Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy)

by Forrester, James

  No one in the parish of St. Giles challenged the protesters, although the people in the high road looked askance at them. The guards did not bother them either, their halberds back on their shoulders. The prisoners took heart from this and continued singing through St. Giles and beyond, out along the road that led to Tyburn. But here the four men with Clarenceux fell away and returned to their own business. Thomas stayed with him, walking alongside, watching out. People going to Tyburn to see the execution caught up with them and then hurried on, often shouting an insult as they went. Washerwomen in the fields briefly stopped laying out their laundry and stared. But as the men and women in the cart saw how near they were to Tyburn, their singing turned to fearful wailing. One of the women began to scream hysterically. Sir John turned and tried to comfort her, and when she paid him no heed, he tried to rouse the others to sing again, but their hearts were not in it. They were people who preferred the tavern to the pulpit and had no wish to go to their deaths singing part of the old Mass. Those walking to the place of execution continued to shout abuse at the condemned as they passed the cart. Then even Clarenceux fell silent, simply repeating, “Hail, Mary, mother of God,” as he walked.

  There were more than a thousand people gathered at Tyburn. It was the first of several law days in the city, and it had been some weeks since the last jail delivery, so those looking for some gruesome entertainment had all turned up early, hoping to secure the best view. As the cart drew nearer to the gallows, the distress of the prisoners became more extreme. Thomas saw there were children in the crowd: a boy of about nine was playing with a dog, and a young girl was chasing another child between the standing onlookers. He heard joyful shouts and saw a young woman being lifted into the air by a group of young men. Around him came careless shrieking, insults, and the singing of rude songs. He saw the face of a man in a leather jerkin who, realizing he had been swindled, lashed out at the coney-catcher who had tricked him. There was a woman being lasciviously kissed by a man at the back of the crowd, his hands groping her breasts. “Surely the Hell to which the most miserable sinner is condemned is no worse than this,” Clarenceux shouted to Thomas. But then the crowd surged forward. The people were not angry; they were singing and dancing and gesticulating and laughing, shouting jokes and throwing mud at the prisoners simply for the sport of seeing if they could hit them. The cries of the prisoners and the screams of a woman only made them laugh more, and the guards had to fend them off with their halberds.

  Within a few seconds, Clarenceux, Thomas, and the cart were engulfed. The cart was almost stationary now with the press of the onlookers. Thomas tried to keep as close to Clarenceux as he could but it was difficult in the festive, jeering crowd. The six halberd bearers were assisted by a dozen soldiers who had been waiting at the gallows since early that morning, but it was all the guards could do to keep the crowd from climbing onto the cart. Thomas hoped that Clarenceux would back off, but he did not. Instead he pushed forward to seize hold of the back of the cart, and held on to it all the way to the gallows.

  The gallows itself was a large timber frame of three interlocking beams—an oak triangle—on three huge upright oak supports. From each side of the triangle hung three nooses, ominously empty. The entire structure, massive though it was, could be seen to move slightly as the crowd pressed in around it, causing the empty nooses to sway. The cart came to a halt beneath the first of the great beams and two executioners placed sackcloth bags over the heads of the first three victims followed by the nooses. Then the back of the cart was let down. No one paid any attention to the priest at the foot of it, who tried to read words of consolation to the prisoners. One of the women and two of the men stood shivering and crying, muttering prayers until suddenly the cart gave a lurch and moved off. A huge roar went up as the crowd saw the three bodies twisting and spinning on the end of the ropes. The men with the halberds pushed them back, to make way for the cart to turn, as the three hanging prisoners began to twitch, their bodies struggling for breath.

  After the next three prisoners had been left choking on the end of a rope, it was the turn of the last three, including Sir John. The cart turned and came to rest directly beneath the third beam. As the executioner climbed up onto the cart and started to put the hoods over their heads, Sir John stood grim-faced, looking down at the crowd, waiting his turn. He was second-to-last. Next to him stood a terrified young woman. “I am innocent,” she wailed. “Tell my girls I died an innocent woman. It was John Lucas who took Mr. Robert’s linen.” But the crowd simply laughed at her and mimicked her plea. To their great delight, the executioner forced a kiss upon her lips and squeezed her breast before covering her head too and placing the noose over her neck and tightening it.

  Thomas closed his eyes. He wished the whole lamentable business was over. But when he opened them again, to his horror, he saw Clarenceux climbing up onto the back of the cart. He tried to get to him, but Clarenceux had already started to declaim to the crowd. The people closest to him were so startled to hear such a voice booming out that they fell silent, and soon the whole crowd was wondering who this was and what he had to say.

  “You laugh—you laugh today at these unfortunate creatures before you and those”—he gestured toward the six now motionless corpses—“and you laugh away your humanity. These are not all villainous murderers dying here. These are not all thieves. There is a good man here, a priest, who would stand up for his fellow men. He would stand up for you, even though you are strangers. When you laugh at him, you laugh at the ties that bind us to our fellow men. You laugh at what is good in you. You laugh at kindness; you laugh at the courage to stand up against the constables who would rule your lives with an order and a knife…”

  A clod of earth was thrown. It missed Clarenceux, who carried on regardless. “Sir John is destined to be killed because what he believes is unwelcome to the State. And the State insists that it must come first—before your friends, before your family—yea, even before your faith. Who here, doing the business of the State, loves the State more than his own kin? Who here would put the queen above God? Do you not see what the destruction of the Church has brought upon us?”

