Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) (31 page)

Monday, February 10

Clarenceux awoke to hear movements in his daughter’s bedchamber. For one miraculous moment he believed that she was there, and that everything else—the shooting, the abductions, the killings—had all been a dream. Then he realized that the space where his wife slept was still empty; it was Alice in his daughter’s bed, not Annie. It all came back to him. He wept and clenched his fist and beat the mattress, his mind focused on the image of the white-haired Greystoke; the lizardlike, blinking Maurice Buckman; and that old, bitter woman in the north, Lady Percy. He yearned wholeheartedly for their destruction.

He rose, opened the shutters, and went to the ewer. To his surprise it was not empty but full of clean water. He filled the basin and washed his face, neck, hands, and wrists, then his feet, and pulled off his shirt and washed his arms and armpits. There was a clean towel nearby; he dried himself. In the chest, when he looked, was a pile of clean shirts.
She
will
make
someone
a
fine
wife
when
she
grows
up
, he thought.

The morning was spent writing letters. Alone in his chamber, he cut a quill to the right shape and neatly made a central cut to draw the ink. The first letter he wrote was to Tom Griffiths, a tenant of his, who was always struggling with money; he forgave him the rent due. Next he wrote to his friend in Chislehurst, Julius Fawcett. In his letter he explained what he had decided to do and expressed his regret that they had not seen more of each other in the last year or so. Julius’s friendship had meant much to him: their love of old things and past times had in truth not just been about the past but about a shared love of humanity. He added that he was going to bequeath all the chronicles left in his possession to the College of Arms but hoped that Julius would examine them first and select any that he particularly wanted for his own library.

The next three letters were business-related. He wrote to Sir Richard Wenman promising him the return of his chronicle soon. In a quick note to John Hooker of Exeter, he supplied some details of how he thought Sir Peter Carew might be able to claim the barony of Idrone in Ireland. He wrote also to Sir William Cecil, enclosing instructions for Walsingham. When that was done, he pushed away his chair and sat back, preparing to write to Awdrey.

Hungry, he went down to the kitchen and helped himself to some of Fyndern and Alice’s bread. Looking for things to do, he helped Alice tidy the kitchen; he saw to Maud and Brutus in the stables; he even took out the first batch of letters and gave them to a messenger boy at the city gate to dispatch. But then, walking back over Fleet Bridge, the city bells started to ring. That letter had to be written now.

In fact, two last letters had to be written—one to Awdrey and the other to his sister-in-law in Devon. Both were difficult. He started writing one, then the other, and each time found himself overcome by emotion. Having torn them both up, he took another sheet and started again, and within minutes he was either crossing out words that did not express his feelings adequately or rubbing his face with his sleeve. The truth was that, as soon as he thought of Awdrey, he imagined Greystoke having her and felt sick. Only gradually did he push the image of the man away and see her as she was, and also rediscover himself as he had been before he became consumed by hatred for his enemies. Time passed. He wanted to write more—but the city clocks struck again, and it was time to bring the last letter to a close. He kissed the page, folded it, and sealed it with the seal on his desk.

It was done. Looking around his study, he saw the old familiar books in the book presses, some still damaged from Walsingham’s searching of his house three years earlier. He got up and took the Old Testament he had read to Annie, kissed it, and said a short prayer for her, placing it flat on the table. He ran his fingers over Henry Machyn’s chronicle.
What
will
they
make
of
that
strange
document
in
the
future?
he wondered. Finally, he handled his father’s sword, remembering the bearded old man and his kindness, and set it down next to the Bible.
The
time
has
come
, he thought.
My
time
has
come
.

***

At Cecil House that afternoon, Annie wanted to play and talk and tell childish jokes. Clarenceux did not mind. For a few moments he was able to forget what was happening to him and enter into her world. Lady Cecil had given her a cat; it had brown and black stripes and sharp claws that dug into Clarenceux’s shoulder when he picked it up. Annie was delighted. She had created a sleeping place for it inside her bed and named it Caxton. He had laughed when she said she had first thought of calling it Pursuivant. “Only a herald’s daughter would think of that,” he said.

Eventually he had to say it was time for him to go. He embraced her and told her he would not be able to visit again until Friday. But then he hoped to see her and Sir William. He did his very best to sound encouraging—and did not mention that Friday would be the last time they would see each other.

***

Alice helped him pack for the trip to Oxford. He in return looked through his wife’s old clothes chest for a dress that Alice could wear. He selected a practical dark green one with a small amount of lace trimming at the neck and buttons on the sleeves. He found a highcrowned hat, a jupp, and a safeguard for her too, to keep her dry on the journey, and leather boots and linen socks. In clothes befitting a lady, Alice was indeed beautiful—but nothing was going to erase the image in Clarenceux’s mind of her dancing in a black smock.

