Walsingham looked up and around the church, as if surveying it for the first time. He turned back to Clarenceux. “But what is the significance of this place? Is this a mustering point for your rebellion? Am I to expect that troops are descending on this spot as we speak, from Essex, from Suffolk, from the Midlands? From the north? Is this another Pilgrimage of Grace? To the tomb of the earl of Northumberland, the man who refused to lead the first Pilgrimage? I want an explanation, Clarenceux. And I want it now.”
Clarenceux shook his head. “The men who organized this plot are all dead. Henry Machyn. Sir Arthur Darcy. John Heath. I came here to learn what…what it might have entailed, to explain it to Sir William Cecil.”
“You can explain it to me.”
“I would have done,” whispered Clarenceux, “if Sergeant Crackenthorpe had not ordered the rape of Goodwife Machyn before you arrived.”
Walsingham looked coldly at Crackenthorpe. “It is this man we need to torture, from whom we need to extract information, not her. Why did you issue such an order?”
Crackenthorpe pointed to Clarenceux. “This man’s weakness is not in his body but in his conscience. Hand her back to me, and allow me to slice off her breasts in front of him. Before I’ve made the first cut, Mr. Clarenceux will agree to do whatever you want. I guarantee it.”
Walsingham stared at Clarenceux. “A poor revolutionary you would make, if the pain of one miserable widow defeats you.”
“I have…been thinking…much the same thing myself. That is why I am a herald, not a revolutionary.”
“Where is the woman?”
“I sent her to the Mermaid Inn,” Crackenthorpe told him.
Walsingham turned to the men behind him. “You two, fetch her. Bring her back here.”
Then he turned his attention to Clarenceux. “Let us talk about this as gentlemen. Your cause is over. Whatever rebellion you wished to foment is not going to happen. You are going to be executed, both you and the widow. The only question is how we do it. Now, let us suppose you give me the chronicle of Henry Machyn and tell me the significance of Lord Percy’s tomb over there. In return, I will ensure that both of you are hanged, and you are not quartered and Widow Machyn is not burnt at the stake or treated to any further humiliations.”
“How am I to give you the chronicle?”
“You will tell me where it is. I will send Sergeant Crackenthorpe to fetch it. When he delivers it to me, I will countermand the order for your quartering and her burning.”
Clarenceux shook his head and murmured, “You misjudge me, Walsingham. You misjudge us both. The weapons I hold are…sharp.”
“You will die a traitor’s death.”
“And when the plot is enacted, so will you.”
Walsingham angrily turned away.
Through his blood-covered eyes Clarenceux saw that his bravado had opened up a chink in Walsingham’s armor. The man had no idea what the plot entailed.
“Mr. Walsingham, I reserve my claim to innocence in all these matters. But I suggest a deal of another kind. You will release all the Knights of the Round Table and every one of those people whom you suppose to be my associates, including Mr. Julius Fawcett, if you have him, and I will deliver the chronicle to you—on two conditions. The first is that Sir William Cecil is present and the second is that we exchange the chronicle and prisoners at my own house.”
Walsingham frowned. “Why? Why should I listen to you? Or even think of having any part of a deal with you? In a short time you will be dead, Clarenceux.”
“If I must be a martyr, Mr. Walsingham, then so be it. But I do not think you want that to happen. Because you will have failed. My death and that of Goodwife Machyn will not be the end of things. I have had no part in any plot against her majesty; but now, having seen that tomb, I know what will happen. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.”
Walsingham’s face darkened. Clarenceux was bringing his most feared nightmare to the forefront of his mind—the unforeseen, unstoppable plot. He walked to the tomb in the north aisle.
“Open this,” he shouted angrily to the men waiting in the church. “Now!”
All the men in the church jumped to his service, including those stationed at the door. Only those near Clarenceux stayed at their posts. Even Crackenthorpe wandered nearer. Clarenceux watched.
“You, go and find a crowbar. The rest of you break the cement with your swords.”