  Already there were mutterings. Then the jeers started. The crowd had not come to be preached at. They had come to watch a spectacle, to meet people, perhaps have an illicit assignation or cut a purse from a stranger’s belt. They wanted to be entertained—and to that end they did not mind hearing a gallows speech from someone less fortunate than themselves. But they did not want to be spoken to about the queen; nor did they wish to hear anything concerning the Church. They resented Clarenceux’s intrusion. But they laughed again—heartily—when the executioner picked up a sackcloth bag and placed it jokingly over Clarenceux’s head. As the hooded figure of Sir John called out, “God be with you, William,” and the crowd erupted with noise and cheering, Clarenceux tore off the bag and threw a punch at the executioner, hitting him sooner than he expected, so that he struck the man hard on the nose, and he himself toppled backward. Both men fell off the cart into the crowd. Before he could regain his feet, the crowd had taken over the executioner’s role and smacked the horses into life, pulling away the cart and leaving Sir John and the other two prisoners hanging.

  Clarenceux struggled to his feet and waded through the jostling mass to the figure of Sir John. Thomas joined him as he made the sign of the cross. Together they reached up, took hold of Sir John’s legs, and jumped with all their weight, pulling him down suddenly and breaking his neck. Several men did likewise with the young woman whose body was jerking beside the still form of Sir John.

  Clarenceux stood panting, with mud on his face. He looked at Thomas and placed a hand on his shoulder. No sooner had he done so than one of the guards knocked his arm away with the shaft of his halberd. Two others seized his arms and proceeded to tie his hands behind his back. “You will face the justices tomorrow,” said the first guard. “Take him to Newgate. Since you want to be on that cart s
o much, we’ll see you get your chance.”

  4

  In the small dining room at Cecil House, Sir William sat alone at table. The door was shut. Before him was a silver salt cellar, a silver dish containing a roast capon and some slices of roast beef, two silver saucers—one with a mustard sauce, the other with a white wine and onion sauce—some bread, a drinking glass, and a flagon of wine. He did not feel hungry. Or, to be exact, his yearning to have some time to himself outweighed his hunger. He broke the bread and set it down on the white linen tablecloth, looking at the crumbs, playing at them with one finger. He then glanced up at the portrait of his wife, Mildred, that hung above the fireplace.

  Life is a labyrinth, he thought, as he pushed the crumbs into a line. The way in is simple enough, at birth, and the way out easy enough, at death; and no one can fail to find a path between the two. Yet how few people find their way to the mysteries at its heart? Most of us are lost. Most of us depend on maps which are in themselves labyrinthine. The Bible is one such map, poetry another. The breadcrumbs were arranged in a neat row; now he moved them into a circle. For the most part we rely on direction through simplification. The art of government, like the arts of writing, astrology, and navigation, is to make such simplifications meaningful. Politics is the art of meaningful simplification—purposeful lies.

  He reached forward, cut a slice of beef in half, picked up one piece with his fingers, and dipped it in the mustard sauce. The rich taste of the meat made his mouth water. Its robust flavor, coupled with the smooth piquancy of the mustard, which affected his nose, gave him an instant of pleasure, and he rediscovered his hunger. He took a piece of bread and dipped it in the white wine sauce. That too was good. French sauciers are the best, he reflected, reaching forward with his knife to cut a slice of capon. He dipped this in the same sauce, as one of his ushers knocked at the door.

  “Do not disturb me,” he said.

  There came another knock.

  Cecil hurriedly picked up another piece of beef with his fingers, dipped it in the mustard sauce, and pushed it into his mouth. Still chewing, he sliced a second piece of capon and dipped that in the white wine sauce. Every moment a new opening appears in the labyrinth.

  The usher knocked a third time. “Sir William, Mr. Walsingham has come to see you. He craves your attention most insistently.”

  Cecil finished chewing and started to cut himself another piece of capon. “Send him in.” He took his time now, pretending he was dining in slow luxury.

  Walsingham entered, wearing his usual thin ruff, black doublet, black skull cap, and deep frown. He was thirty-three years of age, the same age as the queen, yet anyone who did not know them would think them a generation apart. He had the demeanor of a man ten years older, while Elizabeth could be as playful as a girl when she felt so inclined. Cecil wondered whether Walsingham had ever been playful—even as a child.

  “Sir William, I have received a report from Scotland—about the christening of the royal babe—the nature of which I presume is not unknown to you.”

  Cecil gestured to a chair. “As you can see, Francis, I am dining. Could this not wait?”

  “If I waited every time I needed to discuss matters of State with you, you would be much the more ignorant and I would never have the answers I need. If you will, I shall return another day. For my part, the business of the State takes priority over my mealtimes.”

