“Thomas?” Clarenceux called.
He heard his own deep voice fall away into the silence. He searched the shadows with the candle glow. “Thomas, are you down here?”
The door in the wall opposite was open. Beyond were the stairs leading down to the main entrance.
“Mr. Clarenceux,” came an urgent whisper from below. “Sir, what would you have me do?”
Clarenceux went to the door. Thomas was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. His shock of white hair, deep-set eyes, and heavily lined face gave him a gaunt look at the best of times. Worry made him look even older.
“Open it. If it is the queen’s men, they will only return. If our visitors are our friends, they need our help.”
Thomas nodded and turned to the front door.
Clarenceux lifted his candle to the cresset lamp in the wall to his left. He lit it. The wick began to burn brightly. He heard Thomas shoot open the three bolts on the heavy oak door. The fist of his mind clenched, listening for men’s footsteps, for the clink of armor, the knock of a drawn sword against a breastplate, the men shoving his servant aside…
There was a pause.
“It’s Henry Machyn. Mr. Clarenceux, it’s Henry Machyn!”
Clarenceux felt relief shine through him. He smiled. Machyn was harmless, an old man, well into his sixties, with a deep love for the Catholic saints and rituals. He looked down the stairs and saw Thomas taking Machyn’s sopping wet cloak.
The man must be mad to come out on a night like this.
He shook his head and walked briskly back into the hall to light some candles, so he could properly receive his visitor. But as he did so, the darkness of the hall reminded him it was very late. It was pouring outside. Machyn had called despite the alarm he would undoubtedly cause. Most of all, Machyn’s house was at a considerable distance, within the city walls, in the parish of Holy Trinity the Less. What on earth was he doing here, after curfew, in St. Bride’s, outside the city?
Clarenceux stopped. He turned and looked back at the doorway, lit up by the cresset lamp burning in the staircase wall.
This was not right.
He heard the slow footsteps and the stick of the old man on the stairs, and Thomas sliding the bolts home on the front door.
He walked over to a large elm table that stood by the shuttered windows. He placed his sword on it carefully and picked up two more candlesticks. One candle was askew. He righted it thoughtfully and lit both. For a moment he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the round mirror to his left. Brown eyes; short dark hair with a few streaks of gray; short beard trimmed neatly. A kind, inquiring face. He was tall and fit, despite his forty-five years. Riding, walking, and sheer intellectual energy had kept him physically as well as mentally strong.
The man who now shuffled into the candlelit room was of an altogether different appearance. Henry Machyn was short and moved slowly with the aid of his stick, a white-haired hollow of a man. He was drenched from his collar to his shoes. His old-fashioned jerkin dripped onto the rushes, as did the leather-wrapped parcel he carried beneath his right arm. He was fat-faced; his clothes hung from his shoulders as if they had been piled over him. But it was his expression that shocked Clarenceux. He usually had an amiable, avuncular countenance, one belonging to a man who would cheerfully regale drinkers in a tavern with a tall story. But that face, surrounded by a circle of receding white hair, now looked simply bewildered. Two milky blue eyes looked out at Clarenceux, imploring, yet without hope, as if Machyn had just watched the hanging of a dear friend and was now wishing for death himself.
“Goodman Machyn, what in the name of heaven brings you here at this time?” Clarenceux gestured to his servant, who had followed Machyn up the stairs. “Thomas, fetch some towels.” He looked again at the deathly face of his friend. “You know it is perilous to be alone in the streets at night.”
“I need your help, Mr. Clarenceux,” Machyn said in a hoarse voice. “I trusted the wrong man. Everything is gone. It is over for me. The end. And my dearest Rebecca…” His voice began to crumble; his whole face broke into sobs. “…my wife, my son, my friends, everyone…”
It was as if Machyn’s very character had been caught in a trap and sliced in two, and each half was dying separately, in lonely sorrow, unable to reassure the other.
