He blinked, water dripping from his eyebrows. No. I did the right thing. It is too dangerous now.
He stood still, with one hand against a wall and the other on his stick. All his plans ended with Clarenceux and the chronicle. Where to go now? He could not go back home. He needed to find somewhere he could rest, somewhere dry. He could sleep anywhere, he was so tired.
But a glimmer of satisfaction warmed him. He had done it. The book was in the hands of the most intelligent, conscientious, and dignified person he knew. A man who could defend himself and had powerful friends. Straining his old eyes, he saw the line of the roof of the herald’s house. And up there, on the first floor, there was a chink of yellow light between the shutters: the candle on the elm table. His book was lying beside that candle. Mr. Clarenceux would soon read it. Before long he would read the end—and then he would know.
Despite Richard Crackenthorpe’s threats, the book was secure. No royal sergeant-at-arms would dare search the house of a herald, surely. Whatever happened to him now, his part in this act was done. The burden he had borne for the last twenty-six years had been lifted from his shoulders.
3
Clarenceux stood in the hall, leaning over Machyn’s book, which lay open on the table. The Cronacle of Henrie Machine, marchaunt-ttayler & parrish clerke of Holy Trinitie ye Lesse was scrawled in a very uneven hand across the top of the page. Beneath it was the first line of the first entry, in an equally unsteady script: The xiij day of juni 1550 did Ser Arthur Darse knyghte John Hethe paynter & Hare Machyn marchaunt mete…A line or so later he read, & aftre to Paull’s crosse wher we harde a godly sermon by ye gode bysshope of Dorham.
Clarenceux stared at the first paragraph. It was not just the writing which was appallingly bad; the spelling was awful. He had never seen such a badly written manuscript. Machyn had meant that he and his friends, Sir Arthur Darcy and John Heath, had “heard a goodly sermon by the good bishop of Durham.”
He turned the page. The next entries were much the same. On the right-hand side was an entry about the earl of Southampton’s funeral in August of the same year. Machyn had provided the ceremonial velvet and the black cloth to drape the church, as well as the banners used in the funeral procession. No doubt it had been one of his commissions as an undertaker. That was how the two of them had met: Clarenceux had been the herald at a funeral for which Machyn had provided black cloth and heraldic escutcheons.
He reminded himself of the hardworking ethic of his friend. Machyn was entirely self-taught and intensely aware of his lack of formal education. That made him humble, self-knowing, and perceptive of frustrated desires in others. He was a good man in every way. Clarenceux had no right to criticize his writing. Many men of Machyn’s standing could not read or write at all.
He cast his mind back over what he knew of Henry Machyn and his brother Christopher. They had come to London as boys, from Leicestershire, early in the reign of King Henry the Eighth. They had both completed apprenticeships and become members of the Company of Merchant Taylors. Both had been moderately successful. Christopher had owned six or seven shops when he died. Henry’s ambitions had been more spiritual and historical. It was wholly fitting that the prized possession of this self-educated tradesman should be not a line of tenements but a finely bound chronicle filled with his own humble lettering.
“Sir,” said Thomas, standing in the middle of the hall, not far from his bed, “may I ask, will you be staying up? Would you like me to stack the fire?”
Clarenceux looked over his shoulder and glanced first at Thomas, then at the fireplace. Then he remembered the date that Machyn had given him: June 20, 1557.
“Wait,” he murmured, going back to the book. He turned the pages and started looking at the entries.
The xix day of June…The x day…The xiii day…Even the dates were in the wrong order. For a moment he thought that Machyn had made a mistake. But he soon realized that the entries had simply been jumbled up. They had been copied into this book from preliminary notes. There were almost no crossings out.
Then he saw it, toward the bottom of the page. He read the entry silently at first, tracing the scrawl.
The xx day of Junj dyd pryche my lord abbott of westmynster at Powlls crosse & mad a godly sermon of dyves & Lazarus & ye crossear holdyng the stayffe at ys prechyng & ther wrer gret audyense boyth the mayre & juges & althermen & mony worshipfull.
