Sacred Treason

by James Forrester

  Crackenthorpe put his face close to Clarenceux’s. “I too have friends in power, friends who will persuade her majesty to grant me a pardon for your death. And I know you did not come here to inquire after that man’s health.”

  “Then I presume you have some evidence, and some reason for this harassment. If so, the magistrates will listen to you. But you do not.”

  “I know about Sir Dagonet,” hissed Crackenthorpe, trying to keep his voice down. “He talked.”

  “And who, I pray your accursed soul, is Sir Dagonet?”

  Clarenceux sensed a shifting among the men. No one spoke. He bent down and felt around on the ground for his hat and lantern. The ring of his hat was cold when he put it on. “Now, as I said, I am going to return to my own house.”

  “And how will you get past the gate? Perhaps the same way you came in?” There was a sneer in Crackenthorpe’s voice.

  Clarenceux paused. To mention the Cripplegate entrance would be to betray Machyn. “I was going to ask the watch on Ludgate if they would kindly allow me through.”

  “I know all the ways in and out of this city by night. Perhaps it was along the ditch on the back of the Ludgate tenements you came in? Or over the top of one of them, onto the walls? Maybe you took a small boat to the wharf at Dowgate, or somewhere else along that stretch of the river. Yes?”

  “Sergeant Crackenthorpe, you are not speaking to some petty thief. I would be grateful if you would accompany me to Ludgate. I need hardly remind you that my lantern has gone out.”

  “Mr. Clarenceux, I will accompany you back to your house. I would like to know exactly where it is.”

  ***

  Clarenceux leaned against his front door. “Here.”

  “Good,” growled Crackenthorpe, holding up his lantern to see as much of the house as he could. “We will know where to come. Good-bye, Mr. Clarenceux. I have no doubt that we will meet again.”

  Clarenceux said nothing but turned and walked down the alley beside his house. He felt for the handle on the back door and went in. He took off his hat, hearing the splatter of drips on the floor, and walked along the passage past the kitchen. He fumbled for the latch on the door to the buttery, smelling the sweet scent of ale and wine. He was shivering. He cursed the night under his breath, throwing down his hat and untying his cope, letting it fall. He undid the laces to his sopping ruff and unfastened his soaked doublet: these too he left where they fell, together with his hose. In darkness he undressed down to his shirt and braies, and in these wet underclothes he stepped out of the buttery and walked up the stairs.

  His legs ached. He paused on the landing, with the door into the hall on his left. Directly opposite were the doors to the parlor and the guest chamber. He considered sleeping in the empty guest bed. But no, he wanted to find his own room. And see his wife.

  A faint light reached him as he neared the second floor. He could see the door to his elder daughter’s chamber. It was shut; there was no light around the edges. He nodded quietly in the darkness. God bless you, Annie. Stay safe, my sweet. Then he turned around, and looked at the door to his own chamber. It was ajar, candlelight coming from within.

  He pushed the door. It creaked as it swung.

  The candle was burning in the alcove above the bed. His wife Awdrey was asleep, half propped up on a bolster. She had obviously been waiting for him. She stirred at the sound of the door but did not wake. Their younger daughter was asleep in her cot on Awdrey’s side of the bed, wrapped up well against the cold. Clarenceux smiled. Awdrey was a good mother, so dutiful to both their daughters. The candlelight cast a glow over both of them, allowing him to see his daughter’s face and the gold of his wife’s hair; she had fallen asleep without her nightcap. She looked at her most beautiful like that, when asleep and natural, he thought. Still not twenty-five. He liked to say her name in Latin, Etheldreda, and in Old English, Aethelfrith. She was his Saxon princess. When he looked at her he knew he was a lucky man.

  It would be light in three hours. Then the serious questions would begin.

  10

  Henry Machyn stirred at the sound of the stable door opening. For a moment he thought he heard the stableboy, coming to see to the horses. Suddenly he was fully awake, his body rigid. Four or five men were down in the yard. He could hear voices. Through the opening where the ladder was, he saw a light. One of them had a lantern.

