Sacred Treason

by James Forrester

  Today her hawk was not hungry and quickly lost interest. With a sudden great beating of its wings, it flew off. Her ladyship waved a hand at her falconer and turned her horse back to the manor to see the visitor.

  ***

  No one spoke to her until she had dismounted and entered the house. The servants knew better; the visitor understood and bided his time as he watched her stride into the lofty hall, then turn to receive him formally.

  “My lady, this man announces himself as Sir Percival.”

  “Well he might,” she responded. Looking at him she said, “Your arrival means bad news.”

  “Indeed, my lady,” replied Sir Percival, bowing and removing his traveling cope. He was a tall, thin man of forty years, with a neat brown beard and sharp, concentrated features that suggested he was a shrewd man, which indeed he was. His eyes were not unkind but nor were they forgiving; his lips were pursed as if permanently considering a grave matter.

  “When did you leave London?”

  “On Sunday morning, not long before midday.”

  “We must converse in private.” Turning to the various servants who had now gathered in the hall, she declared, “There is no need for any of you to be present. Come, sir.” And with that, she turned and marched up to the dais, stepped onto it, and went through the wide doorway and up the broad sweeping stairs beyond.

  ***

  They were alone in the privy chamber, next to her bedchamber. There was only the one seat: a large wooden throne, on which Lady Percy sat. Apart from the tapestries on the walls and a chest behind the throne, there was no other furniture in the room.

  “What time did he die?”

  “That I do not know, my lady. I left London as soon as I had had confirmation from Mistress Barker’s contacts.”

  “But he definitely passed over the chronicle? To its intended recipient?”

  “Yes, my lady. To the new King Clariance.”

  “Well, that is something, at least.”

  Lady Percy tapped the arm of her throne. The man before her was the linchpin, the Knight whose name was not known to the others and whose principal purpose was to announce to her when the chronicle changed hands. In line with the original plan he should now return to London and make his identity known to the new King Clariance. But if the plot had been discovered, this was dangerous.

  “I presume you have not yet revealed your identity?”

  “No.” Sir Percival looked her in the eye. “The new King Clariance knows nothing.”

  Lady Percy got up from the chair and walked to the window. “It is difficult to know what to do. The plan was all about the right time to act, not about how to cope with betrayal. I take it you understand what has happened?”

  “Not entirely, my lady.”

  She continued walking, considering her words carefully.

  “One of the Knights—Sir Dagonet, whose real name I understand is William Draper—was heard discussing the Knights’ fraternity with representatives of Queen Mary of Scots, at Holyrood. He was heard by a number of men, one of whom was a spy for Elizabeth of England, a man called Wood. Apparently Draper spoke about Henry Machyn’s chronicle. As you are aware, there is not much damage a Knight can do by himself; that is why the fraternity exists. But when I made further inquiries, it turned out that Wood had left Scotland immediately and Draper was following him back to London. As it was certain that Wood would tell the authorities, I decided to eliminate Draper, to stop them from interrogating him further. There was little time to spare, but I judged the mission essential. I sent a good man with instructions: he was to return a certain pistol when Draper was dead. That was nine days ago. Needless to say, I have not received the pistol.”

  Sir Percival nodded, understanding now what had thrown the whole scheme into jeopardy. “Henry Machyn told me on Friday he was planning to hand over the chronicle that night—he knew Draper had talked. He said he had been told by a royal sergeant-at-arms that he had twenty-four hours to surrender the chronicle or he would be killed. But he was resolute. He sent his wife to Mistress Barker’s, telling her to stay with her. I waited for those twenty-four hours and was preparing to come north on Sunday when a message came to Mistress Barker’s that Henry Machyn’s corpse had been seen at the plague pit.”

  “Is Mistress Barker still in London?”

  “Yes.”

  “And her identity is still a secret?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Good. She is a brave woman, my sister. If the new King Clariance can act on the instructions he has received, we may still have a chance.”

