Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) (13 page)

“That is all?”

“That is all, sir. As God is my guide and my redeemer.”

“It does not matter. I did not come here for the rent but for something I hid here when I bought this cottage. We can talk about the rent afterward. Do you have a crowbar or some heavy metal implement with an edge?”

“I have an ax.” John walked toward the house and reached behind a pile of chopped wood. He handed the ax to Clarenceux; it was old and blunt but it would do.

“Good.” Clarenceux immediately went back into the longer barn and up the ladder. John followed and watched him as he felt for the boards. Waiting a few moments more for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit target, Clarenceux drove it into the crack between the two pieces of wood. Twice more he struck. The first board lifted a little, forced up by the thickness of the ax blade. Using the edge of the ax he levered it up.

He could see nothing but the board beneath.

He swung the ax again, driving it into the crack. Again, he struck, harder. Soon this second board too was lifting, half-splintered by the blows. Kneeling down, he yanked it up and felt for the document. A moment later he touched vellum. He was relieved beyond measure. The profound blessing that poured into his heart was like the rejoining waters of the Red Sea in the Bible, drowning the Egyptians.

He pulled the document out, handed the ax back to John, and climbed down the ladder. He unfolded the vellum in the sunlight of the yard. The document had acquired a couple of holes where an insect had eaten through, but otherwise it was as he had left it, with its seal still attached.

“What is that, Mr. Harley?” asked John, looking over his shoulder.

“Believe me,” said Clarenceux, folding it up again and tucking it inside his doublet, “you do not want to know. And I will not add to your troubles by revealing its contents to you.” He smiled at John and then at Agnes, and slapped John on the back. He looked at Brutus. “Do you have any oats?”

“Not much in the way of oats, not since we sold our own animal.”

Clarenceux went into the cider barn and came out with an apple, which he gave to the horse. “I’d appreciate it if you could feed him whatever you can. I’ll repay the expense.”

“No, sir, we are in your debt,” protested Agnes. “Go on, John, there are some oats still.”

As John went to fetch the oats, Clarenceux looked at Agnes. She was young enough for them to rebuild their lives and family. “What were you cooking when I arrived?” he asked.

“A broth, with some chicken bones and cabbages. You are more than welcome to partake, sir, but I doubt it will be pleasing to you.”

Clarenceux heard the word “chicken” and was shocked. It was Friday; one had to have a license to eat meat on a Friday. It was rightly a fish day, in line with the old religion. That was why he had not touched his ham yet. But then, out here, the fish days of the old religion did not make that much difference, he realized. “It will be pleasing indeed,” he replied. “I can offer you some ham in return—although I would ask that you not eat it until Sunday.” Agnes looked abashed. John returned with a small bag of oats and started to feed Brutus.

Clarenceux looked around at the barns and the house, and the hills in the late afternoon sun. He reflected that, if only one could live in the country and be sure of enough food, it would be an idyllic existence—with so few threats and so many friends living close by, and all the garden produce and unpolluted water around. No stenches from overflowing city latrines. No one to tell you what to eat or to inform on you. No cascade of bells raining down on the city every hour. All he could hear was birdsong. There was more peace and freedom here than one could find in a city. These people were better off than they realized—if only they could earn enough to keep themselves.

Saturday, December 28

Joan Hellier realized that John was not following her. He was seated on the black horse that he had stolen from a stable in Hampshire on Christmas Day, but he was motionless, fifty yards behind her. She reined in her own stolen horse and let some travelers on the London road move out of earshot before she rode back to him.

“You will not come?” she asked.

“You know it would be madness. Anyone with dark skin is abhorred, and towns are worst of all. London would be the death of me. Just imagine if a market trader saw me and accused me of stealing something—the crowd would kill me in a minute. I will wait for you wherever you say, and I will count the days until we are together again, but I will not move closer to the city than this.”

“Then you are a coward. Any man who loved me would not fear entering the city, no matter the color of his skin.”

“Please—”

“I think it is time I found myself somebody else.”

“Do you have no pity for me?”

“I have lost my daughter; you have not. Why should I pity you? You have helped me and I have pleased you well with my body. But I do not care for you as I do for my daughter. I cannot pity you—for all my pity is reserved for her.” She listened as a breeze rustled the leaves of some nearby beech trees. “I wish you no ill, John. Truly. I know I am unkind to you, and that you love me more than I love you. But the truth is that I cannot allow myself to love you. I have to go into the city now, and I have to take this stinking bag with me. If I were to let myself love you as well, I would be weaker than I am. I am prepared to seduce this man, kill him, and kill his wife and daughters to satisfy the countess. And if I do not do those things, I will let down an innocent girl who is facing death for my crimes—mine, not hers—and who has no one else left in the world to look after her.”

