The Final Sacrament

by James Forrester

  Clarenceux grabbed her wrists. “Listen to me. If I give up that document, we are as good as dead. Not having that document did not save Rebecca, God rest her soul. Without it we will be victims too—we will be the innocents that the plotters use to frighten Sir William or whoever next has the document.”

  “Damn you! Sir William will not give in to such blackmail. Give it to him.”

  “Giving it away is not enough,” Clarenceux insisted. “We have to get rid of it in a way that the Catholics in England know we have given it away. But Sir William cannot allow that to happen. He cannot let it be known that that document ever existed. The only solution is to destroy it publicly.”

  “Then do so, William,” said Awdrey. Mildred was crying again; this time her mother bent down and lifted the girl.

  “Where is Rebecca’s head now?” Clarenceux asked.

  “Thomas took it in a bag to the church but both Mr. Bowring and Mr. Lynton refused to bury it without a coroner’s inquest being held, so he brought it back again. I was distressed and angry, so I took it back to the church and left it there, in front of the altar.”

  “You left it there? Did they see you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care. I was upset. They know where it comes from. The coroner should have done his business by now anyway. I don’t want to think about it. I just want life to be normal again.”

  “Why are you crying, Mam?” asked Mildred.

  “It is nothing, my sweet. Nothing.” Then she closed her eyes and let the tears flow. When Clarenceux stepped forward to embrace her, she put Mildred down and held on to him, weeping openly.

  A minute later Annie asked, “When are we going home?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” said Awdrey.

  “We cannot stay here,” muttered Clarenceux.

  “What do we do, then?”

  “I don’t know. Wherever we go, men will track us down.”

  “Perhaps we should accept the help that Walsingham has sent us in the form of Mr. Greystoke?” she asked. “I was abrupt with him, perhaps too much so.”

  Clarenceux shrugged. “If we were to go to Chislehurst to stay with Julius Fawcett, how long would it be before they tracked us down there? We would bring danger to him. If we were to go to your sister’s house in Devon, we would place them in danger.”

  “Not if they could not find us.”

  “They will find us. All they need to do is to follow the messengers from the properties that supply us with our income. If they found Rebecca Machyn in Portchester, they’ll find us wherever we go.”

  “Do we just go home, then?”

  Clarenceux nodded. “We carry on. As long as the document cannot be found, we are relatively safe. Our attackers will at least want to keep us alive.”

  26

  Wednesday, January 1, 1567

  The skies above the bullring were dark with rolling clouds in Sheffield. But no one was looking up. Everyone was concentrating on the bull, a muscular brown animal with a rugged, thick neck, four hundred pounds in weight, tethered by a chain and a wide leather collar. People were shouting and clapping: men and women, young and old. As the fight moved in one direction, so did the circle around them, shifting about the central point where the bull was tethered. There was a smell of blood and sweat in the air. Two dogs were dead, two still fighting.

  The bull, which had been so aggressive when first led into the ring, was exhausted. It stood panting, blood running down its neck on one side. Two men stood guard with spears as the bull stared at the remaining dogs, one of which was yapping. The lull in the fight only increased the enthusiasm of the crowd. They knew the kill was near. Two children watching from the chamber above a clothier’s shop were cheering, enjoying the spectacle. A couple of young women in the room above the shop next door had screamed in excitement when the bull had gored one of the now-dead dogs on its horn—and screamed even louder when a dog dashed in close enough to bite the skin on the bull’s neck.

  Benedict Richardson stood beside Lady Percy’s seat. He had been watching the windows overlooking the bullring more than the fight, nervous of an attack. She had waved away his concerns for her safety, declaring that if she was too old to ride with the hounds and too cold to fly her falcons, then watching the bull baiting was the only sport open to her. When he had further protested, she had pointed out she was expecting to receive a message and could hardly do that at the manor without attracting attention. This was, in that respect, safer.

