He swallowed and did not look at her. “We have no time now for speeches. We must be strong and trust in the Lord.”
Rebecca shut her eyes. “Before you go…”
But he dismounted and placed his reins in her hand. “Good-bye, Rebecca,” he whispered. “Live well and give thanks to God often.” And without another word he slapped the horse’s rump with his gloved hand, causing her to start moving forward.
Rebecca rode on for a little way with her eyes still closed. She whispered a prayer for him. Only when she came to the brook did she look back and see him there, a solitary black-robed figure, waiting.
When she looked back a second time, from the far side of the brook, he had gone.
***
Clarenceux hurried along the grassy lane on foot. John Crawley had said there were two small bridges to the east of the ford, one stone-built, the other wood. The nearer one, the one made of wood, led to a lane that went around the back of Church Fields. The stone-built one led into Homerton, coming out not far from Brick Place.
He walked briskly, feeling the hilt of his sword beneath the robe. He saw the first bridge, fifty yards off the lane, with trees leaning over it. He walked on. Two hundred yards ahead, with reeds growing in the marsh on the near side, was the second narrow bridge, with newly built stone piers and ruts where small carts had churned up the mud on the approach path. This was the one he wanted.
By now Rebecca will be at the Mermaid Inn. He crossed the bridge and walked toward the whitewashed houses at the top of the lane. This was the village of Homerton. He turned left into the wide curving street and continued walking past Brick Place to the pathway he knew, which led to the back of the church.
Here his pace slowed. On his left there were gardens, surrounded by a high stone wall. Ahead was Church Fields, and beyond that was the churchyard. If anyone was on patrol there he would see them long before they could recognize him.
He glanced to his right; a herd of cattle was standing in the field in deep mud around a cattle trough. There were no men in sight.
Now he was thirty yards from the churchyard…twenty…ten.
Here was the gate.
A gust of wind from the north chilled his right cheek. There was a woman carrying a basket in the churchyard. Otherwise nothing. No one. He paused and watched her leave, unconcerned by his presence.
He walked into the churchyard, toward the porch on the south side of the church. He could see a tall brick house on the far side of the churchyard which had many small windows. Anyone could be looking out. But maybe no one forces you to stop. He came to the porch and went inside. His pulse was racing. He placed his hand on the door handle and twisted it. It was unlocked…Keep going. This is God’s work; He will protect you.
He pushed the door open; it swung with a creak on its iron hinges.
The church was full of daylight, with wide broad-arched windows. Some paintings on the walls had been white-washed over, and the stone altars denuded of their vestments. No cross stood above the rood screen. But all these things were of less interest to Clarenceux than the one unassailable fact: there was no one inside. No troops, no spies. No one. A tremor of joy ran through him and he closed the door, bursting with anticipation. He walked quickly into the nave and looked along the length of the building, his eyes noting the tombs and monuments. In the south aisle there was a very impressive-looking effigy, but in his excitement his eyes struggled to find the epitaph. When he found it, the name was Haskins. So he moved to the next, and the next, checking wall plates, chest tombs, brasses. His eyes skimmed inscriptions, looking only for names, reading: Liddiard…Leech…Jones…Halloran…
And then he saw it in the north aisle. It was very plain for a monument commemorating an earl. There was no figure. Clarenceux’s mental image of the tomb, with an effigy of the earl reclining in stone, reflecting on his too-short life, had been completely wrong. The actual grave was marked only by a plain marble-topped chest tomb set into the wall. An elegant box. The marble had no words, no inscription. Along the front there was a clearly carved inscription in English—easy to read as the winter sun was casting the carved letters into shadow.
Here lieth interred Henry Lord Percy, Earle of Northumberland, Knight of the most honorable Order of the Garter, who died in this Towne the last of Iune, 1537, the 29th year of Henry ye 8th.
The inscription was so unprepossessing that for a moment Clarenceux believed his interpretation was wrong. He took his glove off and ran a finger along the lines of the lettering. This was nothing to do with the chronicle. My fears of being discovered here by Walsingham were all unwarranted. Nevertheless, he took another look and read the words carefully, just in case he had missed some code or other hint. He reached for the writing materials he had brought in the pocket of the robe and copied the inscription, kneeling down and leaning on the marble surface.
