Sacred Treason
3.5/5
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About this ebook
Your God. Your Country. Your Kin.
Who Do You Betray?
1563: Anyone could be a suspect; any Catholic could be accused of plotting against the throne. Clarenceux keeps his head down and his religion quiet. But when a friend desperately pleads with Clarenceux to hide a manuscript for him, he is drawn into a web of treachery and conspiracy he may never untangle. Is there no refuge if your faith is your enemy?
Bestselling author Dr. Ian Mortimer, writing as James Forrester, has crafted a chilling, brilliant story that re-imagines how the explosive mix of faith and fear can tear a country apart. Sacred Treason tells a thrilling story of murder, betrayal, and loyalty—and the power of the written word.
Claureceux Trilogy:
Sacred Treason (Book 1)
The Roots of Betrayal (Book 2)
The Final Sacrament (Book 3)
"An Elizabethan romp featuring a conspiracy, a secret manuscript, and whispers about Anne Boleyn."—Sunday Times
"Vivid and dramatic."—The Guardian
"Arresting."—Daily Telegraph
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Titles in the series (2)
Sacred Treason Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Roots of Betrayal Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
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Reviews for Sacred Treason
5 ratings4 reviews
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5More of a 2.5. Happened to pick this one up while library browsing last week. As a former librarian, the mysterious book and its connection to a possible plot against Elizabeth I was intriguing. Tudor era novels generally do not interest me, but I felt this would be an exception. It was too long, wordy, and the author could have cut it in half and still had a good story. Henry Makyn, a friend of the protagonist, William Harley, Clarenceaux, comes one night to his house and asks him to guard his chronicle. This spirals Clarenceaux into political intrigue. There's a plot afoot against the government [Elizabeth I]; what is the meaning of the dates in the chronicle and who are the 'knights of the round table'? Makyn is slain by Elizabeth's spymaster, Walsingham, and his henchman. Makyn's widow Rebecca and Clarenceaux puzzle out meanings and the last part of the book is a race between the 'goodies' and the 'baddies' to gain possession of the chronicle and unmask the plot. The denouement was completely unexpected.The novel was slow and talky all the way through, and picked up only towards the last 1/3. It was a challenge to force myself to keep reading. I liked best how the meaning hidden in the chronicle was puzzled out. The characters were nothing outstanding; in fact the completely platonic relationship between Clarenceaux and Rebecca was very improbable. Their sleeping in the same bed and nothing happening? Come on, these two must have been saints. Those folks who enjoy Elizabethan thrillers may enjoy this book, but it was not really up my alley.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5This is the first of a trilogy so no wonder the ending did not make too much sense: quite frankly though, I didn't care. I thought Catholics and mysterious texts in cryptic diaries in Elizabethan England would be a good read. I was wrong.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Great Read; combines historical detail with an interesting story line and characters. Looking for more from this author!
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Oooh, this one was a rip-roarer. Do not start it right before bed. You will not sleep. In fact I was about two thirds of the way through last night and I stayed up to finish it. I couldn't stop turning the pages. It's one of those books that gets your heart pumping!The hero of the book, Clarenceux is a gentleman, a herald of England and a friend to Queen Elizabeth's most ardent supporter, Cecil. One night he is approached by a man he has known for years and given a chronicle and some mysterious instructions. This leads him and the man's widow on a dangerous journey to find the meaning behind the chronicle while being chased by some very anxious followers of Walsingham who is seeing plots and treason everywhere and lying to Cecil along the way.Clarenceux is a very upright, noble and honest character but he sees all that he knows destroyed by the government he trusts without so much as a conversation. He finds his true self on his journey to discovering the meaning behind the chronicle left in his care.As I said at the start, this was a page turner. Exciting from start to finish I can't wait for the next book in the trilogy (I think it's a trilogy) to come out. It's a Tudor book without one single appearance by a Tudor so it doesn't feel like I've read it all before. Cecil is wise and Walsingham is downright evil and he just at the beginning of his reign as spymaster.The book was downright fun if violent to the extreme at times. Trying to figure out the mystery kept me quite enthralled right up to the end. Mr. Forrester is a writer that certainly keeps the action flowing. The characters are well developed and memorable. A book to go on my re-read shelf for sure!
