Three beds away, Mr. Wheatsheafen saw Rebecca studying Milton’s leg. He dried his hands on a towel and walked across to look over her shoulder. He peered curiously, then came around Rebecca and examined the wound more closely, standing right beside the bed. “Well,” he said carefully, taking plenty of time to consider the situation, “this is definitely a job for the bonesetter. He may be able to put you on your feet again. If not, that bone is good enough for the pot—it won’t go to waste.”
With that he patted the injured man on the shoulder and moved on to the next patient, who had a large bandage covering his skull.
Rebecca grinned at Martin Milton as she set the old bandage to one side and began to wash the wound, cleaning away the dirt and pus. “You can trust Mr. Wheatsheafen,” she said as she worked. “If he makes a joke about your injury, you’re as good as cured.”
Martin Milton said nothing. He merely grimaced an attempted smile at her through the pain.
“I only wish he would make more jokes,” she said, thinking back to some of the men she had had to deal with. Every morning she dreaded the moment when, entering the hall, she discovered that a man who had been a patient the night before was now a corpse. “I am sorry, Martin, this is going to hurt—but if it becomes unbearable, remember this: you are one of the lucky ones.”
When Rebecca had dealt with Martin and re-bandaged him for when the bonesetter arrived, she changed the linen on the beds that had been vacated over the day. This hall had forty-two beds; a third were empty. She left just two made up in case of urgent need. Bundling the canvas sheets and bandages together, she carried them down to a buck basket by the door and dumped them there.
“It’s getting dark. You can go home if all is to your satisfaction,” said Mr. Wheatsheafen as he ticked names off a list at a table.
Rebecca made one more trip up the central aisle, closing the shutters above the beds and wishing the patients a pleasant night’s sleep. To Martin Milton she made a special visit, to make sure the bandages she had applied to his broken leg were not too tight and causing him unnecessary pain. A lantern burning halfway down the hall was sputtering, so she righted the candle inside, corrected the angle of the aperture, and watched it burn again with an even flame. After one last check, seeing the glow of the four lanterns lighting the hall and the beds, she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and made her way out into the dusk.
Inside, it had been nearly dark. Outside, however, there was light from the last traces of the sunset in the west. She walked across the muddy path to the main cobbled lane running through the outer ward and over to the gatehouse on the landward side. The huge tower and defensive walls of the medieval castle were still menacing despite the passage of centuries. A seagull perched on the battlements, surveying the scene before taking wing and flying out over the bay.
Passing under the gatehouse, Rebecca decided to walk the longer way home. Widow Baker was away and unlikely to return until after Christmas; there was no need to rush. Turning left, she wandered along the shore, just feet away from the castle wall, listening to the gentle lapping of the water. There were several ships in the bay and she thought of the men aboard those vessels. How many of her old patients had gone on to see the world? How many had fallen prey to diseases in a hot climate, or been washed off deck in a storm? How many would grow old? Precious few, she knew that. As long as men went to sea, they faced the likelihood of a violent end and a watery grave.
A cold breeze blew off the water. She heard footsteps on the shingle behind her and turned to see it was Mr. Wheatsheafen. He was heaving his portly frame along at quite a rapid pace to catch up with her. “Rebecca,” he panted, “it occurred to me that I should not let you go home alone to a cold cottage, not on Christmas Eve. Come and sup with me and my wife. We would be glad to entertain you.”
“That is indeed kind of you, Mr. Wheatsheafen, but I do not want to put your good wife to any trouble. Besides, I have my own supper prepared at the cottage.”
“Perhaps tomorrow then, after we’ve seen to the patients?”
She pulled the cloak tighter and smiled. “Yes, tomorrow.” She walked with him slowly, as he caught his breath. “Do you think that the bonesetter will really be able to fix that leg? It is broken so badly. And the way he was injured—it reminded me of that man who died here after he was similarly crushed.”
“He’s young and looks strong. He’ll cope with the pain. You’ve taken a shine to him, then?”
“As I do with almost all the young men who come here and are subject to our ministrations.”
“You should train to be a surgeon. The Church grants licenses to women as well as men. I hear there’s a woman of Bodmin about to be examined—and my source in Exeter tells me that she is the equal of any man. You could do the same. You have the skill and you care.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Wheatsheafen. You exaggerate my skills and my aptitude. And I know full well that I could not make a surgeon. I am not like you. It is the people that move me, not their sicknesses.”
Wheatsheafen smiled. “You do me a disservice, Rebecca. I care very much for my patients. But you are right in a sense. You have to love the understanding of how God orders the body, and a good physician will always put that first before any single patient. You know how a gambler loves to gamble, regardless of whether he wins or loses; it is the same with a good physician. He loves to be the instrument of God’s mercy, regardless of how God eventually determines the fate of the patient.”
Rebecca looked across the wide bay, with the sky darkening. “I do not much care what is wrong with these men. I just want to make them better, to give them some hope.” She walked on a little way.
“There’s a special dish I am planning to bring in tomorrow, for the Christmas dinner. I bought some cured fish not long ago, and with eggs beaten and fried, it is particularly good.”