“Goodman Machyn, my friend, what do you mean? Who would want to harm you?
But Machyn did not answer. He was crying openly, his cheeks and beard glistening wet in the candlelight.
Clarenceux stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Come now, sit down.”
Machyn shook his head. It took a few seconds for him to regain his composure. “No, I do not need to sit. I need to talk, to tell you something.” He took a deep breath. “I know you think you do not know me very well, Mr. Clarenceux. But I believe I know you. I have met you many times over the years, and I have always paid attention to your deeds and your achievements, your integrity. And that is why, now, at the end, I know I can trust you.”
“The end? What do you mean, Henry? The end of what?”
Machyn hesitated, clutching the object under his arm. “Will you do me the honor of looking after this book for me? It is my chronicle.” He lifted the parcel to draw attention to it.
Clarenceux removed his hand from Machyn’s shoulder and took the package. He carefully peeled off the wet leather covering and let it fall to the floor. The volume itself was mostly dry. He turned it over: it had a fine, thick vellum binding, stamped in the center on both sides with the design of a whale surrounded by a circle of waves.
“It has been my work for thirteen years,” said Machyn, wiping his face. “Every event I have witnessed with my own eyes, every funeral for which I provided the black cloth and trappings, every sermon at St. Paul’s Cross, every execution at Tyburn, every burning of a reformer or a heretic at Smithfield, every procession I have seen through the city…everything, everything.”
“It sounds like a monumental achievement,” said Clarenceux. “Bound in vellum too.”
“Like the volumes in your own library.”
Clarenceux nodded and smiled briefly. “Some of them.” His collection of books was probably the most extensive that Machyn had ever seen, but even he had few bindings as fine as this. “Of course I will…” he began. Then he stopped himself.
He paused. The room was silent. He could hear the rain outside. He felt uneasy again, as he had when he had heard the knocking.
“Why do you want to give it to me?”
“Because you are the most noble man of my acquaintance. You value old chronicles, and this one is so very precious. It will still be valuable after I am dead. In fact, far more so. I need you to look after it.”
Clarenceux looked away, toward the candles on the table. So very precious. Those may have been the words of the man standing in front of him, but they had not been composed in this room. Most of all, it was the word need that caused him to think. Machyn needed to tell him something. He, Clarenceux, was Machyn’s last resort.
“But you have other friends, Henry, and you have a son.”
Machyn shook his head. “John is not interested in our history or the perilous state of our faith. He is impetuous and still has the hunger of youth. He wants to see the world. Maybe one day he will not return from one of his voyages. I want this book to last for centuries, like the chronicles you use when checking your visitations. I always intended that it would come to you in the end. I have bequeathed it to you in my will.”
“You have made a will?” Clarenceux was surprised. Most men waited until they were dying before setting their affairs finally in order.
Machyn raised his right hand. It was shaking. He made the sign of the cross over his face and chest. “I only ask one thing of you, Mr. Clarenceux. Promise me, please, if anything does happen to me, you will go to Lancelot Heath, the painter-stainer…”
“Henry…”
“No, no. Please,” said Machyn, shaking his head. “
Please listen, for this is most important. If anything happens to me, you must go to see Lancelot Heath, in the parish of St. James Garlickhithe. Tell him your name is King Clariance of Northumberland. And tell him I have given you a date. But do not tell him what it is. He will understand.”
“What date?”
“June the twentieth 1557. Exactly like that. June the twentieth.”
Clarenceux looked at Machyn, standing dripping before him. The man was clearly asking him to do much more than look after a chronicle. He could see his lip trembling.
He glanced away. He looked at the light of the candles burning on the table and thought for a moment about Awdrey upstairs, in the glow of her candlelight.
“Henry,” he said gently, turning back to face the old man. “What meaning has this date? Why need I remember it?”
Thomas returned with the towels. He passed one to Machyn, who wiped his face slowly and dried his shaking hands.
