46

Daniel Gyttens was, like Michael Hill, a once-handsome man of about sixty, with high cheekbones and a pugnacious jaw. But he was dressed shabbily in an old doublet and jerkin, both of which he allowed to hang loose. “I daren’t go out,” he explained, and Clarenceux could see from the fact that he wore his side-sword in the upper rooms of the bookseller’s house that he was indeed too nervous to go anywhere. Instead he ate, drank, and read books borrowed from the bookseller below. When they entered his room there was a plate of bread and cheese on the table and an open copy of Edward Hall’s Vnion of the Two Noble and Illustrate Famelies of Lancastre and Yorke.

After the formal introductions, it soon appeared that Clarenceux and Gyttens had much in common. Both had been at the attack on Boulogne in the reign of Henry the Eighth, and both considered that that king’s strategy had been as deplorable and misguided as his religious policy. Clarenceux remarked on the book Gyttens was reading, a Protestant work. “One should know one’s enemies,” replied Gyttens, “and a bad historian is the most steadfast enemy of the truth.”

Clarenceux smiled. “Turning to the Knights of the Round Table, we need the names and dates of each Knight. The dates we believe all correspond with entries in Henry Machyn’s chronicle. There is no hope of gathering all the Knights together, but if we can collect all the names and the dates, and then find the dates in the chronicle, we should be able to discover Henry’s secret. Then we can start to bargain with those in power.”

Gyttens refilled his wine goblet. “That is easy enough. My name is Sir Reynold.”

Rebecca and Clarenceux looked at one another.

“No,” said Rebecca, worried.

“Well, it is.”

“But Sir Reynold is the name carried by Nicholas Hill.”

Gyttens shrugged. “I’ve met Nicholas Hill—he’s a son of Michael Hill. I would be surprised if he had the same Arthurian name as me. That would not make sense.”

“It might,” Clarenceux mused. “We were told that Nicholas Hill took Sir Arthur Darcy’s place as Sir Reynold.”

“Who by?”

“Michael Hill.”

That seemed to cause Daniel Gyttens some discomfort. He lifted his wine glass to his lips and drank.

“Were you one of the founders of the fellowship?” asked Rebecca. “Do you remember what happened in 1550, the year of the foundation?”

Gyttens took another swig of wine. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. It was many years before that. After the Pilgrimage of Grace had failed and all those northern lords were hanged for daring to stand up for the true faith. You’ll get a different explanation from Edward Hall, of course, but it’s in there too.”

Clarenceux remembered the horror. Twenty-six years ago, more than two hundred men had been executed by the king, including abbots, priors, lords, and members of the gentry. It had been one of the bloodiest stains upon that bloody king’s character. Man after man of distinction had gone to the gallows, the king’s officers mercilessly killing them for speaking the truth.

Rebecca was confused. “But the chronicle begins on the thirteenth of June 1550, when my husband, Sir Arthur Darcy, and John Heath dined together at the Bull’s Head. We have assumed the fellowship was founded then. Are you saying that that was not the case?”

“Well, when I say it was after the Pilgrimage of Grace, that was when we started to meet. We didn’t have Arthurian names then, but we were angry. And we wanted revenge on the king.”

“What date did Henry give you?” asked Clarenceux.

“June the nineteenth, 1556.”

Clarenceux nodded, satisfied. “So there are indeed two Sir Reynolds. You have one date and Nicholas Hill has another, June the fifteenth, 1552. But why have two Sir Reynolds? It is hardly the most auspicious of Arthurian names. Why no Sir Bedivere? Galahad? Gawain? Kay? King Uther—even Merlin?”

“Maybe those are the names we don’t know?” Rebecca speculated.

“We know seven now—King Clariance, Lancelot, Dagonet, Reynold—twice—Ector, and Yvain. There are only two more. That leaves several famous Arthurian names unused.” He turned to Gyttens. “Do you know any more dates?”

“No. Only my own. We were all instructed never to let anyone else know them. It is only because you are Henry Machyn’s friend that I feel I can trust you. Obviously others have trusted you too.”

Rebecca turned to Clarenceux. “We need the chronicle. We need to return to Summerhill…”

Clarenceux suddenly frowned at her and shook his head. She gave him an inquiring glance, and then was mortified, realizing the meaning of his expression. If Crackenthorpe finds Gyttens, he will be interrogated. A man who wears a side-sword by day in his lodgings is hardly a man with the strength of mind to resist torture: he is torturing himself.

“We do need to see the chronicle, you are right. But first let us go and see Draper,” he said. “We have that one last lead to follow up. Let us do that now, before dark. We know his Arthurian name, but we must get the date too. After we have seen him, we will have done as much as we can for the time being.”

“Can we eat something before we go?” asked Rebecca. “I am desperately hungry.” She looked down at the bread and cheese on the table. “I am so famished I can’t think clearly.”

“Help yourself,” said Gyttens with a slightly drunken flourish of his hand. “Christian bodies need sustenance as much as Christian souls.”