She moved to one side, so he could see her face. Blue eyes, slightly milky; very light brown hair; white skin; ample breasts; and strong shoulders—the shoulders he so loved to kiss. It was not that she was pretty; it was that there was a great fear within him, and a growing terror of the loneliness he knew he would feel without her. She had given him more love than any other woman he had known. She had shared his suffering.

“I am going to ride on now, into the city. The priest I have to see is staying in a tavern called the Black Swan in the parish of St. Dionis Backchurch. If you change your mind, that will be the way to find me.”

John swallowed, fighting his emotion. “I will never see you again.”

A cart rumbled by. Joan waited for it to pass. Then she held up a hand and rode on. “Good-bye, John. Good luck.”

He never saw her weep a single tear.

It was dark when Clarenceux arrived at Caswell, Sir Richard Wenman’s house in Oxfordshire. He was exhausted. He rode around the old gatehouse, its arch now blocked by timber, and crossed the bridge over the old moat that had once surrounded the fortifications of the place. There he found he could barely dismount, so great were the aches in his limbs. Yesterday he had traveled thirty-six miles; today he had covered forty. He had slept in the barn of the cottage in Wargrave and left in the early hours of the morning. The fine weather meant he had made good progress and had resisted the temptation to stay at an inn. All the time he thought of his wife and how he had promised her that he would be back soon, within five days at the most. With so little light, that was difficult. Nor was it just the light. He was not as fit as he had once been; twelve hours in the saddle was more than his body could easily bear.

Sir Richard had greeted him with a great show of affection, however, which raised his spirits. Sir Richard was in his early forties, four or five years younger than Clarenceux. He was one of those country gentlemen who took their independence and liberty for granted—and despised anyone who thought otherwise. He expected men to be honest and passionate, and to maintain their integrity—not to comb their nature neatly into place. He made no bones about disliking the new religion and said so, regularly. Nor did he like the queen’s favorite, Robert Dudley, and roared his disapproval of the man at every opportunity. When his father had learned that the Dudleys had been given the lordship of the manor of Witney, where much of their property lay, he had been furious. His son had inherited that fury and maintained it now as a matter of honor.

There were many candles burning in the hall at Caswell when Clarenceux came down for supper, having washed his face and hands and changed his shirt. Some lights were set on a candelabrum in front of the table; others were raised on a circular chandelier above them. There were tapestries attached to the walls and a painting of the Blessed Virgin Mary above the door. Most of the household had dined earlier; it was just Clarenceux and Sir Richard sitting down at the table. Isabel, Lady Wenman, had greeted him on his arrival and then withdrawn.

“I thought you said you had already eaten,” remarked Clarenceux as he watched Sir Richard inspect the boiled and roast fish in various sauces.

“I have. But I cannot let you eat alone, especially on a fish day. You might suspect I was not providing you with the best.”

Clarenceux, who already had a mouth full of roast halibut, lifted his wine goblet in salutation.

“How is the work for the visitation coming along? Has that chronicle I lent to you been of any interest?”

Clarenceux swallowed. “It has been a revelation to me, Sir Richard. I cannot thank you enough.”

“Good, good. I know there’s no chance of finding the Dudleys guilty of illegally usurping their coat of arms—more’s the pity—but there are some people in Witney to whom I would like to see you pay special attention. The number of wool merchants who have rebuilt their houses with a courtyard, and had chimneys and planchings put in, and then had heraldic glass inserted—it is truly shocking.”

Clarenceux knew that the Wenman family of Witney were originally “wainmen”—carters who had brought wool into town. They had made their money in Calais, running the wool staple there, and had bought their coat of arms from Henry VII. About this, however, he said nothing. He drained his goblet of wine. “We can discuss coats of arms in due course. But that is not why I have come to see you. What interests me more at the moment is Thame Abbey. It is mentioned many times in the chronicle of Henry of Abingdon. I think Henry must have stayed at the abbey for a while. Whether he did or not, I want to check a number of stories that he tells, and that can only be done through visiting it in person.”

“Stories?”

“One concerns two Lollards, in the reign of Henry V. They were both knights, both fervent and religious…”

“And both perceived as traitors to their sovereign and heretics in the eyes of the Church,” added Sir Richard, breaking some bread.

“Like you and me,” agreed Clarenceux.

Sir Richard nodded. “Indeed. Good men. Go on.”

