James Forrester - Final Sacrament

“But she cannot escape the fact that she is a woman,” Cecil put in.

“I agree.” Walsingham nodded. “Inside the angel, she is a woman-and that is her vulnerability. If she marries, the woman will be revealed-stripped of her divine purity and seen to be all too mortal. If she falls pregnant, she may die in childbirth, like a mere mortal, handing power directly to her next successor, the Catholic queen, or the prince. She must therefore do all she can to stay alive-and that means not marrying, not becoming pregnant, not being seen to be womanly or weak, but playing the part of God’s angel in England.”

Cecil poured wine into his glass, drank from it, wiped the edge with his napkin, and offered it to Walsingham, who accepted it. “If the privy council deem it expedient, she will marry,” he said. “Her fears are not above the interests of the nation.”

“She is more than a match for the privy council. Do you think it merely an unfortunate coincidence that she favors both you and Lord Dudley? If it weren’t him it would be someone else that she would use to balance you and to check your influence.”

Cecil was not amused. “I flatter myself that I know her better than you.”

“That is what blinds you. That is why you cannot see the facts. You are too involved in the elaborate intricacies of things. If she does what you suggest, and marries to please the privy council, she will have second thoughts very soon afterward.”

Cecil frowned. “Well, Francis, I have answered your question about the queen naming the Scots prince. I have told you what I think will happen between the Scots queen and her husband. I will reflect on what you say about the queen marrying. In return, I will give you a further piece of information on which to reflect. I mentioned earlier that Queen Mary is not without friends in Scotland. In November she met her loyal magnates, ostensibly to discuss the baptism. However, it was decided then to end the royal marriage-either by divorce or by some other means, for the lords would not accept being ruled over by Lord Henry Stewart, who they believe will prove a tyrant if he succeeds in killing Mary. It is either him or her. One of them is going to dispose of the other. And it is going to happen soon. The royal couple have planned a reconciliation in January-and that can only be because one wants to get close enough to the other to perform the final cut.”

Walsingham rubbed his chin. “It was always the way with the Scots. How many murders and black deeds have they performed over the centuries? Has an Irish or Scottish king ever died in his bed? By comparison, we English are mild and meek.”

Cecil laughed. “Listen to yourself-think about Edward II and Richard II, Henry VI and Edward V. We have had our share of royal butchery. But anyway, that’s not the issue. Be aware that one heir of Scotland is set to kill the other, and that if Lord Henry Stewart is the victor, you can expect his attentions to turn to England very soon thereafter.”

Walsingham nodded and got up to leave.

“There’s one other thing,” said Cecil, lifting the glass of wine. “Please would you be so good as to release the herald, Clarenceux?”

Walsingham stopped. “Clarenceux was arrested for breaking the peace at the hanging of John Blackwell, the traitorous Catholic priest. He was heard by the whole crowd to speak openly in favor of the man, and to encourage them to throw off the control of the civil authorities. He cannot be allowed-”

“Yes, yes, I know. I had spies there too. It’s nothing he has not done before. Let him go.”

“Given his custody of the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement-which you never seem to speak about anymore-I have reason to believe he is safer in my keeping than he would be in his own home.”

“If you are worried about him, you can put him under watch. I am sure you have considered that already.”

“Morning, afternoon, evening, and night. Nevertheless, I can assure you that you are making a mistake.”

Cecil looked Walsingham in the eye. “I would rather make a mistake than follow the advice of those who claim never to make them.” Cecil leaned back in his chair and surveyed the table. “Now, I think I am ready for my custard tart. Good evening to you.”

Sunday, December 22

Rebecca Machyn awoke early in the little cottage in the village of Portchester that she shared with Widow Baker. It was still dark, and her mind was echoing with a dream. In her heart she felt a tremendous sense of loss, for she realized the dream was just that: a dream. A moment ago, asleep, she had been happy. She had been lying in a bed in an inn with William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms. They had been traveling somewhere and pretending that they were man and wife; she had been wearing just her smock and he his drawers, and in the darkness he had kissed her and held her, and moved his hands over her body. She had felt so loved, warm, and when his hands had brushed her nipples, her body had sung like the strings of a lute. Now the lute was silent, the strings slack, and she was alone in the darkness. Even Widow Baker was abroad, having gone to nurse a woman in the next village.

For a moment Rebecca lay still, divided between the luxury of the dream and cursing herself for her self-pity. She pictured Clarenceux-his curly dark hair, his grim but handsome face, his height, his brown eyes-and wiped away a tear. Even now, even after all this time, he can move me . She cast her mind back to their meeting, when her husband, Henry Machyn, had still been alive. Henry had been a merchant taylor, no one important, but he had idolized Clarenceux and referred to him as “the most noble gentleman of my acquaintance.” This was why Henry had chosen Clarenceux to be the recipient of his precious chronicle. Clarenceux had taken to her, and his looks had increasingly lingered on her. After Henry was murdered, she and Clarenceux had been chased by Walsingham’s agents and together they had discovered the secret contained within the chronicle. He had looked after her, cherished her, desired her, loved her. Gladly she would have sworn to be with him always-but it could not be. He was married, and he loved his wife no less than he loved her.

She had not seen him for two years now, since the autumn of 1564, when she had gone back to London to collect the last of her things from the old house. On that occasion, a bright October day, she had traveled with the cart along Fleet Street. Approaching Clarenceux’s house she could not help but look at it, and remember him, and feel close to him. She had not meant to say good-bye in person, but at that moment he had come to the window and seen her, and rushed out of the house. That final meeting in the street had overwhelmed her. She had dismounted and he had embraced her, and they had talked. He had politely asked her about the old house and she had explained that it was all John Machyn’s now, Henry’s son. She was going to live in Portchester, where she had found acceptance and happiness in her work at the military hospital in the castle. Clarenceux told her how he wished her well. There had been a long pause, when neither of them had said anything. He had embraced her then, and she had known in the way he held her and the way he kissed her that his feelings for her were still strong. Hers for him were equally so. But there was nothing they could do. He had simply whispered good-bye to her and had waved her on her way.

Why was she even thinking of him now? The previous day, Mr. Wheatsheafen had told her that two young men had come looking for her. That fact had unnerved her, and she had searched her mind wondering who they could be. Although she did not want to admit it, there was a chance they had come from London. No one there knew where she was-except Clarenceux and her stepson, John Machyn.