Greystoke stared at the chest. He looked at Alice and Joan, then back at the chest. Clarenceux could see him wrestling with the decision—whether to take Awdrey in person to the inn in Thame or to send Joan with Alice. Greystoke had seen Clarenceux lock the chest and give a key to Alice, but still he did not trust him not to remove the document in his absence.
“Joan. Take the wife and the girl to the required place, and then make sure this woman returns, with the key. And then we’ll be done with these games.”
Clarenceux watched Alice unbolt the door and leave, followed by Joan. He stared at the open door. “They will be gone for more than an hour.”
“So,” asked Walsingham, “this is your plan, Clarenceux?”
“Mr. Walsingham, with respect, you have no place in this deal. You would be best advised to leave.”
“I will do no such thing,” replied Walsingham coldly. He sat down on the bench by the table and placed his hands together on the surface.
“And you, Greystoke?”
“I am not moving out of the sight of that chest.”
“Very well.” Clarenceux moved toward the door. “I cannot stand the thought of spending the next hour and a half in this room with a murderer and a traitor. The room already reeks with the foulness of your breath—and that is nothing compared to the stench of your soul. I will wait outside.”
“Clarenceux!” snapped Walsingham. “The key. You will leave the key.”
Clarenceux reached into his pocket and pulled out the key, placing it on the top of the chest. “You will still have to wait for the other one.”
Outside, thirty armed men were gathered in the shaded cloister and around the door. Some were seated on pieces of timber or stonework in the rubble-strewn courtyard at the center of the cloister; others were standing or leaning against the cloister wall.
Walsingham appeared at the door behind Clarenceux. “Captain Johnson, take ten men and follow Mr. Clarenceux wherever he goes. Make sure he comes back here when the women return.”
Captain Johnson, a man with large sideburns that covered his cheeks, was wearing a long fawn coat with a leather belt and holding a steel helmet. He bowed to Walsingham and placed the helmet on his head. He signaled to several men, and they all got to their feet or stopped leaning against a wall and stood ready. Clarenceux walked between them and along the shaded cloister. At the end he turned the corner and walked out of the abbey precinct through the door under the lay brothers’ dormitory—the route by which he had first entered the abbey with Sir Richard Wenman. He wondered whether anyone from the locality was now riding to Sir Richard to tell him that his abbey had been overrun by Walsingham’s men. It did not matter; by the time Sir Richard arrived, their business would be concluded.
He turned left outside the abbey and walked down across the grounds past the abbot’s house. There was a worn patch of ground here and he stooped to pick up some stones from the mud. None of the guards questioned him. A short distance away there were some larger, flatter stones; he discarded most of the first handful and replaced them with these. Twenty minutes were spent in this fashion, walking this way and that, picking up flattish stones. When he had twenty or thirty, he proceeded to the pond.
Standing on the bank, the sun bright from the south, he looked across the deep green-black rippling water. The ducks were settled on the surface some distance away. He skimmed the first stone across the surface, bouncing it four or five times. The next stone bounced twice. The next three times. One or two bounced ten or eleven times off the surface but some plummeted straight into the water—including the key to the chest. Captain Johnson’s men sat on the ground or watched him idly; no one noticed. When the stones were all gone, he stood for a long time just looking at the green bank and the water, the blue sky, the sun. He thought of Awdrey and Mildred, at last making their journey to safety, and he wished he could see them, embrace them. But this way, they were in no danger.
Captain Johnson’s men hurriedly got to their feet as they saw him start to wander back toward the abbey.
He went into the church and walked up to where the altar had once stood. Looking down the nave at the splintered woodwork and broken carving, it felt so wrong that men could wantonly cause such destruction. Captain Johnson’s men remained at a respectful distance as, still wearing his sword, Clarenceux knelt on the cold stone chancel step to pray.
