Sacred Treason (5 page)

Clarenceux walked cautiously through the darkness of his stable yard, holding the unlit lantern in his left hand and reaching out with his right for the wall. Rain dripped down the side of his face. He felt stone and moved to his left until he touched the wooden gate. It was unfastened.
The
stable
lad
must
have
failed
to
close
it
properly.

A shutter banged somewhere; otherwise, he could hear nothing except the incessant rain. He moved slowly along the dark of Fleet Street, running his hand along the front of his neighbor's house. He wished it were not quite so dark—just a clearer sight of a roofline would have helped.

He wondered which way he should take. How was he to get past the city gates? They would be closed, and the city walls were impossibly high. He knew that certain houses abutted the walls but he had no idea where he might climb up. He had no option but to find the door by which Machyn himself had come, by the Cripplegate elm. Machyn must have gone back that way, returning to his house. To his wife, Rebecca, and son, John.

Clarenceux could just make out the shadowy shape of St. Bride's Church and the line of the city wall along the far bank of the Fleet, leading down to the Thames. He could hear the water of the river gushing under the bridge ahead. Knowing the road well, he walked a little faster with his arms out in front of him in case he should trip over some unseen obstacle in his path.

Here was the bridge. The river below was in full spate. He could smell the refuse that littered the banks and see the shadow of the city walls. Some nights when the weather had been better, he had stood at this spot and looked down at the Thames, seeing the moon in the water. Not tonight.

On the city side of the Fleet, the wall made a sharp turn and moved away from the river up the hill to Ludgate. Abutting the wall were two lines of houses, one behind the other. He walked on, wiping the water from his face, until he came to the looming blackness of Ludgate itself. The gate was shut fast, but Clarenceux was reassured: he was cold and wet but he knew where he was. He turned and followed the line of houses built along the wall to the north, along the line of the Old Bailey.

He came to a corner. The tall shadow on his right was Newgate. Muffled shouts came from within a building nearby; a fight must have broken out in the prison. He sighed, despondent. At this rate it would take him all night to reach Machyn's house.

Ahead was the gate of the old priory of St. Bartholomew the Great. Once it had been a beautiful church. He cursed the old king—as he always did when he came here—for Henry the Eighth had ordered the destruction of the nave and all the abbey buildings. Twenty years had now passed; what was left was a paltry wreck. That was the thing that enraged him about Protestants. They might speak from conviction, and they might seek God's will just as fervently as those of the old religion—but then they recklessly destroyed things of divine beauty. That could not be done with God's blessing. They spoke for themselves, not with God in their hearts.

He wiped his face and leaned against a wall. Ahead there was an intense dark shadow—St. Giles's Church; it would not be much further to the elm. He could see the outline of the city's north wall and Cripplegate ahead. He made his way toward it until he felt the cold stone of the gate tower beneath his hand. He stepped carefully forward, slipping in the mud and pressing himself against the wall. He sensed the elm, which grew from the side of the bank, and then felt its bark. He moved between it and the wall. Here was the door, still unlocked. It creaked open, and he went through.

He was now in a dark, sheltered yard, somewhere just inside the north wall of the city, as blind as he had been when he first stepped out of his house. He reached up and felt the wet shingles of a low roof.
It
must
be
a
stable
of
some
sort, or the blacksmith's forge. What's the smith's name? Lowe. Not that he is likely to appear now, not in this weather.

Clarenceux's knee struck stone. He bent down and felt a large water-filled cistern.
Water
for
the
forge.
He moved around it; not far away was another door. He found the latch and opened it tentatively. He closed the door behind him and started to walk down the right-hand side of the street.

Holding the unlit lantern in his left hand, he ran his right over the walls and shop fronts, doors and stone pillars. He bumped into barrels, mounting blocks, carts, cases, and piles of wood. His ankle clipped a crate lying in the darkness in the street. At one point he slipped and fell in the mud, landing on his hands and knees in the wet slime, fumbling around in the dark for his lantern and hat.

Why
am
I
doing
this? Machyn's problems are his own.

No. He needs my help. And despite his age, he managed this journey in the dark. So I can too.

A dog started barking nearby. Trembling, he reached out and felt the stone of a pillar. It was the church gate of St. Mary Aldermanbury.

O
blessed
savior
Jesus, help me.

He leaned against the church wall, gasping. He felt pain in his hand and realized he was grinding his palm into the stone of the church wall. What was happening to him? Fear. To go on would be to leave the comfort of the church and enter a deeper, malevolent darkness: a darkness in which he would be as fully visible to the Devil as if it were daylight, and all the iniquities of the city at night would be invisible to him.

Lying in the darkness, Rebecca Machyn wiped the tears from her face. She turned in the narrow bed.
What
have
we
done
to
deserve
this?

She remembered Henry's words, and his kisses. And his tears. And the emptiness of the words he had spoken—how his reassurances had sounded false and shallow, and yet how deeply distressed he had been.

She had done as he had said. Mistress Barker had been very good to her, as usual. She had let her have a chamber at the front so she could watch over her own house. Rebecca had heard people passing several times and knocking on the door. But if Henry had returned, he was not answering their calls.

