Sacred Treason (6 page)

Henry Machyn stirred at the sound of the stable door opening. For a moment he thought he heard the stableboy, coming to see to the horses. Suddenly he was fully awake, his body rigid. Four or five men were down in the yard. He could hear voices. Through the opening where the ladder was, he saw a light. One of them had a lantern.

His heart was beating with fear and disbelief. How could anyone know he was here? But they were looking for him.

Clarenceux
must
have
betrayed
me.

The realization brought shock to his heart and tears to his eyes. He had trusted the man. He had given him his book.
The
book. Everything he still hoped for and cherished now lay in ruins. Twenty-six years of keeping a secret, wasted.

How
could
Clarenceux
have
done
this?

He heard feet on the rungs of the ladder. A second later, he saw a man's hat and the shadow of a head. The man lifted a lantern. A gold brilliance touched the harness hanging there, the piles of hay, several old apple barrels, and the stacked hemp sacks full of oats.

The man saw Machyn and smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “Sergeant Crackenthorpe,” he called down. “He's here!”

Saturday, December 11

Clarenceux was sitting in his candlelit study with his robe close around him. He was alone again but for Henry Machyn's chronicle, smelling the wood smoke of his study. He heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment later his daughter Annie appeared, holding an orange. Her brown hair was tied back, showing off her high forehead.

“Annie, you should be asleep. It's very late,” he said, welcoming her into his arms.

“Yes, but Mother said I could show you this,” she replied, thrusting out the orange and smiling. “We buyed it in the market. It was priced a shilling.”

“You
bought
it in the market,” he corrected. “Not
buyed
it.” He took the orange and held it up, examining it. “A whole shilling? Do you know why it was so much?”

“Why?”

“Oranges grow on trees in a country far away, called Spain, where the sun shines all day long. Then they are picked and packed in barrels…”

Annie was not listening. She was looking at the chronicle that lay open on the table board. “What is this?” she asked.

“A book. A chronicle.”

“What does it say?”

“It says, ‘December the eleventh. On this day did Ann, daughter of Mr. Clarenceux—'”

Clarenceux stopped suddenly. The next words read:
dye
from
her
ateing
of
an
orange
fruyte.

“Go. Go downstairs, now,” he commanded.

He watched her go. She left the door open. He knew she would be crying; he had been too abrupt. But he had had reason: this was outrageous. How dare Machyn write such things! Did the man not hope to win his favor? How far had his wits wandered?

He turned back to the chronicle. The next entry read:
Ye following daye dyed his wyfe Awdrey from the poysoninge appel gyven unto her by Mr. Clarenshux because hee dyd not anymoore love her.

He swept the book off the table board, sending his visitation, two other volumes, inkwell, and paper flying across the chamber. As it fell he stood up, rage filling his body, and turned the board itself over. Did he not love her? He bent down and lifted the chronicle, and threw it with all his force across the room. Did he not love them both? His daughter? His wife? The mother of his children? How could anyone have written…

“William, William!” he heard his wife shout. “William, stop it!”

He opened his eyes. It was light, the shutters were open. Awdrey was leaning over him, a loose strand of blonde hair hanging down.

Clarenceux rubbed his hand over his face, feeling his brow soaked with sweat. He lay back in his bed, warm and fresh, where the study in his dream had been smoky and cold. It seemed to him as if the malevolence of the previous night had come back with him, into his house.

That
book
…

It had been a prophetic dream, he knew. He had to give the book back to Machyn. But today was the day that Machyn had foretold was the day of his death.

“You've been thrashing about in your sleep like a man possessed,” said Awdrey, her voice tinged with fear. “Where were you last night? I waited after all that knocking on the door, but you didn't come to bed. Thomas told me this morning that you went out. And now you are shouting in your sleep, shouting about me and about Annie like a man gone mad, beating your arms about. What happened? Where did you go?”

He sat upright and breathed deeply. Calmer now, he swung his legs out of the bed and sat in his shirt, looking at the open window.

Blue sky. The rain had stopped. He looked at the crucifix on the wall.

“Did Thomas tell you who called last night?”