“My offer is still on the table, Mr. Walsingham,” Clarenceux called. “You will have some explaining to do when you have desecrated a holy grave and found nothing.”
“Shut up, or I will have Crackenthorpe hit you again.”
“This is a church, Mr. Walsingham. A house of God. And you are digging up a man who has had a holy burial.”
When the man returned with a crowbar, they set to work, hammering its edge under the marble slab. The church was filled with the ringing noise, which echoed between the arches and in the arcade above.
“Tonight will be almost full moon,” Clarenceux said. “If you agree to my terms, I will go and fetch the chronicle myself, this very evening. And then, on my return, you can pass your prisoners over to my care.”
“Damn you, Clarenceux! Hold your tongue or I will have it cut off!”
“You do not know what this plot is about, Walsingham. You need my help.”
The clanging noise of the crowbar against the masonry continued to ring out and echo. Then it stopped. Instead there was a grinding noise as the top of the tomb was shifted.
There was silence.
“What do you see?” Clarenceux sneered. “Let me guess. A lead coffin. Any dried flowers in there from the earl’s widow? I thought not.” Walsingham turned away from the grave and walked slowly back to Clarenceux. “So, will you agree?”
“Sergeant Crackenthorpe wants to kill you with his bare hands. I am inclined to let him do so. You have one chance to explain this.”
At that moment the door creaked open and two men led Rebecca Machyn back into the church. Her dress was torn away at one shoulder and she was limping. She looked straight at Clarenceux and saw his bloody face. “God is with us, Mr. Clarenceux,” she said bravely. “God is with us.”
“Tie her to the screen,” said Walsingham.
Clarenceux felt a chill at the sight of her. His argument gave way to a cold, blank stare. “I will explain myself, Mr. Walsingham, tomorrow at noon, in the presence of Sir William Cecil and the rest of the prisoners, whom you will hand over to me.”
Walsingham held Clarenceux’s gaze for a long time. He said nothing. His gray eyes flickered over Clarenceux’s face, not caring for the blood. He turned and walked down the nave. “Crackenthorpe!” he called. The sergeant-at-arms hurried to his side and followed him from the church.
Light was fading now. The soldiers and guards waited where Walsingham had left them, not daring to leave their posts but no longer strictly standing on ceremony. Clarenceux looked at Rebecca; she was staring down at the flagstones on the ground, her shoulders slack, despondent.
Walsingham and Crackenthorpe returned after nearly ten minutes, Walsingham’s short, quick steps contrasting with the slow, lengthy strides of Crackenthorpe, who followed just behind.
“Clarenceux. You will ride from here this evening to where the chronicle is kept. Sergeant Crackenthorpe will accompany you, along with three of his men. Of course, you will be tied. You will hand over the chronicle to me tomorrow at noon, at your house, as you have asked. If you do not, Widow Machyn will be burnt alive, and the other surviving prisoners will go to the gallows as traitors and be hanged, eviscerated, and quartered.”
“Who are the surviving prisoners?”
“Robert Lowe, Nicholas Hill, William Draper, Michael Hill, and James Emery.”
“You can keep William Draper,” mumbled Clarenceux. He found it hard to speak. Too many names had not been mentioned.
71
It was going to be a cold night. The sky was deep blue already, the last light of d
ay fading fast. There were few clouds. The road was clearly visible in the moonlight, like a steel blade across the hills ahead of them, and the puddles they approached reflected the silver-touched wisps of clouds.
The guards roped Clarenceux’s hands together in front of him but took away his gloves. They tied a cord to the reins of Clarenceux’s horse and fastened the other end to Crackenthorpe’s saddle. A noose was placed around Clarenceux’s neck. Crackenthorpe held it loosely in his hand.
Clarenceux wanted to lead them away from the route he had actually taken with Rebecca, so he directed them along the road to Kingsland and from there up to Newington Green. The tall shape of the house in which Lord Percy had died stood there, severe in the moonlight, overlooking the green. They rode through Islington and then past the inns gathered around the Angel.
