The watchmen walked around a corner, out of sight. “Time to go,” said Carew. “We’ll start again at dawn.”
34
Ascension Day, Thursday, May 11
Clarenceux could not sleep. He lay on a pile of hay in that fitful state between sleep and wakefulness, too awake to let himself drift into unconsciousness and too far from consciousness to control and dispel his fears. His plan, which had been so well worked out earlier, now seemed makeshift, overoptimistic, and unreliable. The un-reason of half-sleep was sickening him as if it were poison in his mind.
He listened in the darkness to the sounds of the horses in the stable below and the rats in the walls. The distant clamor of cats fighting reached him. Not much later there was the barking of a dog, roused from its sleep by someone walking in the night along the lanes. Then a minute’s quiet. No cats, dogs, rats, owls, or nightingales. No voices.
He opened his eyes. It was dark in the stable loft. Neither was there any sign of light seeping in from outside. Nevertheless, he stirred himself as anxiety churned inside him. It was better to be fully awake than off-guard.
He got up and felt around in the darkness, placing his hand where he had laid out his weapons the previous evening. He felt a dagger and strapped it in its sheath to his left thigh. A knife he attached to his calf, inside his boot. A sword-which he would have to conceal as he walked through the city-he buckled to his belt. He used the spanner to cock the two pistols and tucked them into his clothes: one inside his doublet, which was fastened over the top; the other behind his back, in his belt. The spanner for loading the guns and the gunpowder flask he put in a pouch hanging at his side. The box containing the other tools and the remaining gunpowder, together with the key to the backdoor to his house, he hid under the hay.
Before he left the stable, he knelt and prayed. He looked in his heart for hope and thought of his wife and family. He remembered Annie singing in her chamber and little Mildred climbing the stairs at home, her curly hair framing her smiling face. He thought of Tom: his servant’s deeply lined, careworn forehead, and the resolution in his eyes that left you in no doubt he would face an army singlehanded if ordered to do so. He thought of Julius. And his thoughts flickered around Rebecca. He had lain in this very stable loft with her once before. She was still a presence. He saw her long brown hair, her glad and sad brown eyes, the mole on the side of her face. He prayed for her too.
He stood up and felt for the great cape he had been lying on. He put it on and made his way to the ladder. The horses shifted in their stalls but did not whinny or cause alarm. Shutting the stable door, he was out in the cold of the morning. He looked up: the stars were clear but the faintest lightening was now in the sky, the black of night becoming the deepest blue.
The dark houses and the silhouettes of their roofs against the stars clearly revealed the pattern of the lanes and alleys in this part of the city. Every so often he caught a glimpse of a dark figure moving between the shadows: thieves, nightwalkers, and men of base intentions and ill repute. Maybe a few were like him, conducting their business under cover of the night. But those with honorable intentions would have been carrying a lantern; he did not. He had been too concerned to assemble his weapons and test his guns. On reflection, he was glad. Lantern candles, tinderboxes, and gunpowder in a hay-filled stable loft would have been a dangerous combination.
The smells of the city assaulted his senses even more at night. The burial grounds of the churches were full to overflowing but they did not stink like Cheapside, where any fallen market produce that was not swept up moldered away. However, the worst smells were to be found in the smallest alleys. Turning down one, he passed a line of tenanted houses with brimming cesspits in their backyards and basements. In places, the night heightened the stench of the horse dung trodden into the mud, or the ordure from where flocks of sheep had been driven along to market. Clarenceux put a hand over his mouth and nose, and looked up at the church towers and spires, like so many stone plants growing strongly out of this fetid, highly fertilized square mile of God’s earth.
In Bread Street, a wave of nervousness flowed over him. He had two cocked pistols on him-and yet he felt weak, trembling. He strode more purposefully, reminding himself of what he was doing, bringing to mind all the anger he felt. Rebecca Machyn had betrayed him. She had stolen the document. That she had done so could only be due to these people whom he was going to confront. And they would betray her too. She was not safe in their hands-wherever they had taken her. All they wanted was the document and someone in a position of responsibility and authority to pronounce it true and legal. When that happened, they would not care for her. They would not protect her; she would have nothing more to offer them. That was the corruption of power-a series of betrayals, a sequence of disappointments and vendettas, a world of fear.
