James Forrester - Final Sacrament

Clarenceux heard his own footsteps echo through the nave. When he reached the crossing, just before the choir, he heard a clink of metal. Walsingham stepped out from behind a column near the site of the altar and took his place beside Greystoke.

There was something chilling about seeing the two of them next to each other.

Walsingham was dressed in black, as usual, with a black skull cap. Greystoke’s white hair and white skin, his white shirt and cream-colored doublet were a striking contrast. He even wore light-colored gloves. A small black-clothed man and a tall white-clothed one-eternity and purity. But how hugely those symbolic colors lied. Clarenceux looked from one man to the other. Greystoke’s face was a mess, he saw. His lip had been torn from his jaw; it was swollen, red, and stitched up.

“You have brought the document then?” asked Walsingham.

“You have brought my wife and daughter?”

“They are safe enough, and near enough,” mumbled Greystoke, his speech impaired by his injury.

The dead leaves shifted further across the floor.

“I want to see them.”

Greystoke shook his head. “Not before you surrender the document.”

“Are they here?”

“Show us the document.”

Clarenceux turned to Walsingham. “How is this going to look to Sir William? You, in the company of a murderer and a defiler of women, a traitor to the State. Will he not judge you by the company you keep?”

“I think you will find that Sir William will trust me no less at the end of the day. You, on the other hand, did not surrender the document to him. If anyone has burned their bridges with Sir William, it is you, Clarenceux.”

At that, Greystoke drew his sword and held it up in his white-gloved hand, turning the blade. “Of course, we could just take the document from you.”

“Perhaps. But if you attack me you had better be very sure I have the document on me.” Clarenceux looked at Walsingham. Then without another word, he walked to the south side of the church.

“Where are you going?” demanded Walsingham.

Alice began to speak, as Clarenceux had instructed her. “Mr. Clarenceux has made arrangements to ensure that you do not renege on your agreement.”

As he walked into the south aisle, he saw a woman with blond hair watching him, along with two armed guards. He went on, into the cloister, and marched past the chapter house and up to the steps into the refectory.

The huge room was empty, just as it had been the first time he had seen it-the trestle table and the rushes on the floor, the glazed windows, the stone lectern where the monks used to read to the community. The sole exception was the iron-bound oak chest from his house in London, in the middle of the room. He bolted the door behind him and went across to the chest; he unlocked the right-hand of the two locks and lifted the lid. The smell of the sulphur in the gunpowder rose to his nostrils. Two pounds of it had been scattered across the base. In the bottom of the chest were the two holes he had bored there. The chest itself was firmly nailed to the floor.

He heard someone try to force the door open. Then he heard furious knocking. “Damn you, Clarenceux!” It was Greystoke. “Open this door or I will blast it open.”

Clarenceux went to the window and saw Walsingham’s men circling the whole abbey, all the way down to the fishponds. It was time to fetch the document.

Six minutes later, Clarenceux unbolted the door. Greystoke angrily pushed inside, holding his sword. “Where is it?” Clarenceux said nothing but backed away as many more people filed into the refectory. Walsingham followed, then the woman from the south aisle of the church, and Alice and seven or eight men. Greystoke advanced on him with his sword drawn and started berating him again. Clarenceux drew his own blade and summoned up the full power of his voice to command the attention of everyone present.

“Back!” he roared. “Back! As God is my witness, Mr. Walsingham, I have not sought a confrontation with you or with that man. But I will hand the marriage agreement over to no one until I know my wife is safe. Where is Maurice Buckman?”

“It matters not,” said Greystoke, his sword at the ready.

“Mr. Walsingham, I do not know why you trust this felon, a killer, but I see that you do. Do you know he is in league with Maurice Buckman? Are you awake that Greystoke himself now has control of my wife? Now, listen to me. I will show this document to you so you may know that it is genuinely the marriage agreement that you have sought for so long-and I will show it to Greystoke too, for I want nothing more to happen to my wife-but I will not let either of you have possession of it until I know that my family is safe.”

“You are in no position to make demands, Clarenceux,” shouted Greystoke.

Walsingham raised his hand. “Nor are you, Mr. Greystoke. Not when I have a hundred men in and around this abbey.”

“Let the others out,” said Clarenceux. “Just we and the girl remain.”

Walsingham’s eyes narrowed, knowing that Clarenceux had a plan. But he knew also that Sir William had at least acquiesced to the plan, for Sir William had personally passed on Clarenceux’s directions. He turned to his men and nodded.

“And Joan,” added Greystoke. “She must stay too.”

Clarenceux’s attention turned to the woman. Joan Hellier looked back at him. It took a moment for him to understand how she fitted into the story of his troubles-but when he did, he remembered Sarah Cowie’s words-and knew he was looking into the eyes of Rebecca Machyn’s killer.

The last of the guards left. Clarenceux went to the door and bolted it shut. He gestured with his sword to the long trestle table as Alice took her position at the door. Walking to the middle of the room, he reached inside his doublet for the document, which he pulled out, in its folded state. He unfolded it, still holding his sword, and laid it flat on the table, pushing it in front of Walsingham and Greystoke. Both men leaned over it. Light from the great windows behind them made the parchment easy to read. Walsingham picked out the black-letter names in the old chancery script, together with the terms of the agreement and the names of the witnesses, including the bishops of Durham and Rochester. Both men were suddenly quiet and reverential in the presence of a document of such importance.

When they had read it, Clarenceux pulled it away, and started to fold it up. But suddenly Greystoke drew his sword and brought it level with Clarenceux’s eyes.

“Leave it.”

For a long, silent moment Clarenceux stared at the tip of the blade. His eyes shifted to Walsingham. “I am not a fool and neither are you. I am sure you can understand the need for me to secure the document until my family are safe.” He moved away from the table, taking the document with him, and went to the chest. He turned back to the two men. “To that end I intend to leave the document in here.” In their sight he opened the chest and placed the unfolded parchment inside. He locked the right-hand lock on the chest with the key already in the lock and then took another similar key from a pocket in his doublet and locked the left-hand side. He looked to Alice and handed her one of the keys. “Take this young woman to my wife,” he said to Greystoke. “She will have one key with her. The other stays here. When I hear that my wife is safe, then-and only then-you can have the document.”

Walsingham looked at Greystoke. “How far away are they?”

Greystoke stared at the table, then raised his head and glared at Clarenceux. “Three miles.”

“Take my wife to the Saracen’s Head in Thame,” said Clarenceux firmly, looking into the man’s gray eyes. “Alice will accompany your messenger. When you get there, if all is well, she will be given a code word. When you bring back the key and the code word, then the document will be yours.”