Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy)

by Forrester, James

  “I am sorry,” said Cecil finally. “I am sorry for you and for Awdrey, and for your daughters. And for the people who have suffered over the years—Henry Machyn, and his widow, and others. I might be in a privileged position, and elevated above the detail of what most people would call daily life; nevertheless, the details of people’s lives do affect me, and their tragedies touch me no less. In some ways, being powerful and influential at court, I am disempowered. Too many things are kept from me, although I do my very best to learn what is going on.”

  “Sir William, I came here not to trouble you with regrets and sadness but for a practical thing. I need your help. I am going to hand over the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement. Not to you but to Greystoke, or Buckman, or whoever has abducted my wife. If something goes wrong with my plan, it is vital that whoever receives that document is not allowed to get away with it. If they escape me, then Walsingham and his men must be on hand to seize them. I will leave written instructions with you in advance, when I know when this will happen. But Walsingham will have only two or three days’ notice. He needs fifty men ready to surround a house in Oxfordshire which I intend to set alight with the document on the inside.”

  “God’s wounds, William. You push me to the limit of my patience. Where will you be when you have betrayed her majesty, not to mention me and all our loyal friends?”

  “I will be guarding the document.”

  “You mean to burn yourself?”

  “I will not be the first.”

  Cecil turned away in frustration. He shook his head. “I always knew you would put your family first, before the kingdom and even before your faith. But I did not imagine you would plan to do it so…dangerously, so foolishly.”

  “It is the only way—unless you can persuade her majesty to accept the document publicly from me in the Guildhall, with all the assembled dignitaries of the city and the Catholic gentry present. Even then—no. Now they would just kill Awdrey and Mildred if that were to happen.”

  “I will always support her majesty—even over my family.” Cecil stared at Clarenceux. “I wish you were of the same disposition. You can see now, I hope, why I trust Walsingham more than you. His loyalty is as unmovable as my own.”

  Clarenceux stared back. “Mr. Walsingham also takes risks. You might not see them, but he does. Mark my words, Sir William, your future and the Queen’s security depend on my calculation of the risks, not Mr. Walsingham’s.”

  68

  It was late afternoon by the time Clarenceux arrived at Cecil House to see Annie. Tempted by the offer of chicken baked in a pie and venison pasties, he stayed longer than he had intended, dining with Annie and the servant looking after her. He relished every second of the meeting, hearing her laugh and watching her run around and smile. The wound in her shoulder was now much healed, and she was sprightly and bouncing again, playing with little Robert Cecil whenever Lady Cecil allowed. Only when she thought of her mother did the sadness overcome her.

  As he walked home that evening in the darkness, very slowly, Clarenceux puzzled over Cecil’s line about Greystoke. It still made no sense to him. Cecil trusted Walsingham, who trusted Greystoke, who trusted Buckman. How could that be? Where was the wrongly placed trust? Surely it had to be between Walsingham and Greystoke, for even Walsingham would never condone what Greystoke had done.

  When he reached his home, he felt in the darkness for the keyhole and unlocked the door. He could hear Fyndern upstairs in the hall, clapping rhythmically and singing. He stopped; the occasional soft footfall could be heard. She was dancing for him. He glanced up; candlelight shone out of the door of the hall and across the landing.

  “Good evening, Mr. Clarenceux,” said Thomas, who was in the dark corridor at the foot of the stairs.

  “This is hardly the time or the place for singing,” said Clarenceux.

  Thomas bowed his head. “No, sir. But I felt obliged, seeing as you had been so kind to each of them.”

  “I have my reasons for keeping them, Thomas. It is not just charity.”

  Clarenceux went up the stairs slowly but not quietly, so they would hear his footsteps on the wood. But neither did. They were still singing and dancing as he walked into the hall, which was filled with light. More than two dozen candles were burning.

  Alice saw him and stopped instantly. Fyndern turned around.