  55

  The journey to Julius’s house was decidedly uncomfortable. Clarenceux and Rebecca felt every jolt of the cart as they traveled across the frozen streets of the city. With many skins piled over them they were not cold, but the weight made it difficult to breathe. Then there was the stench. Tanyards smelled bad at the best of times but having to travel in a cart full of skins, furs, and pelts was perpetually nauseating. Regularly Clarenceux found himself retching, his stomach too empty to vomit. He listened to Rebecca undergoing a similar ordeal as her body also revolted against the smell.

  But comfort was not their highest priority, safety was, and in this respect, the journey was perfect. They traveled through the city and crossed London Bridge without being questioned or bothered by the guards. Rebecca had waited in the yard of the Bell Inn while Clarenceux went inside, stinking of dead animals’ skins, and paid for their horses’ fodder and stabling. Tom Griffiths had thanked Clarenceux for the money, wished him well, and driven off briskly with the cart; and Clarenceux and Rebecca began the ride down to Chislehurst. They arrived back at Summerhill just as it was beginning to get dark.

  Julius met them in the hall—and insisted that they both take a bath immediately, in that same place. The bathtub, six feet in diameter—like half of an enormous barrel—was brought out and placed in front of the dais, by the fire. Half an hour later it was steaming, filled with rose petals and hot water from the kitchens, poured into the tub by all the servants working as a team. Two large standing candelabra, each with a dozen candles, were placed on either side. Clarenceux and Rebecca were each handed two sponges: one large one on which to sit and a small one with which to wash themselves. They watched as one of the servants added some milk and the appropriate herbs for a skin-cleansing bath: feverfew, nettles, violet leaves, fennel, and rosemary. Julius sat at the table on the dais, poring over the chronicle. Another servant laid out clean clothes on a bench nearby.

  Clarenceux bathed first. He took off his stinking clothes and left them in a pile on the flagstones. His hose he threw onto the fire. The hot water stung his wounded legs as he stepped in, and tingled on his skin. He soaked the larger sponge, placed it on the bottom of the tub, and sat on it. Then he began to scrub with the other sponge.

  Julius was staring at the chronicle. “The first two dates both refer to St. Paul’s Cross. Give me a third.”

  “Try Nicholas Hill’s date, the fifteenth of June 1552,” said Rebecca, who had been discreetly watching Clarenceux.

  Julius cleared his throat. “It says, ‘The fifteenth day of June was buried Baptyst Borow the milliner without Cripplegate in St. Giles’s Parish, with a penon, a cote armor, and a herald, and with twenty-three staff-torches, and so twenty-three poor men bore them, and many mourners in black; and the company of Clerks were there, and this place was hanged with black and arms six dozen.’”

  Clarenceux looked up at Rebecca and saw the puzzled expression on her face. He turned to Julius, who was also staring at him. “I have no idea,” he said. “Try another date. The eighteenth of June 1555.”

  Julius turned the pages. “It’s difficult to work out which year is which…Here, I think this is the one. Yes, it must be.”

  He said nothing, reading silently.

  “What does it say?” asked Rebecca as she touched a servant on the arm and took from him the brass basin and small jug of scented lye he was carrying. Clarenceux
ducked his head into the bath and came up again. Rebecca went over to him and surprised him by pouring a little of the lye into his hair. He started to turn, then realized what she was doing and relaxed as she started rubbing his scalp.

  “It doesn’t say anything,” said Julius.

  “What?” asked Clarenceux, turning. Rebecca paused.

  “There is no entry for that day.”

  “Try looking on the adjacent pages—the dates are not all in order,” Clarenceux urged as Rebecca began to rub in the lye again.

  Julius looked. “No, there still doesn’t seem to be a day with that title. It goes from the third of June—lots of entries for that day—to the tenth, the eleventh, the seventeenth, and the fourteenth. Then we’re into July.”

  Clarenceux stopped Rebecca with his hand. “Are you sure that there isn’t a leaf missing?” He waited a moment, then ducked his head under the water to wash away the lye and stood up, naked, to take a towel from a servant.

  Julius inspected the spine. “Quite certain. There isn’t an entry for that date. That is all I can say.”

