Clarenceux recognized a sense of foreboding and importance combined in what he was saying. He had felt it before, once particularly, in June 1557, when he had stood in the center of the great hall at Rheims, surrounded by the nobility of France, and announced in his loudest, proudest voice that England and France were henceforth at war. But then he had been merely a spokesman, a messenger. No one was telling him what to say now.
“In the event of the queen’s death?” Goodwife Machyn looked up at Clarenceux.
“I know: it is far-fetched. But that does not mean Henry has not…” He broke off. Looking toward the dying light of day through the window, he felt a chill breeze. It would soon be time to close the shutters. “Crackenthorpe told me last night that it was a case of high treason he is investigating. That, I suspect, was a slip of the tongue, an honest one. I doubt he would have closed your house like that without some higher authority. To go over the constable’s head and declare a house plague-infected…it risks causing panic.”
Rebecca Machyn closed her eyes. “Oh, husband,” she muttered, “what have you got yourself into? What have you got us into?” She stood up and walked to the fireplace. “I do not know what he has been doing. I have no real wish to know. It is none of my business. All I really want is to be safe, and for Henry to be safe too.”
Clarenceux thought. Crackenthorpe will know by now about my breaking open the door this morning. Whoever is giving him orders will also know about our argument at Machyn’s house last night. I have been dragged into this, even though I do not understand what is going on.
He glanced at her. “That book contains something treasonable. The fact we do not know what it is doesn’t make us any safer.”
“But let us say that the book is discovered, and that you and I are questioned by some judge. Surely we can deny any knowledge of what is written there? Anything Henry actually wrote could be described as just his work, and wrong-headed.”
“Treated as a mistake? Goodwife Machyn, we’re talking about the queen’s paid killers—men who have fought in the wars and have not been able to get used to the peace. Sergeant Crackenthorpe—or whoever is giving him orders—believes something in this chronicle presents a threat to the queen. Henry has been keeping it secret. You yourself said he never lets anyone even touch it.”
“Are you saying that Henry might have been planning an attempt on the queen’s life? That is ridiculous. He is but a poor merchant and a parish clerk. And sixty-six years old.”
Clarenceux stood up and took a couple of paces, pushing his fingers against his forehead, willing himself to think. “Crackenthorpe knows that some information—something treasonable—is here, in this book, in this house. After today’s events he will know I am involved with your husband. He will come here, without doubt. He will search this house, looking for your husband. Looking for the chronicle and you too.”
He looked up. It will be dark soon. It will not be long before the city bells will ring for the end of the day and the closing of the city gates. But Goodwife Machyn cannot go home; her house is being watched.
And so is mine.
Clarenceux went to the window. He hesitated for a moment, then looked out. In the fading light he could see no sign of men loitering or acting suspiciously. But that means nothing. Crackenthorpe thinks like a soldier: he’s going to come tonight, when I am off guard and he has the town watch at his command.
“Goodwife Machyn, listen,” he said, turning around. “This is important. We have the book. No one trying to stop this plot will have any idea what we do know and what we don’t. It probably won’t make any difference even if we give the book up, for no one will know for certain whether we have read it. My name appears on nearly every page; no one is going to think me innocent. If, on the other hand, we do learn what this is all about, then we are in a bargaining position. I have important friends whom I can ask for protection.”
“But what about my husband?”
He took a deep breath. “Henry is in great danger. As long as he remains alive he will be considered a threat. Giving up the book will not be enough to save him.”
“So what should we do?”
Clarenceux shook his head. “I had hoped Lancelot Heath would have come here by now, or at least sent word. But the more I think about it…” Clarenceux glanced at the window. He could hardly see her face in the gloom of the darkening room.
“Yes?”
“It is only a matter of time. And when they find us, and find the book, well, I do not expect I will get away with merely having my ears nailed to the pillory.”
“Can we not just hide it somewhere?”
“We’ve got to leave this house. And remove the book.”
“But if no one finds it, how will they know it has been in your possession?”
Clarenceux did not answer. He went across the room and picked up the chronicle. “Crackenthorpe is a sergeant-at-arms, a royal enforcer. A killer. If his political masters want someone to cut a throat, he does it. If they order him to find a book, he will do it. I have been foolish. I should never have accepted this chronicle. I should never have gone to your house last night. But having—”
Suddenly a loud knocking at the front door rang out.
Clarenceux looked toward her. He knew that she was thinking the same thing as he was. The next few instants might be their last moments of freedom.
“What now?” she whispered.
“It could be Lancelot Heath,” he said. He turned back to the window and leaned out. Although the house projected over the street, he could just see the backs of two men at the door below.
“Oh, Christ in heaven. It is them. And they are armed.”
“Then we must try to hide the book in here,” she said.
Clarenceux ignored her. “Go downstairs. Tell my servant Thomas not to answer the door immediately. Tell him to delay, to say anything to give me a few moments more.”
The knocking came again, harder, more insistent.
