12

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.”