“You know the way to the men’s hearts,” commented Wheatsheafen, then he looked up. “It’s getting dark. I’ll walk with you to the crossroads.”
Five minutes later, Rebecca said good-bye to Mr. Wheatsheafen. He ambled off to his house; Rebecca wandered to hers. She felt for the key to the cottage in the pocket of her kirtle and had it to hand as she approached. It was almost dark now; as soon as she was indoors she would have to light the fire. There was tinder by the back door, some dried lichen on the shelf by the hearth.
She reached out, placed the key in the lock, and turned it, feeling the familiar resistance of the levers. It caught, as it so often did, and she wriggled it slightly, finding the angle that would allow the lock to open. The door swung into the dark interior and she entered, leaving it open so she could see the outline of her way across the hall to the back door and the tinder box.
In the dimness, she did not see John the Egyptian before she felt him grab her from the left. He threw her onto the floor, falling on top of her. Rebecca shrieked as she fell, and hit the ground hard, landing on her back. The breath knocked out of her, she scrabbled in panic in the darkness to get to her feet. Gasping, she tried to scream but he held his hand over her mouth. She felt his weight on her and raised her knee to push him off—but then the knife was driven into her abdomen. At first it felt like a thin spike but it kept entering her, opening her up, and with every fraction of an inch that it moved into her, the pain increased tenfold. Swirling in her own fear, she felt the man tear the knife out of her and plunge it into her with a second agony. He stabbed down a third time, toward her heart but hit the bone. The knife entered her a fourth time, again striking her bone. She thought of the pain of the man she had tended that afternoon, who had grimaced and cried as she had turned his leg. A greater pain was overwhelming her—a whale about to swallow her, Jonah-like. All the pains she had ever caused were overwhelming her now. She yearned for someone to take them away. She saw Mr. Wheatsheafen hurrying along the shoreline, Widow Baker lighting the fire, and a huge hall of patients—thousands
of them in a hospital ward that seemed to go on forever. Then she looked at one of the beds and saw her first child lying dead there, and in the next two beds were her next two children, both dead. Nearby she saw her late husband, Henry, crouched over his manuscript in the light of a candle. And behind her she sensed Clarenceux, standing with his hand on her shoulder. She turned and tried to embrace him, but then there was only the cold ground there.
When the knife entered her a fifth time—how much later she could not tell—she was expecting it. She recalled lying in bed, in childhood, feeling sick and being looked after by her mother. There was bright morning light coming in the window, and all she had to do that day was keep warm. She could hear her mother in the hall singing to herself. The breeze moved a cobweb in the window of the chamber, just inside the open shutter: it entranced her, sending images of dancing angels of light shimmering into the room. It was a perfect moment in a beautiful world, even though she was unwell. She felt no hatred for the man who was now bringing her life to a close. She had no wish even to think about him in these last few instants. There were more wonderful things—light, beauty, kindness. Such a man did not belong in her world anymore. She refused to allow him to follow her.
Then, sadly, she said good-bye to the light, to the world, to her heart, and to everything she had ever known.
14
Christmas Day, Wednesday, December 25
Awdrey had been up late the previous evening decorating the hall. The tops of the walls were all woven with strands of ivy and mistletoe, which she had bought from a street vendor the day before. Each door was arched with sprigs of holly and juniper. In the morning the girls had been delighted with the scene; they quickly learned that the holly was sharp, so had taken to walking through the doors very slowly and carefully so as to avoid the prickles. They had seen the table laid with a pristine white cloth and laden with a ham, marchpanes, and pewter plates, ready for the feast, and they had complained bitterly when they realized their father was not going to allow them to breakfast at all, let alone on this feast, before taking them to church. But they had both submitted. Mildred had stomped her feet and sulked for a minute before her sister told her that there were mince pies and capon in the kitchen, as well as beef and mustard. Annie had laughed at the way the younger girl’s eyes had opened wide.
Thomas accompanied them to church and then bade them a merry feast at the church gate, as he had promised to dine with his nephew’s family. Only Joan was left in the house, and this made Clarenceux anxious. He had visions of the place being overrun while he was out, and everything being destroyed in a frantic attempt to find the document. He was even more concerned when he noticed the white-haired gentleman there too, in the same pew as before. This time the man was more suitably attired, in a black doublet and matching hosen. Only once did Clarenceux catch his eye. He did not attempt to speak to him, but he did ask several parishioners if they knew the man. None did.
As the children ran around, excited by the huge spread of food that was being prepared for them by their mother and Joan, Clarenceux looked out the hall window. In his hurry to get to church with the family, and to guard against attack, he had failed to note who was watching the house. He cursed himself, clenching his fist against his mistake.
While Awdrey and Joan fetched the food up from the kitchen, he stole up the stairs to his study and picked up his best sword from where it rested on the top of a book press. He returned to the hall and then went down to the front door, where he placed the sword on a hook behind his cloak, covering it there. He walked along the ground-floor passage, past the buttery, to the kitchen at the back of the house. Awdrey had her hands full with a platter of roast beef, and Joan was behind her carrying a tray of sauces.
“I feel I should be playing my part today, in the old style,” he said as they passed him.
“In the old style?” asked Awdrey.
