Clarenceux put his hand on the man’s arm as the old voice choked with the pain of the memory. “Calm yourself. Listen. Tell me your name.”
“Francis. Francis Shepherd.”
“Goodman Shepherd, take a deep breath and tell me the whole story. What happened before the killing? You said that Mr. Fawcett has not been seen for several days. When did you last see him?”
Francis Shepherd wiped his face on his sleeve. He shook his head and went to the light stand. His hand trembled as he tried to light a second rushlight from the first, but eventually it caught. He inserted it at the correct angle and stood looking down, the new flame casting a huge shadow on the high wall of the kitchen behind him.
“On Christmas Day, in the early afternoon, the whole household was in the hall. The master was here, his wife and about six or seven customary tenants, a few lease-holders, and all the servants and the gardeners, thirty-five of us. Then a gentleman came demanding entrance. He was the young man who used to stay sometimes at Scadbury Park, Francis Walsingham. He was announced and Mr. Hopton and I went to see him. In a very haughty tone he ordered us to take him to Mr. Fawcett. I went back into the hall, to seek the master’s word on the matter, knowing that Francis Walsingham was not welcome; but Mr. Fawcett had gone. So had his wife. They had both vanished. As soon as they heard the name Walsingham they got up and left the hall together. And we have not seen them since.”
“That explains Julius. But where is everyone else? Where are all the rest of the servants?”
“Sir, ten men were arrested by Walsingham in the hall that same afternoon. After he left, many simply left of their own accord. I cannot blame them. Had I been younger I would have left too. We were all frightened. This morning there were only six of us here. That was when a large number of soldiers arrived: thirty men, maybe more. We were just shoved to the side as the sergeant in charge forced his way in. Mr. Hopton stopped him in the hall and told him he had no right to enter. That was when the sergeant-at-arms killed him.”
“The man in charge—was he a tall, dark-haired man with a distinctive mark?”
“He was. Very dark hair and a scar right across one side of his face.”
Clarenceux looked up at Rebecca. “How did he know?”
She said nothing.
Clarenceux put his hand to his forehead and felt the cold perspiration. He turned back to Shepherd. “I do not understand how…”
And then he remembered. He looked at Rebecca. “They must have caught Daniel Gyttens.”
For an instant Rebecca did not know what he meant. Then she too remembered. She inhaled suddenly and held her breath, putting her hands over her face, not wanting to see anything or hear anything. “It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I said the name Summerhill…It’s my fault. Oh, Lord almighty, in the name of Jesus’s mother, I am sorry, I am so sorry…”
Clarenceux was silent. He looked down at the table, trying to collect his thoughts. Eventually he said, “What has happened has happened. We cannot dwell on one mistake. Mr. Hopton’s body—is it still in the hall?”
Shepherd wiped the tears from his eyes and nodded.
Clarenceux looked at the other men who had come into the kitchen with them. There were both elderly servants too. They looked terrified. “How many others are left here tonight?”
“Sir, just we three,” said the man who had taken the reins of Clarenceux’s horse. “Everyone else has gone. My name is Jack, groom of the stable. This is Thomas, groom of the hall.”
“You did well to stay. I commend you. I assume none of you will object if Goodwife Machyn and I spend this night in the rooms we stayed in two weeks ago?”
“Sir, we would welcome your company and thank you for it. But those rooms are mostly ruined,” said Shepherd, recovering himself. “The furniture is broken, and the linen scattered.”
“We will make do. Will you two stable our horses and bring in our belongings?”
“Sir, we will. Immediately.”
Clarenceux glanced at Rebecca. She was motionless, head downcast, her hands at her sides. He understood. She does not want to meet my eye for fear of what I might say. But this is no time for recriminations. I need her now more than ever. I need her to remind me to stay strong.
He looked around the kitchen. He walked to some shelves along the wall and saw what he wanted, took down a couple of wax candles, lit one from the rushlight, and set it standing on the table. The other he set down beside it, on its side. Rich golden light spread around the kitchen. The servants would not have spent their master’s wax candle so freely but they appreciated Mr. Clarenceux’s doing so.
“Is there anything to eat?” he asked. “Some bread and meat perhaps?”
“There is plenty of cold meat, good white bread from this morning, cheeses, ale, wine, and pears and apples.”
“Just bread and meat will do,” Clarenceux said. “But first”—he paused, looking at Rebecca—“first we will go into the hall and lay out the corpse of Mr. Hopton.”
“Us? Why?”
“You must have laid out a corpse before. You know what to do.”
“I do, but it’s not me, it’s…”
“Sir, it is not a fitting task for a gentleman,” Shepherd objected. “It is women’s work. We will send for someone from the village in the morning.”
“It is not fitting to leave a good man in a pool of his own blood either. Goodwife Machyn will help me. I want to see his body. I want to touch it, and I want to remember him. I want to remember many other things too. Tomorrow I might also have to kill a man, and that man might be Sergeant Crackenthorpe. If it is, it will be revenge for many deaths—Will Terry, Goodman Machyn, and Mr. Hopton among them.”