She tried to remember happier times. The day she married Henry: it had been a bright January morning, nearly fifteen years ago. But every memory of that day led inexorably to the first terrible memory of her marriage. Mary lying there, eighteen months old, forever motionless in the cot. The stillness of death. It was as if, in dying, the child had become a cruel hoax played upon her by the Devil—as if the child had never really had life but only the appearance of it. And then Katherine at the same age. An object in the cot with its eyes open. No longer hers. No longer female or even human.

How good Henry had been to her then. How understanding.

The third time it had happened—three years ago—she had wanted to die herself. To be with her babies, to open the door to heaven for them.
If
it
hadn't been for Henry, I would have done it. I would have thrown myself off the bridge. Only he stopped me. Wise Henry. He knew. He had lost four of his five children by Joan, his first wife, and then Joan herself had died. My three girls were not even half of his sorrow. He still prays for her and for all seven of his dead children. He does not deserve even more grief.

Outside, men were talking in low voices. She turned again on the straw mattress, her cheek lying on the wet pillow.

Clarenceux gasped, sodden and cold. His face was soaked with rain. He was shaking.

Here
is
the
street, Little Trinity Lane. Machyn's house is on the left, about forty yards down the road. The first-floor jetty is lower than those on either side.

He walked on. At full stretch he could touch the projecting beams of the houses with his fingertips. He ran his hand along and felt the jetties until he found one that was lower. He felt a wooden beam, plaster, a wooden doorframe, a door…

He drew the knife that hung from his belt and struck with the hilt against the door three times, just as Machyn had knocked on his door earlier.

No answer came, nor was there any sound except the raindrops in the puddles.
If
Henry
is
not
at
home, I'll speak to his wife or his son.

Again, he knocked.

As he waited, the doubts came upon him. And then the fear grew again. This time he knew he had reason to be afraid. He heard footsteps somewhere, splashing through puddles.

Suddenly a gloved hand clamped down on his neck and forced his face hard against the door. A shoulder shoved him in the back, so that one of the iron studs bruised his ribs. Held there, with an arm across his throat, he dropped the lantern. He felt a stranger's gloved hand searching him, pulling apart his fingers.

“Drop the knife.” The voice was rough and deep, the uneducated growl of a soldier from the north.

Clarenceux did not drop the knife. “I am William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms, herald to her majesty Queen Elizabeth, by divine grace Queen of England, France, and Wales and Lord of Ireland,” he shouted into the darkness. “Take your hands off me!”

“Drop the knife,” said the man holding him, “or I'll stick it in your groin.”

Clarenceux sensed several men around him. “Give your name!” he shouted back, letting go of the knife.

“What are you doing here, herald? And without a light?”

“Had you a light yourself, you would see that I do have a lantern. It went out some time ago in this accursed rain. It is on the ground at my feet.”

The stranger's hand let go. Clarenceux turned. Suddenly a brilliant, intense light burst in his face. It burnt into his eyes, making him flinch. One of his interrogator's companions had opened the aperture of a mirrored lantern and was holding it up. Clarenceux could only blink as the light rose and swept down to the doorstep and mud where his own cold lantern lay.

There were six of them. He saw the circle of their hats and faces briefly. Then the light disappeared, and he was once more in darkness.

“Pick up your knife and put it away.”

Clarenceux bent down and slotted the blade into the sheath on his belt. “I demand to know who is addressing me in this manner.”

“I am Richard Crackenthorpe, one of her majesty's sergeants-at-arms. These men are warders of the city, acting under my orders. And now, herald, tell me what you are doing here.” An arm reached forward and started to push him against Machyn's front door.

Clarenceux knocked it away. “Address me with civility. I am Mr. Clarenceux to you, Cracken—”

A hand shoved his head back hard against the door and held him there by the throat.

“I don't care about your title or you. All I care about is why you are here. Getting to the marrow of truth within your bones, even if I have to snap them. Do you understand?”

Clarenceux struggled to speak. “My business…is my own. And I will have you…hauled before the mayor…for this outrage.”

“You will regret that comment. Lord Paget was your patron. A dead man. And I piss on you for threatening me.”

The man who had been holding him withdrew and punched him in the stomach. However, Clarenceux had anticipated the blow and had braced himself in advance. It did not wind him. There was a moment's silence.

Clarenceux swallowed and wiped the water from his face angrily.
Crackenthorpe
must
have
spent
time
in
the
army. That is how he knows about Paget.

“I will drive a chisel between your ribs,” said Crackenthorpe. “I ask you again, what are you doing here?”

Clarenceux shook his head. He did not understand the danger he was facing, but he knew he would gain nothing by backing down now. “Where is Henry Machyn? What have you done with him?”

“Damn your eyes! Why are you calling on him?”

“For the sake of Him who died for us. For the sake of mercy—and because of my duty. I am an officer in the queen's service!”

“And so am I, Mr. Clarenceux. Performing my duty.”

“But are you about her majesty's business? Or your own?”