Book preview
Sacred Treason - James Forrester
Copyright © 2012 by Ian James Forrester Mortimer
Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Original cover design © Hachette UK Ltd
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.sourcebooks.com
Originally published in hardcover in 2010 by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, in the U.K. Also published in paperback in 2011 by Headline Review.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Forrester, James
Sacred treason / James Forrester.
p. cm.
Originally published in hardcover in 2010 by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, in the U.K. Also published in paperback in 2011 by Headline Review.
(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Catholics--Fiction. 2. Manuscripts--Fiction. 3. Great Britain--History--Elizabeth, 1558-1603--Fiction. I. Title.
PR6106.O7755S33 2012
823’.92--dc23
2012020972
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Thames
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Author’s Note
An Excerpt from The Roots of Betrayal
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Author
Back Cover
To Zak Reddan,
the kindest man in the world:
7,443 days since we met.
None wasted.
If a man’s faith is his enemy,
There is no refuge anywhere.
Prologue
Tuesday, December 7, 1563
It was a cold day for a killing. The Scotsman, Robert Urquhart, rubbed his hands and breathed on them as he waited in Threadneedle Street, in London. Watching the door to Merchant Taylors’ Hall, he clutched each finger in turn, trying to keep them supple, his grip strong. He cursed the gray December skies. Only when two men appeared at the top of the steps, walking very slowly and deep in conversation, did he forget the chill in his bones. His victim, William Draper, was the one on the left—the jeweled gold collar gave him away.
He studied Draper. Narrow face, gray hair and beard, about sixty. Not tall but well dressed, in an expensive green velvet doublet with lace ruff and cuffs. Eyes like a fox. He looked selfish, judgemental—even a little bitter. You could see how he had made his money: with an ambition as cold and biting as this weather, and with as little remorse.
Urquhart watched Draper pull his cloak close and wait, standing on the bottom step, above the frozen mud. The man continued talking to his less well dressed companion. The carts and pedestrian traffic of the street passed in front of them, the snorting of the horses and the drivers’ breath billowing in the cold morning air.
It could not be done here, Urquhart could see that. Not without risking his own arrest. That would be as bad as failure. Worse—for he knew her ladyship’s identity. They would torture that information out of him. Arrest would simply require her ladyship to send another man, to kill him as well as Draper.
He walked to the end of the street and looked back casually. A servant led a chestnut palfrey around the corner from the yard and held it steady, offering the reins to Draper who mounted from the bottom step with surprising agility. Draper offered some final words to his companion from the saddle, then gestured good-bye with a wave of his hand and moved off.
Westward. He was going home.
Urquhart started forward, walking briskly. He felt for the knife in his belt, the dagger in his shirt sleeve, and the rounded butt of the long-barreled German wheel lock pistol inside the left breast of his doublet. He hoped he would not have to use it. The noise would bring all London running.
He followed his victim to his house in Basinghall Street. Four stories high and three bays wide, with armorial glass in the windows. He waited outside for some minutes then drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled, taking a moment to reflect on his mission.
He climbed the few steps to the door and knocked hard. A bald man in knee-length breeches answered.
God speed you. An urgent message for the master.
The bald man noted the Scottish accent. Another time, sir, you would be right heartily welcome. Alas, today my master has given instructions that he is not to be disturbed.
He will see me. Tell him I come with a message from her ladyship. It is she who bids me seek his help.
Regretfully, sir, I cannot disobey an order—
"You are very dutiful, and that is to be commended, but I urge you, look to your Catholic conscience, and quickly. Her ladyship’s business is a matter of life and death. Tell Mr. Draper I have traveled far to see him in his capacity as Sir Dagonet. He will understand."