“The Lord of Misrule. The custom is for the servants to sit in the best place and the lord to serve them, and for the men to play the women’s roles.”
“You are behaving very strangely, William. Is there anything you need to tell me?”
“No, I just thought it would be an entertaining gesture. Yesterday you told me that I ought to help more.”
Joan smiled. “I think Mr. Harley is a most considerate employer. If he wishes to wait on me at table, I will not protest.”
Clarenceux performed a mock bow and took the tray from her, following the women up the stairs to the hall. There Awdrey and Joan settled themselves while he fetched the rest of the dishes and plates, taking advantage of his time alone downstairs to ensure that both front and back doors were bolted. He took up flasks of wine from the buttery and gave some to Joan as well as Awdrey—which made Joan laugh nervously, as she was not used to wine. He himself did not drink. Even when carving the roast beef he did not relax but kept his attention on the sounds of the house beyond the hall, listening in case, and every so often walking around the window end of the table so he could glance out at the house opposite.
Nothing happened. No one broke into the house. No one called.
“What is the matter with you?” asked Awdrey when they had a quiet moment together in the kitchen after the meal.
“I am truly worried.”
“I can tell. Everyone can tell. I too am worried—about you. Whatever is in your mind is taking you over. But why now? What is it?”
Clarenceux shook his head.
“Come, William, you are worrying me now. I need to know what it is. Share your troubles.” She stepped closer to him and put a hand on his arm. “You have got to tell me, please, for my peace of mind. I can feel that you’re like iron. If I hit you across the shoulders with a crowbar now, it would bend. Please, William, confide in me.”
He took a deep breath. “Across the street is a house full of men who have us under surveillance. They have been watching us for months. Three weeks and six days ago, the regular watch was increased to two guards per shift. Now it has increased to three, with a well-dressed captain attending in person. In addition we are being watched in church—you might have noticed the white-haired gentleman…”
Awdrey looked at him. “But what makes you think such people are our enemies? Might they not be Sir William’s men watching out for us? Have you spoken to any of these men?”
“One, who called himself Tom Green. He was not friendly.”
“This Tom Green might just be curt in his manners. His captain might be more affable. But…what am I trying to say?” She looked at him with pleading eyes. “I know how seriously you would take any threat against us, and I understand how diligently you work to safeguard us, but can you not relax for today? It is Christmas.”
“I know, I know. I wish I could be other than this. But I cannot be, for I must be alert to the dangers. Perhaps it seems to you that I am being overcautious, but it is the friendly stranger who will threaten us. We will not be given any warning.”
A clear, deliberate knocking rang out on the front door. Four loud blows, in rapid succession.
“Look to the children,” said Clarenceux. “I will answer.”
He watched Awdrey turn and run up the stairs. Then, slowly, he walked along the passage to the front door. Taking his sword, he held it behind his back. Thy will be done. He seized the top bolt and shot it open, turned the key in the main lock, and finally undid the lower bolt.
A man stood in the daylight. Clarenceux recognized his livery as that of Sir William Cecil’s household.
“Sir William bids you heartily a good Christmas and hopes that the feast finds you well. He asks you, Mr. Clarenceux, if it pleases you, to wait on him on the morrow at his house, at three of the bell. He asks me to add, for the avoidance of doubt, that this invitation is for you alone. May I assure him that you accept his invitation?”
Clarenceux mumbled his acceptance with some relief and closed the door, noting that
the man on duty in the house opposite was watching them from the first-floor window. Only after he closed his front door did he start to think. I did not recognize that man. Is this a ruse to separate me from my wife and family? Is it to kidnap me or to make sure the house is undefended? He walked up the front stairs slowly to the hall, reflecting on the dangers that lay all about them, and the equally real responsibilities.
“Who was it?” asked Awdrey from the table.
Clarenceux looked at her and the children and Joan, sitting together. All of them were staring at him. This was no Christmas jollity. The weight on his shoulders was dragging down Awdrey too, and the children and Joan could not help but sense something was wrong.
“It was a message from Sir William—he wants me to see him alone, tomorrow.”
“On St. Stephen’s Day?” asked Awdrey. “He should have asked us all. Will you go?”
Clarenceux nodded. “I can hardly refuse.”
Normally there would be nothing strange in Sir William wanting to talk to him alone about some matter of business on a weekday. Sir William was interested in heraldry and history, and he knew that Clarenceux had considerable experience not just in these subjects but in the practical matters of diplomatic missions overseas. But such business was not normally conducted on the day after Christmas. And St. Stephen’s Day was not a time to invite him to pore over a heraldic treatise or a historical manuscript. All this lingered in the air between them, going over the children’s heads and ignored by Joan who knew better than to involve herself in her master’s affairs.
When Awdrey did speak, she did so in a cheerful voice. “Let us lock all the doors and bring out the wine,” she said. “Let us answer the door to no visiting neighbors, not even for wassail and hippocras. Let’s pretend we have gone away together to some strange land and know no one and are spending the feast alone surrounded by…”
“By blackamoors!” shouted little Mildred excitedly. She had only recently seen some slaves from Guinea exhibited in a street near the cathedral.
Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) Page 9
