18

The anticipated knock came later that afternoon. Clarenceux was in the hall with a mercer from a provincial town who wanted to commission a coat of arms. Clarenceux was in no mood to humor him. When he heard the knocking on the door, he seized the chance to put an arm around the mercer’s shoulders and usher him to the stairs, telling him he would consider aspects of the design but now he had to attend to another client.

Thomas opened the door. The mercer donned his hat and brusquely nodded to the woman in a traveling cope and an undyed nurse’s shawl who was waiting on the doorstep.

“Who is that?” demanded Clarenceux from the middle of the stairs, disappointed not to see Lancelot Heath. Before Thomas could answer the woman stepped forward and entered the house. She pushed her hood back and her dark hair fell loose about her shoulders—shockingly so. Married women were expected to dress their hair or cover it with a coif. She looked up at Clarenceux, her eyes meeting his directly with obvious determination.

“Please, Mr. Clarenceux, may I beg you close the door quickly?”

“Goodwife Machyn, I…Yes. Of course. Come upstairs straight away. Thomas, bolt the door. Take Goodwife Machyn’s hood and shawl.”

She was much younger than her husband—in her late thirties—with sad but beautiful brown eyes. Her most distinctive mark was a large brown mole on the side of her jaw. When Clarenceux had first met her he had regarded it as a cruel blemish, but over the years, as he had come to regard her with greater affection—albeit always from a respectful distance—it had begun to amuse him. It seemed utterly absurd that such a woman could be considered marred by such a tiny speck, a third of the size of his thumbnail. He saw it as the opposite of an imperfection: a sign of distinctiveness. But even so, there was always an air of tragedy about her. Her smile was a little wistful, as if the true delights of life were things she would never know.

“I heard you at the house last night,” she began. “I heard Sergeant Crackenthorpe talking to you. And I saw you there again today, when you called for me and Henry.”

“It was nothing. I was only—”

“No, Mr. Clarenceux. It was something. When you are in our position, it is the most blessed relief just to know that someone else has sufficient heart and goodwill to open his mouth and to shout out, ‘What has happened to these people?’ But I did not come here just to say thank you. I came to talk to you.”

“About Henry?”

She began to walk toward the elm table. “He told me yesterday evening that he had made a decision. He would not tell me what, but he told me to go to Mistress Barker’s house. That was the last time I saw him.”

Clarenceux noticed that his maidservant, Emily, was about to enter the hall with some logs for the fire. She hesitated outside the door, uncertain whether to proceed. He gestured silently for her not to disturb them.

“What do you know of Henry’s chronicle?”

“It was his most precious possession. He would not let anyone else touch it or even look at it. That is why I am so worried. Last night, when he said good-bye to me, he shed tears. He kissed me over and over again. He picked that book up reverently, as if it were the Holy Bible. He looked at it solemnly, then turned to me. He told me to wait a short while after he left the house, and then go to the house of Mistress Barker and stay there. I did as I was told, of course. But I was very anxious. I could not sleep. I heard men outside, knocking on doors and arguing. When I went out early this morning, I saw the plague crosses on our house. I was shocked, too frightened to do anything. I ran back inside. I watched from an upstairs window as you broke open our front door.”

“Do you know where Henry is now?”

“I wondered if he had come here.”

Clarenceux glanced down the length of the hall to the door. He could see Emily in the doorway, speaking to Awdrey. He wondered how much of his conversation Awdrey had heard.

“Come with me,” he said quietly. “It is better that we talk about this upstairs.”

He went to the front staircase, climbed the stairs, and pushed open the door to his study. Having drawn his seat forward for Goodwife Machyn, he made a pile of large books near her on which to sit himself. The light was dim; it was nearly dusk.

“Listen, I do not want Awdrey to know this. All she knows is that he left me his chronicle…”

“He left it here?”

“He also said he has bequeathed it to me in his will.”

“That cannot…I have not seen or heard of any will of my husband’s.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

He paused. “Now I understand why your house has been boarded up. They hope to find the chronicle there. And if they do not, they hope to find clues to its possible location. It isn’t Crackenthorpe behind this. He is just an instrument.”

“I am sorry, I don’t understand. I know Sergeant Crackenthorpe was at our house last night, but who is he? Do you know where Henry is now?”

Clarenceux stood up and went to the book press on the far side of the room. Two books were lying on their sides. He looked back at her. “Can you read?”

“A little. Henry taught me.”

He set aside the Gospels and took down the chronicle. He passed it to her.

“Look at the final entry.”

She took the volume and turned back the blank pages at the end one by one until she came to the last section of text. She sat hunched over it.