  The bull lowered its horns, seeing one of the dogs about to run at it. The other dog ran across from the other side, distracting the creature. It turned its head, tracking the dog’s movement, and the first dog ran forward, fastening its teeth into the loose folds of skin below the bull’s jaw. The bull rounded instantly, its muscular legs stomping the ground hard as it bucked and lifted the dog and shook its great head to throw it off. But the dog held on, tenacious in the extreme, trying to break the skin. Down went the bull’s head, and its shoulder followed, but not with any sense of surrender. Instead the bull was trying to use its weight to crush the dog, to drive it into the ground.

  The crowd shouted and cheered, wanting to see the struggle rise into a greater fury. The bull whipped its head around, and the dog spun with it, still holding on, even as the bull swung its head back again. Down went the bull’s head once more, but this time the second dog ran at it from the other side and also took hold of the bull’s neck-folds, pressing back with its paws, trying to tear the neck. Swinging its head madly now, the bull caught the second dog’s underbelly with its left horn and gored it. The creature opened its mouth to howl in agony and let go, flying off, as the bull pulled its huge weight around and stamped on the ground, then swept its head back again, trying also to gore the first dog. A man with a stick beat the wounded dog back into the fight, not allowing it to back off, and it limped around the powerful animal, frightened and bleeding. The bull snorted and again tried to shake off the first dog but this time it charged, running straight toward the crowd of shouting onlookers, snorting loudly and thrashing around in its fury. Two boys waving sticks at the bull were pulled back by their parents as it reached the end of its tether and was jolted back. Its head flew back and twisted; the dog, surprised, loosened its grip and landed on its back. Before it had regained its feet the bull was on it, driving its horn under the dog’s jaw into its throat.

  Lady Percy beckoned Benedict Richardson. “See if you can acquire this carcass when it’s dead.”

  “I have already asked for the first option.”

  “Good.” She looked across the crowd. “Is that man in the green jerkin one of Walsingham’s spies?”

  “He is, my lady. We have lured him by means of an assignation with the daughter of the landlord of the Golden Fleece, behind the inn’s stable, after the fight. John Parker and Richard Braithwaite will be there to take him when he arrives.”

  Lady Percy looked at the doomed man. She turned away from him when two new dogs were shown the steaming bull, men straining to hold their collars, rubbing their noses with blood. “Men are so weak,” she muttered. “Weak to resist what they desire and weak in pursuing what they want.” She looked at Richardson. “You are an exception.”

  She turned back to the bull baiting as a yelping dog flung itself at the bloody neck of the bull. The second dog bit the bull’s upper leg—a mistake, for it was unable to avoid the bull’s sweep of its horn. Dismayed by the dog’s blood being spattered across the earth so soon, the crowd sighed but then cheered when two more dogs were sent into the fight.

  “The messenger has arrived,” Richardson told her discreetly as a man in the crowd nodded. “The signal has been given.”

  The bull swayed and crashed to its knees, and then fell onto its right side. The surviving dogs rushed at it, barking and ripping the skin before men with sticks beat them off and put them on leads again. The audience, cheered by
the spectacle, began to depart. A pair of Flanders horses with a chain linked to a yoke was brought into the ring to drag the dead bull away. Before the chain was attached, a man stood over the bull and drove a chisel into its brain and pulled it out. Brilliant red flowed onto the dusty ground.

  A man in a traveling cape and leather breeches came close to Lady Percy. “Your friend in London sends his greetings in Christ. He wishes me to tell you that Rebecca Machyn is dead. She was killed as you instructed. Her head will by now have been presented to Clarenceux.”

  “That is very satisfying,” said Lady Percy.

  “I came as soon as the Hellier woman arrived in London. It will not be long until you have brought Clarenceux to his knees, my lady.”

  Lady Percy looked at the messenger. “I intend to drive him into the ground, not just to his knees.” She picked up her sticks and rose to her feet. “Ride to Scotland now. Walsingham’s men will find it difficult to follow you over the border. Go to Lord Henry Stewart; inform him of what we are doing to procure the document for him.”

  27

  Thursday, January 2

  Clarenceux reached across the table for an apple as Joan cleared away his platter. “Did you enjoy that, Mildred?” he asked.

