Lady Percy, the dowager countess of Northumberland, was the person most on his mind. Of all the people who knew he had the document, and how powerful it was, she was the most likely person to have ordered it to be stolen. He and Rebecca had visited her at Sheffield Manor just before Christmas. She had exhorted him to use the document—and had given him money in the belief that he would do so. She was so bitter about her treatment at the hands of Henry VIII, and so coldheartedly jealous over Lord Percy’s affections for Anne Boleyn, that Clarenceux knew she would have been angry to learn that he had done nothing. And she was not a woman to be left angry.
Lady Percy had shown a fondness for Rebecca too. She liked strong-minded women. Perhaps Rebecca had gone to Sheffield Manor with the document? Maybe at Lady Percy’s direction?
Now, as he gazed at the embers of the fire, Clarenceux acknowledged that he had overlooked Lady Percy. She knew what was going on, surely; she certainly knew about the document and the Knights of the Round Table. She had spies and contacts with Queen Mary in Scotland. Most of all, she knew the identity of Sir Percival—the one so-called Knight who was the linchpin of the secret organization. Not even he, Clarenceux, knew that. He suspected that she could activate and instruct the remaining Knights whenever she felt like doing so. The distance from London to Sheffield had meant that Clarenceux had not taken her into account. Now he saw that she was like a poisonous snake lying hidden, waiting for its prey.
Getting up from beside the fire, he poured himself a large draught of wine then gulped it down, hoping it would help him sleep. He would go and see all the surviving Knights, he decided, starting the following day.
17
Monday, May 8
James Emery’s house was in Huggin Alley, which ran between Little Trinity Lane and Huggin Lane, almost directly opposite Painter Stainers’ Hall. It was a modest merchant’s house, not as prestigious a building as Mrs. Barker’s nearby, having none of the carvings on the projecting first-floor beams and much less glazing. Nevertheless, it was well kept. It had not been divided into tenements and had been maintained by its occupier with its old stained glass, carved stone fireplace, polished iron chandeliers, and painted wainscoting.
It was late morning. Bright sunlight was drying out the mud of the previous day’s downpour. Clarenceux was wearing his longest cloak, which reached almost to the ground. He had strapped his sword beneath. When he knocked, an elderly manservant came to the door.
“Good day to you,” Clarenceux said. “I wish to speak to Mr. Emery.”
The man frowned. “You are not welcome here, Mr. Clarenceux. I would have thought you would have known better than to come.”
“As I said, I wish to speak to Mr. Emery. Unless he would prefer that I shout out what I have to say from down here in the street, you had better admit me.”
“Mr. Clarenceux, I really—” But he got no further than that. Clarenceux pushed past him and stepped into the house. The elderly man tried to block his way, but to no avail.
“Is he upstairs, in the hall?” Clarenceux looked at the man and judged from the lack of response that he was. He turned and headed up the stairs, climbing two at a time.
James Emery was gray haired, about ten years older and five inches shorter than Clarenceux. He was seated at a table, eating alone, with a book open beside him. Hearing the heavy footsteps, he threw his napkin onto the table and rose to his feet.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, seeing Clarenceux. “I will not have you in—”
“Where is Rebecca Machyn and where is the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement?” demanded Clarenceux, striding forward.
“You should not have come here.”
“Damn what I should and shouldn’t do. The very fact you say I should not have come here makes me certain that this is exactly the place to be. Now, where is she and where is the document?”
“I know neither of those things, and that is the truth.”
“But you know who is behind this. You know why she has gone and who is advising her.”
Emery remained silent.
“I thought as much.” Clarenceux walked over to the table and glanced at the bright plate and the meat on it, the wine flask and the bowl of last season’s apples and pears beside it. The elderly manservant entered. Ignoring him, Clarenceux turned back to the table, lifted the flask, and took a swig. “Sit down,” he said. Emery was hesitant but Clarenceux pulled the chair out for him and took a step away, giving him space. Emery sat.
“You, in the doorway,” said Clarenceux, “you can go. I am having a private conversation with Mr. Emery.”
The manservant looked at Emery, who nodded. “Yes—go, Adam. Mr. Clarenceux is unwelcome but he seems determined to have his say. I am not afraid of him. Go and tell Simon and Robert to be prepared, in case of trouble.”
Clarenceux watched the servant depart, then turned back to the seated man. “I need to know where she is. And unless you tell me, I will make you pay. Not here—not in a sordid manner—but I will.”
“I told you, I do not know.”
“She is not as poor as she feared she would be. Someone has been giving her money. Someone has encouraged her to betray me—either for money or for reasons of religion. You are one of the very few men who know that I had possession of what she stole from me. In fact, the only people who saw the document at my house were Rebecca Machyn herself; her brother, Robert Lowe; Nicholas Hill and his late father, Michael Hill; and you. That makes a total of five, Goodwife Machyn and four Knights of the Round Table, one of whom is now dead. Either Lowe, Hill, or you have persuaded Goodwife Machyn to do this, or bribed her, or informed someone who has persuaded her.”
Emery turned and stared at the wall.