“Don't waste my time, herald. I am investigating a case of treason against the Crown. Do you think I want to be out, getting my boots and hose sodden? Do you think I like this wind and rain? So, I have told you my business. You tell me yours. You are not designing shields in this darkness. Or researching the history of some noble family. Speak.”

Clarenceux wiped the rain from his face. Now he realized why no one had answered the door. Crackenthorpe had been watching the house.

“I am going to return home now.”

“You are going to answer my questions first.”

“Your questions are no concern of mine,” shouted Clarenceux, knowing people nearby would be listening in their bedchambers. “I am not only a herald. I am a freeman of this city. I am a warden of a livery company. I have the right to go about the city after curfew with a lantern. There is no crime in knocking on the door of an old friend—whose declining health is of deep concern to me—whatever the hour of the night.”

“I am warning you, Mr. Clarenceux—”

“No, Crackenthorpe. I am warning
you
. I am also a member of her majesty's household. I can bully and cajole and throw my weight around like you. But I have more weight. It bears more heavily in higher places. What would her majesty's Secretary of State think of your accusing me of treason without due cause, just for being out at night and calling on an old friend?”

“You fool. You don't know—”

“Listen to me. Whom will Sir William Cecil trust more—you or me? The last time I spoke to him, at my daughter's christening, he urged me to look out for abuses of royal authority. Do you want to keep your position? Or do you want to end up running a tavern in some run-down tenement, with shit and vomit in the sewer outside the front door and a stinking tanyard out back? That seems to be the only other line of occupation open to old soldiers in this city.”

Crackenthorpe put his face close to Clarenceux's. “I too have friends in power, friends who will persuade her majesty to grant me a pardon for your death. And I know you did not come here to inquire after that man's health.”

“Then I presume you have some evidence, and some reason for this harassment. If so, the magistrates will listen to you. But you do not.”

“I know about Sir Dagonet,” hissed Crackenthorpe, trying to keep his voice down. “He talked.”

“And who, I pray your accursed soul, is Sir Dagonet?”

Clarenceux sensed a shifting among the men. No one spoke. He bent down and felt around on the ground for his hat and lantern. The ring of his hat was cold when he put it on. “Now, as I said, I am going to return to my own house.”

“And how will you get past the gate? Perhaps the same way you came in?” There was a sneer in Crackenthorpe's voice.

Clarenceux paused. To mention the Cripplegate entrance would be to betray Machyn. “I was going to ask the watch on Ludgate if they would kindly allow me through.”

“I know all the ways in and out of this city by night. Perhaps it was along the ditch on the back of the Ludgate tenements you came in? Or over the top of one of them, onto the walls? Maybe you took a small boat to the wharf at Dowgate, or somewhere else along that stretch of the river. Yes?”

“Sergeant Crackenthorpe, you are not speaking to some petty thief. I would be grateful if you would accompany me to Ludgate. I need hardly remind you that my lantern has gone out.”

“Mr. Clarenceux, I will accompany you back to your house. I would like to know exactly where it is.”

***

Clarenceux leaned against his front door. “Here.”

“Good,” growled Crackenthorpe, holding up his lantern to see as much of the house as he could. “We will know where to come. Good-bye, Mr. Clarenceux. I have no doubt that we will meet again.”

Clarenceux said nothing but turned and walked down the alley beside his house. He felt for the handle on the back door and went in. He took off his hat, hearing the splatter of drips on the floor, and walked along the passage past the kitchen. He fumbled for the latch on the door to the buttery, smelling the sweet scent of ale and wine. He was shivering. He cursed the night under his breath, throwing down his hat and untying his cope, letting it fall. He undid the laces to his sopping ruff and unfastened his soaked doublet: these too he left where they fell, together with his hose. In darkness he undressed down to his shirt and braies, and in these wet underclothes he stepped out of the buttery and walked up the stairs.

His legs ached. He paused on the landing, with the door into the hall on his left. Directly opposite were the doors to the parlor and the guest chamber. He considered sleeping in the empty guest bed. But no, he wanted to find his own room. And see his wife.

A faint light reached him as he neared the second floor. He could see the door to his elder daughter's chamber. It was shut; there was no light around the edges. He nodded quietly in the darkness.
God
bless
you, Annie. Stay safe, my sweet.
Then he turned around, and looked at the door to his own chamber. It was ajar, candlelight coming from within.

He pushed the door. It creaked as it swung.

The candle was burning in the alcove above the bed. His wife Awdrey was asleep, half propped up on a bolster. She had obviously been waiting for him. She stirred at the sound of the door but did not wake. Their younger daughter was asleep in her cot on Awdrey's side of the bed, wrapped up well against the cold. Clarenceux smiled. Awdrey was a good mother, so dutiful to both their daughters. The candlelight cast a glow over both of them, allowing him to see his daughter's face and the gold of his wife's hair; she had fallen asleep without her nightcap. She looked at her most beautiful like that, when asleep and natural, he thought. Still not twenty-five. He liked to say her name in Latin,
Etheldreda
, and in Old English, Aethelfrith. She was his Saxon princess. When he looked at her he knew he was a lucky man.

It would be light in three hours. Then the serious questions would begin.