They rode together in silence for fifteen miles, he on Brutus, she on Maud. Dusk forced them to stop for the night at an inn in Uxbridge. Eating together by candlelight at the table in their chamber, he asked her more about her childhood. She told him that her parents were both dead, and her sister, who was younger, was living with an uncle—a violent man who beat her regularly. He terrified the girl so much she would sometimes shake and be incapable of moving, holding her hands over her face as he came close to her. And when he touched her, she went like stone—unable to cry out or even speak.

They drank more wine, but the alcohol drew them further apart. It made them more of what they were. Clarenceux became more serious, brooding on what lay ahead; Alice, more lighthearted, more conversational. She offered to dance for him. He shook his head. She danced anyway, performing the same routine in his wife’s dress, barefoot, that he had seen her dance in the tavern. It was very different, seeing her dance privately; he had been astonished by her self-confidence in front of the crowd as much as her eroticism the first time. Without the crowd, her performance, in the light of just two candles, made him feel very uneasy. He turned away. What she was doing was captivating—and for that very reason he did not want to watch. The girl did not understand. She stopped and came over to him; she affectionately called him “a sad, old goat,” and ran her fingers through his hair. He poured more wine for each of them.

As the fire in their chamber burned down and just a single candle was left alight, Clarenceux declared it time to sleep. He pulled out the truckle bed and dragged it into the middle of the room. Kneeling at the basin, they washed their hands and faces together, and he washed his mouth out, scrubbing his teeth with his finger. Alice glanced at him furtively, and when he had dried his hands, she came to him and turned her back to him, asking for help to undo the dress. He undid the topmost laces at the back. “More, please,” she asked. Unwillingly, he obliged, ignoring her pale skin. Leaving her, he took off his boots, lifted the sheets and blankets, and lay down in the main bed, fully dressed.

Standing in the middle of the room in her smock, she smiled at him and walked very slowly to the bed. She put her hand on the counterpane. “I want to lie with you,” she said.

Clarenceux turned over. “And I want to lie with my wife. We cannot all have what we want.”

Shrove Tuesday, February 11

Alice was bright and friendly the following day, as if nothing had happened. She brought Clarenceux fresh water and joined him for a breakfast of bread and cheese before they left the inn. As they rode, the girl talked cheerfully about Halifax and how it was before the Dutch refugees had arrived, which had led to a rise in the level of hostility in the town. She told Clarenceux of the way they executed thieves there by beheading them with a wooden machine. This contained a wide blade set in a heavy block which descended along grooves in the side of the frame. The blade was raised high and the victim placed underneath, with his hands tied. Everyone from the town—or as many as could get near—took a part in the act of pulling on the rope that removed the peg holding up the blade. The latter descended with a huge rush—so forcefully it could easily sever a bull’s head.

Clarenceux said little as they rode, half listening to Alice and half thinking ahead. He liked the sound of her voice, however, and he liked to see her smile; so when the conversation dried up, he asked her another question to encourage her to talk. She chattered on about the tavern where she had grown up, and how she had helped her father from an early age to carry tankards of ale and beer to the men in the hall. She clarified that he was actually her stepfather; she had no recollection of her real father, who had died when she was young.

“What about your sisters and brothers?” asked Clarenceux.

“I have just one sister now,” she replied in a matter-of-fact way. “I used to have an older brother but he died when he was two, before I was born. My older sisters also died. Only my younger sister still lives. But she is badly treated by our stepfather, as I told you before.”

“Before, you said she was with an uncle who treated her badly. You said he left her unable to move or speak.”

“Did I?” She smiled. “I sometimes do say that—to stop people asking questions. If a man is mistreating you, and he should be looking after you, it doesn’t really matter if he is your father or your uncle, does it?”

“A father abusing his daughter is quite another thing from an uncle abusing his niece. Both are reprehensible but one is more abhorrent because of a father’s duty to his offspring.”

“Is that so?” Alice asked with sharpness. Almost immediately she softened her tone. “Yes, I suppose it is. After all, we are taught to honor our fathers and mothers; the Bible says nothing about uncles.”

The sun that had shone in the morning disappeared behind billowing white clouds and then layers of gray that stretched away to the horizon and beyond. The people they met on the road were hurrying, with their packhorses and carts.

“What sort of tavern was it?”

“Do you mean did we serve beer or wine? Or do you mean was it the sort of place where the women of the house spent every night flat on their backs with a customer between their thighs?”

“I am sorry I asked.”

“But you did ask, and here is my answer. From the age of thirteen I was occasionally offered to men. It was expected of me. If your mother is doing all the hard work in the tavern—all the cleaning, the feeding of the family, making the clothes, serving beer to the customers, and, on top of that, having to make money when necessary from pleasuring men—you’ve got to help out. And when you start, when you’re young, men pay very well, which makes you feel good when you want to help your family.”

“How did your clients not get you with child?”

“A sponge, soaked in vinegar. My mother showed me how to cut it correctly, so they don’t feel it. It never failed.”

“There are a lot of confusing things about your past,” said Clarenceux eventually.