The bald man paused, weighing up his visitor’s appearance and demeanor. He looked at his shoes, dirty with the mud of the street. But the visitor seemed so confident; Mr. Draper might well be angry if he turned away an urgent communication brought by a Scotsman. Wait here, if you please,
he said, stepping backward into the shadows.
After several minutes he reappeared. Mr. Draper will see you. This way.
Urquhart followed the servant along a dark passageway, through a high hall, and past a pair of large wooden benches piled with bright silk cushions. He noticed a gilt-framed portrait of the master of the house, and another of a stern-looking man in an old-fashioned breastplate and helmet—Draper’s father, perhaps. There was a big tapestry of a town under siege at one end of the hall. Above the fireplace were two brightly painted plaster figures of black women in red skirts, their exotic paganism allowing the plasterer to bare their breasts shamelessly. Here was a whitewashed stone staircase. At the top, a picture of the Virgin. Finally they came to a wide wooden door.
What is your name, sir?
asked the bald man over his shoulder.
Thomas Fraser,
Urquhart replied.
The servant knocked, lifted the latch, and pushed the door open. Urquhart crossed himself. He loosened his sleeve, felt the hilt of the dagger, and entered boldly.
The room was long, oak-paneled, and warm, and had an elaborate plaster ceiling. Two fireplaces in the far wall were alight, the blazing logs held in place by polished silverheaded firedogs.
The servant turned to his right and bowed. Mr. Draper, this is the Scotch esquire who has come on behalf of her ladyship. His name is Thomas Fraser.
Draper was sitting behind a table at one end of the room, looking down at a piece of paper. Urquhart saw the same narrow face and gray beard he had seen outside the hall. He stepped forward and bowed respectfully. He heard the door shut behind him and the latch fall.
You come from her ladyship?
the merchant said softly, looking up. There were tears in his eyes.
Suddenly Urquhart felt nervous, like a boy about to steal silver coins from his master’s purse. Why the tears? Was Draper expecting him? But there was just one thing to do and the sooner it was done the better.
Sir,
he said, taking another two steps closer, so he was barely six feet from the table. I come with an instruction from her ladyship.
He reached for his dagger.
Suddenly a deep north country voice called out from behind him: Hold fast! Move no further!
Urquhart turned. Behind the door as it had opened had been a huge, bearded man dressed in a black doublet and cloak. His hair too was black and curled. In his early thirties, he had obviously seen action on more than one occasion. A livid red mark stretched from above his right eyebrow to his right ear. On his left hip he wore a silver-handled side-sword, and he was holding a pistol.
For one throb of his pulse, Urquhart was motionless. But in that moment he understood what had happened. Her ladyship had been betrayed. He did not know by whom, or how, but it left him in no doubt what he had to do. The instant he saw the scarred man move his pistol hand, he pulled the dagger from his sleeve and hurled it at the man’s chest. The next instant he rushed toward him, one hand reaching out to grab the pistol and the other fumbling for the knife at his own belt.
When the gun went off, Urquhart was moving forward. And then, suddenly, he was on his side, the report echoing in his ears.
Only then did he feel the pain. It was as if his scream of agony was a sound formed within the severed nerves of his left thigh. There was a mess of blood and torn flesh. He could see splintered bone. As the sliced nerves and the sight of the shreds of bloody meat combined into a realization of one single, hideous truth, he gasped and raised his head, dizzy with the shock. The rip his dagger had made in the black cloak and shirt revealed a glint of a breastplate. The man was drawing his side-sword.
You are too late,
the north country voice declared. Our messenger from Scotland came in the night. Mr. Walsingham knows.
Urquhart screamed again as the pain surged. He thumped the floor, unable to master the feeling. But it was not the wound that mattered—it was the failure. That was worse than the physical hurt. It did not matter that he was a dead man. What mattered was that his victim was still alive.
Eyes blurred with tears of shame, he thrust his hand inside his doublet for his own pistol. The scarred man was too close. But he forced his trembling hands to respond and drew back the wheel of the lock. Gasping, he twisted around, aimed at Draper’s head, and pulled the trigger.
