James Forrester - Final Sacrament

Buckman had allowed himself to be seen heading along the lane toward the hall. At a suitable point, he had turned and watched his pursuer through the long grass near the gatehouse. The young man was rash, too keen in the face of danger. Buckman had withdrawn into the shadows of the empty house and ascended a staircase that had lost its balustrade; from there he had observed the young man, who hesitated at the door. Had the young man’s nerve failed him, he would have lived. But he had entered-and he too had ascended the staircase.

It had been an easy kill. Buckman had drawn him toward the privy chamber with the creaking of a floorboard and the closing of doors. He had seen that the young man was carrying a pistol but he too had a gun. Gradually, room by room he had lured his victim to the long corridor that ran between the great chamber and the privy chamber. This corridor had a west-facing window at the end-and the glazing there was all broken; at that time of day, it was glaring with late afternoon light. Near that window was a doorway into the privy chamber. That large room was completely dark. The windows had been boarded up long ago, before the house had been abandoned.

Buckman had waited there in the darkness. Eventually the figure of the young man had appeared clearly silhouetted in the doorway, twelve feet away. There he had stopped, looking into the room and seeing only darkness within. That was when Buckman had shot him in the chest. The gun’s report had echoed around the mansion, through its courtyards and across the parish but he had not been worried. Rather he had walked forward slowly and stood over the young man, whose chest was burst open with the bullet. The dying man’s mouth was making soundless words and he was staring up. Buckman had used the young man’s own pistol to finish him off, firing it into the back of his head to obliterate his features. He had then dragged the body over to the window and thrown it out. Back downstairs, he had lugged the corpse across the unkempt grass to the great fish pond, weighing it down by placing stones in the young man’s clothes. Afterward he had walked to Eastchurch to take a boat across to the small port of Brightlingsea, then continued on his journey-by land to King’s Lynn, by sea to Boston, and by hired horse to Grantham.

There was a knock at the door. Buckman’s hand reached inside his cassock to feel the stock of his pistol.

“Come in,” he said. His voice was relatively high in tone and had a nasal sound.

The man who entered was in his late twenties, dark-haired, handsome, and thin, with a small beard. His ruff was neat and not too wide, his clothing correct. Buckman relaxed. This was Benedict Richardson, who had begun his career in Lady Percy’s household at the age of fourteen and had gained her trust soon afterward. At twenty-five he had become her chamberlain; now he was her steward, overseeing the administration of her manors and the order of her household.

Buckman knew better than to greet him by name. “It is good to see you, my friend. Is her ladyship here?”

Richardson bowed a polite greeting. “I thank you for your cordial welcome. Her ladyship has arrived.” He looked around the room. “I trust you had an untroubled journey?”

“Like any other traveler, I am used to picking up and throwing aside the small obstacles I find in my way.”

Richardson smiled. “I will tell her you are ready.”

Ten minutes later, there was another knock and Benedict Richardson showed Lady Percy, dowager countess of Northumberland, into the room.

Lady Percy was in her midsixties. These days she habitually dressed in black satin and walked with two sticks. Her gray hair was neatly coiffured, she wore a farthingale that spread the hem of her skirt out wide around her ankles, and her ruff was fashionably starched. Buckman noted the signs of age: the loose skin beneath her chin, the lines around her eyes, and the wrinkled skin of her hands. Her eyes themselves were gray and full of intelligence beneath a frowning brow. He bowed. Lady Percy brusquely gestured for him to be seated and took a seat herself at the table. Mr. Richardson stood beside the door.

“I thank you for coming to me. I know it is not easy.”

“My thanks go to you, my lady,” replied Buckman, bowing again. “Someone tried to follow me from Gravesend but that was all. He will be missed but he will not be found.”

“Good.” Lady Percy was silent a long time. She looked into the fire, composing her thoughts. “One thing has been much on my mind. Was my sister killed? Did Walsingham torture her to death?”

Buckman put his hands together, the tips of each finger touching as he considered his reply. “I saw her in the Tower but once. Lady Margaret asked me to administer to her, to hear her confession. It was about a week before she died. She was not well; she looked very pale and drawn, and her eyes were bloodshot. She did not speak of torture-but that does not mean that she was not hurt. Her confession was very formal. I believe she knew the end was coming. Lady Margaret later told me that she had seen a small, shrouded body being carted away from the White Tower-not your sister’s usual dwelling-and the same day she had asked a warden if she could see your sister and was told that she was dead. Therefore I strongly suspect the answer to your question is yes, she was tortured to death.”

Slowly, like a feather settling through the air, Lady Percy’s eyes lowered, her mouth moved silently. She had loved and admired her sister-a love and admiration made all the stronger by their being involved in the same risk-filled ventures, without actually having the inconvenience of living alongside one another, for “Mistress Barker,” as her younger sibling had been known, had kept watch for her in London.

“Permit me, please, Father, a moment of reflection.”

Buckman bent his head in prayer as she prayed, and waited.

“I knew that she would die in the Tower,” she continued, “but hearing the news…it wounded me deeply. I say ‘wounded,’ but the truth is that it was not pain I felt but emptiness, which in some ways is worse than pain. I felt sad also, because all we fought against still plagues this land-all the sinfulness and indulgence, the pettiness and the self-righteousness. If I could have had just one wish, it would have been to whisper in her ear as she lay dying ‘Elizabeth is dead, Lord Henry Stewart is riding south, and the holy Catholic child rides with him.’”

“If it is any consolation, my lady, I do believe that Lady Margaret spoke to your sister about the plans ahead, telling her how Lord Henry would rescind all the heretical laws and restore the faith. She must have taken some comfort from that.”

Lady Percy silenced him with a look. “True consolation would have been to cut Clarenceaux’s throat. True consolation would have been to strip the shirt off the back of that whore Rebecca Machyn and have her flogged until the whip ends cut so deeply into her flesh they stuck there when the whip was pulled back. It was their fault. If they had used the document appropriately, as they said they would, none of this would have happened. If Clarenceux had declared Elizabeth illegitimate and then proved it, as was his duty, our Spanish and French friends would have arrived by now-in force. The righteous in England would be up in arms. But he was just too scared. Instead he led Walsingham straight to my sister.” She paused, looking at Buckman, challenging him to doubt her words. “It was not an accident. I will be revenged-on them both.”

Buckman had expected this. “I spoke to the first of the women you sent. She was impressive. Immoral but impressive.”

“They all are, Father. Each and every one. I might be practically imprisoned, unable to escape the attentions of Walsingham’s men. They are outside even now. They follow each and every one of my servants. But some places they cannot go. And while they are watching me, they do not know whom I command.” She gestured to Benedict Richardson. “My steward here makes the inquiries through the courts controlled by my family. In several places we still enjoy the legal privileges of life and death. Women who are sentenced to hang or to be burned alive are offered a reprieve from the gallows or the stake. If they undertake my command successfully, then they will be allowed to escape their sentence. They have nothing to lose. That is their first great virtue.”