Crackenthorpe was silent. He only spoke when he saw they were approaching the city. “You did not bring us by the most direct route. We should have gone down the highway to Bishopsgate.”
“No one told me I had to come by the most direct route, Sergeant Crackenthorpe. That did not form part of the deal.”
“If this is a trap, you can guarantee I will tighten this rope around your neck. With great pleasure.”
Clarenceux searched for a strategy. Riding through the moonlit city—seeing the lines of roofs and the stationary carts outside the shops, the barrels of water, the puddles in the center of the muddy street—he knew that he had only a short time to detach himself from these guards. Even in the moonlight everything seemed more real; the darkness was death itself, closing in on everything he could see. With his hands tied together he could not bend down and reach his boot knife. Every time they passed into the shadow of a house or a wall he worked furiously at the knots binding his hands, and little by little they grew looser. But still they were too tight for him to slip them and rid himself of the noose around his neck.
Keep calm. Opportunities will arise. There are still twelve miles to ride before we come to Summerhill.
At Bridge Gate there was a moment’s chance. Crackenthorpe had to dismount and explain his business to the captain of the guard. But the men accompanying Clarenceux moved him into the moonlight and watched him closely. One, Christopher Fraser, forced him to hold out his hands, so they were not concealed by the folds of his robe. Unable to see the marks where the twisting rope had bitten into Clarenceux’s skin, he nevertheless held onto the ropes around his reins and neck. Eventually Crackenthorpe reappeared, and the five men rode across the eerily empty darkness of London Bridge. With the moon almost directly ahead, shining down the street, there was no shadow from the high houses on either side. Clarenceux’s knots remained tight.
Moonlight reflected off the high roof of Southwark Abbey and the whitewashed frontages of houses on the road south. It touched the leafless branches and twigs of the trees on either side of the road; no tree cover concealed Clarenceux for long enough to work on loosening his hands or reaching his knife. He tried to think ahead—was there a curve in a road around a hill? Or a valley? But he could not think of any place where he could lead Crackenthorpe to escape the glare of the moon. Some other distraction was required.
“How did Henry Machyn die?” he asked as they approached Peckham.
Crackenthorpe said nothing.
“How did Daniel Gyttens die?”
Still no answer.
Clarenceux could sense the seething hatred. The very fact that he had asked such direct questions seemed to create waves of anger within the man. He felt the rope about his neck and knew that Crackenthorpe could simply pull on it, hard, and strangle him, and until he could get his hand on his boot knife, there was nothing he could do to stop him.
He persevered. “You must have served in someone’s company—if only in the militia. How come you and I are so implacably opposed? We have much in common. Were you at Boulogne?”
Still Crackenthorpe said nothing.
“What have I done that has so offended you? Even between thieves there is respect. Yet you plainly have no respect for me. Or for Goodwife Machyn.”
Silence. Just the steady sound of their horses’ hooves as they passed between the houses on the highway through the village. But Clarenceux was twisting his hands to and fro every time he passed into the shadow of a house, pausing when the moon shone again on him.
“Earlier, when we were in the church, you said you knew from experience what it is to have the soul tortured, and that you derive satisfaction from inflicting pain on your enemies. What was it that made you so? What hurt you in the first place?”
“If you had grown up on the Marches of Scotland, in Westmorland, as my brothers and I did, you too would have seen many atrocities. You too would have preferred to commit acts of brutality than to suffer them.”
Clarenceux passed another house and wrenched his hands a fraction of an inch further apart, stretching the rope and giving his fingers that bit more freedom, but tightening the knots a little more. Then the moon was on him again.
“Most people would have learned to sympathize from such an experience.”
“It is weakness—and weakness is common.”
“So, do I understand? You are afraid that you would be of no value to Walsingham if you did not derive satisfaction from inflicting acts of cruelty?”
“Walsingham himself told me how he relies on me to push my prisoners for information further than he dare go.”
“And if you kill a man and get caught for it? Does that not concern you—that you take the blame for his commands?”
