James Forrester - Final Sacrament

“The boy,” repeated Sir William.

The boy was staring at the floor, not daring to look up. He heard the queen walk closer to him until the hem of her skirt was in front of him. “Do you have a face?” she asked.

He looked up and saw her bright red skirts trimmed with cloth-of-gold fanning out from her narrow waist in a wide circle around her ankles. “I am sorry, your Royal Majesty, I heartily beg you-”

“Shhh, enough,” she said. “Get to your feet.”

He rose as quickly as he could. He saw a very white cheek lit by the distant light of the candle, the rest of her face in silhouette. He noted the reddish-brown of her hair and the string of pearls around her neck. Her sleeves were close fitting to her arms.

“Let us walk to the door,” she said.

He walked unsteadily, too conscious of himself. “Stop,” she said gently. She came up close behind him, put her hands on his shoulders, and whispered in his ear, “You have done the right thing. It was wise to let Mr. Walsingham through. We know he has our best interests at heart. What is your name?”

“Cleaver,” he said, not daring to turn around. “Ralph.”

“We will remember you, clever Ralph. We will ask Mr. Edwards to give you a gift in the morning. Now go, and close the door behind you. Tell those outside we are not to be disturbed again.”

Ralph turned awkwardly, keeping his head down, and bowed to the queen. He left the chamber.

Elizabeth waited until the door had closed. Then she took a deep breath and walked back to the glow of candlelight where Sir William was seated. Walsingham was now standing beside him, leaning over the gout-stricken man, whispering to him.

“Do not whisper, Mr. Walsingham,” she said. “It is bad manners. Worse-you are likely to arouse our suspicions.” She paused. “We are owed an explanation at the very least. We would also like to know what you are discussing so quietly. What news do you have for our Secretary-and therefore for us?”

“Your Majesty,” said Walsingham, straightening himself, “I have to tell you that there was a fire at Thame Abbey on Monday, two days ago, which engulfed part of the monastic buildings. Mr. Clarenceux was inside. I watched, I waited, and I prayed-but he did not leave. My men and I attended the building all afternoon and all night, fighting the fire and preventing it from spreading, but no one inside was able to escape the flames. The heat was too intense. Yesterday morning the refectory was a mass of charred and smoking ruins. We searched the underground drains from the monastery and found a girl there, sheltering from the blaze, and she confirmed that Clarenceux had not left the building.”

“You are sure?” asked Cecil. “Absolutely sure?”

Walsingham nodded. “There was no way out of it-no way anyone could have survived it. I had the place surrounded and my men could not get within thirty feet of the walls because of the heat.”

The queen took her seat beside the fire. “We know that you and Mr. Clarenceux were not close. You and your men let our herald die. Is that not nearer the truth?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“You were there, guarding the abbey, by your own admission. You stopped Mr. Clarenceux escaping. It suits you well that he is dead, does it not?”

Walsingham stiffened. “No, Your Majesty, I most earnestly assure you that that is an unfounded accusation. It is true that Mr. Clarenceux and I had our differences, but in the manner of his death, he showed himself to be most loyal, and utterly undeserving of any criticism I have laid at his door over the years. I can explain my past view of him. In serving you, Your Majesty, I must presume some individuals are guilty until I know otherwise. I must sometimes be suspicious even where there is apparent loyalty. In trying a man in court we may presume him innocent, but in investigating a crime we must hold everyone potentially guilty. Mr. Clarenceux was a maverick, and came close to treason on more than one occasion, but ultimately he proved himself innocent.”

“It is easy to apologize to the dead, Mr. Walsingham. And to see one of our servants do so is distasteful to us. We tend to wonder why the apologizer did not prove as apologetic in life.” She addressed Sir William, seated in his red fur-trimmed robe. “Does your gout permit you to tell me whether we should trust Mr. Walsingham? You use it as an excuse to sit in our presence, but we will not let you keep treason from us.”

Sir William chose his words carefully. “Your Majesty, Mr. Walsingham has my utmost trust, as you know from the number of his reports that I have laid before you. He is a man who loves nothing more than to uphold your security.”

“In that case you will understand why we are most concerned that, when we asked him to explain the meaning of this herald’s death, he said that we should ask you. What secrets are you keeping from us, Sir William? If he is trustworthy, what does he mean by telling us to ask you?”

Cecil sighed. He was used to laying traps for other people, and not used to being caught in one himself, especially not one set by a woman-and a younger woman at that, for Elizabeth was not yet thirty-four. But he was wise enough not to let it show and not to let himself be hastened into saying something he would later regret. He had not survived the calamitous accession of the late Catholic queen, Mary, and made his peace with her, witnessing the execution of his friend the duke of Northumberland and the duke’s daughter, Lady Jane Grey, only to stumble now.

“Your Majesty, I must crave your indulgence, and your forbearance. I must speak about the succession.”

“You know that we have forbidden that. To any of our subjects.”

“I have not forgotten. I also know that you would rather face an unpalatable truth than have it kept from you.”

“You know us well, Sir William. Speak truly.”

“William Harley, the late Clarenceux King of Arms, was a man of the old religion. Like most people whose business harks back to the past, to heraldic achievements and rituals of ancestral respect, he did not wish to break with Rome. Nor did he wish to see the churches desecrated and their monuments defaced, the tombs uprooted and the monasteries and chantries demolished, their ancient manuscripts burned-”

“Sir William, we must caution you. We are the Supreme Governor of the Church and we intend to exercise our rights in that capacity as freely as our father did. We will stand by those Acts by which corrupt monastic houses were abolished. They were passed for the good of the soul of the kingdom.”

“Your Majesty, I was merely illustrating what Mr. Clarenceux felt in his heart. I was not moralizing. You need to understand that even a royal officer might be nostalgic, and loyal to other things as well as your royal person. And please, if I may, let me speak without another warning as to the succession. There are no other men in this realm of yours who have worked so assiduously for your safety as the two of us here now. Mr. Clarenceux has long been the subject of our attentions in this regard-for more than three years, in fact.”

The queen looked at the figure of Walsingham in his filthy clothes, standing not far from Cecil’s chair, then back at Cecil. “Very well, go on.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. The date to which I refer was in December in the sixth year of your reign, 1563. An old man called Henry Machyn, a merchant taylor living in the parish of Little Trinity, gave Mr. Clarenceux a chronicle. That chronicle contained the key to finding a document which touched upon the matter of your succession. To be specific, the document in question relates to the circumstances of your birth. It is a marriage agreement between your mother, the late Queen Anne, and Lord Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland-”