He came to Little Trinity Lane, his pulse racing. Looking at the low jetty of the Machyn house ahead, he saw Mrs. Barker’s house on the opposite side of the street, with its shuttered windows. There was no sign of any light within.
He stood in front of her door, breathed deeply, and rapped on it with his knuckles. He waited. Ninety seconds passed before the door opened a fraction.
“Your name and business?” asked a voice from the shadows.
“My name is King Clariance. My business is that of the Round Table,” declared Clarenceux.
The door opened more fully, allowing him in, and then shut behind him. For a moment there was darkness, then the servant opened the aperture of a lantern he was carrying. Clarenceux blinked, unable to see the servant.
“We have been waiting for you, Mr. Clarenceux.”
The lantern moved off in the direction of the stairs. Clarenceux followed, feeling the round pommel of the pistol in his doublet. He crossed himself. But as he did so, the lantern flashed across the figures of two men waiting silently at the foot of the stairs. One was a man whom Clarenceux did not recognize. The other was James Emery.
“Good evening,” said Clarenceux.
“We will talk upstairs,” said the unknown man. The servant with the lantern turned to shine some light on the speaker. “Go up.”
“Don’t do anything hasty, Mr. Clarenceux,” added James Emery. “If you do, you will regret it.”
It was not just a warning. It was a slip, made by a man as nervous as he was. Clarenceux felt the pistol through his doublet and turned to follow the servant up the stairs. Emery and the other man came behind him. As the servant’s lantern illuminated the landing above, Clarenceux saw the legs of another man standing there. Nicholas Hill.
“If you are carrying a weapon, Clarenceux, hand it over now,” said Hill, looking down at him.
Clarenceux bit his lip, cold with nerves, seeing the flickering of the lantern and the long shadows it cast on the walls. He arrived at the top step. The servant moved his light to shine directly on him. Slowly Clarenceux moved his cape to one side and made to unfasten his sword belt. The servant trained the lantern on the weapon as it fell. Clarenceux felt behind his back for the pistol there, tucked in his loosened belt.
He took a deep breath. The next moment he threw himself sideways against Hill, striking the man’s chest with his shoulder and driving him back against the paneled wall. He pulled out the pistol and pressed it upward into the top of Hill’s neck. “Keep still! This will blow your head clean off. You have one chance to tell me where you have taken Rebecca Machyn and the document. Now!”
“A Godly creature you are not,” gasped Hill, trying to free his arm, which was trapped beneath Clarenceux’s weight. “If that is why you came here, you can hang yourself.”
The door to the chamber in which he had met Mrs. Barker opened. The room was lit by a chandelier. Keeping the pistol on Hill’s neck, Clarenceux turned and looked in. At first all he saw was the light. Then he realized his mistake.
There were many people in the room, including women. Two or three men were already in the doorway. Clarenceux pushed the pistol harder into Hill�
��s cheek. “Damn you! Tell me!”
The men in the doorway faltered.
“Tell me!” shouted Clarenceux at Hill. Suddenly he jammed the pistol against the man’s temple. “Put your hands up. Walk into the room.”
Hesitantly, Hill did as he was told.
Clarenceux swapped the pistol to his left hand and held it against the back of Hill’s head. He pushed his right hand into his doublet and pulled out the second pistol. He waved it at the men still on the stairs and landing, gesturing them to follow.
“Put the gun down,” said one of the men in the doorway. “There are many of us. You have only two shots. We will take you even if you kill two of us.”
“Stand back and keep silent, unless you want this man to lose his head.”
The men withdrew cautiously, allowing Hill and Clarenceux into the brightly lit chamber. Emery, the servant, and the other man held back at the door. “You three too,” snapped Clarenceux, gesturing to them with the pistol in his right hand.
Now he could see everyone. Not one but two chandeliers were burning, the large metal rings of candles providing light. More light came from the candles on a makeshift altar set up in front of the shuttered windows. There were about twenty men and women staring at him. He backed against a wall.