One of Captain Johnson’s men kicked a piece of wood; the sound echoed away through the nave and aisles. Clarenceux heard the echo. They could smash the images and pull down the rood screen, and even burn the rood itself—but the echoes of their acts continued. He stood, turned, and projected his deep voice into the body of the church, proclaiming the words to the congregation of air and light: “Domine, Jesu Christe, qui me creasti, redemisti, et preordinasti ad hoc quod sum, tu scis quid de me facere vis; fac de me secundum voluntatem tuam cum misericordia. Amen.”
“Mr. Clarenceux,” said Captain Johnson, “this building is no longer a holy church. This is not a place for Catholic prayers.”
“You think that because it is in Latin it must be Catholic?” replied Clarenceux with a scornful look. “It is a prayer, written by a good but weak-headed king of England. He wrote it in the Tower of London when he was awaiting death, at the hands of other members of the royal family. Do you want to know what it means?”
Captain Johnson looked to his men for support. They were unsure. The symbolism of the church was undimmed.
“It means ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Who created me and redeemed me, and preordained me to be what I am, You know what You wish to do with me; do with me in accordance with Your will, with mercy. Amen.’ Tell me, Captain Johnson, wherein lies the heresy in that? Wherein lies the disrespect? Do you rather not see the disrespect all about you, in this desecration?”
His voice echoed away. No one answered. He turned back to the empty space that had once been the high altar and went down on his knees once more.
“You are praying to emptiness, Mr. Clarenceux,” said one man behind him.
“There is nothing there,” jeered another.
A second time Clarenceux rose to speak to them. “If there is nothing here, do you deny the existence of God? For God is everywhere, even where you have torn down His altars. If there is nothing here, does it matter to you that I pray for you, in my Latin prayers—praying that the Holy Spirit will infect your limbs with cancerous sores and make your tongues bleed for your lies? I have seen the plague infest the poor houses in London, and heard whole families screaming with the pain as they die, one by one—the men too frightened to touch their plague-fingered wives, the children crying in bed with the sores pulsating through their whole feverish bodies, and their parents too scared to enter their chambers. Shall I pray for the plague to smite you? If there is nothing here, then you will say, ‘Yes, Mr. Clarenceux, do your worst! Pray us to suffer the most miserable deaths! It makes no difference.’ But I am far surer that this was, and is, a holy place than you are sure that it is not. For your confidence is founded on ignorance. I am sure that our prayers are listened to, just as you are sure that they fall on deaf ears. I am strengthened by my faith and you are enfeebled by your doubt. I am willing to die for what I believe. Tell me—are you prepared to die for your doubt? Your skepticism is weak—weak—and the fervent man will always triumph—not only in the eyes of God, but in the hearts of men and women too.”
No one spoke. A dead leaf scratched its way in the breeze across the floor. Clarenceux looked up to the windows; the weather was changing, the sun dimming behind clouds.
“I am going to pray now,” he announced, “and I am minded to kill anyone who ridicules this house of God or otherwise disturbs me.”
Captain Johnson looked around. Silently he gestured to his men and pointed to the other end of the nave. Clarenceux listened to them withdraw. He remained praying for the next forty minutes, until a man entered the churc
h at the west end and shouted: “They have returned.”
He crossed himself. He stood up and slowly returned by way of the south aisle and the door to the refectory. He saw the women walking along the far side of the cloister. The waiting men there jumped to their feet. Alice ran along the cloister when she saw him. Her eyes were alight and she said in an excited voice, “Thomas says, do you remember the thirtieth of June last year? It was like that day.”
Clarenceux nodded and looked at the faces around them. He smiled at her. “I remember it well. I remember it so very well.” Then, with a sigh and a final glance at the sky, he walked up the steps and into the refectory.
***
Awdrey wept as she embraced Thomas in a chamber at the Saracen’s Head. For a long time they could not speak to one another but could only communicate through their eyes and their tears. Mildred was pleased to see Thomas too and ran to the old servant for a hug.
“Where is William?” Awdrey asked. “And who was that young woman who led us here? She was riding Maud. And she mentioned William.”