  “I do expect you to work while you are under my roof—and I would appreciate it if you would not dance or sing while the lady of the house is held captive by our enemies. And I absolutely forbid the use of more candles in a room than there are people. So many burning at once is risky, unnecessary, and a waste of money.”

  He strode across the room and started pinching out candles where he saw them. Fyndern and Alice, both ashamed, watched him until there were only three alight. One of these Clarenceux took with him and went up the stairs to his study. He filled his pen from the inkwell, pulled a piece of paper toward him, and wrote three names as headers: Walsingham, Greystoke, and Buckman, preparing to think through the possible relationships that bound these men.

  After a couple of minutes he got up, opened the door, and bellowed down the stairs. “Fyndern, see Thomas and bring me two pints of wine.”

  It was going to be a long night.

  69

  Friday, February 7

  Joan Hellier thumped on the door of the chamber with her fist at dawn. “Ready yourself, Mistress Harley. We all leave in a few minutes.”

  Awdrey was lying on the bed with her arm around Mildred. She sat up. Could she be going home? Had William managed her release? She tried to put such thoughts out of her mind but the anticipation of a change gave her hope. She went to the boarded-up shutters and looked through the crack, trying to see out. The vague light of the sky allowed only a dim view of the track and the barn nearby.

  The shadowy silhouette of Helen appeared in the open doorway, holding a pile of clothes. “These are clean,” she said. “Leave your old ones.” She closed and bolted the door.

  Awdrey went to the pile and felt them. There was a linen shift. Holding it up and tucking one end under her chin, she felt it was small: for Mildred. Further investigation revealed that a pile of clean clothes for Mildred were stacked on top of a pile for her. She took them to the bed, woke Mildred, and urged her to get dressed.

  Ten minutes later, Joan opened the door to the chamber. “It is time to go,” she said abruptly.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “Has someone spoken to my husband?” Awdrey asked. “Are we being taken to him?”

  “He will receive his instructions tomorrow. After that, it is up to him.”

  Awdrey was deadened by this news. Nothing good was going to happen today. Her immediate reaction was to wish that he would remain steadfast and not give in to the ransom demand that awaited him. But she thought of Mildred. It was better that he forsake his principles, and betray Sir William, than Mildred be harmed. And what of Annie? Was she even alive? Quietly she took Mildred’s hand and led her from the room that had been their cell for the last eight days.

  In the hall of the house they gagged Awdrey, tied a scarf around her face, and bound her hands in front of her. When Joan approached Mildred with a length of rope, Helen shook her head and put her arm in front of her protectively. “There’s no need,” she said.

  A coach waited in the cold air. Awdrey saw Greystoke, mounted on a high brown horse, his face masked. Two other men were also mounted and masked, and another man was at the front of the coach. Helen lifted Mildred up and placed her inside; Joan gestured for Awdrey to follow. When all three women and Mildred were inside, Joan locked the door and banged on the roof. The coach started to trundle down the track.

  It was a carefully planned move. They had even filled the holes in the clay of the path with gravel.

  70

  Sara
h Cowie carried the buck basket down the stairs to the kitchen of the house in Fleet Street. It was not heavy, simply large and unwieldy. The stones she had set in the bed of the fire were hot enough and the water in the cauldron was also hot, starting to steam. The smoke rose from the fire, mingled with the steam, and rose up the wide chimney. Walking out of the kitchen to the back of the yard, she picked up the washing tub and brought it in, setting it down near the fireplace. As she did so, she had a sudden memory of her mother scolding her as a girl for taking the hot water to the tub rather than the tub to the hot water, and spilling it on her feet. She used to say she had been both scolded and scalded that day.

  This was a better place to be than the house in Islington. Here she was just a washerwoman—not a spy, not a killer, not a woman hurting another mother. Here she could just lose herself in her work and think about her daughters and their laughter, their smiles. She said a prayer for them, hoping desperately that they were well, and being fed and looked after. Tears came to her eyes and she wiped them away and crossed herself. The large, wide-mouthed cauldron was bubbling. It was far too heavy for her to lift so she used a wooden jug to decant hot water into the tub. When the tub was half full, the dirty linen went in, piece after piece.

