Rebecca remembered the boy’s terrified face. “I am truly sorry. It seemed the only way. It seemed I…I had to take the chronicle.”
“If you had not taken it, maybe they would have killed him anyway. They would certainly have killed me. But as it happened, you did take it, and I am glad that you did.”
Rebecca managed a weak smile, as if to express recognition of a small mercy.
The sounds of laborers calling to one another on the quay reached them. Clarenceux looked down through the gaps in the timber at the boats moored by Queenhithe.
“What do we do now?” Rebecca asked.
“Lancelot Heath’s wife sent a message. Apparently he will meet us where Sir Arthur was on June the thirteenth, 1550. I recall that as being one of the first entries in your husband’s chronicle. So, let us put our regrets to one side. We shall pray for Will’s soul later. First let us do what we can to make amends.”
He opened the book and read Machyn’s first entry quickly and silently. Then he passed the open book to her and watched her as she read the unpunctuated words slowly and aloud. “The thirteenth day of June 1550 did Sir Arthur Darcy knight John Heath painter and Harry Machyn merchant meet dining upstairs at the sign of the Bull’s Head by London Stone there setting everything straight and ordered fair in the green night room and after to Paul’s Cross where we heard a goodly sermon by the good bishop of Durham.”
“I am going to the Bull’s Head alone. I am no longer the man I was two days ago. I am set on a path now, and I cannot turn back. But you, you still have your innocence. I would urge you to go back to Mistress Barker’s house and stay there quietly for as long as it takes—until this horror has passed.”
Rebecca shook her head. “Mr. Clarenceux, you and I both know that Walsingham is not going to let my husband go. If Henry’s secret concerns the fate of the queen—two queens—and is so grave that a royal soldier thinks nothing of hanging your servant, then he is not going to be released. He is not a well man; I would not be surprised if he is dead already. And if he dies, then what have I got left? I am alone. I have no money, no income.”
She looked away. “If…if Henry is dead, then what do I have but his memory? Nothing but the knowledge that I will not forget him, that I will never do anything that would displease him, and that I will always honor him.” She wiped her eyes. “And since he gave that book to you, and was so insistent that you are his true heir, rather than his son, I have to help you, for my own sake as well as Henry’s. And for your sake too. Look at you. You are bloody and covered in mud, you can only run with great difficulty. When was the last time you ate?”
“This morning. An eel pie.”
“Hardly enough. You haven’t slept and you’re not thinking straight. You killed a man in the street and you expect just to walk away. I would not be fulfilling my promises to my husband if I were to go back to Mistress Barker’s now and abandon you, the man he entrusted with his legacy.”
Clarenceux looked at her. She was firm in her conviction, and brave. She held his gaze; her sad eyes looked deeply into his and allowed him freely to look into hers.
“You know that Crackenthorpe is protected by Walsingham?”
“It does not surprise me.”
“Walsingham also has a protector: none other than Sir William Cecil, the Secretary and the queen’s chief adviser. We are up against the full power of the kingdom, with all its ruthless weaponry.”
“God will protect us,” she said.
Clarenceux nodded. “Well, so be it. We must find our way now to the tavern of the Bull’s Head by London Stone, where Lancelot Heath is waiting. I suggest that we leave the key to this refuge somewhere where we can both find it. This will be as good a place as any to hide, if need be.”
32
The young man pulled on the reins to avoid riding into a cart of hay which was crossing the street. He was impatient. The task he had been given might have been awful—to pass the most distressing news to the most violent of men—but there was one thing even worse: to deliver it late.
He urged his horse on and started again to canter down Thames Street. He noted that there was a great deal of activity on the wharves; he had expected most people to be at their dinner by now, or sheltering from the drizzle that had settled on the city. But there were clusters of people at Dowgate, and he had to ride through the puddles to go around them, splashing them in his hurry. They shouted after him but he went on. At Queenhithe there were several large vessels moored. Laborers were carrying off sacks of spices and craning off tuns of wine for storage in the quayside warehouses. He took one look at the conglomeration of workers and cut off up Huggin Lane. Even here he was not alone; a tall man in a brown robe and velvet cap was walking beside a woman in an ostrich-feather hat. They seemed startled as he galloped up the otherwise deserted lane.