“He said it was Goodman Machyn.”

“Yes, it was Machyn,” he replied, glancing at her. “He is in trouble.”

“Trouble? What sort of trouble?”

“He is in fear of his life. He was terrified. I didn't realize at first how serious his situation was. It only occurred to me later, after he had gone. So I went after him. A royal sergeant-at-arms stopped me.”

“William, that was not sensible.”

Clarenceux gazed out of the window. “I thought at the time I could help him.”

Awdrey said nothing.

Clarenceux stood up. “Will you fetch me some water?”

Awdrey slipped off the bed and picked up the jug. With it, she filled the brass basin on the floor, draped a towel over her arm, and then lifted the basin and carried it to her husband. He nodded his thanks and splashed cold water over his face, wetting his shirt.

“There is some sort of conspiracy afoot,” he said. “Machyn is involved. He believes he will be killed today.”

He took the towel from her arm and wiped his face. He threw it on the bed and stood, looking into her blue eyes. “I didn't realize it was treason. I still don't think it is. I thought…” He searched her frightened eyes. “I don't know what I thought. I felt that whatever trouble he might be in, he is a good man, and so I had no choice but to try to help him.”

“How?” she asked, a little coldly. “In what way could you have helped?”

Clarenceux shook his head. “I cannot tell you, my love.” He looked away. He let go of her and went over to his clothes chest. He lifted the lid and pulled out a folded shirt. It smelled strongly of lavender and cloves, like the rest of his clean linen. “All I know is that…I have to find out more. I am going to go and look for him this morning.”

“You still intend to? Even though he is a traitor? And you mean to go by yourself?”

“Goodman Machyn is not a traitor. I'll take Thomas with me.”

“Go with friends. No one argues with you when you have your heralds and pursuivants about you.”

Clarenceux lifted a clean pair of hose from his clothes chest. “I will take Thomas,” he repeated. “All I need to do is ask Machyn one thing.”

Clarenceux stood on his doorstep and looked up and down Fleet Street. The sky was clear blue; he could see his breath in the cold morning air. A few people were coming into the city from the west. A man in an old green coat was leading a mule pulling a cart full of wooden crates. A woman in a white headdress was carrying two barrels of water suspended from a yoke over her shoulders, hurrying back to her house. Two well-dressed merchants were talking to each other as they rode along side by side. There was nothing unusual in the scene.

But something was not right.

He stepped casually into the street, waiting for Thomas to come out of the house.

On the same side of the road as his house, further toward the Strand, a young man was leaning against the side of a passageway. He immediately drew back, out of sight, as Clarenceux looked in his direction.

“Thomas, finally, you are ready,” Clarenceux said loudly, seeing his manservant emerge. His breath rose in the cold air. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Let us go.”

The street was a churned-up quagmire. The morning sun reflected off the ripples of mud and puddles that led all the way along to the River Fleet and the road to Ludgate beyond. But the air was fresh after the rain. Thomas followed a few feet behind his master's right shoulder. A cart went by, spraying mud into the air, causing them to hold back until it had passed.

“Thomas, tell me something.”

“Yes, Mr. Clarenceux.”

“Whom else have you told about Henry Machyn's visit?”

“Only Mistress Harley. Your wife was most insistent that I tell her who knocked so late and why you did not come to bed. She feared the worst.”

“The worst?”

“Your being arrested, sir.”

They approached the bridge over the Fleet. The water was still in full spate, rushing and pouring over the refuse and broken rubbish. It seemed cleansing, the rank smell of putrefied food and debris less pervasive. A small dead branch swept past them. Clarenceux paused, watching it being carried away in the swirling torrent.

“Thomas, look back along the way we have come. Tell me if you see a young man in a russet jerkin.”

Thomas glanced back. “He's looking this way, shielding his eyes from the sun.”

Clarenceux continued to stare at the river. “It's better that he's following us. It means he's not waiting to search the house.”

They walked along the street and passed under the decrepit arch of Ludgate. A horse and rider came past them, the hooves echoing on the cobbles under the stone vault of the gatehouse. Clarenceux looked at the tower of St. Paul's Cathedral—shamefully reduced of its tall spire since being struck by lightning the year before last—and glanced over his shoulder, noting that the young man in the russet jerkin was about a hundred yards behind.

