Clarenceux tried to bow but the pain in his abdomen prevented him. “I am grateful for your trust, Sir William.”
“Good. My men will escort your company to your house and I will see you there at two of the clock.”
74
There was little furniture left in Clarenceux’s hall. Thomas had done a good job of tidying up, but the spaces on the wall where his round mirror and paintings had hung told a quiet story of loss. The smashed plasterwork above the fireplace still testified to the destructiveness of Richard Crackenthorpe and his men. Nevertheless, Clarenceux was happy to see the place again. He was especially pleased to see the elm table in its usual place.
“I have not attended to your study,” said Thomas as Julius’s men helped Clarenceux to a chair that had been prepared for him. “With all the papers and documents on the floor, I thought it best to leave that to you personally.”
“Thank you, Thomas. You have done well. I am pleased.”
Clarenceux asked for the elm table to be brought across the room and positioned in front of his seat, and he had Machyn’s chronicle placed on it. Julius instructed half his servants and retainers to wait outside as there would be insufficient room within. A mug of ale was brought for Clarenceux, and the first sweet taste was like an instant of homeliness.
Sir William Cecil arrived shortly afterward with a good company of men. He walked briskly up the stairs, with guards preceding and following him. A plush seat was carried up from a neighbor’s property and he took his place beside Clarenceux. He looked at the table and the chronicle, and the array of men before them.
“Francis is going to think he is on trial.”
“Good,” Clarenceux replied.
Cecil shook his head gently. “If he comes, and if he does as he has agreed, he is still under my protection, Mr. Clarenceux. I hope you don’t make unwarranted statements that would prejudice your case or any threats that will throw the burden of shame back on yourself.”
Clarenceux said nothing. He understood.
Walsingham’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. He was alone.
He was wearing his usual attire of black doublet, small ruff, black skullcap, and black hose; but Clarenceux noted a certain distinction in the lace at his throat and on his cuffs, and that he was wearing a sword. The latter was not technically permitted. Francis Walsingham was not a knight, and therefore not allowed to walk around the city’s liberties displaying a blade. But Clarenceux knew that the sword served a more subtle purpose: to remind Cecil that he acted under his authority and with his protection.
“Good day, Francis,” Cecil began. “I am glad you have come. It would appear that we owe Mr. Clarenceux an apology. He tells me there is no plot, and that there never was any plot, against her majesty.”
Walsingham looked coldly at Clarenceux, as if examining him. Then he turned back to Cecil. “Do you believe him? Would you believe him if he told you he has persuaded her majesty to return the Church of England to the Roman fold? The man is a liar, a traitor, and a heretic.”
“Well, Francis, that may be your opinion. But we do not prosecute or punish people simply on the strength of your opinion.” Cecil paused for a moment. “And if we have acted against people in the past on that account—prosecuted them, punished them, searched their premises, damaged their possessions, threatened them—then that was wrong. Do you not agree? And if it has been done under my protection, that constitutes an abuse of privilege, no?”
“Sir William, you and I have a difficult balance to maintain. As you yourself have said, the stability of the ship of State is all-important. If I remember your exact words, you said: ‘If a mariner falls overboard, we do not turn the whole ship around. I would rather that innocent men drown than the ship be unsteadied.’”
There was a shifting among the men in the room. Cecil remained calm. “How many innocent men have drowned, exactly?”
“That depends on what you mean by innocent.”
“How many?”
“Two have died. Both royal servants—one outside the Machyn house, killed by Mr. Clarenceux; and the other in the alley north of the churchyard of St. Peter’s, also killed by Mr. Clarenceux.”
“Let me repeat the question. How many?”
Walsingham hesitated. “I will allow that Clarenceux’s servant boy and Daniel Gyttens should not have died.”
“And Henry Machyn?”
“Henry Machyn was a traitor and a heretic. He was not innocent.”
Clarenceux could contain himself no longer. “Henry Machyn was merely the guardian of a private document. He never plotted against the Church or the State. He was guilty of nothing more than writing a chronicle—one that is not remotely seditious.”
Walsingham’s eyes narrowed. “But if you look in that chronicle, what does it say under the date of the fifteenth of June 1552? And the sixteenth of June 1553? It is seditious, I’ll have you admit.”
Cecil held up a hand to silence Clarenceux. “I believe, Mr. Walsingham, that now is your opportunity to put that theory to the test.” He gestured to the book. “Here is the chronicle of Henry Machyn.”
Walsingham looked at the vellum-bound book. Everyone else looked at him. He stepped forward and picked it up. The cover was loose and almost came away in his hand. But he paid no attention to that. His eyes went straight to the uneven script. He squinted as he tried to read. He set the book back down on the table and turned the pages. He started reading silently again, looking for the incriminating entries. He found nothing under the first date he examined, so he turned more pages, looking for another date. Again he found nothing. Increasingly frantic, he turned back to the start. A sneer of satisfaction came across his face as he found an entry for the thirteenth of June 1550 and glanced up at Clarenceux. Then he read the entry and realized that it was not incriminating. After checking six or seven more entries, he set the book down.
“Read the last entry,” Clarenceux commanded.