Then he stood up, disillusioned. There has got to be more to this than meets the eye. He wondered if some object nearby might cast a shadow, thereby picking out a certain series of letters. He stood back and moved slightly to one side but there seemed to be no change to the inscription, nor any shadow or marker. He looked at the stained-glass window above the tomb, searching it for any script or scene that might give a clue to the interpretation of the chronicle. Nothing seemed significant; the window was much older than the tomb. However, in drawing away from the tomb he noticed that there was another inscription in the stone on the end. It was the single word, in capital letters:
ESPERANCE
He felt a shiver of anticipation and alarm at the same time. This was not just Lord Percy’s motto—it was the word with which Machyn had ended his chronicle.
He crouched down and inspected the lettering. Then he shifted himself to the opposite end, to see if there was a word there. And then he gazed, astonished, at the tomb. Clearly this was the place intended by Machyn. Carved in small Roman capitals was a torrent of Latin:
MILITIA EST VITA HOMINIS SUPER TERRAM ET SICUT DIES MERCENARII DIES EIUS • SICUT SERVUS DESIDERA TUMBRAM ET SICUT MERCENARIUS PRAESTOLATUR FINEM OPERIS SUI • SIC ET EGO HABUI MENSES • VACUOS ET NOCTES LABORIOSAS ENUMERAVI MIHI • SI DORMIERO DICO QUANDO CONSURGAM ET RURSUM EXPECTABO VESPERAM ET REPLEBOR DOLORIBUS USQUE AD TENEBRAS • INDUTA EST CARO MEA PUTRUDINE ET SORDIBUS PULVERIS CUTIS MEA IRRUPUIT ET PECCATUM APERITUM EST • DIES MEI VELOCIUS TRANSIERUNT QUAM A TEXENTE TELA SUCCITITUR ET CONSUMPTI SUNT ABSQUE ULLA SPE • MEMENTO QUIA VENTUS EST VITA MEA ET NON REVERTETUR OCULUS MEUS UT VIDEAT BONA • NEC ASPICIET ME VISUS HOMINIS OCULI TUI IN ME ET NON SUBSISTAM • SICUT CONSUMITUR NUBES ET PERTRANSIT SIC QUI DESCENDERIT AD INFEROS NON ASCENDET • NEC REVERTETUR ULTRA IN DOMUM SUAM NEQUE COGNOSCET EUM AMPLIUS LOCUS EIUS • QUAMPROPTER ET EGO NON PARCAM ORI MEO LOQUAR IN TRIBULATIONE SPIRITUS MEI CONFABULABOR CUM AMARITUDINE ANIMAE MEAE • NUMQUID MARE SUM EGO AUT CETUS QUIA CIRCUMDEDISTI ME CARCERE
For one throb of his heart, Clarenceux felt the satisfaction of knowing what the Latin meant and where it had come from. It was from the book of Job, chapter seven, where Job justifies his will to die. Those last words—am I a sea or a whale that you surround me in prison—were a strange adjunct to what had gone before. Indeed, they made a conundrum in themselves, but that was why Clarenceux remembered this passage so well. He had never understood that line—what did it have to do with Job’s lamentation? The embossed cover of Machyn’s chronicle is marked with waves and fish. Both inscriptions on the ends of the tomb link to the book. Is the proof of the marriage inside this tomb, placed there during the funeral by Henry Machyn?
Suddenly he heard the iron hinges of the door and marching footsteps on the flagstones. A shaft of sunlight through the window caused him to shield his eyes as he rose to his feet, but there was no doubt what was happening. Six men were lining up, three on each side of the door. They were all wearing different liveries—one a wine-red doublet, another a black tunic, another an old fur-trimmed jerkin—but all were armed with side-swords. And they were all under orders; none of t
hem spoke. They just stood to attention in their motley garb, like a group of parish militia men on muster day.
He heard a woman’s voice screaming outside, in the distance. He recognized it as Rebecca’s. “For the sake of Christ’s mercy,” she was yelling, “Mr. Clarenceux! Get out…save yourself.”