The noise of the gun was the last thing he heard. An instant later the blade of the side-sword flashed through his throat and lodged in the back of his neck, in the bone. And then he was suffocating and tumbling in a frothing sea of his own blood.
It was not an easy death to behold.
1
Friday, December 10, 1563
Clarenceux sat at the table board in his candlelit study, listening to the rain. It drummed on the roof and splattered in the puddles in the street two stories below. He pulled his robe close around him against the December chill, nuzzling his bearded chin in the fur collar, smelling the wood smoke that had infused the fur over the years spent in the same chair, in the same robe. Thunder rumbled across the sky. The rain seemed to increase in intensity, as if in answer to the thunder’s command. He was alone but for his papers and this little halo of golden light.
Ever since the birth of their second child seventeen months ago, he had spent the evenings working on his heraldic manuscripts, his visitations. His wife, Awdrey, had retired early as usual, to do her embroidery by the light of the candle in the alcove above their bed. He liked to think of her there, needle in hand, in her candlelight, while he worked here at the other end of the house, in his own light. It was as if their evenings were joined by the two golden flames. Even though they were doing different things in different places, they were together.
He reached forward and lifted an old gold cup—once the property of a royal duke, to judge from the enameled coat of arms it bore—and sipped some wine. He opened the manuscript book before him and read the first page. The title read: A Visitation of ye counties of Essex and Suffolke, commenc’d July ye 20th 1561, by me, William Harley, Clarenceux King of Armes. That had been two and a half years ago, one of his regular expeditions to catalogue all the gentlemen in those two counties who were entitled to bear coats of arms. Such expeditions were among the most enjoyable aspects of his work as a herald. When war threatened and he had to ride through enemy territory to confront a king or a general, his responsibilities were far more onerous. And dangerous. But that trip through Essex and Suffolk had been a good occasion; he had met many amiable gentlemen and very few pretentious ones. He smiled at the memory of setting out that day with his companions all dressed in his heraldic livery. Even Thomas, his old manservant, had joined them, persuaded for the first time to don the brightly colored clothes of a herald’s entourage. He had frowned constantly and grumbled regularly, but he too had been proud.
Clarenceux was about to turn the page when he heard a knocking sound down below. Three clear strikes on his front door, echoing through the silent house.
Few people called after curfew. Queen Elizabeth might have abolished the law by which Protestants, religious dissidents, and dangerous free-thinkers were burnt at the stake, but everyone was aware that the searches continued. Only now they searched for Catholics. A week ago a Catholic priest had been found sheltering in a house in London. The royal guard had put him in the pillory on Cornhill. In full view of the crowd, they had nailed his ears to the wood. When the blood ran down, they smeared the word papa—pope—on his forehead and laughed as they drank wine and spat it on him. After three hours they sliced off his ears and dragged him, screaming, to the Tower. No one had seen him since.
The echoing thud of metal on oak rang out again. Clarenceux sat still. His house had never been searched before, let alone in the middle of the night. He himself had never been questioned. He had always believed a man of his rank to be above accusations of religious treason. He had led diplomatic embassies to Germany, Spain, Holland, and Denmark. He had declared war on France, personally, in Rheims, on behalf of Queen Mary…
The knocking came again, hard, insistent.
But he was a Catholic.
He covered his face with his hands and whispered a prayer into his palms. He did not have much time. Where was everybody? The boy servants would be sleeping in the back attic. Awdrey would be lying in bed with the baby in her cot. Annie, his daughter, would be in her room. The maidservant, Emily, and Nurse Brown would be asleep in the front attic. Thomas normally slept in the hall on the first floor, but he would think twice about answering the door at this late hour.
Again came the knocking, sounding through the house.
Clarenceux went to the door and lifted the latch. He felt a slight draught on his face. There was darkness beyond, and silence.
In his mind he saw torches by night. He saw himself manacled, being led to the Tower. He imagined the cut of the iron on his wrists, the sound of the chains. The fact he had not done anything treasonable would not save him. It was the use of accusations, the spectacle of men being arrested, that mattered. He would matter, a gentleman paraded through the city in his heraldic livery, his ears nailed to the pillory—an example to the people.
