The door opened. The warder entered with a coil of rope. Henry Machyn crossed himself. “Go with God, my Knights of the Round Table and King Clariance,” he whispered. “My son, John; my wife, dear Rebecca; go with God. Harry Machyn, be bold.” Then, with a trembling voice and tears in his eyes, he began to sing.
29
Amid the scattered pages and split wood, Clarenceux lifted the broken spine of a leather-bound volume and looked at its desecrated contents. He put it down. So many folios had simply been pulled from his books…
The portrait of his father was missing. He searched the debris and found a corner of the frame under a torn piece of printed text. Pulling at it, he realized the painting had gone. A flash of red on the floor nearby caught his eye, however, and he moved a volume that was covering it. His father’s scarlet robe, right eye, and the right-hand side of his face looked back at him. The cut in the top of the wood showed that they had forced the painting out of its frame and split it in two.
Clarenceux turned to the window. Practically the only thing in this place they had not broken was the glass.
He thought about Awdrey. She had clearly had no hesitation in leaving London. He was not surprised: she was not running away; she was simply protecting their daughters. She must have taken money from the house, and presumably she had Nurse Brown to help her; but nevertheless, it was a brave step for a woman to set out to travel a long distance without male company. The highway inns were never comfortable. Women traveling alone were vulnerable. Local constables did not want to deal with the pleas of strangers, especially when they were directed against men they knew. If a crime took place, constables often empaneled a jury of the accused man’s friends, who would acquit him as being of good character. Landlords tended to charge women higher rates too to make up for the fact that a woman could not be expected to share a bed with other travelers.
That was the first thing he needed to do: to make sure Awdrey was safe and well. For a moment he thought of going after her himself. But it is impossible; I cannot search for the chronicle and Lancelot Heath while traveling down to Devon. I will have to send Thomas, as soon as he has attended to his family duties. Riding hard, he will be able to catch up with her in two days. A neighbor’s boy can look after the other horses while he and I are away. I presume the other servants will not return until they know this house is safe.
Clarenceux saw one of his own manuscripts on the floor, its leaves partly torn out of their binding. He lifted it and set it carefully on what remained of the table board.
But what about money? From the looks of things, Crackenthorpe’s men have taken all there is. I cannot even sell anything, for everything I possess is broken.
He went to a small, overturned wooden box in the corner of the room. There was no sign of the coins that it formerly contained. A few minutes searching revealed a single gold half-sovereign that had escaped the attention of Crackenthorpe’s men, concealed by a loose vellum deed. That will suffice for Thomas’s expenses while he rides after Awdrey. I myself will have to rely on friends…
But what friends will support me?
Clarenceux caught a glimpse of the rawness of his position. He would not return to Walsingham with the chronicle: he could not, even if he wanted to. But he would not return empty-handed either. He would have to go about the city in hiding from now on. Crackenthorpe would have to find him.
He stood and breathed heavily, concentrating, trying to form a plan. I need to find the chronicle: that has to be the first thing. Goodwife Machyn will have hidden in a place where she knows I will find her. She will want me to find her, to protect both her and her husband. She has no other protector…except Mistress Barker.
He remembered her face and imagined her running through his house with the book under her arm. She was an intelligent and strong woman, despite her air of sadness.
I will find her, and when I have the chronicle, I will go down to Chislehurst. It will be safest to leave the city. Julius will provide me with food and some money. Then I can return to the city and seek revenge for the killing of Will Terry and the disappearance of Henry Machyn, as well as the destruction of my home.
He looked at the door and saw the splintered edge of the wood, its cold reality, and felt that this was not his house any longer. He no longer had any possessions or any place of comfort. From now on, nothing could be taken for granted.
30
Walsingham walked briskly along the corridor to his parlor. He was angry. The journey back from Westminster had irritated him—and he had already been annoyed with Cecil. Now there was Crackenthorpe’s latest failure. Further explanations would be necessary.