Clarenceux continued. “Look, my friend, we have known each other for fifteen years at least, maybe twenty. But you have never before come to my house in the middle of the night, without a lantern, breaking curfew. How did you get past the city gates? The city watch? You have never asked me for a favor before, except to borrow a book occasionally. But now you come here in the middle of the night and ask me to look after this, your own chronicle, and you start talking about its importance after you are dead? And you tell me you have made a will. You are either losing your mind or you are not being honest with me.”
Machyn opened his mouth to speak but uttered no sound. He wiped his eyes and face.
Clarenceux walked over to the elm table. He put the book down carefully and straightened it. He spoke in a low voice without
turning around.
“You know how dangerous it is to possess seditious and heretical writings. You know there are spies. The laws of this kingdom apply to me as well as you.”
“Not in the same way, Mr. Clarenceux. No, not in this case. As for the gates…there is an old elm near Cripplegate. There is a door just behind it that opens onto the tenement of a blacksmith called Lowe. He left the door unlocked for me, against the mayor’s instructions, as a favor.”
Clarenceux turned and put his hands together, palms against each other. He thought for a moment. Then he let his hands fall to his sides.
“I do not know what to say. Will you not tell me the meaning of this…delivery?”
“If you ever need to know, you will find out.”
“If I need to know? If I need?” Clarenceux was aware of his suddenly raised voice. He breathed deeply, trying to regain his calm. “Henry, I believe I have the right to know what you have brought into my house.”
The old man nodded. “You have every right.”
Clarenceux glanced at Thomas. “Would it help if we were alone?”
“You have every right to know,” repeated Machyn, “but that does not mean it is right to tell you.” He held Clarenceux’s gaze for a long time. “No, I trust Thomas, whom I know to be a good man who has spent many years in your service.” He paused. “But let me ask you this. Why are you a Catholic?”
Clarenceux concentrated. “Because…because it is what I believe to be the whole truth. The way God wants us to pray, the honest understanding of the Almighty—not a matter of faith at one’s own will, or partial obedience to God.”
Machyn said nothing.
Clarenceux continued, feeling a little uneasy, “It is possible to be both a true believer and loyal to her majesty.”
“If you believe that then you deceive yourself,” said Machyn. His white-haired and white-bearded face had a sudden intensity, near to anger. “When I knocked on your door you must have wondered whether the guard had come for you. It took you a long time to answer.” He paused, searching Clarenceux’s expression. “One can only remain faithful to the queen and God if the queen herself is faithful to God. Our present queen is not. You know that. At some point you will have to decide whom to obey: the Creator or His creation. Tell me, are you prepared to live your whole life in fear of that moment?”
Clarenceux looked back at the book on the table. A golden glow touched its pale binding. He walked over to it and put his hand on the cover, feeling the embossed and polished skin.
“In Malory’s book, in the Tale of Sir Urry—isn’t that where King Clariance appears?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
Clarenceux turned. “Will you assure me, Henry, that I am not putting my family at risk by having this book in my house? Just tell me so, and I will promise you that all will be well.”
Machyn’s hand fidgeted with the head of his stick. “I cannot.”
“Then, have you considered what you will do if I refuse?”
“I believe you will accept, William. You are a good man.” He looked as if he was one of the saints commanding Clarenceux to answer. “You know God’s will. It is in your heart.”
In that instant, those sad eyes were the eyes of a saint.
Clarenceux considered. All the world he knew, all the sounds he could hear, and all the things he could see were in accord. He did not know what to do but he believed one thing: it was God’s will that he should help this man, his fellow believer.
“This is a test of faith.”
“It is for me, Mr. Clarenceux. It has been for a long time. Twice as many years as I have recorded in that book.”