Walsingham turned the pages brusquely, looking occasionally at Clarenceux, until the last page was revealed. He read it silently.
“Read it aloud,” ordered Cecil.
Walsingham looked Cecil in the eye and held his gaze before turning to the book. “It says: ‘The eleventh of December. Harry Machyn writer of this chronicle died, being killed by the order of Richard Crackenthorpe, queen’s sergeant-at-arms. Esperance.’ And that,” said Cecil, “is the basis on which you have killed innocent people in the name of her majesty, Mr. Walsingham?”
Walsingham tossed the heavy book onto the table. “The word ‘Esperance’ appears on Lord Percy’s tomb—it points to Machyn’s complicity—”
“In what, exactly? His complicity in what?”
Unnerved by Cecil’s smooth opposition, Walsingham looked around the room for support. Every face told the single story of deserved revenge. He turned back to Cecil. “Sir William, you know about the messenger sent from Scotland. You know about the assassin sent to kill William Draper. There was a conspiracy. You and I discussed it many times.”
“No. You told me about it. Did I ever tell you to kill anyone? Did I ever instruct you to do anything except take the precaution of searching this very house? And when you did search it, did you find anything? No. Yet you clearly intimidated this man, wrecked his property, murdered his servant, and drove his wife and daughters out of their home.”
“I was looking for the chronicle—”
“And now you have found it. Does it justify your behavior? I think not. So, what are you going to do? What is going to be your final conclusion on this matter?”
Walsingham said nothing.
“I have a grave suspicion that, without my intervention, you would have hanged Mr. Clarenceux and told me that all was well because you had foiled the plot. But the only crimes that have been committed have been committed by you and your hirelings. That is how it appears to me.”
Walsingham swallowed. “I will ensure that Sergeant Crackenthorpe faces the full penalty of the law.”
“He is dead,” said Clarenceux.
Walsingham’s mouth opened. He searched for words but none were forthcoming. “God have mercy on his soul,” he eventually said in a hoarse voice.
“God will do nothing of the sort,” retorted Clarenceux. “Do you think it was an accident that I ended up like this, with wounds to my body, arms, and legs? You gave him instructions to kill me once he had the chronicle, so I would not return today by the appointed hour. You were not here at noon. You never had any intention of honoring your side of the deal we struck yesterday in Hackney Church.”
Walsingham looked toward the door.
“Don’t turn away from us, Francis,” said Cecil. “Explain to me first your understanding of the bargain. Mr. Clarenceux and you were to meet today, at noon, in this house, when he would give you the chronicle and you would release the prisoners, is that correct?”
“Those that were still alive.”
“And how many is that?”
Walsingham looked at the ground. “Five men,” he said at last.
“Where are they now?” snapped Cecil.
Walsingham looked Cecil in the eye. “If I have been harsh, it was because you wanted me to be…”
“Answer me, Mr. Walsingham. Where are they now?”
“In the Tower, in my house, and in the safe house in Bishopsgate.”
“You admit they are not here, then. So, Mr. Clarenceux is telling the truth. You had no intention of fulfilling your side of the bargain. You clearly did not expect Mr. Clarenceux to return safely and fulfill his.”
“Where is Rebecca Machyn?” demanded Clarenceux, his voice trembling. “You said five men are still alive. What about her?”
Walsingham looked terrified. “Sir William, I implore you, what I have done I did with a good conscience, in all faith and fidelity to—”
“Just answer the question.”
“No!” shouted Walsingham. “I will have no more of this! I will not be interrogated as if I were a criminal or a traitor. I have labored day and night to do what was asked of me, with knowledge only of a conspiracy in progress. And as you yourself have said, Sir William, if we succeed nineteen times out of twenty to keep her majesty safe and fail on the twentieth, what then? We have failed completely.”
“What about Rebecca Machyn?” insisted Clarenceux.
“She is still alive—I am innocent on that score at least,” shouted Walsingham. “But she is guilty—she is as guilty as Clarenceux himself!”
No one spoke. The words echoed in the minds of all the men present. Walsingham realized that everyone in that room had taken his words as proof of his prejudice. But for Clarenceux, it was as if a heavenly choir had started singing and releasing doves of peace. The grief he had known was gone. Tears welled in his eyes.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Bishopsgate.”
Cecil turned to Clarenceux. “It would appear that you, Mr. Clarenceux, are indeed the injured party. But we still have to bring all this to a resolution. What should we do now?”
Clarenceux wiped his eyes and looked at Cecil. “The way forward is clear. I made a deal with this man: the lives and safety of all those he is keeping prisoner in return for the chronicle. The two conditions were that we make the transfer in this house and that you be present, Sir William. Here is the chronicle, on the table before us. We are in my house. You are present. We lack only the prisoners. As an officer of her majesty the queen, I am prepared to stand by my side of the bargain if Mr. Walsingham stands by his.”
“Good,” said Cecil with a sigh. “I was hoping you would say that. Mr. Walsingham, you have two hours to assemble everyone here, in this room, including the Machyn woman. Mr. Fawcett, outside in your cart I believe there is a head. Could you dispose of it, please? The gate on London Bridge is the traditional place. Now, I would like to have a private word with Mr. Clarenceux, so if you will all vacate this hall, I would be much obliged.”