Mrs. Barker stepped forward, wearing a black and gold gown with lace at her wide cuffs and neck. “Mr. Clarenceux, you come here in war. You threaten these Knights and soldiers of the Faith. If you harm one of us, there can be no forgiveness.”
Clarenceux looked from face to face, seeing cold judgment there. “Where is she? Where is the document? That is what I need to know.” He kept his left-hand pistol on Hill; the right-hand one he leveled at Mrs. Barker.
“We do not know where Widow Machyn has gone. She has betrayed us too.”
“What do you mean? You are the ones responsible.”
Mrs. Barker looked at him with a steady gaze. “Shoot me-if that is your intention. But I do not know where she has gone. None of us do.”
Clarenceux sensed a shifting among those present, an uneasiness with what she had said. “The Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement was taken from my house. My life depends on its safekeeping. Even being here now will be enough in the eyes of her majesty’s Secretary, Sir William Cecil, to warrant my execution for treason. I am not going to take any chances.”
“You are taking a very great chance right now,” said one man.
Clarenceux jerked the pistol against the back of Nicholas Hill’s head. “Walk forward, away from me. Slowly. Join the others.”
Hill did as he was told, taking four slow steps. “I will not forgive you for this,” he said.
Clarenceux waited until Hill had stopped and turned, still keeping the gun in his right hand on Mrs. Barker. “Why are there so many of you here? I came here to celebrate Mass in a private chapel with the Knights of the Round Table, not a crowd of onlookers.”
“These people are all supporters of the Knights’ cause,” said Mrs. Barker. “We call them Gentlemen and Ladies of the Round Table. The status of the Knights is undiminished. It is a calling. You too were called to be one of us, by Henry Machyn himself. You said you wished to join us again. But if you truly wish to take communion alongside us, you have set about it in an unfriendly way.”
“You arranged for her to steal the document. That was an unfriendly introduction.”
“That is another matter. It is growing light already-we are losing time. And we have all been betrayed. We will act together, but first we must pray. Will you hear Mass with us? Or are you determined to shoot one of us before the survivors cut you down?”
Clarenceux lowered the pistol in his right hand so that it was no longer pointing at Mrs. Barker. The one in his left he still held ready. “If she has betrayed you too, where does that leave us?” he asked, looking at the assembled faces. One man’s was full of defiance. Behind him, he saw a woman of about thirty; she was trembling. Beside her was a young man who looked unmoved, cold. Clarenceux had seen that sort twenty years before, in the army. The sort of man who gives the order to shoot and is able to pretend that it does not mean he has broken the Commandment: Thou shalt not kill. Another woman looked tired, drawn, as if she had not slept. With one or two exceptions, these people were not revolutionaries.
He lowered the other pistol. In full view of everyone, he pushed both guns back inside his doublet. “Let us hear Mass,” he said. “In the chapel. Just the Knights-and Mistress Barker.”
He watched as Mrs. Barker turned and strode toward the tapestry on the far wall. The altar had been set up directly opposite, so everyone present could hear the service. Two men now lifted off the portable altarpiece and two others removed the altar cloth, lifted the table, and started to carry it back toward the chapel. No one spoke except in a whisper. People kept their eyes on Clarenceux as if he might start shooting. James Emery scowled at him as he walked past.
A priest, dressed in purple, appeared from behind the crowd. Clarenceux recognized him as Father Tucker. He followed him through into the room that was to serve as a chapel. The room was paneled, about twelve feet square. There was a large window, covered by internal shutters. The altar was in place; Father Tucker opened a wall cupboard and started setting out the chalice and paten in front of the altarpiece. Hill and Emery were standing side by side, Hill’s comparative youth and obvious physical power making him a strange companion for the gray-haired Emery.
“I expected there to be more Knights,” Clarenceux said.
“You know where they are,” Mrs. Barker replied. “Daniel Gyttens was killed in prison. Lancelot Heath has not been seen for six months. Michael Hill died not long ago. Robert Lowe is with his sister. William Draper we will not speak about-he is no longer worthy of our acquaintance. That leaves just four men. How many more did you expect?”
“Henry Machyn used to appoint successors to take the places of the dead.”
“Henry Machyn is no longer with us. He appointed you to take his place. You are in the position of leadership, should you wish to assume it.”
