“Nick,” he said quietly, feeling the boy wakening beneath his hand. “Can you saddle Brutus for me in silence and without a light showing from the stable? I need to make a journey.”
The boy threw off the blanket. “Sir, yes.”
Clarenceux took two candles and lit one from the fire. He put it inside a lantern, closing the aperture so no light escaped, and handed it to Nick. “Be as quick as you can,” he said in a low voice. Then he lit the second candle and set it in a holder on a table; by its light he searched the kitchen for food for the next two days. He settled for a hunk of bread, some cheese, and a lump of ham that he sliced rather badly. Then he thought of what he had to do and wrapped the whole of the ham in a linen cloth, and placed it and the bread in a leather budget. He went into the buttery with the candle and felt around for a leather bottle. Having found one and filled it with wine, he crept back up the stairs to Awdrey and very gently shook her shoulder.
“What time is it? Is everything all right?” she asked sleepily.
“Everything is fine,” he whispered. “It is early in the morning—no need for you to be up yet. I am going away for a few days. I cannot say where. Tell anyone who asks that I have gone ahead to Oxfordshire, to make a start on the visitation.”
Awdrey was awake straight away. She pulled herself up in the bed and reached for him. “Why do you have to go? When will you be back?”
He held her hand and kissed it. “Five days at the most. Maybe just four.” From his clothes chest he took two clean linen shirts, a clean pair of braies, and two pairs of linen socks.
“Look after our daughters. Go and visit Lady Cecil—it can never hurt to remind her of her connection with us and her godmother’s obligations to Mildred.” He kissed her. “I will be back in a few days, I promise.”
“I will pray for you.”
He kissed her again, then crept out of the chamber past the door to their daughters’ room, and down the stairs, picking up his travelling cloak from the front of the house. He left through the back door. Moonlight was reflected in the ice formed on a puddle in the yard. He let himself into the stable and waited while Nick got the horse ready.
“Nick, I want you to lead him down the road. Walk, don’t ride him. Keep him to the soft mud of the street. Tie him up at Queen Eleanor’s cross and then come back, slowly and quietly. I will not be far behind you.”
Clarenceux watched the boy, wondering whether he would ask questions. Nick, however, merely nodded and did as he was told, thinking even to extinguish the candle before he left the stable. Clarenceux accompanied him to the gate to the yard and watched him leading the great horse softly away, its breath silver in the moonlight. After they had gone he too walked silently along the passage from the yard to the street and looked up at the house opposite. The shutters were still open, as they always were. There was a faint glow of a candle in the lower room but he heard no voices. No one left the building. He waited for about five minutes; then, satisfied, he walked along the street as quickly as he could.
***
Seven hours later, four hours after sunrise, Clarenceux found himself riding along the road toward Bath. Birdsong seemed to be coming from everywhere around him; the sun was shining, and the warmth of the light was making the cold frost rise from the ground in small clouds. For these minutes he was able to lose the grim determination that had tyrannized him in the city—he was sure that no one was following him. He was tempted simply to continue riding, to rid himself of the worry, and carry the curse of the document far away from London. He could take it and give it directly to a leading Catholic member of the gentry; everyone would then know he no longer had it, and his wife and daughters would be safe. But in so doing he would start a war. There would be a proclamation of its contents; it would be used as a rallying call to all loyal men of the old religion. He would be indicted as a traitor. In the Low Countries, the Spanish duke of Alva was massacring men and women in the name of religion. In the last reign, Protestants had been burned in the name of Jesus. There were many who sought revenge—so much for “turning the other cheek.” He wanted the old religion restored, but not at the cost of thousands of lives or burning pyres. Nothing would guarantee the destruction of the old religion more certainly than the blood and ashes of conscientious Englishmen and women.
He did not stop to eat but took some bread and cheese from his saddlebag and consumed it as he rode. On he pressed, not riding fast but making sure no time was lost. Travelers he was polite to, carters he saluted, women bearing loads he greeted with a smile, men driving animals he made way for. Whenever woods were too close to the road, he swept his cloak back, revealing the sword at his side. At fords he rode straight through on his great horse; at bridges he clattered over, or made way for the carts that queued up to cross.
Coming to a large elm at a crossroads at about three in the afternoon, he pulled on the reins and led Brutus along a narrow lane past a farmhouse. He wanted to ride on, and faster, to find out whether the document was still safe, but the track here was muddy and uneven. It was still frozen in places, where overhanging trees had shielded it all day from the sun. He dismounted and led Brutus the last few hundred yards along the rough track leading down the hill to his cottage, where John Beard lived.
The cottage was a single-story cob building on the edge of a copse, with low, thatched eaves covering the firewood stacked outside and darkening the open windows. The shutters were small and propped open. The thatch itself needed attention, especially high up, where moss and fern were growing in it. In the yard to the left of the house, where Clarenceux tied Brutus, there was an old cart with a broken wheel, its wooden planks rotted in places where too many seasons in the rain had taken their toll. Two brown pigs were roaming loose. There were two barns, one on the far side of the yard and a second, longer barn—the barn—on the left. Both had their doors open, and five or six chickens were coming and going, pecking here and there at grain in the cold mud.