Clarenceux stood, watching her.

She did not move. She remained in exactly the same position, as if still reading, long after Clarenceux knew she had finished. He bit his lip. He heard a tear fall onto the page. She wiped it away carefully with the edge of her sleeve.

“They sound like his final words,” she said, not looking up.

Clarenceux remembered the fond old man’s imploring face, the tears running down his cheeks into his white beard. His enormous distress.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with her hands.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry about. We’re all in danger. Henry and you. Me too. That book contains a secret. When Henry was here, he told me that if I needed to know what it meant, I would find out. He gave me the name of Lancelot Heath, a painter-stainer, on whom I called this morning. I left a message with a discontented woman who answered the door.”

She closed the book gently and passed it back to Clarenceux with both hands.

“Do you know who the Knights of the Round Table are?” he asked.

She wiped her eyes again. “Only the heroes of old romances.”

“When Henry was here, he said that when the Knights of the Round Table are gathered together, the way to understand that book will become apparent to me. And he was very particular on this point, that the secret will become apparent to me, to no one else.” He paused. “I think the Knights of the Round Table is a fraternity, a Catholic brotherhood. Lancelot Heath—do you know if Lancelot Heath is a follower of the old ways?”

“He is, fervently so. He often comes to our house and will even kneel down and pray in our hall. He and Henry work together on funeral trappings. Henry provides the black cloth for funerals and drapes the hearse with the colors of the dead person’s heraldry. Lancelot paints the funeral boards with the coats of arms.”

“In that case, I probably know him by sight.” Clarenceux tapped his finger on the book. “Does the name King Clariance of Northumberland mean anything to you?”

She shook her head.

Clarenceux opened the chronicle and found the entry for June 20, 1557. “And this?”

He passed her the book again. She read the entry concerning the sermon preached by the abbot of Westminster at St. Paul’s Cross. “No,” she whispered.

“Henry gave me that date. He said it was important that I remember it.”

He went back across the room and replaced the book on the shelf. He turned and glanced at her as the last rays of sunlight caught the side of her face. Sounds of playing children entered from the street. She smiled and returned his gaze. Distracted for an instant, he forced himself to look down and consider the important questions. Why that date? Why St. Paul’s Cross? Why me? Why King Clariance?

“I suppose there are several Knights of the Round Table,” she said.

“And it would be reasonable to assume that your husband knows who they are. But what does that date mean? The Arthurian King Clariance appears in ‘The Tale of Sir Urry’: at first he was a rebel against King Arthur; only later did he join with him to fight the Saxons. But that has little to do with a date in June 1557, or the inscription in that book. All I can guess is that the date Henry gave me relates to the abbot of Westminster and that each Knight has a date connected to someone else in the chronicle, or something else. Or maybe several things or places.”

She looked at him, her hands resting in her lap, and shrugged.

“The message of the book will probably only become clear when we know all the Knights, as Henry said. But John Howman, the last abbot of Westminster, has been in the Tower for the last three years—he is the arch-Catholic in England and even now he refuses to recant—so how are we supposed to get word to him, let alone in a private manner? We do not know what we are looking for, or whom. I do not even know how many Knights of the Round Table there are. All I know is that the fate of two queens depends on the safekeeping of this book.”

“There are only two queens in these islands.”

“Quite. And your husband is a Catholic, like the Queen of Scots. But I cannot see how anything that Henry could have known would affect the fate of either queen, let alone both…”

Clarenceux stopped. Not “fates” but “fate.” Henry Machyn definitely said “the fate of two queens.” One fate, two queens…O Lord Savior, sweet and merciful Jesus—does this mean what I think it means, that their individual destinies are combined into one fate? Within our grasp?

“What is the matter?” she asked.

Clarenceux looked at her. “In the event of Queen Elizabeth’s death, Mary Queen of Scots could become Queen of England—queen of both countries. So you see: two queens, one fate. In the last parliament, Elizabeth refused to name her heir. The only hereditary alternative to the Queen of Scots is Elizabeth’s cousin, Lady Catherine Gray, younger sister of Lady Jane—but that is hardly likely now, not since Elizabeth found out about Lady Catherine’s secret marriage. She was absolutely furious with her; she annulled the marriage and sent her husband abroad, effectively punishing him with exile. Elizabeth has no other recognized heir, and there is no other popular claimant except the Queen of Scots, who is favored by all of those who prefer the old religion. If Elizabeth dies without naming an heir, then England will become a Catholic country once more.”