“She is a whore’s daughter and probably a whore herself—but she can clean and tidy a house, and for that we must be grateful.”
Awdrey nodded. Thomas noticed how pale she was looking.
“How is Annie?” she asked urgently.
“She is doing well, at Cecil House.” Thomas watched her losing strength. Suddenly she staggered and lurched to one side, resting against a wall.
“Mistress Harley!”
She tried to speak but no words came out.
“I will get you some water,” he assured her. “Sit down, do not strain yourself.”
Thomas hurried across the room and fetched the ewer. There being no cup in the room, he presented her with the ewer and tilted it so she could drink.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
Thomas knew it was his duty to lie. But he also knew that Awdrey would see through him straight away. “He has given me instructions to take you away from here as quickly as possible. They know where you are.”
“Thomas, Thomas! Tell me where he is—you are not answering me! I have things I need to tell him.” Her hair awry, shockingly pale, her eyes searched his face. Mildred began to cry. “After all this, after everything that has happened to me—tell me now where he is.”
Thomas sought his heart for direction. “He is bringing the business to a conclusion. He is destroying the document.”
“Where? When can I see him?”
“Mistress Harley…” But Thomas could not say the words. He breathed deeply. “You cannot see him again. None of us can.”
Awdrey did not understand. Ever since she had been abducted, she had drawn strength from the knowledge that somewhere in England her husband would be striving to find and rescue her.
“Thomas, please, tell me now—I cannot stand this silence! Tell me where he is—I must see him! Why are you being so evasive? Can you not be honest with me? Please—I am begging you, take me to him.”
“No! He is in danger. God knows it is none of my deciding, but he has decided to burn down the building containing Greystoke and the document.”
“With himself in it?” Awdrey let out an anguished scream. Mildred’s eyes widened in alarm and she began to cry. “Does…does he know about what…what happened to me?” she asked, unable to breathe, reaching out to Thomas, taking hold of the front of his doublet. “Does he know? Is that why? Oh Lord! Let it not be.”
Thomas said only, “I need to take you to Oxford, Mistress Harley. You and Mildred must get away from here. We will hire a coach there to take you back to Annie…”
“I want my husband, Thomas. I want to see William.” She shivered as she spoke.
“Mistress Harley, you are not well. Eat something and then let us ride to Oxford.”
Trembling, she reached for the door. Then the realization hit her: the complete and irrevocable loss of her happiness. She felt faint, her knuckles white on the edge of the door, and to stop herself from passing out, she lay down on the ground. There, breathing heavily, her mind recovered its clarity. And she wept.
***
Clarenceux closed the door to the refectory and bolted it. Walsingham was standing on the far side of the room, with his back to the east window. Greystoke was sitting on the near end of the bench by the trestle table, with his back to the south-facing windows. Joan Hellier went to stand beside Greystoke. Alice stood beside Clarenceux.
“To whom should I give the key?” she asked.
He did not answer but started to walk across the room, very slowly.
“You have no choice but to give it to me,” said Walsingham. “You have seen how many men I have here. None of you can leave this place without my permission.”
Greystoke laughed. “Francis, you think like a clock. So regular. Tick, tick, tick. Steadily all the pieces move to your winding—and not a single second is too small to be overlooked. But the operation of your clock is only as good as the reliability of the pieces. I’m afraid certain cogs have been changed.”
Clarenceux reached the corner of the room, not far from Walsingham. There, a few inches off the ground, unnoticed by the others, was a thread looped over a nail in the wall. It hung down between the boards of the floor. Clarenceux bent down, unhooked the thread, felt the weight of the iron bar suspended in the room beneath, and let go.
They all heard the bar hit the stone floor of the undercroft below.
“What was that?” said Walsingham.