“I will not accept your silence. You do not know this but a sixth person knew I had that document. Sir William Cecil, her majesty’s Secretary, charged me to guard it with my life. Now it has been stolen. Do you see my predicament? And how impossible it is for me to rest until I have found it?”
Still Emery stared at the wall.
Clarenceux took a step nearer and bent down, speaking right in his ear. “I am going to tell Sir William Cecil what happened. I will say that you paid Rebecca Machyn to steal that document. He in turn will instruct Francis Walsingham to recover it—and I am sure you know his methods. He will torture you first and then make inquiries. He will hang you by your hands, break your legs with an iron bar, and then cut you down.”
Emery turned and looked at Clarenceux. “It was not me,” he said slowly. “You may talk to your friends Cecil and Walsingham, if you wish. But it was not me. I know nothing about where the woman has gone. And you, you are no better than Cecil. Call yourself a religious man? Dutiful? Curse you and the Devil, who rides with you. The Knights only took action because you failed to do so. Henry Machyn gave you that document not so you would hide it in a fearful way but so you would use it. We all suffered imprisonment and torture because of you.” Emery was silent for an instant, looking for some sign of recognition in Clarenceux. “Have you forgotten so soon? We were all tortured. I still have the scars on my back where they whipped me—with a leather lash that ripped my skin away. Others fared worse. Daniel Gyttens was beaten to death; Henry Machyn was killed. You betrayed him—you betrayed all of us. I am glad Widow Machyn has taken back that document, and I am glad it is out of your keeping. Maybe she will put it to good use, like a good Catholic, and destroy that interloper queen, Elizabeth.”
“At last we’re getting somewhere. Tell me exactly what happened. Who put her up to it?”
Emery shook his head.
“Who did it? Who paid her, damn you?” Clarenceux shouted. He slammed his fist down hard on the table. “Who in God’s name endangered all our lives by making her steal it?”
Emery said nothing.
“Answer me!” yelled Clarenceux. The next moment he lifted the edge of the table
and tipped it over, sending plates, bowls, cloth, napkin, goblet, apples, and pears tumbling to the floor. Turning the table onto its end, he hurled it out of the way. He stepped forward and seized Emery by the collar of his doublet. “Tell me now who put her up to this! If not you, I need to know who it was, because I do not want to kill an innocent man!”
Emery struggled to shake off Clarenceux’s grip but the latter swung his fist and connected with his jaw. Emery was sent sprawling on the floor. Clarenceux moved to one side, aware that Emery’s companions would soon arrive through the door behind him. “I am going to give you one chance.”
Emery tasted blood on his lip and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “She has betrayed you, Clarenceux. You betrayed us and she has got revenge. She said you were soft on her, and that you would give her what she wanted. I think you can consider yourself beaten by a woman.”
There was movement at the doorway, and two young men appeared: a burly red-haired one with freckles and a leather jerkin, the other a dark-haired robust-looking fellow from the stables. They saw their master on the floor, and Clarenceux standing by.
“Help him up,” ordered Clarenceux. Until this moment he had not quite believed that Rebecca Machyn had really betrayed him. He knew it with his mind but not with his heart. One moment he felt bitter, the next close to tears. “Help him. He was about to tell me something that might save all our lives.”
They raised their master to his feet. Emery mopped his cut lip, saying, “This man assaulted me. Take him to the constables.”
Clarenceux swept back the long cloak over his shoulder, to reveal his sword and long-bladed dagger. He placed his hand on the sword hilt and suddenly drew it. “I strongly suggest that you two good men both find yourselves seats.” Clarenceux pointed with the blade. “There is one over there—and you, there is another there, in the corner.”
After a nod from their master, the two young men righted the seats and sat. Emery stood against the wall.
“The situation is as follows,” continued Clarenceux, looking from one man to the other. “I am a herald, an officer in her majesty’s household. Your master and two or three of his friends persuaded a woman to steal a document from me. I had been charged by her majesty’s Secretary to guard that document with my life. The last time it went missing, Francis Walsingham sent a man to find out what had happened to it. He hanged one of my servants. If I do not find that document, I suspect that eventually Mr. Walsingham will hang one of this household’s servants too, as well as Mr. Emery himself. I wish no harm to come to any of you—but I must find Rebecca Machyn and that document. If anyone tries to use it to promote the Queen of Scots, there will be a bloodbath. I believe it would lead to the mass extermination of all Catholics in this kingdom. I am not prepared to see that happen.”
“We understand the situation as we ourselves see it,” replied Emery. “Not as you would have us believe.”
“Where is Rebecca Machyn and where is the document?”
“I have told you, Mr. Clarenceux, I do not know. None of us do. The remaining four knights agreed in March that something should be done. It was agreed that if you had not acted by Easter, then we would take the document.”
“And the money—were you paying her?”
“No.”
“Who was?”
“I do not know. Perhaps her brother, Robert Lowe.”
“Do you know where she is hiding?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if you did know?”
“I would not betray a friend.”
Clarenceux sheathed his sword. “I am sorry I struck you,” he said to Emery. “And that I interrupted your meal. I understand why you agreed to act with the Knights, even though I think it deeply unwise and dangerous. I hope you can understand why I must stop what you have set in motion. The thought of men and women being burnt alive for their faith is something I cannot bear. It is not a price worth paying for a return to the old religion. Nor do I want to take part of the blame for allowing it to happen.”