Two more heavy strikes on the door.
He looked back into the candlelit room, across at the coat of arms painted on the paneling above the fireplace. They were his family arms, granted to his father, whose portrait also hung in the room. His father’s sword was on one side of the fireplace, his own on the other. Like his father, who had served the old king, he was a gentleman. He had rights. But this might be the last time he would see this room. This might be the point at which he lost those rights, and all his status and property.
And so would his family.
He strode to the fireplace and took his sword from its hook on the wall. He picked up the candlestick from the table and left the chamber. The stairs creaked under his weight as he stepped down, feeling his way with his heels against the wooden steps, left hand holding the sheathed sword.
He entered the hall and raised the candle. The light was reflected in a small round mirror on the opposite wall. Further along, to his left, he could see the pile of blankets on Thomas’s mattress in front of the fireplace. The fire was now just faintly glowing embers.
Thomas?
Clarenceux called.
He heard his own deep voice fall away into the silence. He searched the shadows with the candle glow. Thomas, are you down here?
The door in the wall opposite was open. Beyond were the stairs leading down to the main entrance.
Mr. Clarenceux,
came an urgent whisper from below. Sir, what would you have me do?
Clarenceux went to the door. Thomas was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. His shock of white hair, deep-set eyes, and heavily lined face gave him a gaunt look at the best of times. Worry made him look even older.
Open it. If it is the queen’s men, they will only return. If our visitors are our friends, they need our help.
Thomas nodded and turned to the front door.
Clarenceux lifted his candle to the cresset lamp in the wall to his left. He lit it. The wick began to burn brightly. He heard Thomas shoot open the three bolts on the heavy oak door. The fist of his mind clenched, listening for men’s footsteps, for the clink of armor, the knock of a drawn sword against a breastplate, the men shoving his servant aside…
There was a pause.
It’s Henry Machyn. Mr. Clarenceux, it’s Henry Machyn!
Clarenceux felt relief shine through him. He smiled. Machyn was harmless, an old man, well into his sixties, with a deep love for the Catholic saints and rituals. He looked down the stairs and saw Thomas taking Machyn’s sopping wet cloak.
The man must be mad to come out on a night like this.
He shook his head and walked briskly back into the hall to light some candles, so he could properly receive his visitor. But as he did so, the darkness of the hall reminded him it was very late. It was pouring outside. Machyn had called despite the alarm he would undoubtedly cause. Most of all, Machyn’s house was at a considerable distance, within the city walls, in the parish of Holy Trinity the Less. What on earth was he doing here, after curfew, in St. Bride’s, outside the city?
Clarenceux stopped. He turned and looked back at the doorway, lit up by the cresset lamp burning in the staircase wall.
This was not right.
He heard the slow footsteps and the stick of the old man on the stairs, and Thomas sliding the bolts home on the front door.
He walked over to a large elm table that stood by the shuttered windows. He placed his sword on it carefully and picked up two more candlesticks. One candle was askew. He righted it thoughtfully and lit both. For a moment he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the round mirror to his left. Brown eyes; short dark hair with a few streaks of gray; short beard trimmed neatly. A kind, inquiring face. He was tall and fit, despite his forty-five years. Riding, walking, and sheer intellectual energy had kept him physically as well as mentally strong.
The man who now shuffled into the candlelit room was of an altogether different appearance. Henry Machyn was short and moved slowly with the aid of his stick, a white-haired hollow of a man. He was drenched from his collar to his shoes. His old-fashioned jerkin dripped onto the rushes, as did the leather-wrapped parcel he carried beneath his right arm. He was fat-faced; his clothes hung from his shoulders as if they had been piled over him. But it was his expression that shocked Clarenceux. He usually had an amiable, avuncular countenance, one belonging to a man who would cheerfully regale drinkers in a tavern with a tall story. But that face, surrounded by a circle of receding white hair, now looked simply bewildered. Two milky blue eyes looked out at Clarenceux, imploring, yet without hope, as if Machyn had just watched the hanging of a dear friend and was now wishing for death himself.
