James Forrester - Final Sacrament

The boy looked at Walsingham. The crease between his eyes seemed even deeper.

“Then I have all the more reason to speak to Sir William immediately,” he said.

“I have already told you-”

“Lead on,” commanded Walsingham, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thank you for your information, my Lord Bishop; thank you.”

He pushed the boy toward the oak door, and went through to the next antechamber. This was better lit. More tapestries, another hearth, a servant piling fresh logs on the embers. The beams were similarly gilded, with deep blue azurite decoration and stars in the depicted firmament. Two gentlemen ushers were at the far end. One was doing the rounds, lighting candles; the other was listening at the door. The one at the door turned, alarmed, when he heard Walsingham enter.

“Do you have nothing else to do?” asked Walsingham, his voice self-consciously loud. “Get you hence!”

The usher, astonished at Walsingham’s arrogance, moved and Walsingham boldly marched up to the door and opened it. The boy stood back, nervous about intruding on the royal presence. He wanted to return to his cold station at the gate but Walsingham grabbed the scruff of his doublet and steered him through into the queen’s great chamber.

It was a huge room, with a high, gilded ceiling and wide, gilded walls, as large as any room the boy had ever seen: as big as the largest great hall known to him. He wanted to look up and gaze at the spectacle, for the whole room seemed to be encased in gold, but his attention was commanded by the sudden lack of noise. More than thirty men were here, standing or sitting, and the talk had died abruptly. They all looked at Walsingham. Some were gentlemen and knights of the royal household; others were lords and courtiers identifiable as such by their lavish silk and satin doublets, fine ruffs, and embroidered hosen. Two or three men were wearing gowns, being men of the law or of the Church.

Walsingham did not stop but kept walking, still pushing the reluctant boy before him. Two men-at-arms looked startled, uncertain whether to stop them.

“Announce me,” he said loudly. To a man-at-arms he ordered, “Open the door.”

“Do you realize what you are doing?” called a man’s voice nearby. Another shouted, “Show some respect!” A third man stepped in front of Walsingham and told him, “You cannot do this, Walsingham. We are all waiting our turn.” A fourth man added, “The queen is with Sir William; she does not want to be disturbed.”

A tall, exquisitely dressed lord approached; he was wearing a black velvet cape embroidered with gold and silver thread. “Look at the state of you, Walsingham,” he chided. “For your own good, I suggest-”

“For your own good, my Lord Chamberlain, be out of my way,” retorted Walsingham, pushing past those who stood between him and the next door.

“For your own good, you are still wearing your sword,” snapped back the Lord Chamberlain, his eyes meeting Walsingham’s.

Walsingham stopped, unbuckled his sword, and without a word, thrust it at the boy. Then, staring at the Lord Chamberlain, he spoke to the boy. “Go through that door and announce me. Now! ” Again he ordered the guards, “Open those doors.”

The guards looked at one another. One nodded. Together they opened the doors. The boy, scarcely able to control his nervousness, handed Walsingham’s sword to one of them, who accepted it without a word. Then he tiptoed into the queen’s chamber, with Walsingham hard behind him.

The room was dark and vast, almost as large as the great chamber, with just two points of light in the far corner. The boy found himself moving as if in a dream, entranced by the strange riches around him and the sense of being in a forbidden place, as if he were in Heaven or the Underworld. He wondered whether it was treason to enter the queen’s presence without permission. He feared it was. Maybe he would be sent away in disgrace. A chamber clock chimed the sixth hour and he stopped outside; a great bell also chimed six times.

The two lights were a pair of candles on a standing iron frame beside the glowing fire. He could see two figures: a seated woman in a scarlet-colored gown, and a slightly portly gentleman who moved uneasily across the line of light. The boy was halted in his tracks by the man’s voice.

“Who the devil comes here at this time? Who are you who dares come in here?”

The echo of the voice died away.

“Announce me,” hissed Walsingham.

“My lord, your Royal Majesty,” said the boy, who had never been allowed anywhere near the queen before, and had never been told how to address her or her Secretary. His courage failed him. He faltered, and fell silent. Dick Venner had advised him that, “If you see the queen, bury your forehead in the ground.” He now followed that advice, and went down on both knees, and spoke to the floor. “Your Grace,” he began, not knowing how to address a man more important than a bishop, “this is Mr. Walsingham, who…who comes on urgent business.”

Walsingham stepped forward. “I would speak with you alone, Sir William.”

The boy could not believe what he had just heard. Even though he knew little about etiquette, he understood that Walsingham had just shown huge disrespect to the queen. He heard a rustle of silk skirts and slow footsteps. He dared not move but remained pressed to the floor.

“What did you say?” said the queen. Her voice was that of a young woman but more clipped, controlled. The boy sensed Walsingham slowly go down on his knees.

“Your Majesty.”

“Tell me, Mr. Walsingham, what business brings you here to speak to our Secretary who is with us in a private audience? We are conscious of your lack of tact, which is sadly habitual. We are all too well aware of your rudeness and your clumsiness of manner, but no matter what you think you are doing, we still expect you to act like a gentleman. Speak, or we will have you whipped out of this room.”

The boy did not dare to move. He hoped the queen would overlook his presence. Maybe he could slide away when Walsingham left without her even noticing him?

“Your Majesty,” said Walsingham, “given that I must speak, and urgently, would you permit me to tell Sir William the grave news-that Clarenceux is dead.”

The queen turned to Cecil. “Clarenceux King of Arms? Is that news sufficient to disturb us?” She turned back to Walsingham. “Do you not realize the gravity of the situation? A prince of the royal blood has been murdered. Lord Henry Stewart might have been a drinker and a philanderer, not to mention a stupid young man, but he was of the royal blood, and now he is dead, killed by whom we know not. What is the death of a herald in comparison? Are you going to interrupt my privy meeting to tell me one of my cooks has died?”

She glared at him. Walsingham met her gaze, then bowed his head. “Ask Sir William, Your Majesty.”

Cecil had regained his seat and was sitting, leaning forward, looking down at the infinite space before his mind’s eye.

“Sir William?”

Cecil took his time. “Your Majesty, I have something to tell you. Something of even greater gravity than we have been discussing. But the boy should not hear it.”

“What disrespect is this?” demanded Elizabeth. “Walsingham blasts in here-a man who is not even a peer of the realm and therefore has no right to demand access to my presence-he marches in here, without so much as a dignified word of greeting and demands to speak in private with you . His excuse, if you can call it that…” She did not finish the sentence but addressed Walsingham directly. “The heralds are members of my household, as well you know. If the death of one of them concerns anyone, it concerns me. Now speak quickly. You will explain this fully, here and now.”