Sacred Treason (41 page)

This is a work of fiction, but it was inspired by some extant historical documents created by and referring to real historical characters. The real Clarenceux King of Arms in 1563 was one William Harvey (not Harley), who was appointed in 1556 and died in 1567. The real Henry Machyn was one of William Harvey's London friends: he was a merchant taylor, funeral arranger, and parish clerk, who died in November 1563. Machyn's name would have faded into obscurity if it had not been for his chronicle or “cronacle” (as he himself called it). He began writing in 1550, shortly before the death of his brother, Christopher. According to the official copy of his will, he left his chronicle to “Master Clarenceux” (i.e., William Harvey).

Sometime after the death of William Harvey, the chronicle was acquired by the great collector Robert Cotton (d. 1631). It thus became part of what was without doubt the greatest library of English historical manuscripts ever assembled by an individual. This massive collection was later moved to Ashburnham House in Westminster where, on October 23, 1731, a terrible fire destroyed the building. Many manuscripts were lost altogether. Many others were rescued as flames consumed their outer edges—Machyn's manuscript was one of these. Its binding, margins, and spine were all burnt away; only the central portion of each page survived. For the next hundred years these charred pages lay loose and unsorted in a box in the British Museum. Eventually they were put in order by Sir Frederick Madden in 1829 and edited by John Gough Nichols, being published as
The
Diary
of
Henry
Machyn, Citizen and Merchant-Taylor of London
in 1848. A growing interest in sixteenth-century history brought it to wider notice, and so Henry Machyn was included in the first edition of the
Dictionary
of
National
Biography
, published in 1893.

In 1999, when working at the Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts, I was commissioned to rewrite the entry on Henry Machyn for what was to become
The
Oxford
Dictionary
of
National
Biography
. Over the course of the twentieth century, his self-taught style of writing had led to his text being studied as one of the few examples of phonetic spelling to survive from the Tudor period. In addition, his unusual choice of words—which verged perhaps on dialect—meant that his chronicle was not just valuable to social historians, but a key work for linguistic scholars too, especially for those who wanted to know how English sounded before Shakespeare and how different regional accents could be mapped for the early period. But where was Henry Machyn originally from? Was he a Yorkshireman or a Londoner? Being a historian rather than a linguistic expert, I set about answering this question in a purely historical way, through archival research. I found the official copy of his will, which was previously unknown, in the Corporation of London Records Office, together with another family will. Using these documents and other archival sources, the family origins could be shown to lie in northern Leicestershire. I then pursued my interest in Machyn further, drawing upon references to him in the Merchant Taylors' records and other parish sources. The result was an article, “Tudor Chronicler or Sixteenth-century Diarist? Henry Machyn and the Nature of His Manuscript,” published in
The
Sixteenth
Century
Journal
(volume xxxiii, 2002, pp. 981–998). This remains the fullest account of his life and work.

In the course of my research I followed up a reference in Machyn's chronicle to the painter-stainer John Heath (d. 1553), father of Lancelot Heath, who was a witness of Machyn's will. One line in Heath's own will (which is now in the National Archives, PROB 11/25/Bucke), inspired this book:

Item I give and bequeath to the Knights of the Round Table if I do it not by life time twenty shillings to be spent at Mile End.

Machyn mentioned this bequest in his chronicle, stating under an entry for March 22, 1563, (the day of John Heath's funeral) that the Painters and the Clerks “had twenty shillings to make merry with all at the tavern.” But it was the reference to the “Knights of the Round Table” that attracted my attention. Having also written an article for the
ODNB
on Thomas Talbot, one of the founder members of the Elizabethan Society of Antiquaries, I knew there were various societies that had huge political importance. Indeed, the original Society of Antiquaries was suppressed due to its growing political influence. I thought about that reference to “the Knights of the Round Table” for the next ten years.

Machyn's chronicle is not a seditious document, but it is an extraordinary one, describing the drama of day-to-day life in early Elizabethan England and detailing a very large number of executions for treason and heresy.

Recently a new edition, entitled
A
London
Provisioner's Chronicle, 1550–1563
, by Henry Machyn has been created under the auspices of Professor Richard Bailey and made freely available online as a joint publication of the University of Michigan Press and the Scholarly Publishing Office of the University of Michigan Library (http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/machyn/). Incidentally, this allows clarity as to the meaning of “drawing” in the phrase “hanging, drawing, and quartering.” It does not normally refer at this period to disembowelling but the process of dragging the condemned person to the gallows. A good example is that of Mr. William Thomas: Machyn states that he was arraigned at the Guildhall in May 1554 and sentenced to “suffer death, to be drawn and quarted.” Machyn goes on to say that some days later, on May 18, 1554, Mr. Thomas:

“was drawn upon a sled…from the Tower unto Tyburn…And he was hanged and after his head struck off and then quartered. And the morrow after his head was set on London Bridge and three quarters set over Cripplegate'.

Clearly the sentence of “drawing” resulted in the man being “drawn” in a sled, publicly, to the place of execution—not to having his entrails pulled out of him while he was still alive.