  “What about Gyttens’s date, the nineteenth of June 1556,” Clarenceux said, stepping out of the tub and drying himself, glancing suddenly at Rebecca. Embarrassed to be caught looking at his naked body, she turned away.

  Julius searched the manuscript, carefully scrutinizing the pages as he turned them, making sure he did not miss any stray entries. “I’m sorry, but there does not seem to be anything for that date either. It goes from the ninth to the tenth, the fourteenth, the fifteenth, the eighteenth. There it mentions three hangings: first that of Thomas of Watheryng for robbing a cart, and then ‘the same day was arraigned at the Guildhall, for a conspiracy, Master Francis Varney and Captain Turner, and they cast to be drawn, hanged, and quartered.’ There is an entry for the twenty-seventh: the burning of eleven men and two women between four posts at Stratford le Bow, attended by twenty thousand people. Then there’s another entry for the tenth and another for the last day of the month, the drawing, hanging, and quartering of Lord de la Warre for treason. That’s all for June 1556.”

  Clarenceux took a shirt and pulled it over his head. He walked across to Julius and read the chronicle over his shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what to say. I wonder if Henry gave me the right book.”

  Rebecca had removed her outer clothes and was rubbing lye into her hair over the basin. “No, that is definitely the book,” she said, pausing but not looking up. “He only had one like it.”

  “But still, why all the fuss with the dates if they do not relate to the dates in the chronicle?”

  “Maybe they have some other meaning?” she suggested, pulling off her chemise and stepping into the bathtub.

  “Well, that’s obvious,” said Julius, looking from her to Clarenceux and noticing that Clarenceux’s attention was all on her. He nudged him and Clarenceux turned away and continued dressing, listening to the splashing of the water.

  James Hopton entered at the lower end of the hall and bowed. “Supper is ready when you require it, sir.”

  “Good. Come now, William, let us leave Goodwife Machyn to soak in her bath in peace.”

  ***

  They discussed the chronicle before, during, and after supper. Julius took notes—seeming as interested in the social details as in the mystery it contained. Clarenceux wished he would stop reading out the entries that concerned men and women being burnt for heresy, or being drawn to the gallows on hurdles, then hanged and quartered for treason.

  “I do not understand why the dates do not relate to the chronicle,” he said again. “Even the ones for which there are entries do not tell us anything.”

  Rebecca tapped her fingers on the table. “I suggest putting all the dates in order on a piece of paper. To see them all together.”

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Clarenceux.

  “I think there’s a pattern.”

  Julius shrugged and pushed the candle nearer to Clarenceux, then handed him the pen, ink, and a piece of paper. Clarenceux started with the first date and wrote the name beside the entry in each case.

  June 13, 1550—Sir Lancelot

  June 15, 1552—Sir Reynold

  June 18, 1555—Sir Ector

  June 19, 1556—Sir Reynold

  June 20, 1557—King Clariance

  June 16, 1559—Sir Dagonet

  He then added the name Sir Yvain, for which they did not have a date, at the bottom.

  “Let me see,” said Rebecca, her face bright in the glow of the candle.

  Clarenceux passed her the paper and watched her studying it. Her attention to the document interested him. “How much of it can you read?”

  “I have difficulty writing, but Henry taught me how to read. He thought everyone should be able to.” She paused, then pushed the paper back toward Clarenceux. “It is as I thought. William Draper lied to us. He gave us the wrong date.”

  Julius leaned forward. “What? How do you know?”

  Clarenceux looked at the list again.

  “Look at the pattern,” said Rebecca. “Look, the eighteenth of June, then the nineteenth—as the year increases by one, so too does the day. If you fill in the gaps, the fourteenth of June will relate to 1551. The sixteenth of June should be 1553, not 1559. Draper lied to us about the year.”

  “He might have lied about the day,” Julius observed.

  “Maybe. But I doubt it. Mr. Clarenceux was holding a knife in front of his face at the time. And we know he got the month right—they’re all June. In the circumstances, it would have been easier to lie about the year.”