Clarenceux did not say another word. Putting the chronicle under his arm, he followed Rebecca to the door, ran down the stairs behind her, and hurried across the candlelit hall. He flung open the door at the end and went down the back stairs. A little light seeped through from the kitchen at the end of the corridor. He opened the door to the buttery; it was totally dark within. The pungent smell of ale wafted around him. He felt for the first barrel and placed the book on top of it. He strode to a large wine cask in the far corner, took hold of it, and pulled it toward him, tipping it onto its rim, and moving it sideways.
He heard the knocking again from the front of the house.
He went down on his knees and felt around on the floor for the loose floorboard that he knew was there. He could not find it. Panicking now, he gave up looking and felt his way back to the barrel where he had left the book and picked it up.
Then he stopped. If Crackenthorpe boards up this house and marks it with red crosses, it will only be a matter of time before his men find the book. There has to be a solution—something more subtle.
But it was already too late. He could hear the bolts being pulled back on the front door. And footsteps. He cursed and hurried through to the kitchen. The kitchen boy, Thomas’s great-nephew Will Terry, was holding a glowing taper, lighting rushlights. He watched as Clarenceux plunged the book into an open sack of oats, burying it beneath the surface, pushing it right to the bottom. Clarenceux turned to the boy, who had paused.
“This is important, Will,” he said hurriedly. “No one must know it is there, do you understand?”
The fair-haired lad nodded in alarm and watched as Clarenceux ran from the kitchen and along the corridor. That was foolish. The boy is only eleven. I hope that he has the sense to confide in Thomas and ask him for advice.
Clarenceux hurried up the back stairs and entered the hall. Awdrey was with Goodwife Machyn; they were standing together, having just embraced to comfort one another. He could hear the bells ringing out all over the city. Soon the gates wo
uld shut for the night.
“You have a summons,” said Awdrey anxiously, stepping quickly toward him. “A Mr. Walsingham wants to see you.”
“When?” he asked, turning from one woman to the other.
But at that moment he heard many footsteps echoing on the stairs from the front door.
He looked at Goodwife Machyn. He began to mouth the word “hide” and pointed to the stairs, but she had already grasped his meaning, seeing it instantly in his eyes. She turned and hurried to the door that led to the stairs up to his study.
A moment later, a tall, dark-haired man entered. He had a long scar across the right-hand side of his face. He strode into the room, followed by three other armed men, and looked around the hall at the paneling, the paintings, the mirror, the plaster ceiling. Clarenceux did not recognize him at first. But when he spoke, he knew exactly who had walked into his house.
“Mr. Clarenceux,” said Crackenthorpe. “You will come with me.”
“Where to? For what reason?”
“To the house of the Secretary’s chief counselor, Mr. Francis Walsingham, the Member of Parliament for Lyme Regis.”
“I protest. Why?”
“Because Mr. Walsingham would like to ask you some questions. If you refuse, I will arrest you in the name of her majesty. And then you will be taken to Mr. Walsingham’s house in chains.”
Clarenceux glanced from Crackenthorpe to the other men. One was very tall, with lank brown hair hanging on either side of his face and an expression like a slow-witted dog. Another was small and weasel-like, prim and ready for action. The third was medium height, with a narrow face, a thin goatee beard, and cruel eyes. All four were staring at him. There was no hope of escape.
“The choice is yours, Mr. Clarenceux. Choose now.”
In an upstairs chamber his younger daughter Mildred began to cry. He turned to his wife and saw the tears welling in her eyes. He himself felt sick with nerves, too anxious to be sad. He moved closer to her, put his hands on her cheeks, and wiped her tears away with his thumbs. Their daughter’s crying and the thought of departure tore at him, a final moment. Time was passing so slowly, and yet there was so little left.
“Now, I said, Mr. Claren—”
“For heaven’s sake, be patient!”
He took a deep breath, looking into his wife’s blue eyes. Then he spoke in a calmer voice, but not so quiet that no one could hear him. “I am going to accompany these men now, my love. If I do not return by morning, send a message to our friends, telling them what has happened. Tell them that I have been arrested, without charge or warrant, by a sergeant-at-arms, one Richard Crackenthorpe, on the instructions of a Mr. Walsingham. Tell them to press immediately for a case of unlawful distraint, contrary to the terms of Magna Carta, even if it be the queen’s will”—he turned to look at Crackenthorpe—“and contrary to the common law if it be merely Mr. Walsingham’s.”
19
Rebecca sat in the chair in Clarenceux’s study, hunched, her hands turning over and over in her lap. It was almost dark. She wiped her eyes, feeling a trembling sickness in the pit of her stomach. She took a deep breath, and another. And another. Her hands were still shaking.
What is going to happen to us?
She looked at the dark room. She could just make out the book press along one side. A moment ago, when there had been more light, the books had seemed naturally a part of Clarenceux’s world, the instruments of his profession; they had been reassuring. Now, suddenly, they were abandoned in the dark and useless. It seemed that Mr. Clarenceux was dead—as dead as a never-read book. And Henry too was dead. Both men taken by this Sergeant Crackenthorpe. How she hated the thought of him, from the heels of his leather boots to the scar above his eye. His name sounded like the breaking of a stick underfoot. She wished she could break him.
