Friday, February 21
That afternoon, as light was beginning to fade, Cecil passed under the arch of King’s Gate at Whitehall Palace and saw the boy there, Ralph Cleaver. The boy bowed low, backing out of Cecil’s way. “I see you have gloves, young Ralph,” he called.
“Her majesty ordered them for me,” replied the boy enthusiastically.
“Excellent,” replied Cecil, continuing on his way. “May they last you many years. If you see Mr. Walsingham, tell him I have been expecting him for two hours now.”
Walsingham was waiting in the paneled parlor at Cecil House.
“You have a considerable amount of explaining to do,” said Cecil sharply when he saw him. “First to me, then to Mistress Harley and, depending on your answers, to the queen. What were you thinking?”
Cecil hobbled across the room, his gouty foot causing him great pain. He poured himself a glass of sack and sat on a turned wooden chair near the fire, pushing his foot out in front of him. He did not offer a drink to Walsingham.
“I am sorry. I knew Greystoke would betray Buckman. I knew he had no love for Lord Henry Stewart—”
“You just did not think he would betray you as well.” Cecil knocked back his sweetened wine. “I trusted you. I defended you against Clarenceux.”
“I am sorry. He was right. What more can I say?”
Cecil shouted with fury. “You could damn well tell me that he need not have paid for being right with his life! You can tell his widow that she need not have lost her husband, and his daughters their father.” He took a deep breath. “The truth I have learned is this: it took a loyal Catholic to stop the damage that a loyal Protestant was about to do.”
“I had the queen’s best interests in mind.”
“You always do. Fortunately for us, the late Clarenceux was similarly high-minded—and he was the better man. Have you caught the priest, Buckman, yet?”
“I have men working on it.”
“Oh, God’s wounds, Francis! Where is your sharpness, your attention to detail? You have become complacent. Find him, arrest him, and then haul him into the Tower and hang him by his hands every day until we know everything he knows.”
Walsingham stood, waiting for Cecil’s next onslaught. When it did not come, he said, “I have sent men to search Sheffield Manor for the children that Mistress Harley said are imprisoned there, with instructions to restore them to their families, if they find them.”
“That is a start,” replied Cecil. “You can also take this as an order from the Privy Council. Lady Percy is never to be allowed out of that house again. Inform her that she is under house arrest for the rest of her life. The income from her estates is to be confiscated. Her nephew Lord Shrewsbury is to be told to limit the amount he gives her to the bare minimum. She is not to meddle in his courts. Only specially designated servants may enter her house, showing a license on each occasion. All her present servants are to be dismissed.”
“What shall I do about the girl—the one found in the abbey?”
“Let her go. Clarenceux trusted her. He employed her—she can return to his house.”
“She doesn’t want to return, she says. She wants to see her mother.”
“Well, let her do so, if she has a mother. Help her, for Christ’s salvation!”
“And after that—do I still have your confidence?”
“Neither of us can be proud of the parts we have played, Francis. Neither of us. We both did our best and we both failed. But we are true and honest men: we learn from our defeats. At the very least we might know what to watch for next time—and be thankful to Mr. Clarenceux that the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement is no more.”