The Final Sacrament

by James Forrester

  Copyright © 2012 by Ian James Forrester Mortimer

  Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Patrick Insole

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

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  www.sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 2012 in the UK by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Forrester, James

  The final sacrament / James Forrester.

  p. cm.

  “Originally published in 2012 in the UK by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group.”

  (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Great Britain—History—Elizabeth, 1558-1603—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6106.O7755F56 2013

  823’.92—dc23

  2013017035

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Sacred Treason

  Excerpt from The Roots of Betrayal

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  This book is dedicated to my uncle Gerald Harvey

  with great respect and much love.

  And the Lord said unto Satan, “Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil?”

  Then Satan answered the Lord, “Doth Job fear God for nought? Hast not Thou made an hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? Thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land. But put forth Thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse Thee to thy face.”

  Job, Chapter I, verses 8–11

  Prologue

  Wednesday, February 19, 1567

  The boy’s shoulders were tense with cold as he stood on duty near the King’s Gate. Although it was almost dark he could still see the high wall running along the left-hand side of the street. The flickering glow of a torch lit the nearest stretch of brickwork. On his right, the palace rooftops loomed black against the frozen sky. Two servants came out of the shadows, walking into the palace. One caught his eye but did not acknowledge him. Three weeks had passed since he had come to court, supposedly to finish his education, and already he was regretting his father’s decision.

  He rubbed his hands together, and blew on them. Tucking his fingers under his arms for warmth, he ran the toe of his shoe over the smooth surface of a small patch of ice. The air smelled of frozen earth, with traces of burning pitch from the torch. He felt hungry as well as cold. When he was older he would buy himself some gloves, he vowed, and never have to stand with such chilled fingers again.

  He started to walk across the width of the gatehouse, whistling snatches of a tune he remembered his mother singing. He wondered if his parents were well. He thought of them talking about him back home in the village—about how proud they were that he was in the queen’s service at Whitehall. That image sweetened him and saddened him at the same time, for he knew how shocked they would be if they could see the way he was treated. Dick Venner regularly shouted at him as if he were his master, even though Dick was only a year older. It was Dick who was responsible for teaching him the ways of the court, and it was Dick who had beaten him with a wooden rod when he did not bow low enough to a Polish nobleman.

  The sound of horses approaching at speed broke into his reverie. A moment later he saw their shapes come out of the darkness. There were four of them, their eyes great black beads in the torchlight, their heads glistening with sweat. Two men dismounted, both out of breath; one took the reins of his own horse and those of the other man. The latter was short and thin. The boy noticed the fine cut of his clothes; but even by torchlight he could see that the riding cloak was splattered with mud, the black silk doublet beneath it similarly besmottered. The man had a crease between his eyes so that it seemed like he was permanently frowning. His head was covered by a black skull cap—but he was not that old, only in his midthirties. He seemed distant from his companions. The two who remained mounted bade him farewell and departed; his companion led the two horses away to the stables.

  “Boy, take me to
Sir William,” the man said between short breaths.

  Sir William. One of the first things that Dick Venner had taught him was that there was only one “Sir William.” Other men might be called “Sir William this” or “Sir William that”—but there was only one plain “Sir William.” He was Sir William Cecil, the queen’s Principal Secretary, and the most powerful man in the government: in fact, the most powerful man in the whole kingdom. He was also reputed to be the most intelligent. Normally the boy would not have known where Sir William was, but on this occasion he did. Sir William had rushed to court two days ago, when terrible news had arrived from Scotland. The rumor among the other boys was that Lord Henry Stewart was dead. Many messages had been delivered since then—one almost every hour. Sir William had barely left the queen’s side in all that time.

  The boy bowed politely. “With all respect for your lordship, Sir William has given instructions that he is not to be disturbed, except for messengers coming from Sir William Drury.”

  The small man with the skull cap looked directly at him. “Do you not know who I am?”

  The boy stood firm, though inside he was quaking. “No, my lord.”