He finally caught sight of Crackenthorpe and his three companions from the top of Ludgate Hill. Kicking his heels into the horse’s flanks, he urged the beast to a gallop. Crackenthorpe was not riding fast, and the messenger came within shouting distance as they rode along Fleet Street, near Fetter Lane.
“Sergeant Crackenthorpe,” he called. “Wait, I have news.”
Crackenthorpe gave a command and they all reined in their horses and waited, the horses’ breaths and snorts punctuating the silence.
“I have the gravest news,” the rider said as he came to a standstill alongside them. He remembered what the constable had told him. Break it to him as if it is an order. He is going to be angry and distressed; he may even be violent, but Sergeant Crackenthorpe understands orders, and he respects those who do their duty. “It concerns the traitor Clarenceux. He has killed your brother. He attacked him at Machyn’s house and killed him in the street, in front of witnesses.”
Crackenthorpe’s horse stirred, sensing its rider’s change of mood. He pulled on the reins to control it and looked at the messenger. “How did it happen?”
“Apparently Clarenceux seized John’s sword and stabbed him with it.”
“Was no one watching him? I gave instructions for both Clarenceux and his house to be watched. Did those men not help?”
“Ralph French was watching, but Clarenceux put out one of his eyes.”
“Holy Mary! When did all this happen?”
“About three-quarters of an hour ago.”
Crackenthorpe clenched his fist. He was expected at Whitehall soon. Walsingham had gone on ahead to report to Cecil. He could not fail in that duty. His instinct was to go back to the city, to start looking for Clarenceux. But it might take hours.
“You three, return with this boy to the constable of the ward. Tell him to have watchmen on every street corner. Tell him that I want to hear everything about this incident when I return. Then go to the mayor and the sheriffs. Tell them that Clarenceux is plotting to kill the queen. He is armed and has already killed a royal officer. Have a warrant issued to all the constables for him to be arrested on sight. Tell them to hold Machyn’s widow too. No doubt she is with him. When you have done that, go to Clarenceux’s house and take the horses from his stables. Sell them to pay for my brother’s funeral. If anyone tries to stop you, arrest them.”
“What about you, sergeant?” asked one of the men with him.
“I must see Walsingham before he meets Cecil this afternoon. I have promised to do so, and I will not break a promise. And likewise I promise I will make Clarenceux suffer for killing my brother. I swear it. I am going to do to him and his manservant what they used to do to traitors in the past: cut his guts out and burn them in front of him. You four are my witnesses.”
The messenger had been expecting a violent reaction—shouting, accusations, recriminations. Instead, he watched as Crackenthorpe kicked his horse’s flanks and started to gallop toward Whitehall.
The violence, he realized, was yet to come.
33
There were two rooms on the ground floor of the Bull’s Head Tavern. Clarenceux and Rebecca entered through a low oak
door and found themselves in what had once been a long hall but had now been divided by a partition with a large fireplace on either side. In this first room a man was playing a fiddle while a woman beat time with a tambourine; several men and women stood watching, holding wooden mugs and pewter tankards of ale, tapping their fingers. Dogs scampered, chasing each other among the watchers’ legs. In a corner there were four men playing cards, sitting on low stools and casting their cards onto the rushes on the floor; two women were with them, cradling their cups, helping to shoo away the dogs when they came too close. A couple of bronze cooking pots were lying on their sides by the fireplace, waiting to be taken out and washed up. A boy attended a spit loaded with a hunk of roasting meat in the fireplace, despite it being Advent. The boy turned to play with a small puppy after every turn.