Clarenceux ran his hand over his beard. The fear of having his house searched remained. As did his sense of injustice, and his loyalty to his friends and God. His God. The gentle power that directed him when he was in doubt. The all-seeing watchman without whom he would have no protection from his enemies.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “I will do what you want, as a favor. But you too must do me a favor. You must explain the real meaning of all this. I need to be prepared.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clarenceux.” Machyn smiled for the first time since he had arrived. He stepped forward and reached out with his right hand. He took Clarenceux’s and shook it, and continued to hold it. “Whom else do I know who would understand the significance of King Clariance? If you were to see a quotation from the book of Job, you would recognize it, I have no doubt. You are a man I can trust to fight for justice, for what is true and right. If you need to know the secret hidden in this book, you will find it out.” As he said these last words, Machyn let go of Clarenceux’s hand. He crossed himself again.
“The book of Job?”
But Machyn was animated. “It doesn’t matter. You are much younger than me. You will outlive these persecutions. One day you will know what I have learned, and when that day comes, you will be able to decide what to do…better than me.” He glanced at the sword on the table. “You will see justice and truth prevail. Believe me, I want to tell you everything. But there isn’t time. If you see Lancelot Heath, and if he gathers the Knights of the Round Table, the way to understand that book will become clear to you. To you, Mr. Clarenceux. No one else.”
“Henry, stop. This is confusion, not explanation,” Clarenceux protested. “The Knights of the Round Table? Who are they?”
Machyn put his hand to his forehead. “I am sorry. I cannot think clearly. I am a foolish old man. I tried to prepare myself on the way here, so I would know what to say, but…it has all disappeared.” He let his hand drop to his side. He frowned, clutching his stick tightly. Then his expression became solemn again.
“Listen. I will say this. The fate of two queens depends upon that book.” He nodded, reflecting on what he had just said. “And now I must go,” he added, turning around and walking toward the door.
“Two queens? You must tell me more, Henry.”
But Machyn kept moving. “It is very late.”
Clarenceux glanced at Thomas. The servant picked up a candle and followed Machyn.
“Tell me more,” Clarenceux repeated. “If you want me to look after that book, you must tell me what dangers it holds. I must think about my family.”
&nbs
p; Machyn stopped. “Mr. Clarenceux, that book is only dangerous if you know it is dangerous. If nothing happens to me, then you will never know what it holds. Nor will anyone else.” He smiled weakly. “It is just a chronicle, Mr. Clarenceux, the ramblings of an old man in his twilight years, nothing more.” He turned.
“Wait,” Clarenceux said, watching him. “Stay here tonight, Henry. It is dreadful out there.”
Machyn was at the top of the stairs, silhouetted by the light of the cresset lamp. “No. Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Clarenceux. I fear I would tell you too much. Besides, darkness and foul weather are my protectors. There is a sergeant-at-arms called Richard Crackenthorpe who has men out looking for me. The worse the weather, the easier it is for me to pass along the alleyways unnoticed.” He started to descend.
Clarenceux walked forward. “Looking for you? Why?”
“You can guess,” Machyn replied. He continued down the stairs with Thomas following. “The same reason why I had to see you.”
He reached the bottom. Clarenceux remained at the top, by the lamp. He watched Thomas set down his candle and lift the large wet cloak onto Machyn’s shoulders. The candle shone on the side of Machyn’s face as he turned to address Clarenceux.
“Go with God, Mr. Clarenceux.”
Thomas unbolted and opened the door. Machyn put his hand on the frame to steady himself, then stepped out into the rain and darkness.
2
Henry Machyn found himself once more in Fleet Street, in the dark. He shuffled across to the houses on the far side to get out of the rain. He felt tired. The cold bit into his face and hands and he leaned heavily on his stick. When he reached the overhanging jetty of a house, he paused. He was safe for the moment.
Lightning flashed across the angled roofs of the houses fronting the street. A moment or two passed, then the thunder came. There was no let-up to this downpour.
I should have accepted Mr. Clarenceux’s invitation to stay.
Sacred Treason Page 2
