The Final Sacrament

by James Forrester

  “Evidence, William. You are a herald; you know how important it is to produce evidence for your coats of arms and ancestral claims. Give me some evidence and I will initiate investigations. But without it, what can I say to Walsingham? That I suspect he is a poor judge of character? I’ve never met this Greystoke. Walsingham has known him for more than ten years. He trusts him.”

  Clarenceux buried his head in his hands. “I do not know what more to say. If you won’t take my word for it, what else can I do?” He uncovered his face and looked at Cecil. “What else can I do?”

  “Go home, get some rest,” suggested Cecil. “I will send some of my men to guard your house if you wish. All you can do is wait for the Catholics’ demand. When we see who is doing the demanding, and how they expect the delivery to be made, then we can take action.”

  Clarenceux sighed and walked to the door. Before he got there, however, there was a rushing of feet outside and a woman shouting, “Mr. Clarenceux! Mr. Clarenceux!” Without a moment’s delay, Clarenceux opened it and saw the woman who had been looking after Annie that morning.

  “Mr. Clarenceux, you must come quickly! Your daughter is calling for you!”

  Clarenceux was stunned. “Do you mean…the fever has broken? She will live?”

  The woman’s face was a picture of sheer delight. She had tears of joy in her eyes, and seeing them, Clarenceux felt the tears well into his own. “She will live?” he repeated hoarsely, moving toward the stairs.

  “She will live, Mr. Clarenceux!” shouted the woman, hurrying along behind him.

  Clarenceux ran up the stairs as fast as he could. Such great hope was in his heart, such anticipation. He ran to the door, which was open, and went to the bed. Annie was lying on her side with her eyes open, looking very tired. She saw her father rush in and tried to sit up but could not. He put his arms around her and hugged her gently.

  “I woke up and you were not here,” she said.

  “I have been here, Annie. I have been here every day.” He pressed his cheek against hers and kissed her, holding her tenderly, aware that a deep prayer had been answered.

  “Where is Mam?”

  Clarenceux glanced at the woman who had entered the room behind him and at Cecil and two of Cecil’s servants who were standing behind him, looking in. Word was spreading through the house that the fever had broken. “She has had to go away for a while,” he said. “But she will be back soon, with Mildred.”

  “Where is she?”

  Clarenceux paused, feeling the need to lie out of kindness, not to worry the girl. “She has gone to see your aunt and uncle in Devon.”

  “Does our waking angel want something to eat?” asked the woman who had been tending her.

  Clarenceux wiped his daughter’s face and let her lie back in the bed. She was clearly utterly exhausted. “I think she will soon, won’t you, Annie, my sweet?”

  Weakly, she nodded.

  Clarenceux glanced at Cecil, who bowed politely and left the room. He placed a hand against Annie’s cheek and bent over and kissed her forehead.

  58

  Sunday, February 2

  Sarah Cowie watched from the window of the isolated house. The church bells had rung for a long time that morning, on account of it being Candlemas. Puddles lay on the lane between the ploughed fields. The sky was a cold gray. Birds called as they flew across and stopped on the raised soil beside the furrows, pecking for worms. A copse of trees a hundred yards from the house swayed with the wind, and that same wind chilled her as she stood by the open shutters.

  She dreaded his coming. She hated him because he was just so arrogant and callous. There was no way to hold him to account, nothing she could say or do to reprimand him. Twice now, one of Lady Percy’s women had been killed when he had been there—and on neither occasion had he saved them.

  The birds took off again and flapped in the breeze, being blown backward for a moment until they dived across to one side and flew down to the ground nearer the trees. Spots of rain started to fall on the soil outside.

  “Are you going to stand by that window all morning or are you going to do something useful?” demanded Joan, as she placed a pot on a tripod in the fire. “Their slop bucket needs emptying. He won’t want the smell of that if he comes back to do her again.”