Clarenceux looked at Father Tucker. He looked at Hill and Emery, then returned his attention to Mrs. Barker. “Let us pray.”
Clarenceux knelt on the window-side of the chapel, Mrs. Barker in the center, and the two Knights nearest the door. Father Tucker’s voice was melodious; he had obviously been trained in one of the singing schools. In his early forties, he was old enough to have learned before the old king closed the monasteries.
As Father Tucker sang and the minutes passed by, Clarenceux realized that he had been a fool. He had come here with the intention of threatening the Knights and Mrs. Barker. Had there been just the four of them, he could have got away. Now he was trapped. He had foreseen that it was a trap-he had even guarded against it-and yet he had walked straight into it.
Where was Rebecca? As he thought about the document, he realized that, if she had betrayed the Knights and him, then someone else must have gained some sort of influence over her. Lady Percy? It hardly mattered. Whatever he did in this house-even if he unloaded his guns into one of them-it would not stop the revolution. The pyres on which Queen Mary had burned hundreds of Protestants in the 1550s would be relit for Catholics. Heresy and treason would once more go hand in hand: the most frightening combination of human forces he could imagine. But a heavy dose of revenge would be added. No doubt Sir William Cecil and Francis Walsingham would arrange the trials and executions of the leading Catholics, dragging them through the city and then burning them in public. He himself would be one of the first.
As the singing continued, Clarenceux forced himself to examine every inch of the room for a way out. He saw the oil painting of the altarpiece and the highlighting of the linenfold paneling on the door and walls. He saw the wooden shutters of the window-too solid and close together to break through easily-and the oak floorboards. He looked up at the ceiling: elaborate molded plasterwork.
Father Tucker had stopped singing. Clarenceux was aware that
the others were all surreptitiously watching him. The priest turned to face him. He was carrying the paten with the holy bread, the body of Christ. The paten was enameled silver of a sort much favored in the past by aristocratic families when traveling around the country. He looked at Father Tucker’s purple robe and his hands on the paten. He glanced at the altar. There the chalice stood. It was similarly enameled, holding the wine that was the blood of Christ. Father Tucker spoke a Latin blessing over the paten and Clarenceux allowed him to place the bread on his tongue. Everyone was watching him. Clarenceux swallowed the bread, crossed himself, and said, “Amen.”
Father Tucker resumed singing. “Agnus dei, qui tollis peccatur mundi…” Later there were prayers. As Father Tucker expressed his hopes of a restoration of England to the fold of Rome, Clarenceux’s eyes were drawn to the design on the chalice. It was a coat of arms-the only coat of arms he had seen in the whole building. He remembered that he had seen shields on the woodwork downstairs but the designs had been painted out. Now he was looking at the arms of the Talbot family on the side of the chalice.
The Talbot family. The family into which Lady Percy, dowager countess of Northumberland, had been born.
Clarenceux looked up at Father Tucker, who nervously made the sign of the cross. He either brought this chalice and paten from Lady Percy, at Sheffield Manor, or…He looked at the floorboards, struggling to understand his own thoughts. Or…Mrs. Barker is of the same family.
He remembered the conversation at Nicholas Hill’s house. Who is Sir Percival? A holier man than you. The floorboards seemed to move, he felt dizzy. Father Tucker was backing away.
“You are Sir Percival,” Clarenceux said. “And you are…are…” His heart was beating frantically. This was not normal. His hands were shaking and he could barely control his movements. But as his throat and heart started to burn, he remembered the bread. The priest had given him poison under the guise of Holy Communion.
Rage burst through Clarenceux. He put his fingers to the back of his throat and retched. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nicholas Hill getting to his feet. He started to stand as well, but Hill was faster. Hill pushed him down and tried to grab the pistols from inside Clarenceux’s doublet. Clarenceux twisted away from him and drew a pistol himself. Panicking, blind to everything but his own survival, he pulled the trigger as he staggered to his feet. A sharp recoil made him drop the weapon and he stumbled, retching again, as light and darkness flashed alternately across his eyes. He pulled the other gun from his doublet. There was a blurred shape in purple in front of him; he shot at it as he fell.
The Roots of Betrayal c-2 Page 13