He walked to the door of the cottage and pushed it open. Inside was so gloomy and smoky that it took him a while to realize that a woman was crouched by the hearth, tending to a dish over the embers. She was about thirty, thin, and wearing what looked like a black cassock; but as Clarenceux’s eyes adjusted he saw it was not black but brown. Her dark hair was tied back; her eyes were worried and tired. She was looking straight at him.
“Are you Goodwife Beard?”
“I am. And you, sir?”
“My name is William Harley.”
The woman paused, trying to place him. “Oh, good God, Mr. Harley!” she exclaimed suddenly. “The rent—oh, sweet Jesus—you’ll be wanting to speak to my husband, John…Sir, we were not expecting you. We did never expect you this quarter.”
Clarenceux ignored her worry and looked around the space of the cottage. The floor was nothing but earth and old straw; the gray walls were whitewashed cob, not even plastered. There was no ceiling, the house being open to the roof, with just one inner chamber for sleeping. The beams and under-thatch were black with soot from the fire. The windows were small and dark, the light kept out by the overhanging eaves. There was no sign of any children. It was obvious that little or no rent would be forthcoming.
“Where is John?” he asked.
“He’s gone to sell some chickens to his brother. He’ll be back before long. Do you want to wait for him? Or shall I say you called?”
Clarenceux detected a desperate hope that he would go away. She clearly feared him demanding money, which obviously they did not have, even though last quarter’s rent had been due at Christmas. “I would like to look in the long barn, if I may.”
“Sir, you are most welcome. I will look out for John and tell him you are here.” She set down a ladle on a wooden plate beside the fire and rose to her feet. Smiling nervously at him, she led the way out into the yard, stepping over the puddles in wooden-soled shoes.
Clarenceux walked st
raight to the barn and entered. After his eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light he found a ladder lying down alongside a wall. Lifting it, he set it up against the platform of the hayloft. He ascended, went over to the rear right-hand corner, and started moving the sweet-smelling hay with his hands until he felt the wooden timbers where the document was lodged. When he had first bought the barn he had placed the document on the floor and nailed three boards down over the top of it, as if they were a patch in the floor. He felt the boards, still fastened tight.
“Goodwife Beard,” he called down. “Does your husband have a crowbar?”
She did not answer. He stepped back to the edge of the platform. All he could see was the open door and a chicken strutting about on the ground. “Goodwife Beard?” he called.
Still no answer.
He climbed down the ladder and walked out, squinting into the sunlight. She was away up the lane, hurrying up the hill, holding her skirts. A moment later she disappeared from sight.
Birds chirruped and cheeped around him, and a slight breeze blew a few wisps of straw across the scene. Searching for something to lift the boards in the hayloft, he found a pail that contained some tools, but nothing substantial enough. In the other barn there was a cider press, crates of apples, some grain for the chickens, a pile of empty sacks, and a few sheaves of corn. Apart from their few animals, John Beard and his wife had almost no food laid in store.
He strode out of the barn and looked up the lane. Two figures were coming back down the hill, one striding much faster than the other. The second one was the woman, struggling to keep up, recognizable because of her brown dress. Ahead of her John Beard was moving purposefully down the hill. He jumped the small stream that ran across the path at the bottom of the descent, just before the yard. Clarenceux noticed the unkempt hair, the plain leather boots. The man’s shirt had once been white linen but was dirty, his hosen gray and old, his doublet leather and hard-wearing.
“Mr. Harley, sir,” John gasped, “I am so sorry I was not at home. My wife should have entertained you, offered you something. It has been a long time, I know.”
Clarenceux nodded, smelling the earth of the yard and hearing the birdsong still. He felt strangely at peace. “Regain your breath, Goodman Beard. I can wait for a few moments.” He looked to Agnes, who was walking toward them. “You and your wife are well?”
John looked around at the near-squalid cottage and its buildings. “We have had our struggles, sir, to be honest. I have a confession to make. About the rent: I know it is due but there was a big storm here at the end of the summer, and then the cows died. We lost almost everything.”
He had aged quickly. Both he and his wife had bags beneath their eyes, and a weariness there. It was as if their very lives were roofless buildings and they were forever battling to keep out the elements.
“You are doing well for chickens,” remarked Clarenceux, pointing. “And not so badly for pigs either.”
John glanced at his wife. “We lost our crop, a disease killed our cows. Almost everything valuable we had disappeared in three days. Then our daughter, Dorothy, fell sick too. We had no money. So I borrowed from what we had set aside for your rent, sir. I bought four dozen chickens. Widow Grey told us chicken broth would make Dorothy strong again, and eggs would be good for her too. But it was not to be. She died in October. We have eight chickens left—foxes took some, and we’ve sold or eaten the rest. We kept the pigs and the hay, for without them we’d have nothing to sell to pay you back what we took from you.”
Agnes reached forward and took her husband’s arm.
“Speak truthfully to me, Goodman Beard. How much money do you have of the seven shillings four pence you owe for the last quarter?”
John looked down. “To speak truthfully, sir, I have one shilling and threepence in my hand.” He showed the silver coins. “And I have another eighteen pence in the house.”