“They were fleeing the king’s officers when they came to Thame Abbey. They asked the almoner if they might take sanctuary in the abbey. The almoner refused, saying that he could not shelter them in a closed order for it would be held against him. But one of the Lollards asked to speak to the abbot and through a cunning ruse persuaded him to let them take shelter in a certain hiding place.” Clarenceux broke off to eat some more halibut. “Henry of Abingdon is a boring writer when he talks about theology but full of life when he talks about the goings-on at Thame. He also mentions a number of pieces of heraldic glass in the church and certain effigies there too, which will help me.”

Sir Richard saw the halibut disappearing fast and helped himself to a significant portion. “So you want to inspect the abbey. That is all well and good—of course you have my blessing. Only, why now? Normally you’d do all that heraldry on your visitation, with your clerks and pursuivants and strangely attired officers assisting you. I’ve seen you on a visitation, old friend—you travel with more men than most lords.”

This was an exaggeration, but it was true that Clarenceux did like company when he worked in the field, going from house to house and church to church. “I need to know what is at Thame and to be sure I can gain access if there is much there,” he said. “Taking a large number of men to an abbey only to find nothing worth recording would be a waste. It would be even worse to go and find the church and other buildings full of detail but forbidden to me.”

Sir Richard picked up his goblet and turned it in his fingers. “You really are a very poor liar, William. You want to look around my abbey for yourself. I am trying to imagine why; I confess I cannot. Will you not be honest with me? You have nothing to fear on the religious score.”

Clarenceux finished the food on his plate. “You know me too well, Sir Richard. But you also know that honesty is not the same as transparency. I should not have to remind you—there is such a thing as an honestly kept secret.”

Sunday, December 29

Awdrey took charge of the family journey to the church. She did not hold with her husband’s policy of leaving one of the servants behind to guard against thieves. Thus Thomas, Joan, and Nick all accompanied her and her daughters to St. Bride’s that morning. The dinner was prepared; the fires had been lit in the kitchen and in the hall. There was a lamb roasting and green vegetables, eggs and herbs for a salad. Her husband had told her that it was good to eat natural things, as God had provided them for the benefit of all creatures, and this nonsense about their being bad for the humors was not to be trusted. He had been in Italy and France and eaten salads without any harmful effects on many occasions.

Mildred had had a tantrum at the prospect of going to church and had stamped her foot and declared, “I don’t
want
to!” Awdrey had roundly scolded her and picked her up, forced her into her Sunday clothes, and carried her down the stairs kicking and screaming. Then in the street, with their breath billowing in the cold air, she had given her such a telling-off in front of everyone that the child had cried more. This had not gone unnoticed by Annie, who saw that she had an opportunity to prove herself well-behaved in comparison with her little sister.

As mother and daughter were having this confrontation in the street, the door to the house opposite had opened and the tall, white-haired gentleman came out. Awdrey remembered him from church. “Good morrow, Mistress Harley,” he said in a Northern accent. “You are on your way to St. Bride’s, I presume?”

Awdrey considered him. He had the wealth of a gentleman, judging by his clothes: a black velvet jerkin and white shirt, black velvet breeches and white stockings. His movements were graceful and fluid; she noticed he was light on his feet. At first she thought he was a couple of years older than her, maybe twenty-nine, on account of his agility and the energy in his movements. He was clean shaven and his clothes were clean too, albeit tucked together with a certain carelessness. Looking at his face more closely revealed he was at least thirty, probably a little more. His shock of white hair was obviously not due to age, but she could see other signs of maturity in his face—the slight lines, the weather-beaten texture of the skin, the experienced way he looked her over with his gray eyes.

“Your name, sir? We have not been introduced.”

“John Greystoke. I am newly in this parish. I was in Italy for some years and since then in Paris. I returned to London this time last year.”

“And since then you have been staying?”

“In the households of various gentlemen. Most recently that of Francis Walsingham, whom I believe you know.”

Awdrey began walking toward the church, with Mildred’s hand in hers. Thomas walked on her left. Joan followed behind her with Annie. Nick took up the rear.

“You will know then that my husband and Mr. Walsingham are not on friendly terms,” Awdrey said to Greystoke, finding him amiable and good-looking company but nevertheless wishing he would go away.

“Yes, yes, I do,” replied Greystoke with an earnestness that Awdrey did not find convincing. “But it is all a misunderstanding. Your husband and Mr. Walsingham have much in common. Truly, they are both men of great integrity and sophistication.”

“You do not know my husband, Mr. Greystoke. You may spy on us from that house, and you may measure our comings and goings, but you do not know us. Should you wish to make our acquaintance more formally, I suggest you speak to my husband.”

“Of course, Mistress Harley. Forgive me for being so rude. Where is your husband?”

Awdrey stopped. Thomas, who had been listening, stepped in front of her protectively and looked Greystoke in the eye. “Do you not understand? My mistress has no wish to talk to you. Take yourself to church, sir, and bother yourself not with our business.”