  In that instant, Sarah had the feeling she was in Hell. She found Joan gruesomely animal-like—but uncaring too. Helen was the only one of Lady Percy’s women she had warmed to in any way, but she had not seen her for ages. Perhaps she too was now dead. In fact, all things considered, Awdrey Harley and her young daughter were the only people whom she did not hate—but they had every right to hate her for what she had done. And in the eyes of the Lord, would it matter that she had been forced to do what she had done by Lady Percy? They all would surely have to atone for their crimes on Judgment Day.

  Sarah went across the hall and up the stairs to the door of the chamber. She unbolted it and opened it, and stood there, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The foul smell of the bucket rose to her nostrils; and with that she knew that if Greystoke did again what he had said he would do, it was not for lust for the woman but because of his hatred for Clarenceux.

  After a few seconds, the chinks of light coming through the barred shutters allowed her to see the figures huddled beneath the blankets on the bed and the bucket in the corner. Awdrey did not stir as Sarah went to take the bucket.

  “He killed them, didn’t he?” Sarah asked. “Jane and Ann—the women who died in your house.”

  There was a long silence. Eventually Awdrey just said one word.

  “Yes.”

  Sarah swallowed. She picked up the slop bucket and left the room, bolting the door behind her, hating what she was doing, thinking only of her own daughters, praying for them. Walking with the bucket across the yard outside, she noticed the figure riding along the lane. For these last moments she could ignore him, as he slowed his horse to ride around the deep puddles. She emptied the bucket in the pit and went to the ditch nearby to fill it with water to rinse it. She was back indoors before he was.

  When he entered a few minutes later, he nodded his greeting to Joan and pointed at Sarah. “Take the girl out.”

  Sarah could not help herself. The impetuosity that had caused her to steal the pewter plates now made her open her mouth and speak her mind. “Why? Does she remind you of the sinfulness of your deeds?”

  Greystoke walked quickly over to Sarah and struck her very hard on the side of the face. Down she fell, and a moment after her shoulder struck the ground, Greystoke dropped on her, forcing his knee into her stomach.

  “Keep your manners bright and your mouth closed.”

  As he spoke, Sarah was choking. When he finished, she was sick. He left her lying there and went up the stairs alone, unbolting the door and stepping inside. Sarah lay where she was, listening. She heard snatches of orders from Greystoke—“let go of the girl,” “get out of here”—and looked up to see the young girl standing in the doorway, not knowing whether to leave or stay. Mildred remained there, blinking in the light, as the unmistakable creaking sounds of the bed were to be heard. Sarah looked at Joan where she was sitting at the table; Joan caught her eye and then began to cut onions. As if nothing was going on.

  It was over quickly. Greystoke appeared in the doorway of the chamber, pushed past the girl, and came down the stairs. He looked at Sarah, who was now sitting up with her head in her hands.

  “Until tomorrow,” he said to Joan, as he stepped through the door and left the house.

  There was a long silence. They heard him ride away.

  “He killed them,” said Sarah. “Jane and Ann—he did it.” She looked at Joan and realized from her lack of shock or even a word that she had known all the time. Joan simply went up to the room, pushed the girl inside, and bolted the door again.

  Sarah got
to her feet slowly. “He did not even ask her about the document,” she said, as Joan descended the stairs. “He just did what he wanted. He just raped her for no reason.”

  “Stop it,” said Joan. “He’s a cruel bastard, that’s evident. We need a cruel bastard on our side if you and I are ever going to see our daughters again.”

  Sarah could bear it no longer. She went out of the house, slammed the door behind her, and walked across the ploughed field, stumbling over the furrows, weeping in the cold wind.

  59

  Clarenceux was one of the first out of the church, anxious to get back and see whether there was any news about his wife. He had left Fyndern and Thomas at home in case of a message. Every moment he was not there, his mind kept flicking back to the possibility that, in his absence, a ransom note might have been delivered. As soon as that happened, he could do something—and Cecil could act too. In the meantime, there was nothing. All he could do was get home as quickly as he could and ignore the sad frowns of the houses looking down on him as he walked where he had once walked every Sunday with her.

  “Is there any news?” he asked Thomas on his return.

