“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.
“My name is Sir Yvain. I have an urgent message for her ladyship.”
“Come in,” replied Father Tucker, who had opened the door. He closed it quickly, then raised the lantern to see Emery’s face. “There is bad news. I will leave Mrs. Barker to tell you.”
James Emery was led to a chamber on the first floor of the house. Three candles on a stand illuminated the paneled room. Otherwise it was empty but for two short benches along one wall. Mrs. Barker entered in a long black dress with an upright collar, wide stiff skirt, and long hanging cuffs that revealed an orange silk lining. Her hair was tightly tied back. She sat at one bench. Father Tucker stood beside her.
“Mr. Emery, you may speak.”
“Thank you,” said Emery. “Mr. Clarenceux came to see me at my house this morning. He was most aggressive. He wanted to know where Widow Machyn has been taken.”
“What did you tell him?” Mrs. Barker asked in a curt voice.
“Nothing-nothing that he had not already worked out for himself.”
“What had he already worked out for himself?”
Emery glanced at Father Tucker, and then back at Mrs. Barker. “He forced me to admit that we had agreed to ask Widow Machyn to acquire the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement.”
“That is regrettable but perhaps inevitable. However, your coming here is timely. Mr. Clarenceux is only one of our worries. Widow Machyn and the document have gone missing. She was meant to sail with Robert Lowe from Queenhithe yesterday morning, to change ships at Sandwich. Neither she nor her brother was there. The shipmaster waited three hours, then he sent word. No one knows where they are.”
Emery’s eyes widened. “For whom has she betrayed us?” he eventually asked, turning from Mrs. Barker to Father Tucker, then back again.
“I would very much like to know that myself,” answered Mrs. Barker. “You don’t think it was Clarenceux?”
Emery shook his head. “No, no. When he came to my house, he seemed quite upset by the thought of her betraying him. He was violent, forcing his way in, drawing a sword, overturning my table. Robert Lowe was no friend of his-it doesn’t make sense.”
“His violence may have been pretense,” suggested Father Tucker. “If I wanted to give the impression of being upset, overturning a table and drawing a sword would be the way to do it. He did not actually use the sword, I assume?”
“No,” admitted Emery. “But he was earnest.”
“What else did he say?” inquired Mrs. Barker.
“He knows that someone was giving her money,” said Emery. “He wanted to know where she had gone and where his document was.”
“It is not his document!” shouted Mrs. Barker suddenly, getting to her feet and starting to walk up and down the room. “He knows she has taken it. He knows she has betrayed him. He knows that she has received money and that you and the other Knights agreed that this should happen. But does he know she has betrayed us too? If he does, maybe he also knows for whom.”
“I said nothing about your hou
se.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Mrs. Barker. “He knows too much already.” She paused and looked at Father Tucker. “But precisely because he knows so much, we can predict what he will do. He will come here. Or, having failed to find out where Widow Machyn is from you, he will try Nicholas Hill. Whatever Hill says, eventually Clarenceux will come here.”
Father Tucker spoke. “My lady, we could ask Hill to supply him with misleading information.”
“No. Clarenceux would see through him straight away. But we do have the element of surprise. You realize what we have to do, don’t you?”
Father Tucker nodded. “We must put some questions to Mr. Clarenceux, some very searching questions-and something to loosen his tongue.”
“Might we accomplish such a deed without drawing attention to ourselves?” she asked.
“Yes, as you said, he will come here. He is bound to. When he does, we will be able to trap him easily.”
“How?” asked Emery.
Father Tucker looked at him. “We will take advantage of his faith.”
20
Tuesday, May 9
Clarenceux jolted awake. It was dark. He had fallen asleep in the kitchen and the wine had slipped out of his hand, wetting his knee. He stood up in the fireplace and felt his way around the corner to the kitchen door, then up the two flights of stairs to his bedchamber. It felt cold and unwelcoming without his wife. Normally when he retired for the night, there was a golden glow in the alcove above their bed. Now even the sheets were cold. He let himself fall onto the mattress, still clothed, and waited to sleep in the darkness.
He did not fall asleep. In the course of walking up the stairs his mind had fastened on to the realization that, although he did not know who Sir Percival was, the three other Knights did. Nicholas Hill would definitely be the hardest man to make talk. He was physically tough, strong-minded, and younger than Clarenceux. Most of all he believed in the Catholic cause and the idea of using the Percy-Boleyn document, having it proclaimed immediately. Robert Lowe was different. A blacksmith in his thirties, he was probably as tough as Hill physically, but he was not so fervent. At least, he had not been so ardent in December. James Emery was the easiest of the three. But he had been forewarned.
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