  Cecil wiped his mouth on a napkin and put it back down on the table. “Quite. Yes, absolutely, Francis. I will have you join me. You must try the capon in the white wine sauce—it is excellently pleasing.” Cecil got to his feet, went to the door, spoke to the usher waiting outside, and closed it. “So, what is the news?”

  “You know about the baptismal font?” replied Walsingham, clearly agitated.

  “Of course. It is no secret: twenty-one pounds of pure gold—and the finest workmanship. They’ll melt it down, of course, but in the meantime it should make quite an impression.”

  “And the queen used it to buy the right to name the child James—is that true? And if it is true, does not that signify that she sees him as her successor?”

  “Her majesty was determined that the child not be called Charles, despite his mother’s wishes. I supported her majesty in that and so I suggested that she make the gift of the baptismal font. Her majesty confirmed on the ninth of December that the child was to be christened James. The christening should have taken place two days ago, on the seventeenth. Presuming that happened as planned, the babe is now James Charles Stewart, or Charles James Stewart, prince of Scotland. Either way, he will be called James.”

  Walsingham thumped the table. “For years we have been asking her majesty to confirm her intentions regarding the succession. In this present parliament that now is sitting she has declared that no one may discuss the succession—on pain of death. And yet she goes so far as to give a name to her legal heir, and a name contrary to that chosen by his own mother. In so doing she has practically named the boy as the next king of England.”

  There was a knock at the door. A servant brought in a silver plate.

  “The queen may yet have children of her own,” objected Cecil.

  “She has done precious little about it yet,” replied Walsingham, cutting some capon and putting it on the plate now set in front of him. “If she names her successor, then we know whom to guard against and whom to protect. If her successor is a Catholic, he will throw this entire nation into chaos and confusion. She will give succor to the Catholic cause. The alliances and schemes I discover—are they signs of future loyalty or indications of an incipient attack on her majesty? How can she name a prince, the child of both her cousins, and the child not be seen as her heir? The child has been baptized a Catholic. Both his parents are Catholic. She has taken a role in naming that boy in a Catholic ceremony. How can she do this and expect no reaction from the Catholic community? She has named her killer—or at least the boy in whose name she will be killed.”

  Cecil leaned forward and took a whole slice of beef. He rubbed it in the mustard sauce, then put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. He swallowed. “Whether she is killed or not is very much your responsibility, Francis. But as you know, many things may—and will—happen between now and the next reign, and let us hope to God that many years pass. The prince may not live. Catherine Grey’s sons might be restored to favor; and as you know I am trying to persuade her majesty that some leniency toward their father, Lord Hertford, is highly advisable, especially if he permits their education in the Protestant faith. No less significant is the possibility that Mary herself might not live.”

  “She has only just turned twenty-five.”

  Cecil shrugged. “How are you getting along with that new wife of yours?”

  Walsingham paused with a piece of beef on the way to his mouth. “What has that to do with the matter in question?”

  “Mary of Scotland does not get along with Lord Henry Stewart. As husbands go, he leaves a lot to be desired.”

  “I’m not surprised—after he murdered her lover, David Rizzio.”

  “Rizzio may or may not have been her lover. Personally, I doubt it. However, he was her informer. Lord Henry Stewart had him killed because of what he knew, not what he did. As it happened, he was too late. Rizzio had already passed on his information, just moments before he was killed.”

  Walsingham set down his knife. “And that was?”

  “That if the child that Queen Mary was then carrying turned out to be a son, then Lord Henry Stewart would have her murdered. He would then rule Scotland in the minority of the child. Of course he would also be the sole potential Stewart heir to the throne of England. If Elizabeth died before the child grew to be of age, Lord Henry would rule both countries during his son’s minority.”

  Cecil watched Walsingham get up and walk to the window. “That is…sickening.”

  Cecil stopped eating. “I h
ave never seen you so taken aback, Francis. I am surprised. You know as well as I do that Lord Henry Stewart is a drunkard and a killer.”

  “And your counsel to her majesty is—what? To take advantage of Lord Henry killing his wife? The queen of Scotland is Elizabeth’s cousin once removed.”

  “So is Lord Henry. But Mary is forewarned now—Rizzio did not die in vain—and her loyal subjects are alerted. She is by no means without friends. In fact, she has many more friends than Lord Henry north of the border. His strongest supporters are mostly in England: the Catholics who see him as the savior of the old religion, or family connections like his mother, Lady Margaret Douglas, although what good she can do him in the Tower, I am not sure. I trust you have ears and eyes around her too.”

  “Of course. There is a rather sour gentleman with spectacles who pretends to go by the name of John Black and who brings messages to her—where from, I do not know. I am reliably informed that John Black is actually a Catholic priest called Maurice Buckman. No doubt he is her confessor too. But I am intrigued by your idea that Queen Mary and Lord Henry Stewart will destroy each other. You think that the new prince will be the heir, sooner rather than later?”

  “If he lives, yes.”

  “And if he does not?”

  “By then, with God’s grace, our queen will have her own heir.”

  Walsingham scoffed at that. He sat back down, helping himself to the last piece of beef. “Have you ever really studied her, and looked at her as a woman, not as a queen?” he asked Cecil.

  “It is impossible to forget she is the queen.”