Clarenceux recognized a sense of foreboding and importance combined in what he was saying. He had felt it before, once particularly, in June 1557, when he had stood in the center of the great hall at Rheims, surrounded by the nobility of France, and announced in his loudest, proudest voice that England and France were henceforth at war. But then he had been merely a spokesman, a messenger. No one was telling him what to say now.

“In the event of the queen’s death?” Goodwife Machyn looked up at Clarenceux.

“I know: it is far-fetched. But that does not mean Henry has not…” He broke off. Looking toward the dying light of day through the window, he felt a chill breeze. It would soon be time to close the shutters. “Crackenthorpe told me last night that it was a case of high treason he is investigating. That, I suspect, was a slip of the tongue, an honest one. I doubt he would have closed your house like that without some higher authority. To go over the constable’s head and declare a house plague-infected…it risks causing panic.”

Rebecca Machyn closed her eyes. “Oh, husband,” she muttered, “what have you got yourself into? What have you got us into?” She stood up and walked to the fireplace. “I do not know what he has been doing. I have no real wish to know. It is none of my business. All I really want is to be safe, and for Henry to be safe too.”

Clarenceux thought. Crackenthorpe will know by now about my breaking open the door this morning. Whoever is giving him orders will also know about our argument at Machyn’s house last night. I have been dragged into this, even though I do not understand what is going on.

He glanced at her. “That book contains something treasonable. The fact we do not know what it is doesn’t make us any safer.”

“But let us say that the book is discovered, and that you and I are questioned by some judge. Surely we can deny any knowledge of what is written there? Anything Henry actually wrote could be described as just his work, and wrong-headed.”

“Treated as a mistake? Goodwife Machyn, we’re talking about the queen’s paid killers—men who have fought in the wars and have not been able to get used to the peace. Sergeant Crackenthorpe—or whoever is giving him orders—believes something in this chronicle presents a threat to the queen. Henry has been keeping it secret. You yourself said he never lets anyone even touch it.”

“Are you saying that Henry might have been planning an attempt on the queen’s life? That is ridiculous. He is but a poor merchant and a parish clerk. And sixty-six years old.”

Clarenceux stood up and took a couple of paces, pushing his fingers against his forehead, willing himself to think. “Crackenthorpe knows that some information—something treasonable—is here, in this book, in this house. After today’s events he will know I am involved with your husband. He will come here, without doubt. He will search this house, looking for your husband. Looking for the chronicle and you too.”

He looked up. It will be dark soon. It will not be long before the city bells will ring for the end of the day and the closing of the city gates. But Goodwife Machyn cannot go home; her house is being watched.

And so is mine.

Clarenceux went to the window. He hesitated for a moment, then looked out. In the fading light he could see no sign of men loitering or acting suspiciously. But that means nothing. Crackenthorpe thinks like a soldier: he’s going to come tonight, when I am off guard and he has the town watch at his command.

“Goodwife Machyn, listen,” he said, turning around. “This is important. We have the book. No one trying to stop this plot will have any idea what we do know and what we don’t. It probably won’t make any difference even if we give the book up, for no one will know for certain whether we have read it. My name appears on nearly every page; no one is going to think me innocent. If, on the other hand, we do learn what this is all about, then we are in a bargaining position. I have important friends whom I can ask for protection.”

“But what about my husband?”

He took a deep breath. “Henry is in great danger. As long as he remains alive he will be considered a threat. Giving up the book will not be enough to save him.”

“So what should we do?”

Clarenceux shook his head. “I had hoped Lancelot Heath would have come here by now, or at least sent word. But the more I think about it…” Clarenceux glanced at the window. He could hardly see her face in the gloom of the darkening room.

“Yes?”

“It is only a matter of time. And when they find us, and find the book, well, I do not expect I will get away with merely having my ears nailed to the pillory.”

“Can we not just hide it somewhere?”

“We’ve got to leave this house. And remove the book.”

“But if no one finds it, how will they know it has been in your possession?”

Clarenceux did not answer. He went across the room and picked up the chronicle. “Crackenthorpe is a sergeant-at-arms, a royal enforcer. A killer. If his political masters want someone to cut a throat, he does it. If they order him to find a book, he will do it. I have been foolish. I should never have accepted this chronicle. I should never have gone to your house last night. But having—”

Suddenly a loud knocking at the front door rang out.

Clarenceux looked toward her. He knew that she was thinking the same thing as he was. The next few instants might be their last moments of freedom.

“What now?” she whispered.

“It could be Lancelot Heath,” he said. He turned back to the window and leaned out. Although the house projected over the street, he could just see the backs of two men at the door below.

“Oh, Christ in heaven. It is them. And they are armed.”

“Then we must try to hide the book in here,” she said.