  Clarenceux raised his hands to his face and then set them down on the table. “I think you have it. These aren’t dates—they’re all one date, disguised.” He stared at the paper for a moment and then pointed to the dates before him. “Henry said something about the date he gave me being ‘exactly like that.’ Now I can’t remember for certain, but I think that by ‘exactly like that’ he meant June the twentieth 1557, not the twentieth of June. I think the twentieth does not relate to the day but the year. Rebecca is right: Draper lied. They are all the same date: June 1537 or 1538.”

  Julius placed his hands on the table. “I do not follow you. Why 1537 or 1538?”

  “Because ‘the twentieth’ was 1557, ‘the nineteenth’ was 1556, ‘the eighteenth’ 1555, ‘the thirteenth’ 1550, and so on; so the second was 1539 and the first 1538.”

  “So why June 1537 or 1538? Why not just 1538?”

  Clarenceux did not answer. He seemed deeply troubled. He suddenly got up and walked to the far side of the room and stood there with his back to them.

  It is so simple. It is not a code at all—it’s an acrostic.

  “Julius,” he said, “when did the old earl of Northumberland die?”

  Julius looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, about fifteen thir—”

  “No,” said Clarenceux suddenly. “I need to know exactly when. The day and the month. You must have a book here that can tell us.”

  Julius nodded, got up from his seat, and went to a large folio volume at a nearby book press. He lifted it and set it down on the table beside Machyn’s chronicle, then leaned over and leafed through the pages.

  Clarenceux said nothing. He just stood, watching.

  Julius straightened and turned to Clarenceux. “You’re right,” he said solemnly.

  “June 1537?”

  “The last day of the month.”

  Rebecca could not stand it any longer. “For the sake of Mary, Mother of God!” she exclaimed. “What is it?”

  Clarenceux wiped his face with his hands and looked into the candle flame, thinking. “These are not years; they’re anniversaries. They mark the years that have passed since the death of Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland.”

  “So?” asked Rebecca impatiently. “How do you know? And what does it mean? Why have you both gone so…so solemn, so quiet, so fearful? Who was this Henry Percy—apart from the ea
rl of Northumberland?”

  Clarenceux did not move. “Goodwife Machyn, do you remember saying you suspected that the reason why there were two Sir Reynolds was because the first letters of the names of the Knights spelled out a message? Look what happens if you correct Draper’s date and put his Arthurian name in its proper place.”

  Clarenceux drew a line through Draper’s name and date and wrote them again, interlining them between 1552 and 1555.

  June 13, 1550—Sir Lancelot

  June 15, 1552—Sir Reynold

  June 16, 1553—Sir Dagonet

  June 18, 1555—Sir Ector

  June 19, 1556—Sir Reynold

  June 20, 1557—King Clariance

  “The missing dates show us the missing letters. So we have L then a gap, then R and D, then a gap, then E, R, C. And we have a Y. That Y could be the second, fifth, or last letter. It happens to be the last. It is an acrostic: it spells LORD PERCY. He died in June 1537—just after the executions following the Pilgrimage of Grace.”

  Rebecca said nothing, trying to take it all in.

  “No wonder our late friend declared that only you would be able to understand it,” said Julius. “It’s a damn good thing he didn’t entrust his revolution to me.”

  Rebecca was worried. “This doesn’t tell us anything. As you say, Lord Percy has been dead since 1537. He can’t help us now. Besides, why did Henry guard the book so carefully for so many years if the code merely refers to a dead earl?”

  “A good point indeed,” said Clarenceux. “The dates and names simply tell us where to go next, where to take the chronicle.”

  “And that is?”

  “Sheffield. Where Lord Percy’s widow lives.”

  Suddenly Julius picked up the volume he had consulted and slammed it shut. “No, you will not…” he began. But something stopped him. “Have you ever met the dowager countess? She is not so much a woman as a dragon—the sort of woman who causes the Devil to walk in fear.”

  Clarenceux shook his head. “Julius, may I take one of your horses?”

  “No! For God’s sake, you’ll get yourself killed, William.”