  “No, Mr. Clarenceux. I am afraid not,” replied the old man.

  Clarenceux entered the hall. Everywhere he looked, he could see dust and disorder. No women to do the cleaning, no lady of the household to direct that it be done. He walked to the table, running his fingers through the dust. “I suppose there is no food in the house?”

  “Fyndern attempted to bake bread,” replied Thomas, looking toward the back stairs. “He asked me not to tell you. I don’t think it went well.”

  “Good that he tried,” replied Clarenceux. “He has both wit and application, that boy.”

  “Not to mention his other skills.”

  Clarenceux shrugged. “He won’t have those for much longer. When he falls in love, he will lose that fineness of judgment. His sensitivity to the truth will be overwhelmed by his greater emotions, like a man whistling in a thunderstorm.”

  He gazed at the portrait of his wife hanging beside the door. “In church this morning, I looked at the space where the rood cross used to be. And it struck me that the authorities are not just changing the ways we pray; they are taking away the very things we should pray to. Now I find I am losing the things I want to pray for, as well. When I look at Awdrey’s image there, I see I am not just losing my way of life; I am losing the reason to be alive. If it weren’t for Annie…”

  He let his voice trail away and sighed. “I will go to see her this afternoon. Maybe soon she will be well enough to return home.”

  Thomas was surprised. “Do you think that wise? She would be too vulnerable.”

  “I need her here, Thomas. I need my family. In church they say ‘God so loved the world that He gave his only Son.’ If God had truly loved Christ as I love my family, He would have given the world for His son.”

  “And that includes the document?” ventured Thomas.

  Clarenceux nodded. “That includes the document. God knows, I don’t want to cause a civil war but I would rather all the forces of the world were unleashed against each other than I lose my family.”

  60

  Monday, February 3

  Sarah Cowie did not wait at the window that morning. Instead she stirred the cauldron of pottage that was to provide the dinner for them all, kneeling by the fire. Tears constantly ran down her cheeks and she snivelled, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  “In Jesus’s name, stop it!” snapped Joan from the back of the hall, where she was in her shift, washing her dress in a tub of steaming hot water.

  “You cold-hearted bitch,” muttered Sarah.

  “What was that?”

  Sarah said nothing, hearing the bell across the fields: the knell of ten o’clock. He would be here soon. When he came, would it be to return Awdrey to her family? Would it be to say Mr. Clarenceux had responded to the ransom note and delivered the document to Buckman? She wiped her sleeve over her face again, sniffed, and gazed down into the cauldron, watching the onions, beans, peas, and oats turn over one another. The peas, hardened from the autumn, were finally softening.

  Her mind went back to her own childhood, when she had tended the pot for her mother. That was what she should be doing now—teaching her daughters how to cook, how to sew, in the hope that each girl might get herself a husband. A hard-working man who would provide for her and look after her, and instill in her the fear of other men, and never allow her to get so desperate as to venture to steal from the wealthy, not even when the opportunity seemed there for the taking.

  The latch snapped open and Greystoke was there, with Helen Oudry. Sarah was pleased to see Helen and smiled at her. “Good day,” she said. But Helen gave her only the most cursory of nods.

  “I have found a more reliable keeper,” Greystoke said as he entered, shutting the door behind him. He came over to the cauldron. “You’re coming back to do the washing for the men at the house in Fleet Street.” He took the wooden ladle with which she had been stirring the pottage and scooped out some of the broth, raising it to his lips, blowing on it until it was cool enough. He drank with a slurp and threw the ladle back into the cauldron. “That’s piss poor,” he said. “Put some meat in it.”

  “I would if I had some,” she replied.

  He glared at her but said nothing. He put his hand on his sword, unbuckled it, and threw it to her, and she caught it. “Come and look after the child,” he said to her, stomping up the stairs.