  His heart was beating with fear and disbelief. How could anyone know he was here? But they were looking for him.

  Clarenceux must have betrayed me.

  The realization brought shock to his heart and tears to his eyes. He had trusted the man. He had given him his book. The book. Everything he still hoped for and cherished now lay in ruins. Twenty-six years of keeping a secret, wasted.

  How could Clarenceux have done this?

  He heard feet on the rungs of the ladder. A second later, he saw a man’s hat and the shadow of a head. The man lifted a lantern. A gold brilliance touched the harness hanging there, the piles of hay, several old apple barrels, and the stacked hemp sacks full of oats.

  The man saw Machyn and smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “Sergeant Crackenthorpe,” he called down. “He’s here!”

  11

  Saturday, December 11

  Clarenceux was sitting in his candlelit study with his robe close around him. He was alone again but for Henry Machyn’s chronicle, smelling the wood smoke of his study. He heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment later his daughter Annie appeared, holding an orange. Her brown hair was tied back, showing off her high forehead.

  “Annie, you should be asleep. It’s very late,” he said, welcoming her into his arms.

  “Yes, but Mother said I could show you this,” she replied, thrusting out the orange and smiling. “We buyed it in the market. It was priced a shilling.”

  “You bought it in the market,” he corrected. “Not buyed it.” He took the orange and held it up, examining it. “A whole shilling? Do you know why it was so much?”

  “Why?”

  “Oranges grow on trees in a country far away, called Spain, where the sun shines all day long. Then they are picked and packed in barrels…”

  Annie was not listening. She was looking at the chronicle that lay open on the table board. “What is this?” she asked.

  “A book. A chronicle.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says, ‘December the eleventh. On this day did Ann, daughter of Mr. Clarenceux—’”

  Clarenceux stopped suddenly. The next words read: dye from her ateing of an orange fruyte.

  “Go. Go downstairs, now,” he commanded.

  He watched her go. She left the door open. He knew she would be crying; he had been too abrupt. But he had had reason: this was outrageous. How dare Machyn write such things! Did the man not hope to win his favor? How far had his wits wandered?

  He turned back to the chronicle. The next entry read: Ye following daye dyed his wyfe Awdrey from the poysoninge appel gyven unto her by Mr. Clarenshux because hee dyd not anymoore love her.

  He swept the book off the table board, sending his visitation, two other volumes, inkwell, and paper flying across the chamber. As it fell he stood up, rage filling his body, and turned the board itself over. Did he not love her? He bent down and lifted the chronicle, and threw it with all his force across the room. Did he not love them both? His daughter? His wife? The mother of his children? How could anyone have written…

  “William, William!” he heard his wife shout. “William, stop it!”

  He opened his eyes. It was light, the shutters were open. Awdrey was leaning over him, a loose strand of blonde hair hanging down.

  Clarenceux rubbed his hand over his face, feeling his brow soaked with sweat. He lay back in his bed, warm and fresh, where the study in his dream had been smoky and cold. It seemed to him as if the malevolence of the previous night had come back with him, into his house.

  That book…

  It had been a prophetic dream, he knew. H
e had to give the book back to Machyn. But today was the day that Machyn had foretold was the day of his death.

  “You’ve been thrashing about in your sleep like a man possessed,” said Awdrey, her voice tinged with fear. “Where were you last night? I waited after all that knocking on the door, but you didn’t come to bed. Thomas told me this morning that you went out. And now you are shouting in your sleep, shouting about me and about Annie like a man gone mad, beating your arms about. What happened? Where did you go?”

  He sat upright and breathed deeply. Calmer now, he swung his legs out of the bed and sat in his shirt, looking at the open window.

  Blue sky. The rain had stopped. He looked at the crucifix on the wall.