As mentioned above, the original binding and the beginning and end pages were lost in the fire in 1731, and so, in developing the plot in this book, I had some freedom to invent two entries that Machyn never wrote—specifically the first and last lines. However, the other quotations from Machyn's chronicle are present in the original (although I have modernized some spellings). The quotation from Machyn's will is similarly a genuine one. The epitaph on Lord Percy's tomb in Hackney church is likewise accurate, and
Esperance
was an actual Percy family motto—although the additional lines from Job were not on the original tomb. Many other elements of the story are based on historical reality—the collapse of the spire of St. Paul's, the parishes of residence of the protagonists, the timing of the full moon in December 1563, Sir William Cecil's patronage of the young Walsingham, Cecil's house on the Strand, the location of the Bull's Head tavern, the appearance of Sheffield Manor, Lady Percy's Catholic sympathies, the existence of chalk caverns in Chislehurst, the layout of Hackney in Elizabethan times, and Eustace Chapuys's letter to the Holy Roman Emperor, to point to just a few. Creating the story has been an interesting experience for me as a historian, juggling with past reality, allowing some facts to fall, and inventing others to suit the fiction. Sir William Cecil and Francis Walsingham were genuine characters, of course, as were Lord and Lady Percy and the royal individuals. Richard Crackenthorpe and Julius Fawcett are fictitious characters. Three historical individuals have had their names changed. One is William Harvey himself. Another is Henry Machyn's wife, who was actually called Dorothy Lawe or Lowe (not Rebecca). Daniel Gyttens—one of the actual signatories of Henry Machyn's will—was correctly Davy Gyttens.

The possible illegitimacy of Queen Elizabeth is a tantalizing mystery. As stated in the book, the Act of Parliament
Titulus
Regis
(1484) did establish two circumstances for the illegitimacy of Edward V—his father's pre-contract of marriage with another woman (Eleanor Butler), and the subsequent marriage
in
secret
to Edward V's mother (Elizabeth Woodville). Henry VII repealed this Act shortly after gaining the throne in 1485 and had the original cut out of the records and burnt, but copies did survive and were known in the sixteenth century. On top of this, it is worth noting that it was the
circumstances
, not the Act itself, that removed the boy from the throne: the Act was passed a year after Richard III had taken the crown from his nephew on the grounds of illegitimacy. So it is fair to argue, historically, that Queen Elizabeth was similarly vulnerable at the start of her reign, for her circumstances were similar to those of Edward V. To be precise, her father had been previously married (to Catherine of Aragon) and his second marriage (to Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth's mother) took place in secret. Although it could be said that Henry VIII's first marriage was annulled, there remained a question mark over Anne Boleyn. If she too had previously been contracted to Lord Percy, before marrying Henry VIII in secret, then Elizabeth was illegitimate on her mother's side as well as (arguably) on her father's.

Did Lord Percy and Anne Boleyn actually marry? There seems little doubt that marriage was discussed. The evidence principally comes from three sources. First, there is Chapuys's letter of May 2, 1536, to the Holy Roman Emperor (published in Pascual de Gayangos [ed.],
Calendar
of
Letters, Despatches and State Papers Relating to the Negotiations between England and Spain, volume v part ii: Henry VIII, 1536–1538
[London, 1888], pp. 107–108 and quoted in part in this novel). This clearly states that Henry VIII originally sought to be divorced from Anne Boleyn by claiming that she had married Lord Percy before 1527, and it goes so far as to state that they had consummated the marriage. Second, there is Henry's papal permission in 1527 to marry a woman “who has already contracted marriage with some other person, provided she has not consummated it”—quoted in E. W. Ives,
Anne
Boleyn
(Blackwell, 1986, p. 79). Thirdly, there is the evidence of Mary Talbot, the countess of Northumberland, who attempted to annul her marriage to her husband Lord Percy, earl of Northumberland, in 1532 on the basis that he had admitted to her he had previously been contracted in marriage with Anne Boleyn (Ives,
Anne
Boleyn
, pp. 79, 207). These three independent pieces of evidence suggest that Anne Boleyn had indeed been contracted to marry Lord Percy prior to 1527. In addition, it may be significant that Chapuys stated in his letter that there were many witnesses willing to testify that Anne Boleyn had been married to Percy. However, Henry VIII was not above concocting stories to suit his political ends, and that included forcing people to act as false witnesses. So, while it is probable that some sort of contract between Lord Percy and Anne Boleyn was made, whether or not they exchanged vows and had sexual intercourse prior to 1527 is a matter for speculation. As in all ages, even if “the truth” is known, its meaning and importance are relative—and heavily dependent on the political vicissitudes of changing times.

—(Ian) James Forrester (Mortimer)

Read on for an excerpt from

By James Forrester

Saturday, April 29, 1564

William Harley, officially known by his heraldic title of Clarenceux King of Arms, was naked. He was lying in his bed in his house in the parish of St Bride, just outside the city walls of London. Leaning up on one arm, he ran his fingers down the skin of his wife's back, golden in the candlelight. He drew them back again, slowly, up to her shoulders, moving her blond hair aside so he could see her more fully. She is so precious, so beautiful, he thought. My Saxon Princess. My Aethelfritha, my Etheldreda, my Awdrey.