  Mildred beamed. “My favorite!” she exclaimed, putting her spoon in her bowl and pushing it to Joan, who smiled.

  “And you, Annie? How does baked chicken agree with you?”

  “I don’t like the little bones,” replied Annie, looking at the leftovers on her plate.

  “But it tasted good,” said Clarenceux, trying to sound positive. “We cannot have things exactly as we want them all of the time.” He glanced at Awdrey and thought of the previous night. He had kissed her as they lay in bed, and soon afterward she had pulled him toward her, tearing off her smock despite the cold and climbing over him, making love with him frantically, as if this was their last chance.

  “It is Thursday,” she said. “Are you going to the Belle Savage?”

  Clarenceux got up from the table and went to the window overlooking the street. The shutters were back at their usual range of half-opened positions. “It is not important,” he said to her. “I could stay here.”

  Awdrey stood and helped Joan with the bowls. “We cannot live in this house as if it is a cage. That is what they want. Thomas will be here, Nick too. Walsingham’s guardians are over the street. Besides, if we choose to stay here all the time, all day and every day, what sort of life are we leading?”

  “Very well, I will go. I will stay there for an hour and then return. You will know then to expect me.”

  He went upstairs to fetch a pistol. When he came down Awdrey was not in the hall but Annie was hesitantly balancing a glass on a plate which she was carrying back to the kitchen. “Annie, no, that will break,” he snapped, striding over to her and taking the glass. He saw the disappointed look on her face and felt guilty. “It is good of you to try to help,” he said, handing the fragile object back to her. “Carry it down to your mother, holding on to it carefully.”

  He watched her go, then went down the front stairs, took his cloak off a peg, and made his way out into the street.

  ***

  The Belle Savage Inn on Ludgate Hill was one of the largest inns in the city. It had three stories of galleries looking down into the central square innyard. The bedchambers, all of which were lavishly furnished, led off the galleries. In summer, plays were performed in the gravel-covered courtyard, and men would pay a penny to stand and watch, or two pence to look down from the galleries. But in winter few people cared to stand in the cold. Instead the space was used for more active pursuits: in particular the sword school of Giacomo Girolamo.

  Girolamo thought of himself as an artist and dressed accordingly in a flamboyant style, with long baggy Venetian breeches. His ruff just peeped out of the top of his embroidered doublet; his cuffs were always neatly decorated with lace. His short hair, trimmed mustache, and short beard were typically Italian and complemented his olive-colored skin and brown eyes. He seldom drew a sword but he was full of wisdom and advice for how others should do so; and when he did need to demonstrate his own skills, like an artist he would make every effort to show off just why he was the master, self-consciously stepping up to the mark with a skin-tinglingly close pass with the point of his blade.

  “Ah, Mr. Clarenceux,” said Girolamo, seeing his respected pupil entering the courtyard. “I have for you today an excellent challenge.”

  “Greetings, Signor Girolamo,” replied Clarenceux. “Who is my challenger?”

  “A rare man in this city, sir. A master of swordsmanship who learned his art in Italy, like me. He studied for four years with the great Camillo Agrippa from Milano, the greatest swordsman of them all. He is not yet ready. So, if you please, in the meanwhile, would you like to practice with me a little?”

  Clarenceux bowed and acknowledged the honor. He took off his cloak and flung it onto a table beneath a gallery on one side of the yard. Drawing his sword, he assumed the low ward against the master, who raised his sword into the position of the high ward. At first most politely, they made a play for each other’s weaknesses. Clarenceux was an instinctive swordsman; until recently, he had not had any formal lessons. When his sword was too far from his body, Girolamo would seize on the chance to expose a weakness and dart with his blade into the opening. This Clarenceux had learned to guard against—but his warding was unorthodox. Girolamo, on the other hand, was smooth and efficient. He would let his sword hand pass a long way from his body, as if he did not know the rule and was treating his opponent to a free hit. Yet as soon as Clarenceux went for the opening, Girolamo’s sword would be there.