Clarenceux frowned at the smell of the meat and led Rebecca through to the next room. Here were three tables with linen cloths. A group of men were seated at one, leaving their shop work in the hands of their apprentices. A woman in a bright red bodice, with a young child on her lap, sat at the next table; as Clarenceux watched she passed the child to a much older woman seated on the other side of the table and went to speak to one of the two men standing by the fireplace with mugs of ale. Above them joints of salted meat, branches of bay leaves, and baskets of fruit hung from the beams.
Clarenceux looked around for the taverner. After a short while he emerged from an inner door, dressed in a leather apron. He was about forty and bearded, with a wide ruddy face and a thick mop of golden hair that curled above his ears. He held a linen towel over one arm and spoke amiably to his customers.
“My good man,” said Clarenceux, stepping toward him. “I am led to believe you have an upstairs room here.”
“That depends, sir. I do have an upstairs room, but it is let to a gentleman. I don’t believe I can oblige you—unless you are a friend of the gentleman.”
“We are looking for a man called Heath.”
The taverner was unmoved. “What sort of night are you expecting, you and your lady wife?”
“We are not married,” interjected Rebecca.
Clarenceux suddenly understood. “A Green one.”
The taverner looked at Clarenceux. In a low voice he asked, “You are with Henry Machyn?”
Rebecca broke in, “I am Rebecca Machyn, Henry’s wife. This is Mr. Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms.”
The taverner nodded and threw the towel down on a nearby bench. “Lancelot is expecting you. Follow me.”
They went out of the tavern hall into a passage and up a narrow stone staircase. In places there was barely enough light to see that the plaster walls were flaking. At the top of the stairs was a small landing: two doors faced them. The floor creaked as the taverner walked toward the right-hand one. He knocked three times and waited. Then he knocked once more. Almost immediately there was the sound of a key in a lock and the door opened to a warm chamber.
A disheveled golden-haired man with blue eyes bearing a strong resemblance to the taverner stood there. His bearing was awkward and ill-at-ease; he seemed to be struggling to cope with his straitened circumstances.
“Mr. Clarenceux is here.”
Lancelot Heath clapped the taverner on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he muttered. “Heartily you are welcome, Mr. Clarenceux. And you too, Goodwife Machyn.” He beckoned all three of them into the room and locked the door. “Please forgive the precautions. You know how dangerous things are.” He indicated the tavern-keeper. “This is my brother, Gawain. A trustworthy soul.”
The room was stone-walled, part of an older building. It was heated by a large fireplace above which was an old rack intended for longbows and muskets. Just one bow lay there now. To the right was an imposing old tapestry of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The rest was plain whitewashed plaster. There was a small bed on one side, a couple of chests, and a table and seat. The remains of a meal lay on a pewter plate on the table. An old stone-framed window overlooked the roof of the tavern, invisible from the street.
Clarenceux bowed politely to both men. “Greetings and well met. An Arthurian family indeed—Lancelot, Gawain. Are there other knights in your family?”
“My father, the late John Heath, was a lover of the old romances. We have a sister Iseult in Mile End. Another sister, who died some years ago, was called Guinevere. Hence the tapestry and, of course, the Knights. I presume you have come to talk about the latter.”
“I was rather expecting you to inform me. Henry Machyn gave me his chronicle and the name King Clariance of Northumberland. He also gave me a date. He told me to find you and ask you to summon the Knights of the Round Table.”
“I thought he would. But it is not possible, not now. All the old plans are in disarray. They were laid down years ago, by my father, together with Henry and Sir Arthur Darcy. Gathering the Knights is no longer so straightforward. I do not know them all, or where they all are.”
“But who are they?” asked Rebecca. “And what did they have to do with my husband? What was the purpose? To me it seems like a game, an indulgence.”
Gawain Heath caught his brother’s eye. “At this point I will leave you,” he said. “I will do what I can to help, Lancelot, but the less I know about our father’s business in this respect, the better for all concerned. Good day, Mr. Clarenceux, Goodwife—”
“Before you go, Goodman Heath, I want to ask you, is it with your blessing that the meat is roasting in the hall downstairs? Given that your brother is a fighter for the old religion, I am surprised you do not observe the Advent fast.”