Goodman Machyn, what in the name of heaven brings you here at this time?
Clarenceux gestured to his servant, who had followed Machyn up the stairs. Thomas, fetch some towels.
He looked again at the deathly face of his friend. You know it is perilous to be alone in the streets at night.
I need your help, Mr. Clarenceux,
Machyn said in a hoarse voice. I trusted the wrong man. Everything is gone. It is over for me. The end. And my dearest Rebecca…
His voice began to crumble; his whole face broke into sobs. …my wife, my son, my friends, everyone…
It was as if Machyn’s very character had been caught in a trap and sliced in two, and each half was dying separately, in lonely sorrow, unable to reassure the other.
"Goodman Machyn, my friend, what do you mean? Who would want to harm you?
But Machyn did not answer. He was crying openly, his cheeks and beard glistening wet in the candlelight.
Clarenceux stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. Come now, sit down.
Machyn shook his head. It took a few seconds for him to regain his composure. No, I do not need to sit. I need to talk, to tell you something.
He took a deep breath. I know you think you do not know me very well, Mr. Clarenceux. But I believe I know you. I have met you many times over the years, and I have always paid attention to your deeds and your achievements, your integrity. And that is why, now, at the end, I know I can trust you.
The end? What do you mean, Henry? The end of what?
Machyn hesitated, clutching the object under his arm. Will you do me the honor of looking after this book for me? It is my chronicle.
He lifted the parcel to draw attention to it.
Clarenceux removed his hand from Machyn’s shoulder and took the package. He carefully peeled off the wet leather covering and let it fall to the floor. The volume itself was mostly dry. He turned it over: it had a fine, thick vellum binding, stamped in the center on both sides with the design of a whale surrounded by a circle of waves.
It has been my work for thirteen years,
said Machyn, wiping his face. Every event I have witnessed with my own eyes, every funeral for which I provided the black cloth and trappings, every sermon at St. Paul’s Cross, every execution at Tyburn, every burning of a reformer or a heretic at Smithfield, every procession I have seen through the city…everything, everything.
It sounds like a monumental achievement,
said Clarenceux. Bound in vellum too.
Like the volumes in your own library.
Clarenceux nodded and smiled briefly. Some of them.
His collection of books was probably the most extensive that Machyn had ever seen, but even he had few bindings as fine as this. Of course I will…
he began. Then he stopped himself.
He paused. The room was silent. He could hear the rain outside. He felt uneasy again, as he had when he had heard the knocking.
Why do you want to give it to me?
Because you are the most noble man of my acquaintance. You value old chronicles, and this one is so very precious. It will still be valuable after I am dead. In fact, far more so. I need you to look after it.
Clarenceux looked away, toward the candles on the table. So very precious. Those may have been the words of the man standing in front of him, but they had not been composed in this room. Most of all, it was the word need that caused him to think. Machyn needed to tell him something. He, Clarenceux, was Machyn’s last resort.
But you have other friends, Henry, and you have a son.
Machyn shook his head. John is not interested in our history or the perilous state of our faith. He is impetuous and still has the hunger of youth. He wants to see the world. Maybe one day he will not return from one of his voyages. I want this book to last for centuries, like the chronicles you use when checking your visitations. I always intended that it would come to you in the end. I have bequeathed it to you in my will.
You have made a will?
Clarenceux was surprised. Most men waited until they were dying before setting their affairs finally in order.
Machyn raised his right hand. It was shaking. He made the sign of the cross over his face and chest. I only ask one thing of you, Mr. Clarenceux. Promise me, please, if anything does happen to me, you will go to Lancelot Heath, the painter-stainer…
Henry…
No, no. Please,
said Machyn, shaking his head. Please listen, for this is most important. If anything happens to me, you must go to see Lancelot Heath, in the parish of St. James Garlickhithe. Tell him your name is King Clariance of Northumberland. And tell him I have given you a date. But do not tell him what it is. He will understand.
What date?