She heard footsteps on the stairs. O Heavenly Father, is this it? Are they searching the house now? The creak of the wood sent shivers through her body, through her mind. She wanted to get up and scream, for all this darkness to go away, for her husband to be back, for Mr. Clarenceux to walk into the room and tell her everything was going to be all right.
“Goodwife Machyn?” whispered a woman’s voice.
She tried to answer, but she found there was no sound when she opened her mouth to speak. The sudden shock of her inability to utter a syllable only made things worse.
“Gooodwife Machyn?” She saw the flicker of a candle flame.
Awdrey came into the room. She set down the candle on the table board and came to put a hand on her shoulder.
“Is…is Mildred asleep?” Rebecca asked, wiping her eyes, growing calmer.
“Yes. And Annie is going to bed now. Nurse Brown has her.”
Rebecca began to pull herself together. “So that’s it then. We are in the same rudderless boat, you and me. Both our husbands stolen from us by Sergeant Crackenthorpe.”
Awdrey fingered the ruby ring she was wearing. “It seems we are indeed in the same boat,” she said after a little delay.
“It’s going to happen tonight, you know,” said Rebecca, pushing her hair back, out of her face. “The search, I mean.”
“The search?”
“They’ll find the book.”
Awdrey took the candle and held it close to Rebecca’s tear-streaked face. “What book?”
Rebecca was surprised. Then she remembered. Clarenceux said he did not want Awdrey to know. She searched Awdrey’s face; all she found was an expression of alarm.
She looked briefly into the flame and shut her eyes. “Do you really not know?”
“No. Why will they search this house? They will find nothing of interest if they do.”
“That is not true.”
“Why do you say that? What do you know that I do not?”
“You know my husband was here last night?”
“Yes, of course. Thomas told me—and William too.”
“Do you know why he was here?”
“Because…” Awdrey paused, trying to remember. “William said that he was in trouble. He believed he would be murdered today.”
It was a harsh reminder. Rebecca had not expected to be so affected now. She looked down, trying to compose herself.
“Forgive me. I…didn’t mean…”
“No, no.” Rebecca shook her head. “You’re quite right. Only that was not the reason why my husband came here.”
Awdrey did not move. She felt hollow, set aside. “Then why?”
For a moment the two women looked at each other.
“There is a book,” Rebecca said, almost forcing the words out of her mouth. “A book which Henry has written over many years. It contains a secret. Last night, in that terrible storm, he said good-bye to me as if he would never see me again and brought it here. He gave it to your husband.”
“What sort of book?”
“A chronicle.”
Awdrey sighed. “We must get it out of the house,” she announced, moving away from Rebecca, still holding the candle. Rebecca was left in shadows.
“It is not going to be that easy.”
“So, we’ll burn it then,” Awdry said, glancing at the cold fireplace.
“But do you know where it is hidden?”
Awdrey paused. “We’ll say we burnt it. That way we can have no knowledge of it.”
Rebecca shook her head. “They will come and search this house from top to bottom. They will pull the place apart. And when they find the book—for they will find it—they will look at your denial as a sign of complicity. Unless I am much mistaken, Mistress Harley, that will be enough to send your husband to the gallows.
“Your husband explained it to me,” she continued. “Burning the book will solve nothing. No one will ever be sure we have not read it and discovered its secret. So…you are right. We have got to find it quickly and get it out of the house secretly.”
Awdrey nodded. She held the candle up a little higher and looked around the room. “It’s probably in here some
where. William keeps all his books in here.”
Rebecca looked at the dark doorway. Poor woman. She has done nothing to deserve this. Henry has brought disaster on her simply through trusting her husband. And she is not even aware of what is going on in her own household. Someone has got to do something, and with Clarenceux arrested, my husband disappeared, and this proud woman so ill-informed, that someone can only be me.
20
It was dark by the time Clarenceux arrived at Walsingham’s house. Two of the guards carried flaming torches. In addition to the three men who had been with Crackenthorpe when he arrested Clarenceux, two more had been waiting outside. All six men had surrounded him as he was led through the streets, but at the door of the mansion they fell back and Crackenthorpe alone conducted him inside and up the stairs.
The great chamber on the first floor was paneled in an exotic imported wood. There was an elaborate plaster ceiling. The oak floorboards were bare. Several sets of silver candlesticks around the room brightened it; the candles themselves were wax, not tallow. It was a touch of refinement and, in this environment, that meant control. The room was clean—even the sturdy oak table was tidy. Several folded pieces of paper and parchment were arranged along one edge of the table in a neat line, a far cry from Clarenceux’s own table board in his relatively cramped second-floor study, laden with books and documents. Clarenceux entered and waited, scratching his left palm with his right thumbnail.
Anxiety. How often have I known it. Before an assembly, waiting for the moment to speak. Worried lest I make a mistake. Aware of the potential for disgrace if I should say something at the wrong moment on a matter of international importance, before some frowning prince or head of state. Steeling myself to do and say exactly what my mind says is right, and yet to act naturally. Above all, to put thought before fear. If I am to control myself now, I must remember what I am, as well as who I am.
Sacred Treason Page 8