“No doubt you are, Mr. Clarenceux. But my customers want it, and I do not believe the new religion condemns it. Besides, it is a perfect cover for my brother here. Is it not a most un-Catholic smell?” He smiled, bowed, and went to the door, unlocked it, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Lancelot waited until his brother had gone and then went over and locked the door once more, leaving the key in the lock. “Be seated,” he said, turning and gesturing to the bed. He himself took the bench from the table, set it in the middle of the room, and sat down.
“Where to begin? It is difficult, because I was not the first generation, as you are aware. My father and your husband held some great secret—a document. I think it concerned our present queen and her brother Edward, the then king. They talked to Sir Arthur Darcy about it, and it was agreed that they should form a fraternity, the Knights of the Round Table, to guard the document and to use it when the time was right. They hid it and encoded the means to find it in a chronicle. There were to be nine knights guarding it, and each one had an Arthurian name and a date. No one was to reveal their date to anyone else except when they were all gathered together. I have the name Lancelot by baptism, as you know, and my father chose the name Sir Lancelot for himself. His idea was that, if he died, I would be the bearer of that name. Henry Machyn always intended you, Mr. Clarenceux, to be the inheritor of his name, and so he chose the name King Clariance, which I believe he has passed on to you.”
“He gave it to me, yes. Go on.”
“There is not much more to tell. The last time all the Knights met together was shortly after my father’s death, ten years ago, just after Queen Mary came to the throne. My father left money in his will for a dinner at my brother-in-law’s tavern at Mile End—you will find it mentioned in Henry’s chronicle—but since then the Knights who have died have not done the same. I think they have lost interest. Although Henry has urged them to protect the document, it is not important to them. When he called the Knights together to witness his will recently, only five of us attended. I myself was not particularly concerned, although I understood that the event was connected with the document, and the chronicle might yet become important. Then some soldiers came looking for me a few days ago, asking questions about Henry. They tore everything in my house apart in their search for the chronicle.”
Clarenceux nodded. Now he knew why Lancelot’s wife had been so keen to b
e rid of him the day before yesterday. “Who were the Knights who witnessed Henry’s will?”
“Myself, Michael Hill and his son Nicholas, Daniel Gyttens, and William Draper, the merchant taylor. The strange thing was that Henry had written that he was of sound mind but ill in body. But he seemed to me to be as hale and hearty as ever.”
“These men, what are their Arthurian names?”
Heath shook his head. “William Draper was Sir Dagonet, but the rest I do not know.”
Clarenceux remembered the night in the rain when Crackenthorpe had mentioned Sir Dagonet. “Where do they live?”
“Nicholas Hill lives in St. Dionis Backchurch and his father in St. Mary Woolnoth, opposite the church. Draper’s house is that big brick one on the left as you go up Basinghall Street. Gyttens—I don’t know.”
“And the others?”
“Again, I do not know. You must understand that I did not agree to witness Henry’s will because I was one of the Knights but because he and my father were old friends. It was only in the course of the meeting that Henry told me that all of us present were Knights. He added that it was important that we observe the clause in his will concerning the chronicle. He willed it to you, you see. That dinner at the sign of the Rising Sun in Mile End ten years ago remains the only time I have met all the Knights. I cannot now remember which names I heard that day and which I simply know from being surrounded by Arthurian things. I do know that one Knight was special—Henry said he was not even to repeat his name. I think I heard someone call himself Sir Reynold, but I can’t be sure. The only name I can be sure of besides my own is Sir Dagonet. I remembered that one because it was so unusual—I had never heard of a Sir Dagonet.”
“He was the jester at Arthur’s court,” Clarenceux said with an uneasy, sickening feeling rising in his stomach. He had assumed that finding Lancelot Heath would relieve him of the burden of responsibility, at least in part. Lancelot would summon the Knights and they would go into action, for better or for worse; he would join them or not as he saw fit. But now he saw the whole set-up was chaotic.
Sacred Treason Page 14