He withdrew his hand as the candle in the alcove above him spluttered. He looked at the curve of the side of her breast, pressed into the bed. The feeling of their union was still with him. The ecstasy had not just been one thrill, it had been many simultaneous pleasures – all of which had merged into one euphoria that had overwhelmed him, leaving him aglow.

She turned her head and smiled up at him again, lovingly. She was twenty-five years of age now. He felt lucky and grateful. Not only for the pleasure but also for the knowledge of just how great his pleasure could be. He leant over and kissed her.

The candle in the alcove above the bed went out.

He lay down and let his thoughts drift in the darkness. Six months ago he had almost destroyed his own happiness, disconcerted and attracted by another woman. Rebecca Machyn. He shuddered as he remembered how he and Rebecca had been pursued, terrified together. She had seen him at his lowest, and he her. They had supported each other and, in a way, he had fallen in love with her. But he had never had doubts about his loyalty to his wife. That was what troubled him. Two women and two forms of love. It was not something that most Godfearing men and women ever spoke about.

What did he feel for Rebecca now? In the darkness he sought his true feelings. There was a part of him that still loved her. His feelings for his wife were an inward thing: a matter of the heart. He loved Awdrey because of what he knew about her and what they had built together, what they shared. His affection for Rebecca Machyn was the opposite: an outward thing. She showed him what he did not know, the doubts, the wonder and the fear that he knew existed in the world.

That outward-looking, questioning part of his nature worried him. The reason he had spent so much time with Rebecca was his possession of a secret document, and that document was still here, in this house. Awdrey did not know. That in itself felt like a betrayal. The document was so dangerous that men had died because of it. When Rebecca's husband, Henry Machyn, had given it to him the previous year, the man had declared that the fate of two queens depended on its safekeeping. And when Clarenceux had discovered its true nature – a marriage agreement between Lord Percy and Anne Boleyn, which proved that Queen Elizabeth was illegitimate and had no right to the throne – he had understood why it was so sensitive. Only when Sir William Cecil, the queen's Principal Secretary, had asked him to keep it safely did his life start to return to normal. But never did he feel safe. Not for one moment.

He knew, later that morning, he would go up to his study at the front of the house and check that the document was still where he had hidden it. It was a ritual. More than a ritual: it was an obsession. Sometimes he would check it three or four times in one day. The knowledge that he possessed the means to demonstrate that the Protestant queen was illegitimate and that the rightful queen should be one of her cousins – either the Protestant Lady Katherine Grey, sister of the beheaded Lady Jane Grey; or Mary, the Catholic queen of Scotland – was not something he could ever forget. His fear of what would happen if he should lose the marriage agreement beat in his heart like his love for Rebecca Machyn. Both were dark and dangerous. The ecstasy of his love-making with his wife was so blissful and so pure by comparison – and yet he could not ignore the dark side within himself.

He felt Awdrey turn over and cuddle up beside him, nestling under his arm. He was a tall man and she of average height, so his arm around her felt protective. She ran her hand over his side, where he had been scarred in a sword fight five months earlier.

“How is it now?”

“Fine.”

“I don't want you to exert yourself too much.”

“If it had torn just now, it would have been worth it.” He remembered the day when he had suffered the wound – at Summerhill, the house of his old friend Julius Fawcett, near Chislehurst. He wondered how Julius was now. “What would you say to the idea of going down to Summerhill next week?”

“I promised I would take the girls to see Lady Cecil. She wants them to play with her little boy, Robert.”

Clarenceux lay silent. Sir William Cecil's wife was godmother to their younger daughter, Mildred. The idea of Annie and Mildred playing with Robert was a little optimistic. Robert Cecil was three, their daughter Annie was six and Mildred just one. It was Awdrey's polite way of saying that she would not refuse the invitation. Lady Cecil, being one of the cleverest women in England, was something of a heroine to her. Both women had been pregnant together and, although that child of Lady's Cecil's had died, she was expecting again, which made her call more frequently on Awdrey. The relationship was not without its benefits to him too. It was immensely valuable to have a family connection through Lady Cecil to Sir William, the queen's Principle Secretary and one of the two most powerful men in the country, the other being Robert Dudley, the queen's favourite.

Awdrey moved her hand over his chest, feeling the hair. “You could go by yourself.”

He was meant to be planning his next visitation. Soon he would have to ride out and record all the genealogies in one of the counties, visiting all the great houses with his pursuivants, clerks and official companions. The purpose was to check the veracity of all claims to coats of arms and heraldic insignia, and to make sure that those with dubious or non-existent claims were exposed as false claimants. He had completed a visitation of Suffolk three years earlier and one of Norfolk the previous year. He had finished his notes on the visitation of Devon, and had discussed the gentry of that county at length with his friend and fellow antiquary, John Hooker. But he could put off actually going to Devon until June, and so could delay the planning for another week, and enjoy the late spring in Kent with his old friend.

“I may well do that,” he replied.

Awdrey touched his face. He felt her hand move over his beard and cheek. Her finger traced his lips, then slipped down over his chest, to his midriff.

“How tired are you?” she asked.