older one, facing them, was about sixty, white-haired, and very pale. This seemed to be Mistress Hill, judging by her hollow cheeks and reddened eyes. When Clarenceux asked her about her husband, she seemed almost unable to reply, she was so weak.

  “I don’t know where he is or how he is,” she whispered. “I just wish he would come back. And that the soldiers would go away and stay away.”

  “But is there anything you can tell us that would help us find him? His life is at stake, and so are the lives of others. It will help him and us if we can find him soon. Who has been to visit him recently?”

  “Mistress Hill,” Rebecca interjected, “the men who are hunting your husband have already killed mine. I am a widow because of them. Don’t let it happen to you. If you can help us find him quickly then maybe we can save him. Please.”

  The hesitation showed. “Your husband was Henry Machyn? The man who did the black sheets in the churches at funerals?”

  “Yes.”

  “James Emery called yesterday morning. He had heard that Henry Machyn was dead at the plague pit, and had arranged with my husband to collect the body and give it a proper burial. They left straight away, and that was the last I saw of him.”

  “He left with James Emery?” Clarenceux asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Where does James Emery live?”

  Clarenceux had directed the question to Mistress Hill but it was Rebecca who answered. “Near my house, in Huggin Alley. We’ve got to go back into Queenhithe ward. Thank you, Mistress Hill, for your help. Mr. Clarenceux and I will do all we can to find your husband and make sure he is safe.”

  “One last thing,” asked Clarenceux. “Do you know where your son Nicholas is?”

  The woman shook her head. “I have not heard from him for several days.”

  “Thank you again,” said Rebecca, turning to Clarenceux. He nodded to her, made a polite bow to the women, and left the room.

  44

  The two watchmen were very cold as they waited on Garlick Hill, at the junction on the northeast of Queenhithe ward. They had been told to keep warm by walking between the two crossroads: the one on Garlick Hill and the other at the top of Little Trinity Lane. That short exercise was not enough, though. Rubbing their hands together was not much good either. Even the one who had a traveling cape was cold. And now it was snowing. Large flakes the size of silver pennies were falling slowly through the London chill onto the frozen mud of the street.

  Their instructions were to remain there until dusk. Another two and a half hours. The one without the traveling cape had taken to putting his hands under his arms to keep them warm. But Sergeant Crackenthorpe had walked past only five minutes ago and shouted at him for not attending to his duty.

  “At least it will be another hour before he barks at you again,” muttered his companion after Crackenthorpe had gone.

  They watched the people coming and going. They had been given a list of names, which only one of them could read; but they had been told to
look in particular for a tall man in his midforties with short dark hair and a trimmed beard, and a woman in her late thirties, of average height, with long brown hair. No one they could see at that moment matched either the man or the woman. There was a servant boy, probably delivering a message, and three women coming back from the markets. None of them were like the description of Goodwife Machyn. A man in a tall hat with a proud demeanor was the nearest to the description of Clarenceux in the street, but he had no beard. The unguarded confidence with which he walked made it very unlikely that he was their man. Otherwise, there was no one but the old water-carrier, driving his emaciated horse.

  The watchman with the cape decided that he would stop and question the man in the hat, if only to relieve the boredom. As he did so, the other watchman leaned against the wall of a house. The water-carrier’s cart trundled past and turned into Great Trinity. The watchman looked at the water butt and the solid wooden wheels but saw nothing suspicious. He shifted his attention to the women walking toward him from the market.

  Clarenceux, pressed against the barrel on the far side of the cart, let himself slip back to the ground and started walking again, his legs shielded by the cartwheels and his body by the huge barrel. He signaled to the water-carrier.

  “Next left, into Little Trinity Lane. Then first right, into the alley.”

  The water-carrier obediently turned right into the alley that ran opposite Henry Machyn’s house and came to a halt. Clarenceux tapped on the barrel. “We’re here.”

  Rebecca stood up cautiously in the empty butt and looked around.

  “Hurry,” he urged.

  “Help me out then.”

  Clarenceux climbed up onto the cart, feeling a twinge in his knee, and held out his arms to help her, placing his hands on either side of her body and lifting her so she could put a foot on the top of the barrel and climb out. He stepped back down and fished in his pocket for a coin, which he held up between his thumb and forefinger as he spoke to the water-carrier. “Here’s an extra shilling. Head down to the river and go along Thames Street. Take note of whom you see there, how many men are loitering. Then come back to this point. It should take you about twenty minutes, and there will be an extra shilling for you when you come back. Have you got that?”

  The water-carrier nodded and drove on.

  Rebecca led the way past her house and past Mistress Barker’s on the corner, and around the front of Painter-Stainers’ Hall into Huggin Alley. She walked briskly and silently across to a modest merchant’s house and knocked on the door. Clarenceux held back, on the north side of Huggin Alley, watching all around.

  No one answered.

  She knocked again. Clarenceux noticed movement in an upstairs window, as if someone was trying to see who was calling. But still there was no answer.

  There were men riding up Little Trinity Lane toward them. At first he thought nothing of them—he had grown easier in his mind since they had entered the city. But then he noticed that there was a very tall, dark-haired man riding in the center of the group.

  Clarenceux edged away from the corner. As soon as he was out of sight, he hurried across the road. “Crackenthorpe is coming.”

  At that moment the door opened. Rebecca started to speak to the elderly manservant who held it but Clarenceux pushed past him and dragged Rebecca inside, closing it behind them.

  “My apologies, my good man, but desperate situations call for desperate measures. I must speak to your master now—it is a matter of life and death. We have little time, perhaps only a minute.”

  “Sir, your manner of entering is most shocking—rude, I say. If my master were here no doubt he would…”

  “He is not here?” said Rebecca.

