Sacred Treason (4 page)

Henry Machyn's arms ached; so too did his legs. With an awkward, painful twist of his wrist between the planks of the fence, he touched the latch, turned it, and unfastened it. He pushed the gate, which creaked open. Picking up his stick, he heaved himself forward into the yard, chilled to the bone. He stepped into a puddle but did not care at all, since his feet were already too soaked for it to make any difference. He did not even bother to lock the yard gate behind him. All that mattered to him was that he was heading to a place to rest his head in the dry. If it was the last thing he ever did, he wanted to lie down in the warm.

He stepped forward, stumbling, reaching out with one hand, feeling for the stable door. It was further than he remembered. At last it was there, wet wood beneath his fingers. Water ran down his face as he moved along, feeling for the handle. He found it. But the door was shut fast.
No! Please, no—let it open. Let me find some rest here
. His fingers caught on the edge of the frame and ran slowly up the edge. They felt a wooden swivel latch and undid it.

The sound of rain on the roof, and the sweet smell of hay and horse dung. Machyn heard the horses stir and his own short breaths. Feeling dizzy, he moved toward the ladder leading up into the hayloft. The horses moved uneasily in the blackness. Machyn felt the rung of a ladder and tucked his stick under his arm. He began to climb. He told himself that at the top of this ladder was a place where he could at last lay his head down and sleep on the hay, as he had done as a boy in the stable adjoining his father's mill. Another step, a steadying of his foot, and another heave of his tired body on one leg. The dizziness increased. He needed to hold himself still. But a minute or two more, that was all it would take. He put his forehead against the ladder. A minute or two. And then he would be safe and dry.

Whatever was to happen to him tomorrow, he would at least spend this night in peace. Crackenthorpe would never think of looking for him here, in Mr. Clarenceux's stable loft.

It was past midnight, but Clarenceux could not close Machyn's chronicle. Every so often he noted his name, Harley, or his title, Clarenshux; for the earlier years, there were many references to Norrey, Norroy, or Norray, when he had been Norroy King of Arms. He saw an entry dealing with a feast held by the Worshipful Company of Skinners, of which he was a warden. He turned back a few pages and noted the funeral of Lady Darcy:
& ther was ij haroldes of armes, Mr. Clarenshux and Mr. Somersett in ther ryche cottes.

He flicked backward and forward.
Norrey. Clarenshux…
His titles echoed in his mind as he read them over and over again. Among the previous year's entries was one that mentioned the proclamation that the English and Scottish queens would meet. Elizabeth and her Catholic cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots. The proclamation had been made in both English and French, and, Machyn had noted,
with a trumpett blohyng and a harolde of armes Mr. Clarenshux in a ryche cotte with a serjant of armes.

Clarenshux again. He began to feel uneasy. This was almost a chronicle about him. True, there were many other entries that did not name him, or have anything to do with him; but the world of Henry Machyn, as contained in this book, revolved around him. Machyn had almost been spying on him. Events in Machyn's own life were hardly ever mentioned. But there were many references to Clarenceux's personal life. Here was one describing the baptism of his second daughter. Another referring to his marriage. Another referring to his promotion from Norroy to Clarenceux. Another about his visitation of Suffolk.

Clarenceux looked around his study. He looked at the book presses: one stood against the side wall, the other at the far end of the chamber. He looked at the fireplace and the painted carved wood above. His coat of arms. He looked at the chest and the books on it, and the piles of books on the floor. A loose piece of paper had fallen out of one. A few vellum indentures were piled beside it. He looked at his table board, scattered with vellum deeds and books. Three candlesticks, two of which were without candles, stood there. Four quills, two of which needed sharpening. A knife. A metal pen. Ink. Red wax for his seal. Everything was normal, untidy, and connected to him.

He turned back to Machyn's chronicle.

This was not like a chronicle. This was more as if someone else—Henry Machyn—had been writing the diary of another man's life,
his
life. Why on earth would anyone write someone else's diary for them? He pulled his robe closer against the cold. Machyn had spent the last thirteen years writing a chronicle about him and had never previously breathed a word about it. Why? What did that entry for 20 June 1557 mean?

…dyves & Lazarus…

He crossed the room and reached for a New Testament that lay on the top of the book press against the far wall. Taking it back to his table board, he turned to Luke, chapter sixteen, and started to read, in Latin, the story of the rich man and the poor man, Lazarus. The rich man gave nothing to Lazarus and so ended up in hell, while the poor man was taken into heaven to be with Abraham.

Was Machyn referring to himself as the poor man and him, Clarenceux, as the rich one? He read on. The rich man begged Abraham to send Lazarus to his brothers, to tell them to give generously to the poor. Abraham replied that the living brothers had the writings of Moses and the prophets. If they would not listen to those ancient texts, they would not listen even if a man were to rise from the dead.