“But why?” insisted Rebecca again. “I will help you if I can. But why do you want to lay out this man’s corpse now, in the dark? That won’t be revenge.”
“Do you forget the old ways so quickly? Before the old religion was banned, we used to watch the night through with a man when he died.”
“What has got into you, Mr. Clarenceux?”
“The fear of God, Goodwife Machyn. And I want to keep it that way. For if I fear almighty God and keep Him close, then my fear of Sergeant Crackenthorpe will be as nothing.”
And with that Clarenceux picked up both the lit candle and the spare one, left the kitchen, and walked into the great hall.
***
Rebecca knew that she would never forget that night. She was tired and hungry, she was confused and grieving; but most of all she was frightened. She had been increasingly scared on the way to Summerhill but nothing had prepared her for this. For what was truly alarming was not that Walsingham had discovered that they had been at Summerhill, nor even that Crackenthorpe had searched the house. It was Clarenceux’s reaction. Ever since their meeting with the dowager countess he had been more and more self-possessed. And now his composure had gone a stage beyond anything she could have predicted. He had re-entered the mental world of the soldier, in which action is instinctive, the mind attentive, and the soul not afraid of anything.
He is preparing himself to confront death.
The shadows in the hall were high on the walls. Tapestries and armor looked down on them. They had been safe—too high for Crackenthorpe’s men to reach. Clarenceux saw the corpse and set down the candles on either side of the head. Mr. Hopton’s face wore an open-eyed, shocked expression—a look of dismay, not pain. His neck had been cut cleanly but the lower part spilled out over the upper, with tubes and white membranes visible. The pool of dried blood lay black on the flagstones around him, smeared here and there by the passage of boots. A rivulet had started to run toward the wall before it had congealed on the cold stone.
Clarenceux directed Shepherd to set up a trestle table in the center of the hall. When he had done so, the two men lifted the corpse and placed it on the table. Candlelight flickered on the pallid skin. The heavy, lifeless arms were already stiff; Clarenceux drew his knife to cut the clothes off. But at that moment
Rebecca walked up behind him. “There is no point. We have no shroud.” Seeing that he had not yet closed the dead man’s eyes, she did so, setting the head straight and pushing back the broken skin of the neck.
Clarenceux stood looking at the dead face. He reached forward and touched it. “I wanted you to see it. It is right that you and I should see the result of your slip of the tongue. Not so that I or anyone else can blame you—the good Lord knows we all make mistakes. But to see what Walsingham does. I need to feel angry, Rebecca. And I need you to be angry too—so that you want me to feel angry, to kill. All compassion is now a weakness. I am going to leave the chronicle here tomorrow. And you are going to come with me to Hackney, to keep watch when I go into the church there. I will enter as a soldier and as a Christian. If my enemies are waiting for me, then I will fight. And if God is not with me, then I will die.”
He leaned forward and kissed the forehead of the dead man. He made the sign of the cross and walked away into the darkness of the hall.
68
Wednesday, December 29
Daylight. Feathers. And the sound of trickling water in the next chamber.
Rebecca stirred in the bed, surfacing from a very deep sleep. She had left the shutters open and could see the ripped mattress and broken bolsters spilling their contents around her. She blinked and remembered the previous night, when they had looked into the room and seen that the bed ropes and mattresses had been slashed and the bedding scattered. Hearing Clarenceux splashing water on his face in the next room, she sat up, aware that she too should be getting ready to leave. She pushed back the covers, climbed off the remains of the mattress, and walked over to the basin in the corner. Seeing that there was no ewer, she hurriedly pulled her dress on and went through to his room.
He was kneeling, half naked, at the foot of a makeshift bed, splashing his upper body with cold water. He glanced at her but said nothing when she entered. From his silent manner she sensed his resolve, the coldness of his mind.
She knelt down beside him to wash her face and hands. He stood up without saying a word, pulled on his doublet, and walked over to where the chronicle lay. He picked it up and slowly returned to her. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. She paused, still leaning over the basin.
“When you are ready, come to the chapel.”
***
The chapel at Summerhill was small and, like the rest of the house, very old. The paintings on the wall were dark from the soot of so many candles over the years, and the roof—a narrow barrel-vault—was similarly blackened. One stained-glass window gave a greenish light to the chancel and left most of the rest of the chapel in shadow. The crucifix above the screen had been defiantly in place—against the law—until Walsingham’s visit. Now it stood propped up against the altar, having been smashed down by Crackenthorpe’s men.
Clarenceux was kneeling on the tiled floor, his head bowed before the altar where three candles were burning. The chronicle was also on the altar, placed before a silver cross. A sword, an unsheathed dagger, and a small boot knife lay on the ground to his right.
Rebecca knelt beside him, on his left, and they both began to pray.
O Lord, who art in Heaven, praise be to Thee and hallowed be Thy name; hear my prayer.
Lord, in Thy mercy hear my prayer. Give me strength this day and the resolve to do justice to those who have sinned against You. Let me not fail. Let my sword do Thy work if it be Thy will.