  “Did Thomas tell you who called last night?”

  “He said it was Goodman Machyn.”

  “Yes, it was Machyn,” he replied, glancing at her. “He is in trouble.”

  “Trouble? What sort of trouble?”

  “He is in fear of his life. He was terrified. I didn’t realize at first how serious his situation was. It only occurred to me later, after he had gone. So I went after him. A royal sergeant-at-arms stopped me.”

  “William, that was not sensible.”

  Clarenceux gazed out of the window. “I thought at the time I could help him.”

  Awdrey said nothing.

  Clarenceux stood up. “Will you fetch me some water?”

  Awdrey slipped off the bed and picked up the jug. With it, she filled the brass basin on the floor, draped a towel over her arm, and then lifted the basin and carried it to her husband. He nodded his thanks and splashed cold water over his face, wetting his shirt.

  “There is some sort of conspiracy afoot,” he said. “Machyn is involved. He believes he will be killed today.”

  He took the towel from her arm and wiped his face. He threw it on the bed and stood, looking into her blue eyes. “I didn’t realize it was treason. I still don’t think it is. I thought…” He searched her frightened eyes. “I don’t know what I thought. I felt that whatever trouble he might be in, he is a good man, and so I had no choice but to try to help him.”

  “How?” she asked, a little coldly. “In what way could you have helped?”

  Clarenceux shook his head. “I cannot tell you, my love.” He looked away. He let go of her and went over to his clothes chest. He lifted the lid and pulled out a folded shirt. It smelled strongly of lavender and cloves, like the rest of his clean linen. “All I know is that…I have to find out more. I am going to go and look for him this morning.”

  “You still intend to? Even though he is a traitor? And you mean to go by yourself?”

  “Goodman Machyn is not a traitor. I’ll take Thomas with me.”

  “Go with friends. No one argues with you when you have your heralds and pursuivants about you.”

  Clarenceux lifted a clean pair of hose from his clothes chest. “I will take Thomas,” he repeated. “All I need to do is ask Machyn one thing.”

  12

  Clarenceux stood on his doorstep and looked up and down Fleet Street. The sky was clear blue; he could see his breath in the cold morning air. A few people were coming into the city from the west. A man in an old green coat was leading a mule pulling a cart full of wooden crates. A woman in a white headdress was carrying two barrels of water suspended from a yoke over her shoulders, hurrying back to her house. Two well-dressed merchants were talking to each other as they rode along side by side. There was nothing unusual in the scene.

  But something was not right.

  He stepped casually into the street, waiting for Thomas to come out of the house.

  On the same side of the road as his house, further toward the Strand, a young man was leaning against the side of a passageway. He immediately drew back, out of sight, as Clarenceux looked in his direction.

  “Thomas, finally, you are ready,” Clarenceux said loudly, seeing his manservant emerge. His breath rose in the cold air. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Let us go.”

  The street was a churned-up quagmire. The morning sun reflected off the ripples of mud and puddles that led all the way along to the River Fleet and the road to Ludgate beyond. But the air was fresh after the rain. Thomas followed a few feet behind his master’s right shoulder. A cart went by, spraying mud into the air, causing them to hold back until it had passed.

  “Thomas, tell me something.”

  “Yes, Mr. Clarenceux.”

  “Whom else have you told about Henry Machyn’s visit?”

  “Only Mistress Harley. Your wife was most insistent that I tell her who knocked so late and why you did not come to bed. She feared the worst.”

  “The worst?”

  “Your being arrested, sir.”

  They approached the bridge over the Fleet. The water was still in full spate, rushing and pouring over the refuse and broken rubbish. It seemed cleansing, the rank smell of putrefied food and debris less pervasive. A small dead branch swept past them. Clarenceux paused, watching it being carried away in the swirling torrent.

  “Thomas, look back along the way we have come. Tell me if you see a young man in a russet jerkin.”

