34

Cecil was sitting beside the fire when Walsingham arrived. He had just been handed a letter in code and was about to read it. He gestured to Walsingham to seat himself on the wide wooden seat on the other side of the fire.

Walsingham was impatient. He was annoyed at finding Cecil more intent on reading a letter than listening to him; he wanted to tell him the news. He suspected that Cecil was trying to annoy him but did not rise to the bait. Instead he raised his eyes to the ceiling to look at the newly completed plasterwork and the frieze. The paneling was fine too—he approved of the red and gold highlights on the edges of the panels.

Then his impatience got the better of him.

“Sir William, I have news that I think you should hear sooner rather than later.”

Cecil set down the letter. “Come then, Francis, tell me. What is it?”

“Several things. The first is that Clarenceux has confessed to having seen Machyn’s chronicle. I did arrest him and was interrogating him while his house was searched. However, in an unguarded moment when the house was left unwatched, Machyn’s widow took the book away. She has not yet been found—”

“Machyn’s widow?”

Walsingham shifted uneasily on the seat. “Under interrogation—”

“He was in his sixties.”

“He confessed to entering and leaving the city by way of a blacksmith’s house—a man by the name of Mason, he said. I have not yet identified the exact house. However, a search of Machyn’s premises did reveal his will. In addition to William Draper, it names Lancelot Heath—the man about whom Draper spoke. It was also witnessed by two men by the name of Hill and one Daniel Gyttens—men whom Draper failed to mention in his confession. We are searching for them now.”

Cecil pondered. “This news is hardly earth-shatteringly important, Francis. In fact, I would go back to reading my letter but for the fact that you said you had interrogated Clarenceux. What did he tell you?”

“He said nothing about the plot except that Machyn was a friend of his and he had seen the chronicle. He pretended not to know that Machyn was in his stable. He was lying, of course. He said nothing about William Draper or Heath.”

“What did he say about me?”

“Only that he believed you would protect him.”

“And did you say that you were working for me?”

“No.” Walsingham hesitated slightly. “Of course not.”

“Is he still in custody?”

“No. I released him in the hope that he would lead me to the chronicle.”

“And did he?”

Walsingham realized he had walked straight into one of Cecil’s traps. How had it happened? Talking to Cecil was like rowing along a mountain river: suddenly you realized you were in white water, struggling to stay afloat as you were swept along between the rocks of his knowledge, until you were becalmed in a pool, having inadvertently said something that was both secret and true.

“There are other factors, Sir William. In the course of searching Clarenceux’s house, Sergeant Crackenthorpe unfortunately killed one of the servants. It seems that in revenge, Clarenceux sought out Crackenthorpe’s own brother and killed him, blinding another of Crackenthorpe’s men in one eye at the same time.”

Cecil’s voice betrayed his surprise. “Quite the soldier, our herald.” Especially considering the man has not been under arms for nearly twenty years. Lord Paget did tell me once that Clarenceux was the best herald because he was the only one who understood how soldiers think, having been one himself. “Where is he now?”

“That I do not know, Sir William.”

Cecil stood up. “That is the real news, isn’t it, Francis? You have allowed the man whom you suspect to be the chief architect of this plot to go free, having failed to secure the chronicle. And you have seen to it that he has put himself outside the law. He is hardly likely to come to me for help now. We have lost him.”

“But we have the names in Machyn’s will…”

“And so does he, if he is the protagonist you think he is. He has all he needs. He can go into the north and proclaim a rising in the name of Mary of Scotland, and he has whatever secret this damned chronicle holds as well.”

“He is under instructions to deliver the chronicle to me by curfew.”

“He will not. Killing Crackenthorpe’s brother puts the matter beyond doubt. I’d be scared to show my face at your house if I’d killed Crackenthorpe’s brother. What about Machyn’s body?”

“I’ve told the jailers to bury him in a plague pit, befitting his state as the late owner of a plague-infested house.”

“Foolish. Give him the dignity he deserves. He was an old man, and he buried many members of the gentry and aristocracy with lavish and kindly displays. He deserves better than a plague pit. And Clarenceux?”

“What about him?”

“No. What are you going to do about him?”

“I am going to continue looking for him. Crackenthorpe has posted guards on every street corner in Queenhithe ward. He is desperate for revenge.”

“If he finds Clarenceux first, you’ll be interrogating a corpse.” Cecil paused. “What time did you release him?”

“About seven of the clock. Why?”

“I want to know. Is there anything else you need to report?”

“No, Sir William.”

“Not even where Lancelot Heath might be?”

“I regret to say I have no information on that matter, Sir William.”

“I regret it too. I expect you to do all you can. And more. He may be as important as Clarenceux. Together they may be more important to this plot than the chronicle itself. Go now, and good luck.”

Cecil watched Walsingham leave the chamber. He turned and looked into the fire.

Francis released Clarenceux eight hours ago. If he had interrogated him the previous evening and said nothing about me, why did Clarenceux not come to me as soon as he was released?

He stood up and walked the length of the chamber. He tapped his fingers on the panel at the far end, then turned and walked back to his table.

There are two possible reasons. One is that he now knows Walsingham has my protection and is working under my direction. The other is that he really is guilty.

Cecil stopped walking.

Perhaps both are true.