“He must be one of Crackenthorpe's men. Last night Sergeant Crackenthorpe and I exchanged words.”

“Words, Mr. Clarenceux?”

“When I reached Machyn's house, there was no one there. Only Crackenthorpe and his companions. He was watching the place, waiting for Machyn to return, despite the atrocious weather.”

They continued around the cathedral yard, past the stationers' shops and the booksellers.

“I need to ask you another thing, Thomas. Did you tell anyone about the book? Anyone—I mean, even Mistress Harley?”

“No, Mr. Clarenceux. I only told her about Goodman Machyn's coming and your going after him.”

Clarenceux placed a hand on Thomas's shoulder as they walked. He spoke quietly, looking ahead to a bakers' row and the people queuing. “I want you to forget that that book was left in my house. I want you to remember something else: that I refused to accept it, and that Machyn took it away with him again.”

“Now I recall, sir, that is exactly what happened. I remember distinctly holding the book for him as he donned his cope.”

“Good. Thank you.”

The two men walked on in silence. Clarenceux's thoughts occupied him so totally that he forgot about the man following them.
What
drove
Machyn
to
come
out
in
such
weather
to
pass
on
his
chronicle? Fear of Crackenthorpe? Yes, but that can't be all. Why was he so fearful? What is it about that book? I must read it more closely when I get home. It feels different, looking at these houses, to know there is a secret society here, behind these shop fronts, if that is what the Knights of the Round Table really is. Lancelot Heath has to be one of the knights, with that Christian name. Perhaps Sir Arthur Darcy was one too. But he died many years ago. Have the Knights been going many years? Has this conspiracy existed all this time, spying on me? Did Machyn have a role in that group—was he discovered by Crackenthorpe? What else is going on here, behind these houses' shutters?

“A city has so many secrets.”

Thomas looked at him.

“I was just thinking, Thomas, about all the things going on in this city that we don't know about. All the intrigues, the plots, the schemes, the conspiracies. Sometimes I wonder—sometimes another revolution seems possible.”

“Revolution?”

Clarenceux gestured along the road. “Left here and then right, into Little Trinity Lane. I mean an uprising against the queen, to return the country to the Catholic faith.”

They turned the corner, avoiding a large puddle in the middle of the street. “I felt happier with the old ways, I confess,” said Thomas wistfully, “but I can't believe that it will happen. Not now. No one wants to go back to the days of burning people alive. Do you remember the dead cur?”

Clarenceux nodded. Some years ago a tonsured dead dog dressed in a priest's dalmatic had been thrown into Queen Mary's presence chamber after she had forced Parliament to ban the Protestant service.

“Mind you,” continued Thomas, “if there were to be another uprising, we would see more processions in the city.”

Clarenceux smiled. “Would that cheer you, Thomas? The Lord Mayor and the masters of the companies all decked out in their finery?”

“I mean for the lads and lasses. When I was a boy, it was like a holiday. The wardens of the companies would throw us pennies. The baker in our street would give us pies. My father, God rest his—”

Thomas stopped. Before them in the street, a crowd of about twenty people were staring at a door. Henry Machyn's door.

“I don't believe it,” whispered Clarenceux.

They were looking at the house with the low jetty. The door and ground-floor window were both barricaded with planks, and over them were painted large red crosses. A young man with a breastplate, helmet, and sword stood by the door.

“Not possible,” muttered Thomas, frowning.

“The last plague victim was buried three weeks ago,” agreed Clarenceux. He looked up and down Little Trinity Lane. He half expected to see Crackenthorpe but did not. He could see no sign of the man who, until a few moments ago, had been following them. “Thomas,” he said quietly, looking around. “Go back to my house and fetch a crowbar. I believe there is one in the loft above the stable. Wrap it in some cloth and bring it here.”

“Yes, Mr. Clarenceux. Shall I fetch help?”

“No, Thomas. These people want information. They won't hurt us. Not without orders, anyway.”