Clarenceux rubbed his eyes, unable to make sense of the story. Why did it apply to him? He had no brothers. Did Machyn think that he, Clarenceux, had not been generous enough to the poor? Surely not. As for the reference to ancient texts, did it mean that men in the future should pay attention to chronicles? Like Machyn's own? Was that all there was to this?

Thunder rolled across the sky. Still the rain continued. He put the Bible back on the shelf and turned again to Machyn's book. If this was really about preserving the past, why had he been given the book now? Surely Machyn had more to write?
I
asked
Machyn
the
wrong
question. I should not have asked “why me?” but “why now?”

He turned to the last page. The bottom half was blank. His eye settled on the last passage. It read:
The xj day of Desember Hare Machyn wrytre of this cronacle dyed beyng kylled by ye order of Ricd Crackenthorpe queenes serjant att armes. Esperance.

Clarenceux felt as if he had been punched. Machyn killed? By this Crackenthorpe?
That
date
is
tomorrow. What did Machyn say? “If anything happens to me”? It isn't a case of “if.” He believes he is going to die. He believes it so sincerely that he's written it in his chronicle.

Clarenceux shook his head, his thoughts whirling.
Machyn
cannot
mean
to
kill
himself. Not unless he has some mad idea of doing so and blaming his enemy, through this book. But what does he mean by Esperance? What does hope have to do with his own murder? He mentioned the name of Crackenthorpe on the stairs as he left. He must have known that I would make the connection. But if he had something to say, why did he not tell me? He was more concerned about the book itself and making sure that I took charge of it.

Machyn was concealed in a great cloak of darkness, thunder, and falling water. Clarenceux had no hope of finding him before morning. He might as well go to bed. But how could he? He would not be able to sleep, knowing what he knew. Besides, if Machyn's prediction was right, there were only hours to spare.

He pushed open the shutter to his study and looked down. He felt the cold air on his face and heard the rain on the tiles and in the street. It was pitch black. He could not even see the outline of the roofs on the other side of the road. He pulled the shutter to. But as he did so he caught sight of a book on the table board, the one he had opened just before Machyn had knocked.
A
Visitation
of
ye
counties
of
Essex
and
Suffolke
…

For
heaven's sake, Machyn's life is at stake. And I am worried about getting wet.

He threw off his robe, lifted the candlestick, and went downstairs. “No, don't get up, Thomas,” he commanded, as he marched along the length of the hall. He pulled back the carpet draped over a chest, lifted the lid, and pulled out his leather boots and traveling cope. “I'm going out to search for Machyn,” he explained, seeing Thomas raise himself onto one elbow in the shadows. He unbuckled his shoes, tossed them across into the corner of the hall. “Is there a lantern by the back door?”

“By the door to the kitchen, sir, as always. But Mr. Clarenceux, can you not hear the weather?”

Clarenceux started to pull on his boots. “I know it is bad, Thomas, but I fear for his life. Tell my wife where I am, if she asks for me. I'll be back by dawn.”

Clarenceux and Thomas were not the only men awake that night. Across London, in dark bedchambers, dozens of people were stirring uneasily at the sound of thunder and heavy rain. Some men were lying beside their wives, imagining the mud on the roads in the morning or worrying about money, or disease, or business, or God, or death. Women were awake, listening to their husbands' snoring or their children crying, or the breathing of babies in cradles beside them, hoping that they would survive the cold nights of winter. And a few lay thinking of the searches for heretical texts and the brutal beatings and trials of those who were found practicing the old faith. Had God deserted them? Was this what their queen wanted for them: to be terrorized into this new Protestant faith? Everyone was in darkness, feeling their way around bedchambers, cradles, fears, doubts, injustices.

Among those who were not sleeping were two richly dressed men in a large, high-ceilinged room of a grand new house on the Strand. One of them was in his early forties. His clothes were formal: a deep red velvet robe with gold buttons and shoulder studs, and an elaborate chain of office upon his shoulders. He wore a small ruff around his neck, which was almost concealed by the folds of the hood of the robe. His long, reddish-brown beard was full, and his mustache equally so. His eyes were tired—there were folds of skin beneath them—but they were not unkind. His middle fingers were laden with rings. He was standing, concentrating on a paper document, which he now set down on a fine linen–covered table. Leaning forward, he marked the paper with a quill pen.
Cecil.
He put the pen back on its holder and reached for a cup of wine.

“More traitors, Sir William?” asked his companion, who had been waiting for some while.

“More than ever, Francis. This business is like killing beetles. You see one, and you pick up a stone nearby to crush it, and in so doing you find a dozen more of the damned things crawling around beneath that stone.” Cecil lifted another paper, glanced at it, and then shifted his gaze to the other man. “Talking of crushing, this informer of yours, is he going to live?”

Francis Walsingham was a small, neat man of thirty-one. His black beard and mustache were trimmed short. His hair had begun to recede on the sides, forming a widow's peak; this he tried to cover up with a black cap that fitted tightly to his head. He was dressed entirely in black—doublet, hose, and robe—apart from his white ruff and a single gold ring. Although small, he had the look of an ambitious man, not a compassionate one. He did not smile often, and when he did, it did not signal pleasure so much as the achievement of a personal goal.