He lifted the book, holding it in the light of the candle, and turned to his servant. “What do you make of this, Thomas? This is what Henry has written under the date that he told me to remember. It reads: ‘The twentieth day of June did preach my lord abbot of Westminster at St. Paul’s Cross, and made a goodly sermon of Dives and Lazarus, and the crosier held the staff at his preaching; and there was a great audience, both the mayor and judges and aldermen and many worshipful.’ There it ends. All I can think of is that he meant ‘worshipful men.’ I was there that day.”
“Respectfully, sir, even if you were there, I do not understand why that is so extraordinary.”
“Nor do I, Thomas. Nor do I.” Clarenceux glanced again at his servant. He looked tired. “No, Thomas, I will not need a fire. Go back to bed. I am sorry you were disturbed.”
Thomas nodded his thanks. But he did not move.
“Yes?”
“Sir, it was a relief to me…that it was Goodman Machyn.”
“I know. I feared the same.”
There was a deep silence. The thought of being paraded in chains to the Tower once more passed across Clarenceux’s mind.
“Good night, Thomas.”
“Good night, Mr. Clarenceux.”
Clarenceux snuffed out one candle, left one on the table for Thomas, and took the last with him up the stairs to his study. He shut the door behind him and put the book on his table board. He pulled his furred robe back around him, put a felt cap on his head, and sat down. Once more he opened the book and began to read.
4
Henry Machyn’s arms ached; so too did his legs. With an awkward, painful twist of his wrist between the planks of the fence, he touched the latch, turned it, and unfastened it. He pushed the gate, which creaked open. Picking up his stick, he heaved himself forward into the yard, chilled to the bone. He stepped into a puddle but did not care at all, since his feet were already too soaked for it to make any difference. He did not even bother to lock the yard gate behind him. All that mattered to him was that he was heading to a place to rest his head in the dry. If it was the last thing he ever did, he wanted to lie down in the warm.
He stepped forward, stumbling, reaching out with one hand, feeling for the stable door. It was further than he remembered. At last it was there, wet wood beneath his fingers. Water ran down his face as he moved along, feeling for the handle. He found it. But the door was shut fast. No! Please, no—let it open. Let me find some rest here. His fingers caught on the edge of the frame and ran slowly up the edge. They felt a wooden swivel latch and undid it.
The sound of rain on the roof, and the sweet smell of hay and horse dung. Machyn heard the horses stir and his own short breaths. Feeling dizzy, he moved toward the ladder leading up into the hayloft. The horses moved uneasily in the blackness. Machyn felt the rung of a ladder and tucked his stick under his arm. He began to climb. He told himself that at the top of this ladder was a place where he could at last lay his head down and sleep on the hay, as he had done as a boy in the stable adjoining his father’s mill. Another step, a steadying of his foot, and another heave of his tired body on one leg. The dizziness increased. He needed to hold himself still. But a minute or two more, that was all it would take. He put his forehead against the ladder. A minute or two. And then he would be safe and dry.
Whatever was to happen to him tomorrow, he would at least spend this night in peace. Crackenthorpe would never think of looking for him here, in Mr. Clarenceux’s stable loft.
5
It was past midnight, but Clarenceux could not close Machyn’s chronicle. Every so often he noted his nam
e, Harley, or his title, Clarenshux; for the earlier years, there were many references to Norrey, Norroy, or Norray, when he had been Norroy King of Arms. He saw an entry dealing with a feast held by the Worshipful Company of Skinners, of which he was a warden. He turned back a few pages and noted the funeral of Lady Darcy: & ther was ij haroldes of armes, Mr. Clarenshux and Mr. Somersett in ther ryche cottes.
He flicked backward and forward. Norrey. Clarenshux…His titles echoed in his mind as he read them over and over again. Among the previous year’s entries was one that mentioned the proclamation that the English and Scottish queens would meet. Elizabeth and her Catholic cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots. The proclamation had been made in both English and French, and, Machyn had noted, with a trumpett blohyng and a harolde of armes Mr. Clarenshux in a ryche cotte with a serjant of armes.