Clarenceux ignored her. “Go downstairs. Tell my servant Thomas not to answer the door immediately. Tell him to delay, to say anything to give me a few moments more.”

The knocking came again, harder, more insistent.

Clarenceux did not say another word. Putting the chronicle under his arm, he followed Rebecca to the door, ran down the stairs behind her, and hurried across the candlelit hall. He flung open the door at the end and went down the back stairs. A little light seeped through from the kitchen at the end of the corridor. He opened the door to the buttery; it was totally dark within. The pungent smell of ale wafted around him. He felt for the first barrel and placed the book on top of it. He strode to a large wine cask in the far corner, took hold of it, and pulled it toward him, tipping it onto its rim, and moving it sideways.

He heard the knocking again from the front of the house.

He went down on his knees and felt around on the floor for the loose floorboard that he knew was there. He could not find it. Panicking now, he gave up looking and felt his way back to the barrel where he had left the book and picked it up.

Then he stopped. If Crackenthorpe boards up this house and marks it with red crosses, it will only be a matter of time before his men find the book. There has to be a solution—something more subtle.

But it was already too late. He could hear the bolts being pulled back on the front door. And footsteps. He cursed and hurried through to the kitchen. The kitchen boy, Thomas’s great-nephew Will Terry, was holding a glowing taper, lighting rushlights. He watched as Clarenceux plunged the book into an open sack of oats, burying it beneath the surface, pushing it right to the bottom. Clarenceux turned to the boy, who had paused.

“This is important, Will,” he said hurriedly. “No one must know it is there, do you understand?”

The fair-haired lad nodded in alarm and watched as Clarenceux ran from the kitchen and along the corridor. That was foolish. The boy is only eleven. I hope that he has the sense to confide in Thomas and ask him for advice.

Clarenceux hurried up the back stairs and entered the hall. Awdrey was with Goodwife Machyn; they were standing together, having just embraced to comfort one another. He could hear the bells ringing out all over the city. Soon the gates would shut for the night.

“You have a summons,” said Awdrey anxiously, stepping quickly toward him. “A Mr. Walsingham wants to see you.”

“When?” he asked, turning from one woman to the other.

But at that moment he heard many footsteps echoing on the stairs from the front door.

He looked at Goodwife Machyn. He began to mouth the word “hide” and pointed to the stairs, but she had already grasped his meaning, seeing it instantly in his eyes. She turned and hurried to the door that led to the stairs up to his study.

A moment later, a tall, dark-haired man entered. He had a long scar across the right-hand side of his face. He strode into the room, followed by three other armed men, and looked around the hall at the paneling, the paintings, the mirror, the plaster ceiling. Clarenceux did not recognize him at first. But when he spoke, he knew exactly who had walked into his house.

“Mr. Clarenceux,” said Crackenthorpe. “You will come with me.”

“Where to? For what reason?”

“To the house of the Secretary’s chief counselor, Mr. Francis Walsingham, the Member of Parliament for Lyme Regis.”

“I protest. Why?”

“Because Mr. Walsingham would like to ask you some questions. If you refuse, I will arrest you in the name of her majesty. And then you will be taken to Mr. Walsingham’s house in chains.”

Clarenceux glanced from Crackenthorpe to the other men. One was very tall, with lank brown hair hanging on either side of his face and an expression like a slow-witted dog. Another was small and weasel-like, prim and ready for action. The third was medium height, with a narrow face, a thin goatee beard, and cruel eyes. All four were staring at him. There was no hope of escape.

“The choice is yours, Mr. Clarenceux. Choose now.”

In an upstairs chamber his younger daughter Mildred began to cry. He turned to his wife and saw the tears welling in her eyes. He himself felt sick with nerves, too anxious to be sad. He moved closer to her, put his hands on her cheeks, and wiped her tears away with his thumbs. Their daughter’s crying and the thought of departure tore at him, a final moment. Time was passing so slowly, and yet there was so little left.

“Now, I said, Mr. Claren—”

“For heaven’s sake, be patient!”

He took a deep breath, looking into his wife’s blue eyes. Then he spoke in a calmer voice, but not so quiet that no one could hear him. “I am going to accompany these men now, my love. If I do not return by morning, send a message to our friends, telling them what has happened. Tell them that I have been arrested, without charge or warrant, by a sergeant-at-arms, one Richard Crackenthorpe, on the instructions of a Mr. Walsingham. Tell them to press immediately for a case of unlawful distraint, contrary to the terms of Magna Carta, even if it be the queen’s will”—he turned to look at Crackenthorpe—“and contrary to the common law if it be merely Mr. Walsingham’s.”