Sacred Treason (10 page)

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.

He could hear Crackenthorpe, just outside the room, speaking to someone in a low voice. A boy came in and put logs on the fire, then looked at the table and saw some dirt which needed removing. He brushed it into his hand and threw it in the fireplace. Before he left, he closed the internal shutters over the windows. He glanced furtively at Clarenceux and then made his way soundlessly from the room.

A moment later, Clarenceux understood the reason for the boy's furtive glance. There was someone else in the chamber. Behind him.

The door closed and a lock clicked. He turned around.

Walsingham stood there in a black cloak and doublet, holding a key. He was almost a foot shorter than Clarenceux. Their eyes met. Walsingham turned away and put the key in a small pouch hanging from his belt.

“You are Mr. Walsingham?”

“I am,” said the small man, looking Clarenceux up and down and walking slowly across the room toward the table. Clarenceux's eyes followed him.

“What have you done with Henry Machyn?”

“I'll ask the questions, thank you, Mr. Harley.” Walsingham paused, then went to a cupboard and picked up his silver tray of sweetmeats. He offered it to Clarenceux. Clarenceux did not even bother to shake his head.

“Do you understand why you are here?” Walsingham replaced the silver tray and chewed his sweetmeat as he went around to the far side of the table.

Clarenceux did not respond. He watched Walsingham as he tried to dislodge a morsel trapped behind his teeth. The man's jaw moved, his tongue running around the inside of his cheek. He accomplished the dislodgement.

“I presume that your silence means yes, in some degree or other.”

“Presume what you will.” Clarenceux stood still and tall as Walsingham leaned over the table, his knuckles and thumbs pressing down on the wooden surface.

“You are here because you were found at Henry Machyn's house on the night that he went missing.”

“Do you think I had something to do with his disappearance?”

Walsingham shook his head. “Of course not.”

“No. Because it was on your orders that he was arrested. What have you and that murderous sergeant done with him?”

Walsingham walked over to the wall and operated a device unseen by Clarenceux. A panel slid aside, revealing a concealed wine store behind. He took out two plain silver cups and a squat, flat-bottomed leather bottle. He placed the cups on the table, filled them with red wine, and held one out to Clarenceux.

Clarenceux did not move. After a second or two, Walsingham withdrew the cup and replaced it on the table.

“Who is to say I have your Henry Machyn? Do you have any evidence?”

“Lack of evidence is never enough to remove suspicion.”

Walsingham drank, looking toward Clarenceux. “Fine. Be suspicious. It will do you no good.”

“Mr. Walsingham,” said Clarenceux, feeling anger rising within him. “I have been arrested and brought here against my will. To imprison someone without reason is contrary to the terms of Magna Carta. And I am an officer of her majesty the queen. You have no right to arrest—”

Walsingham held up a hand. “Stop there, Mr. Harley. I did not arrest you. Sergeant Crackenthorpe did. He too is one of her majesty's officers. If you wish to take issue, the proper process is to enter a plea in the Court of Queen's Bench.”

“Damn Queen's Bench! What am I to be charged with?”

“Tell me what you are guilty of—” Walsingham stopped abruptly and smiled at the irony of what he was about to say. “In fact, no. Tell me what you are guilty of, and you will
not
be charged. I am more interested in your information than your punishment.”

Clarenceux stared at the little man. “It would be unwise to play games with me. I demand to be released. Or, if you have something to hold against me, tell me.”

Walsingham stepped closer to Clarenceux, looking up at him. “Unwise?
Me?
Who, might I ask, is your patron? If not a dead man?”

Clarenceux struggled to make sense of the situation. As far as he could see, Walsingham had simply decided to rip up the laws of the land—laws that had proved their worth for three hundred years or more—on no authority but his own.

“As you have seen, Mr. Harley, I have royal officers at my command. Do you suppose I have no idea what is wise and what is unwise? Do you not realize that I too have a patron, and a protector?”

Clarenceux bit his lip. The pain helped him concentrate.
Thought
over
fear.

“Now you are wondering who it is, this patron?” continued Walsingham. “You are thinking, ‘Who protects Francis Walsingham? Is he a more powerful protector than my protector?' That is what you are thinking, is it not, Mr. Harley? And what is your conclusion?”

Clarenceux could see where this was going.

“You are asking yourself, is it someone who has the ear of her majesty?” Walsingham was almost sneering. “Is it Dudley, you wonder? Perhaps; there are few more loyal protectors than the hero of Protestant England, though there are many better men. But what about the one man who is undoubtedly as strong, and who is a good man? What about her majesty's Secretary, Sir William Cecil?”

Walsingham wiped his sleeve across his face. “And if you are not a fool you will already be thinking: ‘What if Mr. Walsingham's protector and mine are the same man? The one whose wife and sister-in-law attended the baptism of my daughter in July last year?'”

Clarenceux felt as if he were falling. The rope to which he had been clinging had snapped. The word
betrayal
hit him and fastened itself in his mind. Cecil's betrayal. Not only had the trap been set, but he had fallen into it without realizing it was there.

“You see, Mr. Harley, knowledge is a powerful thing. Friendship is even more powerful. And when you have both—knowledge and friends—you are invincible.” Walsingham drank the rest of his wine.