“I am proud that I serve.”
“You are a bloody fool for it.”
Crackenthorpe did not answer. He just yanked hard on the rope around Clarenceux’s neck—so hard that Clarenceux choked and started to fall, unable to help himself. He landed heavily on his shoulder on the frozen ground. Suddenly he felt the rope pulling his neck: Crackenthorpe was dragging him along the ground, throttling him, as if he were on the gallows. Frantically Clarenceux clawed at his neck with his tied hands, trying to grasp the rope, feeling the ground slipping away beneath his robed shoulders, and trying to stop the deadly knot biting into his throat. So tight was the noose that his cold fingers could not find a grip. Eventually he forced them through, as the terror of asphyxiation gave way to waves of nausea.
Crackenthorpe reined in his horse. Clarenceux lay panting behind him. He pulled the rope from around his neck and gasped. And in his gasping he rolled onto his knees and reached down to his boot, drawing out the small knife tucked inside. He slipped it into his right hand, slowly got to his feet, and walked toward his horse.
“The rope, sergeant,” observed one of the men.
“Pick it up and put it back around his neck.”
Clarenceux took a deep breath and leaned forward for the rope to be replaced. Crackenthorpe immediately pulled it tight, almost pulling Clarenceux over. He stumbled forward. “For pity’s sake, let me breathe,” he shouted, reaching up to loosen the knot and turning around to prevent the moon from revealing the tip of the blade in his hand.
“I have no pity for you. Nor for that whore, Machyn’s widow.”
Clarenceux mounted his horse. “She is no whore,” he muttered.
“Not anymore she isn’t.” They started walking forward.
“What do you mean?”
“She is dead.”
Clarenceux felt the fear rise up, overwhelming him like an excruciating noise. He had to struggle to make his voice heard. “Walsingham’s part of the deal was to release all the surviving prisoners. He said that I had until midday to return with the chronicle.”
“I am not going to let you return by midday. They are all going to hang. As for the whore—Walsingham was never going to release her. He waited until I had removed you and then hanged her at the Kingsland crossroads. That was why he accepted your deal.”
Clarenceux passed into the shadow of a house. He did not try to loosen his bonds or even maneuver the knife to cut the rope. All the life had
gone out of him. He remembered the last night of their journey, when she had fallen asleep on his breast.
“There have been too many deaths,” he said, staring at the moonlight on the leafless branches alongside the road. “Too many people have died. You kill and kill; you are cruel, vindictive—a despicable dreg of humanity.”
Suddenly Crackenthorpe’s voice was furious in the silence of the night. “And was it me that did all the killing? What about you, a heretic and a murderer? How can you preach to me like this when you killed my brother?”
Clarenceux swallowed, remembering the two men he had killed. “Your brother?”
Suddenly he realized just how cold the night air was, how cold his hands were, how cold the stars, how cold the world.
“Now do you understand why I want to hurt you?”
Clarenceux said nothing. The desolate landscape within him was changing fast. The barren rock was melting in the flow of hatred and the instinct for survival. So, Rebecca was dead, united with her husband. But he would show her departing spirit that he would avenge her death. He would avenge all the deaths—including that of Crackenthorpe’s brother, for he too had been a victim.
Moving into the shadow of a dense copse, he shifted the knife in his hand and cut part of the rope binding his wrists. Gradually, inch by inch, he loosened the tied knot, keeping the rope in sight.
Only a mile to go now. But his heart ached. He thought of her—the last time he had ridden this road had been with her. What was the last thing she had said to him? God is with us. And before that she had said, We will fight them with love. Be strong. Trust in the Lord. She had knelt beside him just that morning in the chapel at Summerhill, and prayed beside him. Her absence burnt within him. The tears came to his eyes—he could do nothing to stop them.
Up the road toward Summerhill they rode, with the moon silvering the trees, the road and the old battlements of the great tower. Reflecting in the glass of a high window. Highlighting the wood of the gate.
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