He flung open the door and sat down at his writing table near the window. After a few seconds he got up again, walked over to his plate of sweetmeats, took one, and then put the plate back down. The sweet tasted bad; he took it out of his mouth and flung it into the fireplace. It hissed in the burning logs.
He turned to the mirror and began to stare at himself, to interrogate himself, as he often did. He looked at each garment he was wearing: black doublet, black jerkin, small ruff with a high collar, black skullcap. Then he looked into his own eyes. He concentrated hard to see what lay behind them, inside the skull.
Walsingham frowned. He was the queen’s purpose. And Cecil’s too. That was his life. He was the method. His whole being—from his intuition to his imagination—was the tool that kept Cecil safe. He had drive, cunning, and intelligence. The great entity that was the divine queen, Elizabeth of England, was not just a woman: it was him and Cecil and thousands of other men who made Elizabeth great and all-seeing, all-powerful, and favored by God. Just because Crackenthorpe could not find the chronicle did not mean that Clarenceux was not hiding it somewhere. He, Walsingham, would find it. He would show Clarenceux that he was the controller of his fate.
He stared deeper. But what if I am wrong? What if it was a coincidence that Machyn was found in Clarenceux’s stable? No, it cannot have been a coincidence. Clarenceux was at Machyn’s house—both in the night and the next morning. And between those two events Machyn was found.
Then where is that damned chronicle?
“Mr. Walsingham,” came a voice from the door, “Sergeant Crackenthorpe has returned. He wishes to see you.”
“About time. Tell him to come in.”
Before Crackenthorpe even entered the room—even before he saw the short figure of Walsingham standing there by the mirror—he heard the stark accusation in the small man’s cold, quiet voice.
“You failed me.”
“Mr. Walsingham, I am—”
“Stay silent! I will not be interrupted. To say I am angry does not begin to state the case. Machyn’s book was in Clarenceux’s house and you let it slip away. You are like a cannon too large and powerful to be of any use, too heavy to move or direct against a target, too cumbersome, too stupid. How many mistakes have you made? First you killed that Scotsman—and before you say anything, I know he was about to kill Draper, but he would have been much more valuable if you had kept him alive, if you had struck his hand, not his neck, with your sword. Then you pretended that Machyn’s house was suddenly somehow infected with plague, in December—after a whole summer of the fearful visitation—bringing all London to look at it. Now you have failed to find the chronicle.”
“But in my judgment—”
“No! You will not answer; you will listen. I had to order you to release Clarenceux because you failed to find that book. How am I to locate it without him? Heavens! My enemies are more useful to me than you are! Traitors are more compliant, more obedient. In fact, your incompetence is so great that I am sorely tempted to charge you with treason.”
Crackenthorpe listened and said nothing. All of this was unfair. Nevertheless, he would get his revenge before the end of the conversation. He would let Walsingham speak himself out and then he would make him eat his words. He had the means to do it tucked inside his doublet.
Walsingham continued. “M
achyn was at Clarenceux’s house the night before last. If he did not give him the chronicle at that time, then he did so on some earlier occasion—it was not in Machyn’s house when you started searching and yet Clarenceux has admitted he has seen it. So, at some point between Machyn’s arrival and the search of Clarenceux’s house, the chronicle was moved. Where to? Were any of the servants missing when you went back to Clarenceux’s house after escorting him here?”
“No. There were two boy servants, a maid, the old man, and—”
“If one of them had taken the chronicle elsewhere, they had returned to the house. I take it you interrogated them all?”
Crackenthorpe glared at him. “Machyn’s wife took the chronicle. My men are still searching for her.”
“Machyn’s wife? So where are Clarenceux’s family and servants now? I presume you are keeping a watch on the house.”
“They do not have the chronicle. As I said, Rebecca Machyn took it. I turned over everything in that house that could have contained it.”
“But they know where it is, Sergeant Crackenthorpe. Or they know where she is. One of them must. What did you do to find out what they knew?”