With that he bowed to the men, turned to the door, and left.
18
Clarenceux looked around his house. Ten minutes ago he had been helping Thomas load up the cart with Awdrey’s traveling chest and the children’s bags. Then, all too soon, they were gone—to Chislehurst, eleven miles to the south. Watching them come down the stairs he had been sorely tempted to go with them and to turn his back on the loss of the document; but he knew that it was impossible. Instead, he had experienced a sinking feeling, as if all the blood and love were being drained out of him.
Saying good-bye had been the hardest part. It was the memory of last time. Holding each of his daughters and kissing them good-bye, knowing he could not be sure he would ever see them again, pulled at his heart and drew tears to his eyes. But when he embraced Awdrey in a farewell, he had looked through his tear-filled eyes into hers and could not believe they were being separated again. The sadness was there, inside them and all around them, and it was overwhelming him. It was like a form of lovemaking, it embraced them both so much, but instead of joy they were combined in grief.
“Go, go now,” he had said. “Go with all my love. Go and be safe.” She had drawn away from him slowly, holding on to his fingers, finally letting go to wipe her eyes, and climb onto the cart.
Now he was coming to terms with the silence in his house.
In the hall, he filled a mazer of wine and sat down at his elm table. He had arranged all his weapons there: two good swords, one old one, two daggers, three other assorted knives, and two small axes. He looked at them and drank the wine.
Something was preying on his mind—something to do with the Knights of the Round Table. Emery had revealed that they had been speaking to Rebecca Machyn and that they had agreed to persuade her to steal the document from him. At least, four of them had. There was no doubt who three of them were: Emery, Robert Lowe, and Nicholas Hill. The fourth man had to be either Hill’s late father, Michael Hill, or the last Knight, Lancelot Heath, who had fled last December. But which of them had persuaded Rebecca to betray him?
It was almost dusk. He went back down to the kitchen with his wine, a sword, and a dagger, and placed a few pieces of wood on the fire there. He sat on a small stool beside the hearth within the great fireplace. The only windows in here were relatively small and high up, so it was barely possible to see across the room. Clarenceux used the point of the dagger to push around the burning sticks, watching the flames lick the edges and sip momentarily at the air.
He took another draught of wine. Gradually the light diminished. He put more wood on the hearth and returned to thinking about Emery. The man had not been fearful or in hiding. He had not been aware that something had just happened, even though he had agreed it with the other three surviving Knights. One of the others was probably coordinating Rebecca Machyn’s actions. Robert Lowe was the most likely, being her brother. But he and she were not close. As for Lancelot Heath, he was a reluctant foot soldier of the old religion. That left Nicholas Hill. He was certainly the most ardent of the Knights whom Clarenceux had met and the keenest to have custody of the document. He had been persuaded to give it back to Clarenceux by his father, Michael. But Michael was now dead. That might have changed everything.
Clarenceux looked up from the flames and realized he was sitting in darkness. He fumbled around the kitchen for a lantern, found one, and lit the candle inside from the fire. Taking his mazer, he went through to the buttery to refill it from the barrel and then resumed his seat.
There had been eight Knights originally, besides Henry Machyn and, later, himself. Of those, six yet lived: Emery, Hill, Lowe, Heath, and two others. William Draper had been one, a rich merchant who had betrayed them all and was lucky to be alive. The other had been…
At first Clarenceux could not think of the name. Then he remembered: he had never known it. The man’s knightly name was
Sir Percival. It had been his role to inform Lady Percy, the dowager countess of Northumberland, whenever the document changed hands.
Clarenceux clenched his mazer tight. He might have been wrong to assume that the fourth Knight was old Michael Hill or Lancelot Heath. It could have been “Sir Percival,” whoever he was. Another thing occurred to him. Emery had referred to the remaining knights. They had not replaced the fallen. That was the detail tantalizing his mind. The Knights were the same ones as before. Apart from Sir Percival, they were all known to him.
19
James Emery sat hunched in the wherry, listening to the ripples of the Thames. He drew his cloak close around him—partly because of the cold but more because he did not want to be seen. It was illegal to use the river after curfew. Although there was no moon, the sky was clear and filled with stars. The waterman spoke low. “We are nearly at Queenhithe.”
They moved closer and closer to the bank. The waterman drew in the oars and let the wherry drift toward the quay. Fortunately the tide was not yet full; as they came closer to the quay, they slowly disappeared beneath its shadow. The waterman carefully brought the small boat up to the steps.
“Good luck to you, Mr. Emery,” he said in a low voice.
Emery crept up the steps. He checked that there were no watchmen and made his way across the quay to the shadow of the warehouses. Walking briskly, he went north to Thames Street and then over, into Little Trinity Lane. Here, with the overhanging stories of the houses darkening the whole street, he was relatively safe. At Mrs. Barker’s house he knocked at the door, just loud enough for his signal to be heard. The door opened; a small lantern light shone from within.
The Roots of Betrayal Page 8