First, remember the soul of my dear departed husband, Henry Machyn. No man was ever kinder. May he dwell with You in Paradise.
Protect my wife and daughters. Wherever they are, give them strength and keep them in virtue and in Thy tender care.
Forgive me for the uncleanness of my mind and the sins I have committed in thought, word, and deed. Forgive me for the betrayal of Mr. Fawcett after his kindness to me. Protect Mr. Fawcett and his wife wherever they now be.
Protect my friend Julius who has shown me such kindness and favor, and whom I have led into great danger. Safeguard him and his wife. May they one day be rewarded in heaven for their faith in You.
Today Mr. Clarenceux will go as one entering the lions’ den. He will pray to You to protect him, as he did that day when crossing London Bridge. Please hear his prayer, for it is my prayer too.
Lord, have mercy on the souls of the departed, especially those recently deceased, who have died in Thy name. William Terry, Henry Machyn, James Hopton, and the two soldiers whom I killed. May they all come to Thy glorious and eternal kingdom.
Give me the strength to be with him when he has need of me in doing Thy work.
Protect Rebecca Machyn. Forgive me for leading her into danger. Her presence now is everything to me. She gives me strength.
Lord, in your mercy, guide him and protect him, for all our sakes. Give me the patience and time that I may earn his respect. Without him, my life is an ever-darkening horizon.
Lord, guide me as I go forward in Thy name. Amen.
Protect him, please, for he gives me strength. Amen.
He looked at her. “Are you ready?”
She nodded.
They both got up. Clarenceux bowed to the altar and bent down to pick up his weapons. He slipped the small knife into his right boot, strapped on his sword, sheathed his dagger, and bowed again. She also bowed and left the chapel at his side.
In the hall James Hopton’s body was still lying on the trestle table where they had left it the night before. Clarenceux went to the dais and picked up one of Julius’s heavy black robes that was draped over the table there. He put it on, staring at Hopton’s body, and made the sign of the cross.
When we look at the dead—especially those who have died for a cause we believe in—our self-belief and our belief merge into one.
He lingered a moment longer then crossed himself again and marched out of the hall.
69
They rode from Summerhill to Greenwich and took their horses on the ferry across to the Isle of Dogs. From there they rode to Mile End and asked John Crawley, the landlord of the Rising Sun, and his wife Iseult whether anyone had come asking questions about their previous visit. No one had. So Clarenceux talked to them about the roads, paths, buildings, and bridges in Hackney. Was there any news of guards in the Hackney area? Crawley said that men had been seen loitering in the area but that was all. No one was sure if they were still there or not. Clarenceux questioned him further about the layout of the village: how many crossings over Hackney Brook were there? And where did those paths lead? After an hour they left.
They approached Hackney from the south at two o’clock—just as the tower bell of St. Augustine’s was chiming. The sun had broken out of the thick winter clouds and cast patches of light on the grass on either side of the road. People were carrying wooden crates of chickens into London and riding with their copes laced up against the cold. There were businessmen in fashionable dress, a carter with a load of slates for a new London house, and tinkers and vendors with packhorses laden with baskets of purses, brass pans, and iron scissors for market stalls. Several cowherds were shifting their milk cows back to their home fields. Further along, a farmer was driving a flock of sheep along the highway.
The country around here was entirely grazing; there was no arable farming at all. Clarenceux knew it from trips north in the past, when conducting visitations or when traveling out of London in his youth. Indeed, he had stayed at the Mermaid Inn in Hackney on several occasions, and once at the Flying Horse. The old Percy house still stood in the north of the parish; he had attended a funeral mass there once. And there was a substantial brick house in the village of Homerton belonging to the Machell family, where he had attended a wedding—Brick Place, it was called. Alongside that house was a path through to the churchyard. Although he could hardly claim to be intimate with the locality, he was not on unfamiliar soil.
Clarenceux drew in the reins and pulled his horse to a halt at a crossroads. He could see the spire of St. Augustine’s Church in the dist
ance, peeping out from between the tops of trees, golden in the afternoon sun. There was an inn a little way further ahead on the right, beside a ford through Hackney Brook.
A robin alighted on a branch overhanging the road. It sang a brief song and cocked its head on one side before flying off.
“Here is where I leave you,” Clarenceux said, looking along the road to his right. It was a grassy lane lined by leafless beech trees and an old wall. “I want you to ride straight on, through the ford, and into the village. Go past the church and see if there are men in the churchyard. If you see anything suspicious, keep going—just ride straight out and find safety. If there is no one, ride into the yard of the Mermaid Inn and ask to leave the horses there while you see the landlord. But don’t go into the inn. Come back and find somewhere discreet from where you can watch the front of the church. Remember, if the worst happens, just ride for safety.”
“And you? What about you?”
“I will go by this lane, on foot. If all is well, then I will come and find you. If not…well, you will know what to do.”
“Mr. Clarenceux…”
Sacred Treason Page 30