  “You see the secret, Mr. Clarenceux? It is not just where the sword hand is; it is a matter of the point too. Remember the principle of distances. The way to control the fight is for you to maintain a shorter distance between the point of your sword and your opponent’s head or chest than he does between his sword and your head or chest. You are looking at my sword hand—which is good—but you need to bear in mind the point even more, and how close it is to your heart. It is not my hand that will hurt you but the point.” Girolamo looked up and raised an arm, stopping the swordplay. “Your adversary is here. I will introduce you.”

  John Greystoke was leaning over the first-floor gallery. He caught Clarenceux’s eye and walked along to the staircase and down into the yard. As always, his loose shirts were very white—whiter even than his hair. “Buongiorno, Giacomo,” he said with a nod to the master. “Va bene?”

  “Tutto bene. Grazie per avermelo chiesto, Signor Grestocche,” replied the master.

  “So, you speak some Italian,” said Clarenceux. “But do you know how to fight?”

  Greystoke seemed too casual. “I asked to change the day I come, especially so I could meet you socially, Mr. Clarenceux.”

  “I never thought I would fight my enemies socially.”

  Greystoke unsheathed the sword at his side. “I am your protector, not your enemy. You surely have the wit to tell the difference.”

  Clarenceux raised his sword as Greystoke approached and walked around him, relaxed, with his sword loose in his hand. He kept his weapon raised and the point in front of him, following Greystoke’s movements. “Forgive me, Mr. Greystoke. I suffer from a terrible affliction. When people want me to believe something so much, I have a natural tendency to question it.”

  Girolamo stood back, watching quietly as the two men circled each other. He admired Clarenceux’s first thrust, which was expertly performed, but he knew Greystoke would be ready. A swordsman like Greystoke fought as much with his feet as with his weapon. Clarenceux’s second blow was similar to his first; an inexperienced fighter would have been thrown off-guard but Greystoke was able to read the movement and step away quickly without losing his balance, this time replying with a strike to Clarenceux’s shoulder that would have wound
ed the herald had Greystoke meant to inflict damage. Clarenceux cursed himself, furious to have given an advantage to his opponent so quickly—and all from concentrating too hard on making his first blow look correct. You need to fight as if this is real, not swordplay, he told himself, watching Greystoke make a thrust of his own. Clarenceux twisted away from the point and retaliated instinctively, forcing Greystoke to dart away and regain his balance and composure.

  “You fight like a man who has been set upon in a dark alley,” Greystoke said, keeping his eye on Clarenceux’s movements.

  “I learned to fight with the duke of Suffolk’s men at Boulogne. You look too young ever to have seen action—am I right?”

  “In Italy we don’t wait for noblemen to lead us into battle. I have fought a number of duels—” But he broke off as Clarenceux feinted to his left. Girolamo moved, watching the men intently. Greystoke replied with a stab to Clarenceux’s leg, to which Clarenceux reacted by beating his opponent’s blade away in an amateurish fashion.

  “That was a tennis stroke, not the work of a swordsman, Mr. Clarenceux,” tutted Girolamo. “You left yourself wholly open; your sword was across your body—you even let it swing behind you. You cannot defend yourself if your blade is behind you.”

  Clarenceux swore quietly. If this were a proper fight, I would have grabbed my cloak by now. I would be fighting with everything available. He backed toward the table where his cloak lay. His swordsmanship had ended the lives of several men over the years, but those had always been bloody, desperate affairs, in which he and his adversary had known they were fighting for their lives. This was more like dancing than fighting.

  That very thought triggered something in Clarenceux’s mind. Suddenly, he attacked, striking Greystoke’s defensively poised sword to one side and going for his throat. Greystoke was caught off-guard, for he had noticed the cloak and had expected Clarenceux to continue withdrawing toward it. Instantly he was struggling to regain the initiative as Clarenceux’s blade flashed across his face, ripped open his doublet, and rattled against his own blade. Forced back, he moved in a tactical retreat, ending Clarenceux’s advantage and regaining his poise.