  In the dark chamber, Awdrey was tense. Every muscle in her body was tautened against the touch of the man, every part of her set to recoil. Mildred was fearful of her mother in such a state and had backed away. It was not what Awdrey wanted, but nor did she soften. Her mind was focused on the man and what was to come. Clutching hold of Mildred had not saved her the first time. Lying there inert and not responding to him had not saved her the second—if anything it had made her more sick with herself. This time she would fight. She would get hurt, she knew, but anything was better than feeling she had to accept this.

  When the door opened, Greystoke and the woman stood silhouetted against the light, while their eyes adjusted to the dark, as she knew they would. After a few seconds the woman walked across the room, seized Mildred, and left the room without looking at Awdrey. Mildred protested loudly and started crying as the woman took her outside. Awdrey heard her cries growing weaker and she suddenly panicked. What if they are taking her away? She started to get up but Greystoke was there, the door open behind him. This was her chance; her eyes could see better in the darkness than his. She ran for the door, trying to avoid him, but he backed toward it and stopped her.

  Downstairs, Sarah stirred the pottage. Awdrey was clearly putting up a struggle like never before. She heard her scream and then she heard Greystoke swearing and shouting—and although at one point it sounded as if Greystoke had managed to get his way, after several loud thumps on the floor, he cried out again—this time in agony. It was an awful, inarticulate sound. A moment later he appeared, clutching his jaw, blood pouring down it. Awdrey had torn his mouth, so that his lip was hanging down on one side. He would need to see a surgeon to stitch it up.

  “Call Helen back in,” he mumbled to Joan, who was still in her smock. “I want that bitch to regret this. I want her to hear her child scream. I’m going to hold her arm and put it in that cauldron—and let her mother hear the consequences of what she has just done.”

  “Why has Mr. Clarenceux not responded to the demand?” Sarah cried. “This would all be unnecessary if he had done so.”

  Greystoke looked at her, mopping his lip. “He has not yet been given a demand. We’re making him sweat first.”

  Sarah was stunned. She stared about her, seeing shapes but recognizing nothing. With tears in her eyes she looked at Greystoke, and at the stairs, and at the door. She had to leave this hellish place, now.r />
  She started walking to the door.

  “Where are you going?” shouted Greystoke.

  “To do the laundry at the house in Fleet Street,” she shouted back. “That was what you told me to do.”

  61

  At Sheffield Manor, Benedict Richardson waited behind the servant with the wine glass and flagon while a second servant opened a door. Lady Percy was sitting in a wooden chair by a fireplace, reading. Her sticks were propped up against her chair. At her feet lay two of her dogs, their paws stretched out on the woven rush matting.

  “The wine you called for, my lady,” said Richardson, with a bow.

  She looked up. “Thank you, Richardson. Put the flask on the table. I’ll take a glass now.”

  “There is news as well, my lady. A man in the kitchen has brought word from Father Buckman. Apparently—”

  “He was not followed, was he? Did he take care?”

  “My lady, he took the usual precautions. Father Buckman’s words were passed to him at an inn in Hertford. If anyone was following Father Buckman’s man, they will have followed him straight back to London from Hertford.”

  “Good. What does Buckman have to say for himself?”

  “Mistress Harley is in our custody. So too is one of Clarenceux’s daughters. They were taken off the street into a safe house, and then smuggled to Islington.”

  Lady Percy was delighted. “After all these years,” she said, looking at him, “it makes my heart glad. Oh, the Lord is smiling upon us, Mr. Richardson. I might never have known the delights of a living husband, but I certainly have known the loneliness of being without one, and that is exactly what Mr. Clarenceux will now taste, in all its bitterness. He will soon cave in—if he has not done so already.”

  “Indeed, my lady, we are in a commanding position.”

  Lady Percy picked up her sticks. “Come, this is not an occasion to be sitting down. Help me up, young man, help me up,” she said, waving one stick at him as she struggled out of her chair. Richardson helped her up and she took several paces forward. She stopped and lifted one of the sticks. “Clarenceux, you will surrender that document—if I have to cut off your child’s fingers to force you to do so. You will give me the means to destroy the line of that whore, Anne Boleyn!” As she spoke, she hit the wall with her raised stick.