“God damn you, Francis Walsingham, I hanged one of them!”
There was a long pause. “You what?”
Crackenthorpe looked around the room, as if seeking some refuge. Seconds passed. He turned to face his accuser. “I hanged one of the boys. I was as sure as you are that they knew where the chronicle was. So when one of the boys said that Machyn’s wife had taken it, I decided to force him to speak. I strung up the other boy from a rafter in the kitchen. They all shouted, screamed, and raved, and yet no one said a thing about the chronicle, even when the boy was at the point of death. If any of them had known, they would have talked.”
Walsingham stared at him.
Crackenthorpe continued. “It is clear that Machyn’s wife must have been in the house between the time I arrested Clarenceux and my return to search the building. She was the one who removed it. The old man told me when the boy was nearing death.”
“Did you have to hang him? It is very difficult to pass a hanging off as accidental. Or self-defense—especially a boy.”
Crackenthorpe shrugged. “You should not complain. This way you win twice over. You have the information, and they will not forget that I am prepared to kill in pursuit of the truth.”
“You fool! There were witnesses. You could be arraigned before the justices. And then I will have to step in and save you again. Only this time, I think I am not going to bother. It will save me a lot of trouble just to let you go to the Devil.”
Walsingham took a deep breath and walked across the room to the window overlooking the Tower. He stared at the grim walls. They were like a mirror to his mind. His eyes saw the crenellated stone but his thoughts saw his soul.
Crackenthorpe enjoyed the silence. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He had weathered the storm and now he could advance. “As I said, I do not know where Machyn’s wife is. The servants did not know. But they knew it was she who took the book. I tried to get the old man to tell me where she was but when the boy died the old man became more difficult. I hit him and bloodied his face, and threatened to burn him alive in the stables—he still said nothing. But if she is hiding with someone, I know where to start looking.”
“You do?” Walsingham was suddenly interested.
Crackenthorpe reached inside his doublet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it, stepped forward, and placed it on the table. Walsingham picked it up and took it nearer to the window. One glance over the badly formed letters told him exactly what it was: Machyn’s will, written in his own untrained hand on the eighth of November, just one month ago.
It was much more than just a will, however. It was evidence, beautiful evidence. It mentioned several bequests to his wife, Rebecca, and his son, John. Then it read:
I do give and bequeath unto Master Clarenshux all my skochyns and my Cronacle and the rest of all my goodes Cattelles Debtes plate jewelles Readie money after my Debtes paid my funeralles Discharged and Donne.
Walsingham looked at Crackenthorpe. “He left Clarenceux his chronicle. That comes as no surprise. But his escutcheons? His plate and jewels? And all goods and chattels? It is most strange that he did not leave his silverware and jewels to his wife or his son. Instead he left them to a herald—a man not only wealthier than him, but of a wholly superior class.”
Crackenthorpe felt a deep satisfaction. “Read the rest.” Walsingham looked back at the paper. A few lines later, after a bequest to his wife, Machyn had written: I make ordaine and name Lancelott heth Citizen and paynter stayner myne oversear.
“Lancelot Heath,” muttered Walsingham. He continued. The last passage read:
In witnes hereof I the said Henrie Machyn to this my present Testament and Last will have sett my hande and seale dated the Daie and yere firste aboue written Witnesses to this will both at the ensealing and Delyvering of ye same.
Walsingham almost hesitated to read the names, such was his sudden pleasure at this discovery. Crackenthorpe watched him: this was clearly what Walsingham liked best—the thrill of the chase, a new clue.
Walsingham cleared his throat. “Here are the names of the witnesses: Lancelot Heath; William Draper, merchant taylor; Nicholas Hill, ironmonger; Michael Hill, merchant taylor; and Daniel Gyttens.” Walsingham nodded toward Crackenthorpe. He paused, considering the man who had given him the document. “You have done well. I still maintain you should not have let the chronicle slip through your fingers. You certainly should not have killed a boy. But this goes a long way to making up for your miscalculations.”