  “My name is Francis Walsingham. Sir William is my patron. I have news for him that will turn his hair gray. Now…” Walsingham reached forward and grabbed the boy’s ear in his right hand and twisted it. “Take me to him, without delay.”

  “Mr. Walsingham, sir, he has already received the news about the Scottish—”

  “TAKE ME TO HIM!” shouted Walsingham, pushing him toward the side door that led through into the privy palace.

  Tears came to the boy’s eyes, but he blinked them back as he led the way along the covered corridor behind the Lord Chamberlain’s house. The route took them into a whitewashed corridor, through another door, out into the cold night again, and along a path between the mass of irregular buildings that formed part of the old palace. They passed the busy figures of servants, gentlemen, cooks, and clerks in the near darkness. In some places torches lit the route. Where it was dark, he felt his way, running his hand along the wall. He led Walsingham through to the great court and along one side of it, and under an arch into the stone gallery that ran between the privy palace and the privy garden. Finally, after hearing the heels of Walsingham’s nailed boots ringing out behind him against the flagstones of the gallery for about fifty yards, he came to the entrance, lit by a wall-mounted metal lantern. He took the ring of the door handle, turned it, and entered, and after closing it again behind the visitor, went up a flight of stairs to the first of a series of antechambers.

  He had expected to see two guards here, men who should have been on duty outside the closed door to the privy palace. But there was no one. He turned to Walsingham to explain that he was not allowed beyond this door.

  “Open it,” snapped Walsingham before he could speak. The boy turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  The chamber had large gilded beams in the high ceiling, with red and blue painted decoration between them. The colors were clearly visible in the light of six burning candles that hung in the center of the room. There were warming tapestries too, the figures on them like mysterious onlookers from the shadows. A fire was burning on a hearth—but there was no one to be seen.

  “Lead on,” ordered Walsingham, his boots thudding on the floorboards.

  At that moment the door at the far end of the chamber opened and a man in purple ecclesiastical vestments entered. He looked surprised to see them.

  “Your Grace,” said Walsingham, bowing. The boy also bowed low.

  “Walsingham, you cannot go in,” said the bishop in a deep voice. “The queen and Sir William will not be disturbed. Besides…” He looked down at Walsingham’s mud-spattered clothes and filthy shirt, “her majesty will not approve of your apparel.”

  “I am not looking for her approval. Sir William will not forgive me if I delay.”

  “But will the queen?” The bishop looked Walsingham in the eye. “Never mind. If it concerns Lord Henry Stewart, you’re too late. They’ve already heard it. Drury has been sending letters at regular intervals, and others have hastened here directly from the north.”

  “My news is of quite another order. But what is this about Lord Henry? I have been away.”

  “A sorry tale, but one that I fear was inevitable. He has been murdered—killed in the grounds of his house at Edinburgh. No one knows who is guilty and it seems the Scots queen has not arrested anyone, which leaves the finger of blame pointing at the lady herself.”

  The boy looked at Walsingham. The crease between his eyes seemed even deeper.

  “Then I have all the more reason to speak to Sir William immediately,” he said.

  “I have already told you—”

  “Lead on,” commanded Walsingham, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thank you for your information, my Lord Bishop; thank you.”

  He pushed the boy toward the oak door, and went through to the next antechamber. This was better lit. More tapestries, another hearth, a servant piling fresh logs on the embers. The beams were similarly gilded, with deep blue azurite decoration and stars in the depicted firmament. Two gentlemen ushers were at the far end. One was doing the rounds, lighting candles; the other was listening at the door. The one at the door turned, alarmed, when he heard Walsingham enter.

  “Do you have nothing else to do?” asked Walsingham, his voice self-consciously loud. “Get you hence!”

  The usher, astonished at Walsingham’s arrogance, moved and Walsingham boldly marched up to the door and opened it. The boy stood back, nervous about intruding on the royal presence. He wanted to return to his cold station at the gate but Walsingham grabbed the scruff of his doublet and steered him through into the queen’s great chamber.