“The sound of my gauntlet hitting the ground,” said Clarenceux, straightening up. He took off his cloak and let it fall to the floor. With slow steps he walked toward the lectern, looking from Joan to Greystoke; he ascended the three steps to where the monks used to read to their fellows during mealtimes. “Did you think it would be that easy? Did you think—any of you—that I would give up something that valuable in return for merely restoring to me that which is already mine? Did you think I would ever give up the document to a man who so foully abused my wife? And who took my daughter from me? Did you think I would give it to the woman who murdered Rebecca Machyn? I know why you want the document, Joan Hellier—to save your daughter. And I know why you want it too, Mr. Greystoke. For political influence. But both of you have set yourselves on a path that means you and I will always be enemies. That was your choosing, not mine, and I will not give that document to my enemies.”
“I am not your enemy, Mr. Clarenceux,” protested Walsingham.
Clarenceux ignored him.
“It is over, Clarenceux. I will take the key. You have lost.” Greystoke stood up and started to move across the room.
“Joan,” said Clarenceux quickly, “if you let that man take the document, you will have failed. He has used his friendship with Father Buckman just as he has used his friendship with Walsingham. He will never deliver the document to Lady Percy, for she is a supporter of Lord Henry Stewart. He is an adherent of the queen of the Scots, and he will take the document to her—or to Rome.”
Joan turned to Greystoke, wide-eyed. “Is this true?”
Walsingham looked from Clarenceux to Greystoke and back to Clarenceux. “Have you any evidence for this?”
Clarenceux shook his head. “The truth is the truth, whether or not there is any evidence.” He smelled smoke.
Greystoke drew his sword and walked around the end of the table. “A duel is what you want, Clarenceux? Well, that is fine—I am as willing to kill you as I was to rut with your wife.”
“Let Mr. Walsingham go first,” said Clarenceux.
“No,” said Greystoke, taking his position beside the chest. “I think it would be unwise of me to let Mr. Walsingham go now.”
“Mr. Greystoke, what do you mean by this?” shouted Walsingham.
Greystoke pointed his sword at him. “You stay where you are. You have nothing to add to this discuss
ion.”
Clarenceux stepped down from the lectern and drew his sword. Wisps of smoke rose between the floorboards. Greystoke saw Clarenceux’s attention elsewhere and lunged forward immediately. At the last moment Clarenceux parried the blow and stepped to his right, cursing himself for the small mistake. Again Greystoke darted forward; their swords clashed repeatedly as Clarenceux drove back the attempts to stab and cut him. Each time he was giving way to Greystoke.
“I smell smoke,” said Walsingham in alarm. “There is fire!”
“I told you that you were no match for me,” jeered Greystoke.
Clarenceux swept his sword down and jabbed forward toward Greystoke’s thigh but the younger man responded swiftly by turning his defense to an attempt to slash across Clarenceux’s face.
“Mr. Walsingham, you know you are honored,” declared Clarenceux. “Your friend here was trained by the great Camillo Agrippa, the Catholic swordsman of Rome. Four years, was it not?” he demanded as Greystoke stabbed forward and turned his strokes into a flurry of cuts so fast that Clarenceux had difficulty moving his own blade to defend against them. Again he stepped back and Greystoke attacked, turning an attempt to run Clarenceux through the gut into a swipe across his face, slicing through the cheek. The pain made Clarenceux cry out, and he raised his hand instinctively, feeling the looseness of the flesh. It was a huge cut. Red blood poured across and down from the wide wound. Alice stared in horror.
“Fire!” shouted Walsingham. “Get out of here.”
“Not without the document!” said Greystoke, trapping Clarenceux behind the table.
“Then you will die!” shouted back Clarenceux, holding his face with one hand and lifting his sword with the other. Smoke was pouring into the room now through the floorboards. Joan ran to the chest, and then stopped and stared at Alice, who had produced a pistol. Greystoke and Clarenceux did not see it, not taking their eyes off each other. Walsingham did not see it either, as he hurried across the room, choking, and reached up to unbolt the door. But as he yanked it open, Alice pulled the trigger. The report of the gun stunned them all. Walsingham turned and tried to see what had happened, but there was too much smoke in the room.
Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) Page 36