  Thomas glanced back. “He’s looking this way, shielding his eyes from the sun.”

  Clarenceux continued to stare at the river. “It’s better that he’s following us. It means he’s not waiting to search the house.”

  They walked along the street and passed under the decrepit arch of Ludgate. A horse and rider came past them, the hooves echoing on the cobbles under the stone vault of the gatehouse. Clarenceux looked at the tower of St. Paul’s Cathedral—shamefully reduced of its tall spire since being struck by lightning the year before last—and glanced over his shoulder, noting that the young man in the russet jerkin was about a hundred yards behind.

  “He must be one of Crackenthorpe’s men. Last night Sergeant Crackenthorpe and I exchanged words.”

  “Words, Mr. Clarenceux?”

  “When I reached Machyn’s house, there was no one there. Only Crackenthorpe and his companions. He was watching the place, waiting for Machyn to return, despite the atrocious weather.”

  They continued around the cathedral yard, past the stationers’ shops and the booksellers.

  “I need to ask you another thing, Thomas. Did you tell anyone about the book? Anyone—I mean, even Mistress Harley?”

  “No, Mr. Clarenceux. I only told her about Goodman Machyn’s coming and your going after him.”

  Clarenceux placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder as they walked. He spoke quietly, looking ahead to a bakers’ row and the people queuing. “I want you to forget that that book was left in my house. I want you to remember something else: that I refused to accept it, and that Machyn took it away with him again.”

  “Now I recall, sir, that is exactly what happened. I remember distinctly holding the book for him as he donned his cope.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  The two men walked on in silence. Clarenceux’s thoughts occupied him so totally that he forgot about the man following them. What drove Machyn to come out in such weather to pass on his chronicle? Fear of Crackenthorpe? Yes, but that can’t be all. Why was he so fearful? What is it about that book? I must read it more closely when I get home. It feels different, looking at these houses, to know there is a secret society here, behind these shop fronts, if that is what the Knights of the Round Table really is. Lancelot Heath has to be one of the knights, with that Christian name. Perhaps Sir Arthur Darcy was one too. But he died many years ago. Have the Knights been going many years? Has this conspiracy existed all this time, spying on me? Did Machyn have a role in that group—was he discovered by Crackenthorpe? What else is going on here, behind these houses’ shutters?

  “A city has so many secrets.”

  Thomas looked at him.

  “I was just thinking, Thomas, about all the things going on in this city that we don’t know about. All the intrigues, the plots, the schemes, the conspiracies. Sometimes
I wonder—sometimes another revolution seems possible.”

  “Revolution?”

  Clarenceux gestured along the road. “Left here and then right, into Little Trinity Lane. I mean an uprising against the queen, to return the country to the Catholic faith.”

  They turned the corner, avoiding a large puddle in the middle of the street. “I felt happier with the old ways, I confess,” said Thomas wistfully, “but I can’t believe that it will happen. Not now. No one wants to go back to the days of burning people alive. Do you remember the dead cur?”

  Clarenceux nodded. Some years ago a tonsured dead dog dressed in a priest’s dalmatic had been thrown into Queen Mary’s presence chamber after she had forced Parliament to ban the Protestant service.

  “Mind you,” continued Thomas, “if there were to be another uprising, we would see more processions in the city.”

  Clarenceux smiled. “Would that cheer you, Thomas? The Lord Mayor and the masters of the companies all decked out in their finery?”

  “I mean for the lads and lasses. When I was a boy, it was like a holiday. The wardens of the companies would throw us pennies. The baker in our street would give us pies. My father, God rest his—”

  Thomas stopped. Before them in the street, a crowd of about twenty people were staring at a door. Henry Machyn’s door.

  “I don’t believe it,” whispered Clarenceux.

  They were looking at the house with the low jetty. The door and ground-floor window were both barricaded with planks, and over them were painted large red crosses. A young man with a breastplate, helmet, and sword stood by the door.