June the twentieth 1557. Exactly like that. June the twentieth.
Clarenceux looked at Machyn, standing dripping before him. The man was clearly asking him to do much more than look after a chronicle. He could see his lip trembling.
He glanced away. He looked at the light of the candles burning on the table and thought for a moment about Awdrey upstairs, in the glow of her candlelight.
Henry,
he said gently, turning back to face the old man. What meaning has this date? Why need I remember it?
Thomas returned with the towels. He passed one to Machyn, who wiped his face slowly and dried his shaking hands.
Clarenceux continued. Look, my friend, we have known each other for fifteen years at least, maybe twenty. But you have never before come to my house in the middle of the night, without a lantern, breaking curfew. How did you get past the city gates? The city watch? You have never asked me for a favor before, except to borrow a book occasionally. But now you come here in the middle of the night and ask me to look after this, your own chronicle, and you start talking about its importance after you are dead? And you tell me you have made a will. You are either losing your mind or you are not being honest with me.
Machyn opened his mouth to speak but uttered no sound. He wiped his eyes and face.
Clarenceux walked over to the elm table. He put the book down carefully and straightened it. He spoke in a low voice without
turning around.
You know how dangerous it is to possess seditious and heretical writings. You know there are spies. The laws of this kingdom apply to me as well as you.
Not in the same way, Mr. Clarenceux. No, not in this case. As for the gates…there is an old elm near Cripplegate. There is a door just behind it that opens onto the tenement of a blacksmith called Lowe. He left the door unlocked for me, against the mayor’s instructions, as a favor.
Clarenceux turned and put his hands together, palms against each other. He thought for a moment. Then he let his hands fall to his sides.
I do not know what to say. Will you not tell me the meaning of this…delivery?
If you ever need to know, you will find out.
"If I need to know? If I need? Clarenceux was aware of his suddenly raised voice. He breathed deeply, trying to regain his calm.
Henry, I believe I have the right to know what you have brought into my house."
The old man nodded. You have every right.
Clarenceux glanced at Thomas. Would it help if we were alone?
You have every right to know,
repeated Machyn, but that does not mean it is right to tell you.
He held Clarenceux’s gaze for a long time. No, I trust Thomas, whom I know to be a good man who has spent many years in your service.
He paused. But let me ask you this. Why are you a Catholic?
Clarenceux concentrated. Because…because it is what I believe to be the whole truth. The way God wants us to pray, the honest understanding of the Almighty—not a matter of faith at one’s own will, or partial obedience to God.
Machyn said nothing.
Clarenceux continued, feeling a little uneasy, It is possible to be both a true believer and loyal to her majesty.
If you believe that then you deceive yourself,
said Machyn. His white-haired and white-bearded face had a sudden intensity, near to anger. When I knocked on your door you must have wondered whether the guard had come for you. It took you a long time to answer.
He paused, searching Clarenceux’s expression. "One can only remain faithful to the queen and God if the queen herself is faithful to God. Our present queen is not. You know that. At some point you will have to decide whom to obey: the Creator or His creation. Tell me, are you prepared to live your whole life in fear of that moment?"
Clarenceux looked back at the book on the table. A golden glow touched its pale binding. He walked over to it and put his hand on the cover, feeling the embossed and polished skin.
In Malory’s book, in the Tale of Sir Urry—isn’t that where King Clariance appears?
Yes. Yes, it is.
Clarenceux turned. Will you assure me, Henry, that I am not putting my family at risk by having this book in my house? Just tell me so, and I will promise you that all will be well.
Machyn’s hand fidgeted with the head of his stick. I cannot.
Then, have you considered what you will do if I refuse?
I believe you will accept, William. You are a good man.
He looked as if he was one of the saints commanding Clarenceux to answer. You know God’s will. It is in your heart.
In that instant, those sad eyes were the eyes of a saint.
Clarenceux considered. All the world he knew, all the sounds he could hear, and all the things he could see were in accord. He did not know what to do but he believed one thing: it was God’s will that he should help this man, his fellow believer.
This is a test of faith.