  “Don’t tell me,” added Clarenceux. “He hasn’t been here all night.”

  “Not since he went out late yesterday afternoon, no, sir. Now, will you leave?”

  “Yesterday afternoon? So…is Michael Hill here?”

  The servant froze. Confusion showed in his face. “Sir, I ask you again to leave…”

  Clarenceux heard footsteps and looked up. A man was standing at the top of the stairs, about sixty and white-haired, but with a handsome, manly face, dressed in a furred winter robe. He took two steps down and stood there, leveling a long-barreled pistol at the intruder.

  Clarenceux held up a hand. “Shooting me would be a mistake, Mr. Hill. I know you are one of the Knights of the Round Table, and that is why I must speak to you. There is a man outside at this very moment who would probably torture you if he knew you were here.” He took a step forward and stood on the bottom step. “We are friends of Henry Machyn—this is Rebecca Machyn, his wife. Is James Emery with you?”

  “No.” The man’s expression did not waver. Nor did the aim of the pistol.

  “I have no time to explain, Mr. Hill. The man outside—if he finds me, he will kill me. He will probably kill you too, and Goodwife Machyn. Everything that the Knights of the Round Table stand for hangs by a thread. May I come up?”

  Michael Hill let the gun down slowly. Clarenceux and Rebecca quickly ascended and followed him into a wide, comfortable chamber at the front of the house. The large windows let in plenty of light, and a fire was burning on the hearth. There was a settle and a bench there, gathering the heat. Hill positioned himself with arthritic slowness on the settle. Rebecca sat on the bench. Clarenceux went straight to the window.

  “I am sorry,” said Hill. “When I heard the knock at the door, I was afraid.”

  “I have been in a similar position,” said Clarenceux. The street below was clear. He turned back to face the others. “I understand.”

  Hill continued. “I am sorry about your husband, Goodwife Machyn. He was a kind man. I knew him for many years: a very gentle soul.”

  “James Emery told you?”

  “Yes. On Sunday a message arrived here; one of the gravediggers is a man of our acquaintance and a follower of the old religion. He knew Henry Machyn by sight and knew that we were his friends. Having realized that Machyn did not die of plague, he thought we would want to know.”

  “What did Henry die of?” Rebecca asked. “I mean, how did the gravedigger know?”

  Michael Hill said nothing. He looked into the flames of the fire. Clarenceux was tense, listening for the sounds of men outside, hearing only the crackling of the fresh logs. Rebecca too was inwardly frantic, the tears close to her eyes.

  “Mr. Hill, I have to know.”

  Hill shook his head. “If you want the truth, his legs were broken. Both of them. Below the knee.”

  “Christ, have mercy!” exclaimed Clarenceux.

  Rebecca made the sign of the cross on her breast.

  “We made plans to bring the body back to Little Trinity for burial but when we arrived there were soldiers everywhere—a watchman placed to guard Henry’s house had been killed. So we agreed to meet the following day. Yesterday morning we met and saw the priest, and James went in the afternoon to fetch the body while I waited here. He did not return. That is all I can tell you.”

  Clarenceux looked at Rebecca; she was sitting forward on the bench, looking down. It must be bitterly hard news. But the truth is, that is what is likely to happen to us too. This is not the time or place for compassion. This is the time to meet steel with steel.

  He turned again toward the window to see if anyone was in the street. It was still clear; but the knowledge that Crackenthorpe was in the area was worrying. “I presume James Emery is also one of the Knights?” he asked.

  “Yes. Sir Yvain.”

  Clarenceux turned around. “And you are?”

  Hill was seated with his hands on his knees. No less anxiety showed in his face. “Sir Ector,” he said after a while.

  “Good, we’re getting somewhere. How many more names do you know? I need to know everything about the Knights of the Round Table.”

  “Whom else have you seen?”

  “Only Lancelot.”

  Hill looked back into the fire. “
There were nine of us originally. Sir Arthur Darcy, Henry, and John Heath were the founders. They agreed on the scheme: each man would have a date and a name, and when all the names and dates were gathered together, they would reveal the key to the book that Henry Machyn was writing. It was a sort of chronicle, which would give us the knowledge to overthrow the queen. Only the three founders knew exactly how, though. John Heath died long ago. Darcy died two years ago. And now Henry.”

  “What other names and dates are there?” asked Rebecca, wiping her face and trying to recover her composure. “We know of King Clariance of Northumberland. Lancelot told us his own name and also remembered hearing the names of Sir Reynold and Sir Dagonet—though he could not remember who Sir Reynold was. Now you have told us two more, Yvain and Ector. That’s six. What are the others?”

  “When Sir Arthur Darcy died, my son, Nicholas, took the name of Sir Reynold. As to the other three, I do not know.”

  “What about dates?” Clarenceux asked, walking over to stand by the settle. “Lancelot told us his: the thirteenth of June 1550. Henry gave me the twentieth of June 1557. Both of those appear in the chronicle in relation to sermons preached at St. Paul’s Cross. What is your date?”

  Michael Hill shook his head. “We are all under strict instructions not to reveal our dates except when gathered together.”

  Clarenceux looked the old man in the eye. “With respect, if James Emery has been arrested, he will not be gathering with us. Not here or anywhere. Lancelot Heath is in hiding too—he will not be joining us. The last of the founders is dead. Unless we work together, we will each go to the grave with our secret dates. And much good they will have done us.”

  “I swore an oath. It feels like a betrayal.”

  “How many dates do you know?” asked Rebecca, leaning forward on the bench. “Do you know your son’s? And Mr. Emery’s?”

  “If it helps at all, think of this as a different sort of gathering,” said Clarenceux. “We are gathering the Knights’ names and dates. It is all we can do—with the streets being watched and our numbers being reduced through fear and murder.”