38

Clarenceux was drifting in and out of consciousness. The scratching of rats in the walls kept him awake. So did Rebecca, shifting restlessly through the night. There were moments in his half-sleep when he thought he was lying at home, beside Awdrey, and the warmth of the woman beside him made him think of love. But then he would remember where he was, and he would turn both his body and his mind away from Rebecca and the dip in the bed to think about his wife. He thought about the chronicle too, and as soon as he did that, his mind fastened onto a whirling wheel and went around and around, trying to sort out the Knights’ names and dates. He kept pondering June 13, 1550, and June 20, 1557, searching for something that might connect them.

It would not be long until dawn. The candle had burnt down; it was completely dark. He felt Rebecca move again.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“What are you thinking?”

She said nothing for a long while. “I was wondering where we are going to go.”

“We will cross the river and go down to Chislehurst. A friend of mine lives there, a gentleman and an antiquary by the name of Julius Fawcett. He is a little outlandish, and very old-fashioned, but he is a good Catholic. He will be able to protect us for a few days.”

Rebecca moved her hand to his shoulder. “And you?” she asked. “What were you thinking?”

He shifted away from her and sat up with his back against the tester. “I was wondering what connects the two dates we know—the thirteenth of June 1550 and the twentieth of June 1557. A saint’s day? Or some other commemoration or anniversary? I don’t know. Henry said that he was sure I would recognize a quotation from the book of Job if I saw one. But what can the Bible have to do with those dates?”

“Both entries in Henry’s chronicle mention St. Paul’s Cross.”

“Yes, the abbot of Westminster and the bishop of Durham both preached there. It is the place where prelates deliver their most important sermons. But beyond that…”

The mattress undulated as she raised herself onto one elbow in the darkness. “What if the other Knights’ dates all relate to sermons preached by powerful men there?”

Clarenceux pictured the cross in London, in the cathedral yard. It was a large timber pulpit with a stone base and a lead roof, surmounted by a gilt cross, and probably the single most visited spot in the whole city. Huge crowds flocked there to listen to preachers: there were dozens of references to it in the chronicle. But there was no writing on it, no inscription. It was just a preaching place. “I can’t see that the cross can tell us anything,” he said.

“Perhaps Henry meant it to be a marker. Maybe all the Knights’ dates relate to a different man preaching at that cross. Maybe the Knights we are seeking are just decoys and the real agents are the people who preached at that place? Maybe it is them we need to see.”

Clarenceux thought about it. If Henry wanted to start a revolution, he certainly would have needed the help of important people, such as the abbot of Westminster and the bishop of Durham. But Goodwife Machyn cannot be right. “The bishop of Durham in 1550 was Cuthbert Tunstall. He died four years ago. And the abbot of Westminster is locked in the Tower.”

“Even so, that might have been what Henry intended when he and the others established the Knights.”

“No. He would not have been so insistent that I contact Heath if the chronicle was simply going to lead us to dead and imprisoned men. What we need are more Arthurian names and dates. Henry said that when all the Knights were gathered, the secret would become apparent to me, no one else. He must have written something into it that only I would know.”

“If we are going to go into Kent,” Rebecca asked, lying down in the warmth of the bed again, “does that not take us farther from the other Knights?”

“Do you want to stay in London and be arrested?”

“Where is your courage, Mr. Clarenceux?”

He swung his legs out of the bed and sat on the edge. “I left it behind, years ago, when the duke of Suffolk marched out of Boulogne.”

“I don’t believe you.”

For a long time he said nothing. “I want to make sure you are safe first. I will come back to London and find the other Knights afterward.”

Now it was her turn to be silent. He heard her move and felt the mattress shift.

“Are you well, Goodwife Machyn?”

“Yes, Mr. Clarenceux. I was just reflecting on how lucky I was. To be married to Henry for so many years. He was a considerate man too.”