  She looked at what was left in the basket. Nine shirts, three pairs of hosen, and two pairs of socks. Why do so few working men wear socks? she wondered. Their feet would smell much the better if they did. She poured the lye into the tub and stirred the shirts around with a stick, pressing them to one side so they would not be burned. Picking up the tongs from beside the fire, she lifted the first hot stone and placed it into the water of the tub; it immediately bubbled with fury, steam rising. Going across the kitchen, she lifted down the scrubbing board from its hook on the wall and fished out the first shirt.

  There was a movement. She looked up to see gray-bearded Jack Laney, one of Greystoke’s men, staring at her from the doorway. Behind him was Tom Green. They came into the kitchen, descending the three steps without a word. Simon, a younger man with fair hair and a not unpleasant face, was behind them.

  “Good morning,” she said nervously.

  “Good morning,” replied Simon, equally nervous. The other two said nothing. Tom walked slowly around to stand between her and the back door.

  “What are you doing?” she asked Tom, seeing the strange look on his face.

  “I’m sorry, we have orders,” explained Simon.

  “What orders?” asked Sarah. “Who from?”

  “Let us just get this done,” said Tom.

  “It is not as if anyone is going to come here,” said Jack.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Sarah, looking from face to face.

  “Hold her down,” said Tom.

  “No!” screamed Sarah—but as that scream echoed in the kitchen, all three men rushed at her. She kicked as they manhandled her to the floor, and tried to bite Tom’s hand, but Simon managed to get his arm around her neck and Jack took her legs out from under her. She continued to scream and fight but Simon squeezed her neck so tightly that her desperate call for help became more of a choked cry.

  The scream did not go unheard. In the house next door, Mistress Knott heard it, and it troubled her. However, the Knotts had learned the hard way not to pry into their neighbors’ affairs. Fyndern and Alice also heard the screams. They both sensed that something terrible was happening, and Fyndern felt he should do something—but what he could he do, as a boy? Mr. Clarenceux trusted him to stay in the house. Also, he was thankful that it was not Alice screaming. Last night he had had visions of her consumed in flames, her loveliness horrifically scorched. Sarah’s scream was also heard by passersby in the street; they too did not wish to impose themselves on a domestic affair of which they knew nothing. After all, it was every man’s right to beat his wife, as long as he did not actually kill her; why should they intervene? It would take time to find the constable and report the incident. And then, what would they say? They would have to admit it was none of their business.

  71

  Clarenceux returned from Cecil House not long before dusk. For the last couple of hours his thoughts had been flitting between the children’s games Annie wanted to play and the business of establishing why Walsingham trusted Greystoke. He walked slowly. People were coming out of the city with their carts and packhorses, baskets and sacks. Fleet Street was filled with the smells of his neighbors’ cooking.

  All the shutters of the house opposite were closed.

  Two women heaved baskets of vegetables toward him, returning to their cottages from the city. Four boys of various ages pulled wooden sledges piled with crates of cabbages, the older ones taunting the younger. Clarenceux suddenly had an idea. He stood, watching the boys, smelling the cooking smells. He looked back toward Cecil House and began to hurry in that direction. His hip ached and he slowed to as fast a walk as he could manage. At Cecil House he started to run again despite the pain, and gasped to the usher as he entered the hall. He knew Sir William was not at home but that did not matter. “Sir William’s library,” he said hurriedly. “Show me up to Sir William’s library—now!”

  Clarenceux heaved himself up the staircase, pulling himself up with the handrail. The usher followed him. They turned left, and he waited for the usher to open the door. Inside he went straight past the portrait of Sir William to the books. He searched the alphabetical arrangement from the start and found what he wanted. He pulled it off the shelf, opened it and read:

  Trattato di

  Scientia d’Arme, con un Dia

  logo di filosofia di

  Camillo Agrippa

  Milanese

  In Roma per Antonio Blado Stampadore Apostolica

  M.D.LIII.