  It was a huge room, with a high, gilded ceiling and wide, gilded walls, as large as any room the boy had ever seen: as big as the largest great hall known to him. He wanted to look up and gaze at the spectacle, for the whole room seemed to be encased in gold, but his attention was commanded by the sudden lack of noise. More than thirty men were here, standing or sitting, and the talk had died abruptly. They all looked at Walsingham. Some were gentlemen and knights of the royal household; others were lords and courtiers identifiable as such by their lavish silk and satin doublets, fine ruffs, and embroidered hosen. Two or three men were wearing gowns, being men of the law or of the Church.

  Walsingham did not stop but kept walking, still pushing the reluctant boy before him. Two men-at-arms looked startled, uncertain whether to stop them.

  “Announce me,” he said loudly. To a man-at-arms he ordered, “Open the door.”

  “Do you realize what you are doing?” called a man’s voice nearby. Another shouted, “Show some respect!” A third man stepped in front of Walsingham and told him, “You cannot do this, Walsingham. We are all waiting our turn.” A fourth man added, “The queen is with Sir William; she does not want to be disturbed.”

  A tall, exquisitely dressed lord approached; he was wearing a black velvet cape embroidered with gold and silver thread. “Look at the state of you, Walsingham,” he chided. “For your own good, I suggest—”

  “For your own good, my Lord Chamberlain, be out of my way,” retorted Walsingham, pushing past those who stood between him and the next door.

  “For your own good, you are still wearing your sword,” snapped back the Lord Chamberlain, his eyes meeting Walsingham’s.

  Walsingham stopped, unbuckled his sword, and without a word, thrust it at the boy. Then, staring at the Lord Chamberlain, he spoke to the boy. “Go through that door and announce me. Now!” Again he ordered the guards, “Open those doors.”

  The guards looked at one another. One nodded. Together they opened the doors. The boy, scarcely able to control his nervousness, handed Walsingham’s sword to one of them, who accepted it without a word. Then he tiptoed into th
e queen’s chamber, with Walsingham hard behind him.

  The room was dark and vast, almost as large as the great chamber, with just two points of light in the far corner. The boy found himself moving as if in a dream, entranced by the strange riches around him and the sense of being in a forbidden place, as if he were in Heaven or the Underworld. He wondered whether it was treason to enter the queen’s presence without permission. He feared it was. Maybe he would be sent away in disgrace. A chamber clock chimed the sixth hour and he stopped outside; a great bell also chimed six times.

  The two lights were a pair of candles on a standing iron frame beside the glowing fire. He could see two figures: a seated woman in a scarlet-colored gown, and a slightly portly gentleman who moved uneasily across the line of light. The boy was halted in his tracks by the man’s voice.

  “Who the devil comes here at this time? Who are you who dares come in here?”

  The echo of the voice died away.

  “Announce me,” hissed Walsingham.

  “My lord, your Royal Majesty,” said the boy, who had never been allowed anywhere near the queen before, and had never been told how to address her or her Secretary. His courage failed him. He faltered, and fell silent. Dick Venner had advised him that, “If you see the queen, bury your forehead in the ground.” He now followed that advice, and went down on both knees, and spoke to the floor. “Your Grace,” he began, not knowing how to address a man more important than a bishop, “this is Mr. Walsingham, who…who comes on urgent business.”

  Walsingham stepped forward. “I would speak with you alone, Sir William.”

  The boy could not believe what he had just heard. Even though he knew little about etiquette, he understood that Walsingham had just shown huge disrespect to the queen. He heard a rustle of silk skirts and slow footsteps. He dared not move but remained pressed to the floor.

  “What did you say?” said the queen. Her voice was that of a young woman but more clipped, controlled. The boy sensed Walsingham slowly go down on his knees.

  “Your Majesty.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Walsingham, what business brings you here to speak to our Secretary who is with us in a private audience? We are conscious of your lack of tact, which is sadly habitual. We are all too well aware of your rudeness and your clumsiness of manner, but no matter what you think you are doing, we still expect you to act like a gentleman. Speak, or we will have you whipped out of this room.”