37

They were both quiet during the meal. The musicians struck up late in the evening, and people started dancing, but neither Clarenceux nor Rebecca did more than look sadly at the jollity. She cried several times, trying to conceal her tears from both Clarenceux and the other guests at the inn. She drank three mazers of wine, reaching for her cup each time she found herself failing to control her nerves. Then she would smile nervously at Clarenceux and look away.

As they made their way from the hall into the half-light of the screens passage and out into the cold darkness, he took her hand in his. He did it almost without thinking, and Rebecca accepted it. He led the way up to the gallery, feeling for the door with his other hand. He lifted the latch and they entered.

The candle was still burning in its holder on the wall, casting a small gold glow across the room. Neither of them spoke. Clarenceux sat down on the near side of the bed. He assumed that the far side was her preferred place of sleeping, as that was where he had seen her earlier. She knelt down by the washing bowl and rinsed her hands and face, drying them on a linen towel draped over the stool. He watched her for a moment, then directed his gaze at his feet. He took off his robe and laid it across the end of the bed. He unfastened his belt and shoes, placing both on the chest beside the bed. He removed his doublet and ruff, seeing the bloodstains and remembering the fight. It made him feel sick, and he forced his mind away from the memory. Looking away and taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Then he felt the cold as he stood in his shirt and hose. He pulled back the sheets and blankets and got into the bed. He turned on his side, facing away from Rebecca so she would see that he was not watching her.

Rebecca had to remove her dress. No one could have slept in a garment with upper sleeves so stiff with braid and brocade. She started to unfasten it behind her back and then found herself struggling with the ties which were too high for her to reach.

Clarenceux listened to her movements. That is a gentlewoman’s dress. Gentlewomen are dressed by their servants; they do not dress themselves. What Goodwife Machyn is trying to do is impossible. He felt sorry for her.

Rebecca stood still, silent, and cold—and growing colder.

“Is everything all right?” he asked quietly.

“I was thinking, did you look in the chronicle for the dinner which took place here? The dinner that Lancelot Heath mentioned, when all the Knights met together.”

“I did. It gives no names. In fact, it says very little: only that it took place.”

She fell silent again, struggling with the dress. Eventually she gave in to the inevitable.

“Mr. Clarenceux, I cannot unfasten this dress. Mistress Barker’s maid helped me into it. I am very sorry, but could I prevail upon you…”

Clarenceux slipped out of the bed and went around to her side. She turned her back to him and bent her head. He looked at her pale neck in the candlelight, then dropped his eyes to the fastening. It was quickly undone. He glanced at her neck again, and her back as the dress parted, and turned away.

“Do you leave the candle alight?” she asked as he climbed back into bed and lay down again, facing away from her.

“Yes. Let it burn down.”

He felt the ropes supporting the mattress shift with her weight. They were loose and had begun to lose their strength, with the result that the mattress sagged greatly in the center. He could sense that she was rigid, on her back, struggling not to roll toward him. He too was holding himself from rolling toward her.

“Mr. Clarenceux,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“This is very awkward. I fear we are bound to touch one another.”

“I think that is a great likelihood, Goodwife Machyn. I apologize if I keep you awake.”

“No, Mr. Clarenceux, it is I who should apologize to you. I would have taken the servant’s bed if there had been one.”

Clarenceux turned over and propped himself with an arm to prevent himself rolling into the middle. He saw her tear-streaked face in the light of the candle and lifted his other hand from under the sheets to put it on her shoulder.

“I feel for you,” he whispered.

She looked at him, shivering now. Cold and nerves—combined, they made her tremble all the more. “Mr. Clarenceux, I know we are only here together out of necessity, but I am grateful—”

“You do not need to keep calling me by my title.”

“Sir, I am only pretending to be a gentlewoman. I am a merchant taylor’s wife—I would not presume to address you in any other way.”

He was silent. He did not want to be the one who corrected her, to use the word “widow.”

“Everything I do is false,” she went on. “Every movement I make seems to be ungentle; every word I say is that of someone lower in class than you…”

“Goodwife Machyn, this anxiety is not going to help you sleep. We must rest. Try to stop shivering.”

She nodded. After a short while she swallowed. More tears fell on the pillow. “Will you…will you hold me for a moment, Mr. Clarenceux?”

Clarenceux put his arms around her shoulders awkwardly, trying to embrace her and yet not draw her close. But she came nearer, nestling against his body in the middle of the bed, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I just feel so…so lost.”

“Goodwife Machyn, you are not lost. I owe you my life for removing the chronicle.” He closed his eyes, remembering seeing Will Terry’s body in Thomas’s arms and Thomas’s tear-covered, lined face.

“You owe me nothing, Mr. Clarenceux. But thank you. Thank you for your understanding. Thank you for your warmth.”