Clarenceux saw now how much he had been relying on the thought that he could call on Cecil for help and security. That thought, even though untested, had cushioned him from his worst fears. Now that cushion was gone.
Walsingham
is
right. If he and I both need Cecil's help, whom will Cecil choose? He cannot choose us both. If Walsingham enjoys Cecil's protection as much as he implies, then I am not just friendless; I am lost.

“Tell me, Mr. Harley,” began Walsingham, “have you ever—”

“Clarenceux! I am Clarenceux, for God's sake,” he snapped.

“Mr. Harley, you have a—”

“MY TITLE IS CLARENCEUX!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the chamber.

“I don't pay much attention to heraldic titles, Mr. Harley. Especially when they are claimed by traitors trying to dignify themselves.”

“You do not have the right to call me…” He broke off, too angry to reason. Instead he warned him, “I still have friends.”

“Not as many as the queen.”

“I have fewer enemies.”

Walsingham shook his head. “I would not count on that, if I were you. You do not even know who your enemies are.”

Clarenceux breathed deeply. There had been a moment, on the way here, when he had wondered why he was being taken to Walsingham's house and not simply to some cellar to be beaten up and questioned. Now he knew. Threats work better when they are not just physical. And it was not over yet. The only good thing was that Walsingham was also talking.

“I'll have that wine now,” he said, feeling sweat on his brow.

Walsingham hesitated. He set his own cup down and steadily refilled it before passing the other one, still untasted, to Clarenceux.

“You want to talk about friends. Tell me about your friend Henry Machyn.”

“He is a…merchant taylor and an old man. A good man too. He does not deserve to be ill-treated.”

“Is he your friend?”

“I have known him for many years.”

“But is he your friend?”

“It depends…”

“Will you allow him to destroy you?”

“Why would he do that?”

“So you do acknowledge that he has the power to destroy you?”

“You are too hasty. And you infer too much.”

“Do I? What have I inferred in particular?”

Clarenceux said nothing.

“I will tell you what I infer. From your reluctance to help me with my inquiries, I infer that you are a party to the plot involving a secret fraternity which calls itself the Knights of the Round Table. I will continue to believe this until you persuade me otherwise. And the only way you will be able to do that is to hand over the book that was written by Henry Machyn, the one that has the character and title of a chronicle. Do you understand? The only way you can convince me of your innocence in this matter is to betray your friends, because I know they are guilty.”

Clarenceux breathed deeply, trying to control himself. “I am not in possession of such a book. Nor have I heard of the society you mention.”

“But you have seen it?”

“Seen what?”

“The book, Henry Machyn's chronicle. Have you seen it?”

Clarenceux realized he was at the point of a crucial decision.
If
I
deny
that
I
have
seen
it and Walsingham's men question Thomas too, my statement will clash with his. Maybe even the other servants' too. Will Terry won't be able to hold his tongue. I have no choice.

“So you
have
seen it.”

Clarenceux raised the cup of wine to his lips and sipped. But he said nothing.

“Well?”

“Mr. Walsingham, you seem to be very determined on this point. But I am not part of any plot. Nor any conspiracy. I just want to see that my friends are safe—safe from people like you. It is true that Goodman Machyn showed me his chronicle. In all truth, I had no idea that it was anything more than a work of historical record. I looked at the first few pages. I saw it was very poorly written, very badly spelled. I told him, as kindly as I could, that I did not want it. I said it would be a great loss to his son if he were to give away such a treasure after working on it for so many years. I gave the chronicle back—ask my servant Thomas if you do not believe me.”

Walsingham looked at him for a long time.

Something
I
have
just
said
was
enough
to
disrupt
him.
Clarenceux took another sip of wine.

Walsingham took the key out of his pouch and walked slowly toward the door. “Very good, Mr. Harley,” he said, not glancing in his direction. “We are making progress. At least you are now prepared to admit a modicum of truth. That you have seen the chronicle…” He opened the door, and Clarenceux, turning, saw two men enter. “Yes, Machyn did bring you the book. I know he did. But the rest of your story is invented. Spurious. Lies. Machyn did not remove his book, did he? It is still in your house.”

Walsingham moved back to the other side of the table. Once more he leaned forward over it, resting his hands on the surface. “All I want is that book. It really is that simple.”

Clarenceux forced himself to respond calmly. “I do not have it. Machyn took it, I swear.”

“Do not swear, Mr. Harley. I would not wish your eternal soul to be as damned as your mortal body.” Then, looking at one of the guards, he pointed at Clarenceux's legs and gave an abrupt command. “The right.”

An instant later Clarenceux felt excruciating pain as something struck his right knee. He lay on the floorboards, writhing, his wine cup rolling away, his breath coming in spasms.

“I do not like having to repeat myself, Mr. Harley. Nor do I like it when people lie to me. Lies are hostages to the truth—remember that. They will betray you in the end. So every time you try to mislead me with a tedious little falsehood, I will take out my displeasure on you. So, let us begin again. Where is—”

“For heaven's sake, Walsingham!” roared Clarenceux from the floor. “I told you the truth. What more do you want?”

“Answers,” said Walsingham coldly.

Clarenceux forced himself to look around. One of the men had been standing behind him. He was holding a metal bar.