Clarenshux again. He began to feel uneasy. This was almost a chronicle about him. True, there were many other entries that did not name him, or have anything to do with him; but the world of Henry Machyn, as contained in this book, revolved around him. Machyn had almost been spying on him. Events in Machyn’s own life were hardly ever mentioned. But there were many references to Clarenceux’s personal life. Here was one describing the baptism of his second daughter. Another referring to his marriage. Another referring to his promotion from Norroy to Clarenceux. Another about his visitation of Suffolk.
Clarenceux looked around his study. He looked at the book presses: one stood against the side wall, the other at the far end of the chamber. He looked at the fireplace and the painted carved wood above. His coat of arms. He looked at the chest and the books on it, and the piles of books on the floor. A loose piece of paper had fallen out of one. A few vellum indentures were piled beside it. He looked at his table board, scattered with vellum deeds and books. Three candlesticks, two of which were without candles, stood there. Four quills, two of which needed sharpening. A knife. A metal pen. Ink. Red wax for his seal. Everything was normal, untidy, and connected to him.
He turned back to Machyn’s chronicle.
This was not like a chronicle. This was more as if someone else—Henry Machyn—had been writing the diary of another man’s life, his life. Why on earth would anyone write someone else’s diary for them? He pulled his robe closer against the cold. Machyn had spent the last thirteen years writing a chronicle about him and had never previously breathed a word about it. Why? What did that entry for 20 June 1557 mean?
…dyves & Lazarus…
He crossed the room and reached for a New Testament that lay on the top of the book press against the far wall. Taking it back to his table board, he turned to Luke, chapter sixteen, and started to read, in Latin, the story of the rich man and the poor man, Lazarus. The rich man gave nothing to Lazarus and so ended up in hell, while the poor man was taken into heaven to be with Abraham.
Was Machyn referring to himself as the poor man and him, Clarenceux, as the rich one? He read on. The rich man begged Abraham to send Lazarus to his brothers, to tell them to give generously to the poor. Abraham replied that the living brothers had the writings of Moses and the prophets. If they would not listen to those ancient texts, they would not listen even if a man were to rise from the dead.
Clarenceux rubbed his eyes, unable to make sense of the story. Why did it apply to him? He had no brothers. Did Machyn think that he, Clarenceux, had not been generous enough to the poor? Surely not. As for the reference to ancient texts, did it mean that men in the future should pay attention to chronicles? Like Machyn’s own? Was that all there was to this?
Thunder rolled across the sky. Still the rain continued. He put the Bible back on the shelf and turned again to Machyn’s book. If this was really about preserving the past, why had he been given the book now? Surely Machyn had more to write? I asked Machyn the wrong question. I should not have asked “why me?” but “why now?”
He turned to the last page. The bottom half was blank. His eye settled on the last passage. It read: The xj day of Desember Hare Machyn wrytre of this cronacle dyed beyng kylled by ye order of Ricd Crackenthorpe queenes serjant att armes. Esperance.
Clarenceux felt as if he had been punched. Machyn killed? By this Crackenthorpe? That date is tomorrow. What did Machyn say? “If anything happens to me”? It isn’t a case of “if.” He believes he is going to die. He believes it so sincerely that he’s written it in his chronicle.
Clarenceux shook his head, his thoughts whirling. Machyn cannot mean to kill himself. Not unless he has some mad idea of doing so and blaming his enemy, through this book. But what does he mean by Esperance? What does hope have to do with his own murder? He mentioned the name of Crackenthorpe on the stairs as he left. He must have known that I would make the connection. But if he had something to say, why did he not tell me? He was more concerned about the book itself and making sure that I took charge of it.
Machyn was concealed in a great cloak of darkness, thunder, and falling water. Clarenceux had no hope of finding him before morning. He might as well go to bed. But how could he? He would not be able to sleep, knowing what he knew. Besides, if Machyn’s prediction was right, there were only hours to spare.