“I think those are the names of the Knights of the Round Table.”
“Yes, I would not be surprised. Including Clarenceux and Machyn himself, that amounts to seven men. Rather more than William Draper was prepared to let on. He mentioned only four: himself, Machyn, James Emery, and Lancelot Heath.” Walsingham set the will down on the table. “I thought he had told us all he knew. But there was more.”
“In my experience, Mr. Walsingham, there always is.”
Walsingham looked at Crackenthorpe. “I believe that is the nearest thing to a profound statement you have ever made.” He went over and lifted the tray of sweetmeats and carried it to Crackenthorpe. “Here, take them all. A small reward. Later you and I are going to visit Mr. Draper and have words with him. You will speak to his mortal body. And I will speak to his immortal soul.”
31
Clarenceux rested against the bridge over the Fleet and looked toward the city wall and the gatehouse. It was a cloudy day, and he wished for his furred robe. And he felt cold in another way, like water splashing on a newly made steel blade.
Someone will pay for Will’s murder.
He looked down at the swirling water and reflected that he owed Goodwife Machyn his life. If she had not removed the chronicle when she did, I would never have seen the light of day. Walsingham would have had me beaten to a pulp and then hanged—or worse.
He looked at the gray skies, glad to be alive, and started to walk alongside the city wall. A breeze ruffled his hair as he passed beneath the arch of Ludgate. He was not sure how he would identify Mistress Barker’s house but it had to be within sight of Henry Machyn’s. He could ask people in the street for directions. That might be dangerous. If Walsingham discovers that I have been asking for Mistress Barker, she too will be in danger.
He pressed on. Every time he felt the pain, he commanded himself to overcome it. He cut through St. Paul’s Churchyard and made directly for Maidenhead Lane, thinking all the while about what he would do to Crackenthorpe if he could get hold of him.
On Maidenhead Lane, he stopped and pulled himself to his senses. He knew he was losing himself in bitter feelings of revenge. And all for what? His purpose was to find Goodwife Machyn. If he did so, he could find out where Sir Lancelot was and call together the Knights of the Round Table. Then he would dis
cover what all this chaos was about.
When he came to the corner of the street where Machyn lived, he paused. The house was no longer boarded up. No one appeared to be guarding it. He was anxious to go ahead and knock on some doors, looking for Mistress Barker, but at the same time he was worried that he might have been followed. Although he had checked several times and could see no one obviously following him, he was not certain he was not being watched by Walsingham’s spies. After all, Walsingham had taken a big risk in letting him go. He trusted him to return with the book. But surely he must suspect he was not going to return? Walsingham would not be so foolish as to let him out of the sight of his spies.
The sky was heavy with gray clouds; it was about to rain. A maid reached out of an upstairs window and closed the shutter with a bang. There was a dog barking in a backyard. Two servant women were chatting as they swept the street outside their adjacent houses. A linen-coifed woman with a basket on her arm and a concentrated frown on her face was approaching at a fast pace. When he saw that the basket contained many fish, Clarenceux made a quick assessment. The fish suggested she was catering for a substantial household. Her fast pace told him she was a dutiful servant. It seemed a risk worth taking.
“Godspeed, my good woman. Can you tell me which house hereabouts is that of Mistress Barker?”
“Can’t say I’ve heard of her,” she replied, hardly slowing her step. “I’m not from this parish. Good day, sir.”
Clarenceux looked about but could see no one else whom he felt comfortable asking. The servants sweeping the street would be too easily questioned by Walsingham’s men. He turned back to Machyn’s house. He walked past to the next residence. The front door had a solid bronze handle for pulling the door to. He pushed it. Locked. He reached for his knife and found it missing. Cursing, he lifted his arm and hammered on the door with his elbow. Although he waited and repeated the knocking, no answer came.
Sacred Treason Page 12