“Are there?” replied Alice, looking straight ahead. “You must realize I make most of them up.”

The admission astonished Clarenceux. It left him lost for words.

“Most of them?” he asked eventually.

“Some of them. The sponge is true.”

“You sound as if you do not regret the years of fornication in the tavern.”

Alice laughed. “Years of
fornication
,” she repeated, mocking him. “Mr. Clarenceux, my art is that of pleasuring men. And like any art, one gains a large degree of satisfaction in performing it well.”

Clarenceux turned to her. “Your art now is that of looking after my household. Cleaning. Going to market. Providing food.”

They rode on in silence. The clouds approaching were darker, and the air had turned colder, presaging rain. Sure enough, it began to spit. Rooks holding forth with their harsh
croark-croarks
in the trees nearby flew up all at once.

“I am sorry if I have offended you,” she said.

“Offended me? I just don’t know whether to believe you,” he replied.

“Why do you need to
believe
me? Isn’t it enough just to like what I say?”

Clarenceux felt old. He longed to be with his wife, to talk to her, hold her. She understood him. She was conscientious, considerate, and womanly—all the things that this girl was not. He longed to hear Awdrey’s voice. He had not been himself without her. He had been changed into a sullen and bad-tempered man, angry and fearful. He had to make an effort to be himself, and to find the generosity in his nature.

“The truth is, you frighten me,” said Alice.

It was Clarenceux’s turn to be amused. “Frighten you? You are such a force of nature, with such a perfect understanding of this sinful world, that I am surprised you know the meaning of the word.”

“Some women will always be the friend and daughters of bad men, and they will understand hard drinking, avaricious, lustful, violent men more than good ones, and they will look at men like you and be afraid. All I can do to get level with you is seek your weaknesses. When women like me find them, we work on them, like cracks in a stone, eventually breaking them open. But you seem to have no weaknesses, Mr. Clarenceux. You are too good a man. Worryingly good.”

Clarenceux rode on. “I have my weaknesses, Alice. A whole regiment of them. The Lord knows I do.”

***

They rode into Thame that evening. In the yard of the Saracen’s Head, Simeon greeted them and led them through to the hall. He did not even raise an eyebrow at the youth of Clarenceux’s companion; only later, when Clarenceux had a moment to explain discreetly, did the innkeeper acknowledge that it did not seem proper for a gentleman to be traveling alone with such a young “maiden.”

After nightfall, Fyndern and Thomas arrived. Thomas gave an account of what had been done at Thame so far. It had taken more time than they had anticipated to draw the cart and the chest all the way from London to the abbey—they had only arrived that afternoon. They would set the timber in place tomorrow, but the bolts on the refectory door were firmly in place. The chest itself was situated where Clarenceux had stipulated, and the gunpowder had been arranged as he had directed.

Clarenceux sat on a bench beside the fire in the chamber, cradling a goblet of wine. Thomas was not far away, drinking beer, looking into the glowing embers and the small flames licking around a new log. Fyndern and Alice were downstairs in the hall.

“Do you intend to go through with it?” asked Thomas.

“People in the last reign went to the stake because of what they believed,” said Clarenceux. “Who am I, and what am I, if I do not risk the same fate for what I believe
and
for those I love, and for whom I am responsible? I admit I am scared, Thomas; I don’t know how I will face it. So I don’t think about it. If I die, I will die a free man, and I will have liberated Awdrey. But even if I live, William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms, will die in that building.”

Thomas swallowed. “We will not meet again, even if you live?”

“No.”

“Then that is the way it must be,” said Thomas.

“You will still serve Awdrey, after I am gone? And my daughters?”

Thomas lifted his beer and drank. “I am surprised you can think otherwise. If you are going to risk your life, the least I can do is continue to serve.”

“Alice said a strange thing today. We were riding together and talking about her childhood, and she confessed to me that some of the things she said were made up. When the conversation moved on, I told her that I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. To which she replied ‘Why do you need to believe me? Isn’t it enough just to like what I say?’ I have been thinking about that since. Belief is what sets us apart from other animals in Creation—and that goes for truth as well as faith in God. Alice is like the untamed birds that twitter with joy and gladden our hearts, or suddenly shriek in alarm and make us fearful.”

“Do you trust her?”

“To a point. In some ways she is very knowing and in others very ignorant and frivolous. Perhaps she is not from Halifax, as she says; perhaps that accent comes from a manor nearer Sheffield. But we do not send children to hang. Lady Percy recruited her women from the jails—women who were all mothers and who all had been sentenced to death. Alice does not count on either score, even if she does come from Yorkshire.”

“Fyndern is besotted with her.”

“Poor Fyndern. She is after someone bigger, richer, and more powerful than he will ever be. And when she has ensnared her prey, she still will not be satisfied—she has ambitions.”

“Most women surrender their ambitions when they fall pregnant,” said Thomas.

“She even has a strategy for that.”