He pushed open the shutter to his study and looked down. He felt the cold air on his face and heard the rain on the tiles and in the street. It was pitch black. He could not even see the outline of the roofs on the other side of the road. He pulled the shutter to. But as he did so he caught sight of a book on the table board, the one he had opened just before Machyn had knocked. A Visitation of ye counties of Essex and Suffolke…
For heaven’s sake, Machyn’s life is at stake. And I am worried about getting wet.
He threw off his robe, lifted the candlestick, and went downstairs. “No, don’t get up, Thomas,” he commanded, as he marched along the length of the hall. He pulled back the carpet draped over a chest, lifted the lid, and pulled out his leather boots and traveling cope. “I’m going out to search for Machyn,” he explained, seeing Thomas raise himself onto one elbow in the shadows. He unbuckled his shoes, tossed them across into the corner of the hall. “Is there a lantern by the back door?”
“By the door to the kitchen, sir, as always. But Mr. Clarenceux, can you not hear the weather?”
Clarenceux started to pull on his boots. “I know it is bad, Thomas, but I fear for his life. Tell my wife where I am, if she asks for me. I’ll be back by dawn.”
6
Clarenceux and Thomas were not the only men awake that night. Across London, in dark bedchambers, dozens of people were stirring uneasily at the sound of thunder and heavy rain. Some men were lying beside their wives, imagining the mud on the roads in the morning or worrying about money, or disease, or business, or God, or death. Women were awake, listening to their husbands’ snoring or their children crying, or the breathing of babies in cradles beside them, hoping that they would survive the cold nights of winter. And a few lay thinking of the searches for heretical texts and the brutal beatings and trials of those who were found practicing the old faith. Had God deserted them? Was this what their queen wanted for them: to be terrorized into this new Protestant faith? Everyone was in darkness, feeling their way around bedchambers, cradles, fears, doubts, injustices.
Among those who were not sleeping were two richly dressed men in a large, high-ceilinged room of a grand new house on the Strand. One of them was in his early forties. His clothes were formal: a deep red velvet robe with gold buttons and shoulder studs, and an elaborate chain of office upon his shoulders. He wore a small ruff around his neck, which was almost concealed by the folds of the hood of the robe. His long, reddish-brown beard was full, and his mustache equally so. His eyes were tired—there were folds of skin beneath them—but they were not unkind. His middle fingers were laden with rings. He was standing, concentrating on a paper document, which he now set down on a fine linen–covered table. Leaning forward, he marked the paper with a quill pen. Cecil. He put the pen back on its holder and reached for a cup of wine.
“More
traitors, Sir William?” asked his companion, who had been waiting for some while.
“More than ever, Francis. This business is like killing beetles. You see one, and you pick up a stone nearby to crush it, and in so doing you find a dozen more of the damned things crawling around beneath that stone.” Cecil lifted another paper, glanced at it, and then shifted his gaze to the other man. “Talking of crushing, this informer of yours, is he going to live?”
Francis Walsingham was a small, neat man of thirty-one. His black beard and mustache were trimmed short. His hair had begun to recede on the sides, forming a widow’s peak; this he tried to cover up with a black cap that fitted tightly to his head. He was dressed entirely in black—doublet, hose, and robe—apart from his white ruff and a single gold ring. Although small, he had the look of an ambitious man, not a compassionate one. He did not smile often, and when he did, it did not signal pleasure so much as the achievement of a personal goal.
“So Draper is my informer now, is he, Sir William?” Walsingham walked toward the fireplace. He opened his robe to feel the heat and stood looking into the flames. “He will live. Probably. I do not greatly care. How much he knows is what interests me.”
“You have no more information about his attacker?”
“No. It was stupid of Crackenthorpe to kill him. The pistol was German, very expensive, but anyone of rank could have bought it. The knives were from various makers in London and the north. They tell us nothing.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I have not decided. If we let him go, will he act as bait? Or will he warn Machyn and the others?”
Cecil set down his paper. “I do not believe we have a choice. If he will not tell us about the chronicle, it is likely that he knows little or nothing about it. I’m sure you have tried your usual methods. We must be more imaginative, more creative.”
Sacred Treason Page 3