  Con priuilegio della Santita di nostro

  Signore Papa Guilio III.

  Per anni dieci.

  He slowly closed the book and replaced it on the shelf.

  At least now he knew.

  72

  Saturday, February 8

  Clarenceux awoke with Thomas opening the shutters to his chamber. He had no idea how long he had slept—but it was not as long as he needed. He blinked in the light.

  “Sir Gilbert Dethick is here to see you,” said Thomas.

  Clarenceux assessed his wine-night-befuddled mind, shielded his eyes, and raised himself on one arm. He remembered the promise he had given Dethick—to set out on Tuesday. Damnation! But that promise seemed like a small wave sipping at the shore compared to the great, mountain-high wave approaching. That was what forced him to get out of the bed, to grab his doublet and throw it over his shirt, and take his sword. Fyndern was by the door, holding it open. Clarenceux strode past him, with his sheathed sword in his left hand.

  “Sir Gilbert,” he called to the old man on his horse, “I acknowledge my fault. But there is nothing I can do. My wife has not returned, nor my daughter. Nothing you can say will persuade me that I should neglect them to undertake a visitation.”

  Sir Gilbert looked coldly at Clarenceux. “A man came to me at the College this morning. He did not give his name. He told me that I was to deliver this message to you. He said: ‘Tell Mr. Clarenceux that if he wishes to see his wife and daughter again, he is to bring the document to Oxford and hand it to the gatekeeper of St. John’s College, addressed to William Willis, and to do it before noon on the feast of St. Valentine. If he fails, to them shall be done what has been done to the traitor in the house opposite.’” Dethick’s horse was skittish, and he pulled on the reins, turning it. “I want none of this, Clarenceux. I have delivered that message, even though I am no one’s errand boy. And now I deliver my own. Do what you are obliged to do, without further delay.”

  Clarenceux looked from Sir Gilbert to the door of the closed house. “This man who spoke to you, what did he look like?”

  “Does it matter? He was short, fair-haired, about thirty
years of age.”

  “And he mentioned something done to a traitor in the house opposite?”

  “I still expect you to set out on the visitation,” said Dethick, “although I pardon you the delay. We may not like each other, Mr. Clarenceux, but I respect that a man’s priorities are not always those of his profession.”

  Clarenceux looked at Fyndern, then at Thomas. He turned back to Dethick. “Mr. Garter, I will set out tomorrow. It seems that my private life as well as my profession demands that I ride into Oxfordshire. I will not take any clerks or pursuivants—not on this journey—just my own servants. However, I would ask one thing of you. Will you accompany me across the road?”

  Dethick raised an eyebrow. “Across the road? Into the house?”

  “Have you any idea what is in there?”

  “Your business is your own business,” replied Dethick, and he turned as if to ride on. Fyndern, however, stepped swiftly in front of him and took hold of the bridle.

  “Let go, boy!” shouted Dethick “Give me my way!”

  “A moment of your time, I beg you, Mr. Garter.”

  Dethick glanced at the house and, after glaring fiercely at Clarenceux, dismounted.

  ***

  The door was unlocked. But no sooner did Clarenceux push it open than the stench hit him. It rushed out of the darkness of the house to smother them and stick its soft, swollen fingers down their throats. Boiled and scorched meat was the smell that greeted them—but so overpoweringly that it was far worse than the smell of an unventilated kitchen. Clarenceux gagged, but covering his face with a hand, he proceeded cautiously along the dim corridor inside, aiming for the light of the kitchen at the end.

  He stopped at the top of the steps leading down into the kitchen. Dethick stood at his shoulder; Thomas was behind him. A ghastly sight lay before them. A woman’s headless body lay in the middle of the room—her upper part front down, prone across an upturned tub, her lower limbs on the floor, still kneeling. Clarenceux recognized the dirty russet-colored dress that Sarah Cowie had worn when she had called at his house. To the left was a large fireplace on which stood a cauldron. It had boiled dry but it still contained what was left of the woman’s head.