There was nowhere to go. There was only one door. He looked everywhere for an alternative exit, but there was none. He could do nothing but watch helplessly as two more men entered. Each of them was holding a rope tied to one of Rebecca’s wrists. She was struggling, twisting backward and forward, trying to loosen the knots and break away. But they had tied her well and were brutal in the way they handled her. “In the name of God!” she screamed as they hauled her inside, one reaching down and grabbing her hair. But when she saw Clarenceux standing there, not escaping or even trying to avoid the guards, she realized the futility of her struggle. She became still, staring at him as if he had betrayed her.
“They were waiting in the Mermaid Inn,” she said coldly. “The bastards were waiting for us…They’ve sent a messenger to Walsingham.”
A ninth man, who appeared to be the captain, entered as she spoke. He stepped straight across to her and struck her hard in the face. “Shut up, woman!” he shouted. “You two—search that man. If he has any weapons, take them. Bind him. And you, lock the door. We will wait here until Sergeant Crackenthorpe arrives.”
Clarenceux considered his chances. There was time yet to draw his sword. Two men were holding Rebecca; it would be seven against one. Better than that, there were only two men approaching him and he would have the moment of advantage. But then the captain called out, “Don’t even think of drawing a weapon.”
Clarenceux shifted his gaze away from the approaching men to the captain. He saw the long barrel of the gun that the man was pointing at him. He glanced to the other side of the church. He could run across the nave; it was difficult to shoot a running man. There was a chest tomb in the south aisle; maybe if he could get onto that, he could smash his way through the window. But breaking the glass would take time, and he would be an easy target. They would shoot him. And they would still have Rebecca.
The first of the guards pushed him roughly back against the wall and grabbed for the hilt of his sword beneath his robe. Clarenceux let him take it, and the dagger too. He let himself be turned and shoved face first into the wall beside the tomb as the guard roped his wrists together behind his back, drawing the thin rope very tightly against the skin.
“Tie him to the screen,” commanded the captain. “The woman too, on the other side. Keep them apart.”
As Clarenceux was forced toward the chancel screen he tried to come to terms with his inaction. He had been prepared for this; he had been ready to fight. And now, somehow, in a matter of seconds, he had been overwhelmed. He felt a rope being passed around his waist and his body firmly tied to the oak upright of the screen, and then another looped around his neck.
They had led Rebecca to the screen in the south aisle. Clarenceux felt ashamed; he did not want to look at her. He did not want to see a sign of recrimination in her face for leading her into what had, in retrospect, been an obvious trap. Walsingham had known—and was able to place a large number of men here, quietly, dressed as traveling gentlemen, and keep them here for days, weeks.
The plot is dead now. The candle has spluttered and gone out. And our lives are following the same course.
The captain stationed two men to guard the door. Three others were ordered to watch Rebecca and three to watch Clarenceux. The sun was almost gone from the south windows; the light in the church would soon start to fade. Clarenceux looked at the earl’s tomb, silent, still, with the dust settling on it as it had for the last twenty-six years. Is the proof of the queen’s illegitimacy hidden inside that chest? If it is, then that was a bad place to hide it. We might have come here incognito and seen the inscriptions, but we could not have opened the tomb without arousing attention. Perhaps that is why Henry Machyn arranged for there to be nine Knights—to work together to open the tomb. But then why the chronicle? And why the reference to the book of Job? The sea, the whale. And there was something odd too about an earlier part of the inscription. It should have read cutis mea aruit et contracta est. Or something like that—something about Job’s skin becoming wrinkled and furrowed…
His skin…
At that moment, as Clarenceux looked up and saw the very last ray of sunlight disappearing from the furthest corner of the furthest window, he realized. It was sweet food for the soul. At last, he understood the secret of Lord Percy’s tomb, Henry Machyn’s secret.
70
Sergeant Crackenthorpe strode into the church with all the appearance of a powerful and proud man in his hour of glory. But in truth his heart was burning. There was a rush of fire in his body—it raged in his chest and in his limbs—and it was a desire, not a pride or any sort of reflection on what had happened. He had not been able to ride at Walsingham’s gentle pace, merely smiling to himself at the thought of questioning Clarenceux. He wanted to rip the man limb from limb. He wanted to flay him alive—to cut the strips of skin off his back and pour salt onto the bloody flesh. He wanted to drive his heel into the man’s hand, feeling the satisfaction of breaking each bone.
Three soldiers accompanied him into the church. They waited at the back while he advanced toward Clarenceux. Clarenceux expected a punch to the face or body. He braced his stomach muscles, but no blow came.