It is for me, Mr. Clarenceux. It has been for a long time. Twice as many years as I have recorded in that book.
Clarenceux ran his hand over his beard. The fear of having his house searched remained. As did his sense of injustice, and his loyalty to his friends and God. His God. The gentle power that directed him when he was in doubt. The all-seeing watchman without whom he would have no protection from his enemies.
Very well,
he said quietly. I will do what you want, as a favor. But you too must do me a favor. You must explain the real meaning of all this. I need to be prepared.
Thank you, Mr. Clarenceux.
Machyn smiled for the first time since he had arrived. He stepped forward and reached out with his right hand. He took Clarenceux’s and shook it, and continued to hold it. Whom else do I know who would understand the significance of King Clariance? If you were to see a quotation from the book of Job, you would recognize it, I have no doubt. You are a man I can trust to fight for justice, for what is true and right. If you need to know the secret hidden in this book, you will find it out.
As he said these last words, Machyn let go of Clarenceux’s hand. He crossed himself again.
The book of Job?
But Machyn was animated. It doesn’t matter. You are much younger than me. You will outlive these persecutions. One day you will know what I have learned, and when that day comes, you will be able to decide what to do…better than me.
He glanced at the sword on the table. You will see justice and truth prevail. Believe me, I want to tell you everything. But there isn’t time. If you see Lancelot Heath, and if he gathers the Knights of the Round Table, the way to understand that book will become clear to you. To you, Mr. Clarenceux. No one else.
Henry, stop. This is confusion, not explanation,
Clarenceux protested. The Knights of the Round Table? Who are they?
Machyn put his hand to his forehead. I am sorry. I cannot think clearly. I am a foolish old man. I tried to prepare myself on the way here, so I would know what to say, but…it has all disappeared.
He let his hand drop to his side. He frowned, clutching his stick tightly. Then his expression became solemn again.
Listen. I will say this. The fate of two queens depends upon that book.
He nodded, reflecting on what he had just said. And now I must go,
he added, turning around and walking toward the door.
Two queens? You must tell me more, Henry.
But Machyn kept moving. It is very late.
Clarenceux glanced at Thomas. The servant picked up a candle and followed Machyn.
Tell me more,
Clarenceux repeated. If you want me to look after that book, you must tell me what dangers it holds. I must think about my family.
Machyn stopped. Mr. Clarenceux, that book is only dangerous if you know it is dangerous. If nothing happens to me, then you will never know what it holds. Nor will anyone else.
He smiled weakly. It is just a chronicle, Mr. Clarenceux, the ramblings of an old man in his twilight years, nothing more.
He turned.
Wait,
Clarenceux said, watching him. Stay here tonight, Henry. It is dreadful out there.
Machyn was at the top of the stairs, silhouetted by the light of the cresset lamp. No. Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Clarenceux. I fear I would tell you too much. Besides, darkness and foul weather are my protectors. There is a sergeant-at-arms called Richard Crackenthorpe who has men out looking for me. The worse the weather, the easier it is for me to pass along the alleyways unnoticed.
He started to descend.
Clarenceux walked forward. Looking for you? Why?
You can guess,
Machyn replied. He continued down the stairs with Thomas following. The same reason why I had to see you.
He reached the bottom. Clarenceux remained at the top, by the lamp. He watched Thomas set down his candle and lift the large wet cloak onto Machyn’s shoulders. The candle shone on the side of Machyn’s face as he turned to address Clarenceux.
Go with God, Mr. Clarenceux.
Thomas unbolted and opened the door. Machyn put his hand on the frame to steady himself, then stepped out into the rain and darkness.
2
Henry Machyn found himself once more in Fleet Street, in the dark. He shuffled across to the houses on the far side to get out of the rain. He felt tired. The cold bit into his face and hands and he leaned heavily on his stick. When he reached the overhanging jetty of a house, he paused. He was safe for the moment.
Lightning flashed across the angled roofs of the houses fronting the street. A moment or two passed, then the thunder came. There was no let-up to this downpour.
I should have