Greystoke bowed. “My sincere apologies, Mistress Harley, Goodman Terry.” And he walked off smartly into the crowd of people heading toward the church.

“He knows who we are,” said Awdrey, watching him go.

Thomas also watched him. “That does not surprise me. Mr. Clarenceux has been observing that house for weeks and telling us that they are spies from Walsingham. Now we have it from the horse’s mouth.” They started to walk again. “But I am sure that was not the sole purpose of that little interlude.”

***

The service was long. Mr. Lynton, the chaplain administering today in place of Mr. Bowring, was no more inspired than the others Awdrey had heard. There was no fire in what he said; there was merely duty. When he spoke of returning the Church to the values it had known in Biblical times, he was being unrealistic. She grew increasingly irritated. He was refusing to face the fact that the simplicity of the early Church was built in a society in which the Church was a new thing. There was no use trying to turn the clock back and pretend that Christendom was not covered in monasteries and churches. Saying that all clergymen should give up their wealth and do nothing but preach to their loving flocks was nonsense. Those flocks in the old days had all been willing converts who had been unable to read the word of God for themselves. Today people did not need priests—they could read the Bible and think independently. In fact, the task of reforming the Church was much harder; it involved caring for the uncaring and converting the unconvertible.

After the service, Awdrey kept her distance from Greystoke. However, she watched him from the corner of her eye. He spoke to no one else, which confirmed her suspicion that he had spoken to her more out of interest in her husband than in neighborly relations. What worried her more, she reflected as they walked back toward the house, was that he had been so unsubtle. Did Walsingham really think he could send a man to spy on them, and then for that man to ask her directly where her husband had gone?

They entered the house through the front door, Thomas taking the key from Awdrey and unlocking it. Memories of it being overturned by Walsingham’s men in the past haunted her, and it was not without a feeling of apprehension that she walked up the steps and entered. Nothing seemed to be amiss, but all one could see from the door was the corridor through to the buttery and the front stairs leading up to the hall. The girls ran ahead up the stairs. Nick, Thomas, and Joan respectfully waited to follow Awdrey.

“Joan, will you see to the kitchen fire, please,” she asked as she started up the stairs. Nick went with Joan through to the kitchen. Looking into the hall, everything was as it was. “Thomas,” Awdrey said, turning to rest her hand on the old man’s shoulder, “I am becoming like my husband. I worry about everything. Unnecessarily.” She looked around the hall again; the pictures were in their frames, the chests covered with their carpets. She walked across to the main table, pulled out a form, and sat down.

“Shall I prepare for the dinner?” Thomas asked, seeing her distracted.

“Yes, please.” Then she added, “I wonder where he is.”

“No doubt he will be home as soon as he can. He is a careful and clever man, my master. Whatever he is doing, and wherever he is doing it, I am sure it is for the best, and necessary. He would be here, looking after you, if he could.”

The girls, who had run up to their bedchamber, ran down the back stairs again and into the hall, shrieking and laughing. Awdrey reached out and caught Mildred as she ran past. “That’s enough,” she said, “you’ll cause an—” Before she could finish her sentence there was a terrible scream from somewhere: not a woman’s high-pitched scream of terror but a man’s yell of physical shock.

She looked at Thomas, who was already moving to the back stairs. “Wait here, look after the girls,” he said.

“What is it, Mam?” asked Mildred. “What was that man shouting for?”

“It is nothing to worry about,” she replied, lifting Mildred onto her knee and beckoning Annie to come close too.

“Why are you shaking?” asked Mildred.

Awdrey stood up, lifted Mildred, and walked across the room and then back to her seat by the dining table. Inside, she was praying that it was nothing. She wished that her husband was with her.

“Are we going to eat lunch soon?” asked Annie, sitting at the table on the bench that Awdrey had vacated. “I hope it’s capon. Mildred will want it to be cheese.”

“Be quiet,” snapped Awdrey, hearing voices below. Then she could stand it no longer. “Annie, stay here with Mildred.” She put the girl down on the same bench as Annie. “Stay here with your sister. Do not move, do you understand? Stay here.” Then she walked quickly to the back stairs and went down.

Thomas was beside the kitchen door with Nick and Joan. Nick was in tears.

“What has happened? What is it?” Awdrey demanded.

Thomas cleared his throat. “There is a woman’s head on a stake in the yard, mistress. It is partly decayed and horrible to see. But I believe it is the head of Rebecca Machyn.”

“Oh my God,” whispered Awdrey. “Oh my God!” she cried aloud, running to look at the monstrous sight that she knew meant the end of all denial, all safety, and all peace.