Everyone waited as Walsingham marched out of the room. Then they filtered out, murmuring and talking among themselves. Thomas was the last to leave. He bowed to Cecil and Clarenceux, then closed the door to the stairs behind him.
Cecil looked at Clarenceux. “At my house earlier you said that there is no plot. But you also mentioned the marriage between Lord Percy and Anne Boleyn. I also was privy to the message from Scotland that sparked off this hunt for conspirators. So I do know that you are either lying to me on your own behalf or lying to me on behalf of others.”
“But I was—”
“No buts. You have heard me accept your side of the story publicly and without reservation. And I appreciate that you were not the architect of whatever plot was, or is, afoot. I often thought that Walsingham was too quick to regard you in that capacity. I know that you are not a rebellious man by nature. You like structure. You like order. You like family pedigrees and coats of arms described in arcane language. You have a family, and although you are a follower of the old religion, I know that that is because you are of a conservative nature. Walsingham could never understand these things because you too neatly fitted his conception of what a Catholic conspirator must be. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, entirely, Sir William.”
“Walsingham will learn from this experience. What I have in mind for him requires him to learn many hard lessons—and more innocents will drown, it is true. But we have a woman on the throne, a headstrong woman, and she is very vulnerable. She is also the most powerful of all the monarchs of a Protestant leaning, so she is doubly vulnerable—to the foreign assassin’s bullet as well as the English Catholic’s knife. And she refuses to name a successor. I am a good deal older than she is; but if, between us, Walsingham and I ensure she lives long enough to marry and pass on the Crown safely to another generation, then we will have done our duty.”
“I understand.”
“So…Am I right in thinking that you have discovered proof of the Percy–Boleyn marriage?
“Yes.”
“Where is it? Is it in the chronicle?”
“No.”
“Tell me where.”
Clarenceux considered his reply. Honesty, he decided, was the only possible course of action. “Sir William, it seems safest to me that I do not tell you. Your business is to protect her majesty above all else. I know the whereabouts of the most dangerous document you can imagine. Whom could I trust to keep it more than I trust myself?”
Cecil said nothing.
“And you have just declared in the hearing of a number of witnesses that there was indeed no plot. It would be better for me to destroy the document myself than allow it to be kept by someone else.”
Cecil sat forward and spoke in a low voice, looking deep into Clarenceux’s eyes. “No, do not destroy it. We may need it.”
“I am sorry, what did you say? We may need it?”
“Yes. Let me put it this way. Some of us are privy to the events of 1536. I have known for a long time of the existence of the marriage agreement. I presume you know the name Chapuys?”
“The ambassador to the Holy Roman Emperor. I’ve seen copies of his letters on the subject of the marriage and on the execution.”
“And you will be sensitive to the fact that we have not always had a Protestant monarch. And we may yet have another Catholic. I am sure that it does not matter greatly to God one way or the other—that is where you and I differ, perhaps—but I will use whatever means are necessary to ensure there is no revolution in the name of a Catholic God or a Protestant God. Do you understand me?”
Clarenceux looked carefully at Cecil’s face.
“It is no more than what I have just done for you, is it not?” Cecil got up from his chair. “I hope and pray that we have an understanding, Mr. Clarenceux. You will keep that document safely and very secretly. And if ever I need it, you will produce it for me.” Clarenceux made an attempt to get to his feet. “No, stay seated, Mr. Clarenceux. You word of h
onor is as good sitting down as it is standing up.” He offered his hand.
Clarenceux hesitated for just a second. Then he shook it.
“Good. I will see you in two hours.”
***
When Cecil had gone, Clarenceux sat for a long time in his chair by himself. He thought back to the moment when he had stood in this hall with Henry Machyn and accepted the chronicle. He remembered telling the boy William Terry not to reveal the whereabouts of the book. He remembered the interrogation at Walsingham’s house and the hellish night in the cellar, awaiting death, and then the heavenly sunshine on being released. With a flinch he recalled the two guards he had killed, one of whom had been Crackenthorpe’s brother. And killing Crackenthorpe himself in the cavern. He owed a great deal to some people. To the warden of the Skinners. To Tom Griffiths, the pelterer. He owed an immense amount to Julius. But most of all he was indebted to Rebecca. He owed her his life, for she had moved the chronicle at the critical moment, risking death to save it from falling into Crackenthorpe’s hands. She had been the one who had understood the meaning of the Knights’ names. But most of all she had been with him throughout. He would not have been able to keep going if it had not been for her support.
For three weeks I have lived in fear. But I have learned much. In Walsingham’s cellar, I realized that I would prefer to die than live a hated, unworthy existence. And in that dark churchyard, waiting for Rebecca after escaping from William Draper’s house, I learned that God alone is not enough. Those words haunted me that evening and they still do. But there really is no mystery. Men and women need one other—otherwise our struggles would simply be unbearable.
75
Sir William Cecil was the last to return to Clarenceux’s hall. His guards appeared and took up their posts on either side of the door. He apologized for being late and walked past Julius’s and Walsingham’s men to his seat.
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