“How fitting that God should have delivered you to me in this place. I worship the almighty that puts you at my mercy. But I have no mercy. I swore a long time ago that I was going to do to you what they used to do to traitors in the past: cut your guts out and then burn them in front of you. In France they tie a man’s arms and legs to four horses and pull the body apart.”
Clarenceux drew himself up to his full height and looked Crackenthorpe in the eye. “Where is Walsingham?”
“Still on the road. He is probably savoring the thought of what you are going to tell him as much as I am the thought of making you talk.”
“Have a thought for your soul, even if your name is that of a murderer.”
Still Crackenthorpe did not punch him. Instead he said, “Do you know why I rode on ahead?”
Clarenceux said nothing.
“It is because Mr. Walsingham does not approve of some of my methods. He thinks I am a killer with no self-control. But as you can see, I know what I am doing. I could inflict a lot of pain on you—and I will. But when I do so, it will be for my benefit, not for his, nor for the sake of obtaining information. You will talk not because of anything I do to you but because of what I do to the woman.” He glanced at her, tied to the wooden screen, looking down. “Pretty thing she must have been. Your mistress now?”
Clarenceux said nothing.
“It will hurt you even more, what she suffers. You see, I know what it is to torture a man. I don’t just hurt his body—I hurt his soul. I draw it out by hurting the people he loves. I know from experience. Only it happened to me when I was young, and adversity makes the young grow stronger. It just weakens and kills men and women past their prime. When I torture you, I will feel good because your pain will remind me how strong I have become. But you…First you will weep, then you will talk, and then you will die.”
“Walsingham is not alone in despising your methods. God does too.”
“Spare me the sermon, Mr. Clarenceux. In these matters you are an innocent. You will only make things worse. For her.” He smiled. “When I think of what I am going to do my body feels hard and strong, like my mouth watering at the thought of drink. I like that feeling. I relish the humiliation of a woman, of rendering her powerless. Her powerlessness makes me feel powerful, and increases my pleasure. Or I can give that pleasure to others, and that also is power.” He turned to the two soldiers standing guard over Rebecca. “You two, take the woman back to the inn. Despoil her, both of you—do whatever you want with her.”
Clarenceux shut his eyes as the men untied the rope binding Rebecca to the screen.
“Mr. Clarenceux,” she called, “we will fight them with love. Be strong. Trust in the Lord…”
“For Christ’s sake, shut her up!” yelled Crackenthorpe.
“Trust in the Lord, Mr. Clarenceux,” Rebecca repeated. Then one of the men yanked her jaw open and thrust a rope through her mouth, tying it behind her head. The two of them dragged her out of the church. The hinge of the door creaked open and the guards slammed it shut behind them.
“Are you wondering why I do not want to have her myself? It is because seeing you in pain will give me greater pleasure.”
“I would spit in your face if this were not a holy place.”
“Your religion weakens you, Mr. Clarenceux.”
Clarenceux stared at Crackenthorpe and searched for something to say. All he could think of was the scar on the man’s face. “That scar,” he said, “I like it. It reminds me that a man tried to kill you.”
Crackenthorpe fought to retain his composure. Then he let fly with a punch and connected with Clarenceux’s jaw. Clarenceux’s head was knocked back against the carved wooden column to which he was tied. He tasted blood in his mouth, and his tongue felt a loose tooth. The double blow affected his sense of balance. He felt sick.
As he retched and spat out the tooth, he heard the creak of the door. The diminutive figure of Francis Walsingham walked into the nave, followed by four men in his black livery. Crackenthorpe wheeled around.
Walsingham approached, looking at Clarenceux’s bloody face, his groggy half-closed left eye. He gestured to the tomb of Lord Percy. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”
“I have nothing to explain.”
“Come, Mr. Clarenceux. Your playing at rebellion is over. I might have believed you before, when you claimed ignorance; I even let you go. But you betrayed my trust then and you have proved yourself my enemy since. We know who the Knights of the Round Table are. We have interrogated your comrades, and although they tried to protect you, we know the truth. We know the encoding of Lord Percy and the date of his death; who but a herald would have thought of centering a plot on the tomb of a dead lord?”
Sacred Treason Page 31