“That is all?”
“That is all, sir. As God is my guide and my redeemer.”
“It does not matter. I did not come here for the rent but for something I hid here when I bought this cottage. We can talk about the rent afterward. Do you have a crowbar or some heavy metal implement with an edge?”
“I have an ax.” John walked toward the house and reached behind a pile of chopped wood. He handed the ax to Clarenceux; it was old and blunt but it would do.
“Good.” Clarenceux immediately went back into the longer barn and up the ladder. John followed and watched him as he felt for the boards. Waiting a few moments more for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit target, Clarenceux drove it into the crack between the two pieces of wood. Twice more he struck. The first board lifted a little, forced up by the thickness of the ax blade. Using the edge of the ax he levered it up.
He could see nothing but the board beneath.
He swung the ax again, driving it into the crack. Again, he struck, harder. Soon this second board too was lifting, half-splintered by the blows. Kneeling down, he yanked it up and felt for the document. A moment later he touched vellum. He was relieved beyond measure. The profound blessing that poured into his heart was like the rejoining waters of the Red Sea in the Bible, drowning the Egyptians.
He pulled the document out, handed the ax back to John, and climbed down the ladder. He unfolded the vellum in the sunlight of the yard. The document had acquired a couple of holes where an insect had eaten through, but otherwise it was as he had left it, with its seal still attached.
“What is that, Mr. Harley?” asked John, looking over his shoulder.
“Believe me,” said Clarenceux, folding it up again and tucking it inside his doublet, “you do not want to know. And I will not add to your troubles by revealing its contents to you.” He smiled at John and then at Agnes, and slapped John on the back. He looked at Brutus. “Do you have any oats?”
“Not much in the way of oats, not since we sold our own animal.”
Clarenceux went into the cider barn and came out with an apple, which he gave to the horse. “I’d appreciate it if you could feed him whatever you can. I’ll repay the expense.”
“No, sir, we are in your debt,” protested Agnes. “Go on, John, there are some oats still.”
As John went to fetch the oats, Clarenceux looked at Agnes. She was young enough for them to rebuild their lives and family. “What were you cooking when I arrived?” he asked.
“A broth, with some chicken bones and cabbages. You are more than welcome to partake, sir, but I doubt it will be pleasing to you.”
Clarenceux heard the word “chicken” and was shocked. It was Friday; one had to have a license to eat meat on a Friday. It was rightly a fish day, in line with the old religion. That was why he had not touched his ham yet. But then, out here, the fish days of the old religion did not make that much difference, he realized. “It will be pleasing indeed,” he replied. “I can offer you some ham in return—although I would ask that you not eat it until Sunday.” Agnes looked abashed. John returned with a small bag of oats and started to feed Brutus.
Clarenceux looked around at the barns and the house, and the hills in the late afternoon sun. He reflected that, if only one could live in the country and be sure of enough food, it would be an idyllic existence—with so few threats and so many friends living close by, and all the garden produce and unpolluted water around. No stenches from overflowing city latrines. No one to tell you what to eat or to inform on you. No cascade of bells raining down on the city every hour. All he could hear was birdsong. There was more peace and freedom here than one could find in a city. These people were better off than they realized—if only they could earn enough to keep themselves.
20
Saturday, December 28
Joan Hellier realized that John was not following her. He was seated on the black horse that he had stolen from a stable in Hampshire on Christmas Day, but he was motionless, fifty yards behind her.
She reined in her own stolen horse and let some travelers on the London road move out of earshot before she rode back to him.
“You will not come?” she asked.
“You know it would be madness. Anyone with dark skin is abhorred, and towns are worst of all. London would be the death of me. Just imagine if a market trader saw me and accused me of stealing something—the crowd would kill me in a minute. I will wait for you wherever you say, and I will count the days until we are together again, but I will not move closer to the city than this.”
“Then you are a coward. Any man who loved me would not fear entering the city, no matter the color of his skin.”
“Please—”
“I think it is time I found myself somebody else.”
“Do you have no pity for me?”
“I have lost my daughter; you have not. Why should I pity you? You have helped me and I have pleased you well with my body. But I do not care for you as I do for my daughter. I cannot pity you—for all my pity is reserved for her.” She listened as a breeze rustled the leaves of some nearby beech trees. “I wish you no ill, John. Truly. I know I am unkind to you, and that you love me more than I love you. But the truth is that I cannot allow myself to love you. I have to go into the city now, and I have to take this stinking bag with me. If I were to let myself love you as well, I would be weaker than I am. I am prepared to seduce this man, kill him, and kill his wife and daughters to satisfy the countess. And if I do not do those things, I will let down an innocent girl who is facing death for my crimes—mine, not hers—and who has no one else left in the world to look after her.”
She moved to one side, so he could see her face. Blue eyes, slightly milky; very light brown hair; white skin; ample breasts; and strong shoulders—the shoulders he so loved to kiss. It was not that she was pretty; it was that there was a great fear within him, and a growing terror of the loneliness he knew he would feel without her. She had given him more love than any other woman he had known. She had shared his suffering.
Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) Page 12