“So Draper
is
my informer now, is he, Sir William?” Walsingham walked toward the fireplace. He opened his robe to feel the heat and stood looking into the flames. “He will live. Probably. I do not greatly care. How much he knows is what interests me.”

“You have no more information about his attacker?”

“No. It was stupid of Crackenthorpe to kill him. The pistol was German, very expensive, but anyone of rank could have bought it. The knives were from various makers in London and the north. They tell us nothing.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I have not decided. If we let him go, will he act as bait? Or will he warn Machyn and the others?”

Cecil set down his paper. “I do not believe we have a choice. If he will not tell us about the chronicle, it is likely that he knows little or nothing about it. I'm sure you have tried your usual methods. We must be more imaginative, more creative.”

Walsingham walked toward his patron and lifted a goblet from the table. “That would be dangerous.”

“Our situation was far more dangerous before the message came from Scotland. Only we did not know it.”

Walsingham nodded. “I did think of burning Machyn's house on the assumption that we would destroy everything inside, including the chronicle.”

“Fires are dangerous in London.”

Walsingham's eyes narrowed. “What concerned me was that we would be unable to verify the chronicle was there. We would always be worried that he had given it to one of the other so-called Knights of the Round Table. How many of them are there? Draper said four, but that seems too few. So we do not know. But I do know you could not look her majesty in the eye and tell her that you simply
think
that the chronicle has been destroyed. Lord Dudley would pour scorn on you—and in front of her. You would be forced from her presence.”

Cecil did not react. Walsingham was often direct like this with him, to the point of rudeness. He was the same with others too, even the queen herself. It was an unfortunate side effect of his intense focus, his determination to achieve results. It was best ignored.

“I am not going to fail her, Francis,” Cecil replied calmly, looking at the next item on the pile of papers. “You might be too young to remember her brother's settlement of the throne but, believe me, it still rankles with her majesty.”

Walsingham noted the comment about his age. “I might be younger than you, Sir William, but I know. You signed the document by which King Edward disinherited both his sisters…”

Cecil looked up sharply. “So did Dudley's father, the duke of Northumberland.”

“But when King Edward was dead, and Mary seized power and executed Jane Gray, you blamed Northumberland entirely. You stood by and let him be executed as well. And now his son is her favorite. In jumping between these stepping stones, you have only narrowly avoided being swept away by the torrent.”

Cecil retained his composure. “I sometimes suspect that you forget to whom you are speaking. I was only a witness of that disinheritance, not the protagonist.”

Walsingham set his cup down carefully on the table. He looked Cecil straight in the eye. “I never forget to whom I am speaking, especially not when it's you, Sir William. I am grateful for your patronage every hour of the day. I am grateful for my place in Parliament. But you would not continue to value me if I forgot your weaknesses. You should pay more attention to them yourself. And every lie you utter is a weakness, for every lie is a hostage to the truth. I
know
you were more than a witness. You confessed as much to the late queen. I heard so from those who were there.”

Cecil hesitated, then made himself smile. “True, Francis. How true. I too would have been executed if it had not been for the late queen, God rest her soul. And her sister, our blessed Elizabeth, God grant her long life.” He paused, allowing Walsingham to try to guess what he might say next. “It is somewhat ironic that I should be so profoundly grateful to a Catholic queen as well as a Protestant one. Do you not agree?”

Walsingham said nothing. It was not ironic; it was a mark of Cecil's genius. And he, Walsingham, knew it more than anyone. Anyone, that is, except Elizabeth herself.

He wandered back toward the fireplace. “The reason I came this evening is not to delight you with my manners. I am aware that certain talents, such as flattery, are quite beyond my abilities. Nor can I debate the finer points of religious tolerance and treason with you. I am more interested in finding these Knights of the Round Table. Like you, I do not think that Draper knows more than he has already told us. He is a coward, like most selfish men. He would not have given us the name of Henry Machyn or told us about the chronicle if he was trying to conceal the plot. So, I propose that we let him go—to be bait on the end of our fishing line—and that we watch him. But when we get Machyn, or any of his accomplices, how far do we go to get the truth?”

“If you are asking whether your men may apply torture…”

“It is a delicate subject, I fully understand. Some of Draper's friends are wealthy.”

“You also appreciate that her majesty does not approve of painful techniques.” Cecil picked up his cup of wine and took a sip. He set the cup back down again, turning it between his fingers on the table. “However, she does not approve of rebellion either.”

“So, if the enmity of these men is sufficient to warrant it?”

“Then God will thank you for doing what you have to do.”

Walsingham nodded. He turned to leave. Cecil's voice made him pause.

“Do not forget, Francis, that as long as Elizabeth is queen, God is not just all-forgiving. He is Protestant too.”