James Forrester - Final Sacrament

Lady Cecil put her hand on Awdrey’s arm. “I cannot begin to say how much I feel for you. Looking at Annie growing stronger day by day, I longed for when you would be reunited as a family. I am so sorry.”

Sir William came closer and held out a piece of paper to Awdrey. It was addressed to her in her husband’s handwriting. “He left this with me in case something happened to him. I understand you might want to read it alone. But before I leave it with you, I wonder if you could tell me something. Does the thirtieth of June last year mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It was a very hot day when William and I went for a dinner by the river at Richmond with our girls. We were very happy. I told him I had never been happier in all my life.”

Sir William held out the letter. Awdrey took it, her hand shaking. She turned it over, looking at it, seeing her husband’s seal intact on the back. Just the sight of her name written in his hand made her want to weep.

Lady Cecil squeezed her hand tightly then left. Sir William also withdrew, closing the door gently behind him.

Awdrey closed her eyes and tilted her head back, not wanting to suffer the emotions she knew she would feel when she opened the letter. She took a deep breath and said a prayer for her husband’s soul. Opening her eyes, she looked at the letter and slid her finger beneath the sealed flap.

My dearest wife, my love, my life,

I write this letter in my study, where you have seen me on so many nights, working by the light of a candle. No doubt you have often wished I was not such a bookish man-so wrapped up in old tales, heraldry, ancient chronicles, and charters. But by the time you read this, you will know that I have done a very unbookish thing. I have no way of conveying to you how sorry I am that I have caused you so much worry over these last three years, and so much suffering in recent weeks. I did what I thought was the right thing at the time, when I took possession of that book from Henry Machyn. That one act has wrecked our lives. If, through destroying the document and our mutual enemy, I have managed to restore your good opinion of me, and our daughters’ safety and prosperity, then I will have achieved all that I can hope to achieve.

I have not made a formal will-there has not been time. Nevertheless I trust that this letter will serve the same purpose. I pray that you will settle my debts, those upon lease and in shop books. To our faithful and loving servant Thomas I pray that you pay the sum of twenty pounds of good and lawful money. To the boy Fyndern who has lodged with me these last weeks and looked after our horses, I will that you pay him his wages and give him suitable reward for his courage. To the boy Nick, whom I so wrongfully dismissed from my service, if you can find him, I would give the wages owing to him and five pounds. To the girl Alice Vardine who has also lodged with me, I pray that you pay her the wages I owe her at the time of reading this and a fine new dress. Perhaps she might take the position recently occupied by our late servant Joan? That is something I leave to your discretion.

You do not know this but there is a cottage and small farm in the parish of Wargrave, in Berkshire, which is in my freehold. I purchased it for the purpose of hiding the document two years ago. The deeds you will find in my study, in the small chest beside the table. I wish you to go there to see the tenant, John Beard, and to give him five pounds. They are good but poor people, and I wish them to do well.

I pray that you have some two dozen gold rings made for friends in London, that they may remember me. My historical and heraldic manuscripts I wish you to give to the library of the College of Arms but only after Mr. Julius Fawcett has had the chance to look over them and select any items he would like for his own library. To Tom Griffiths, a tenant of mine near Aldersgate, I give and forgive six months’ rent.

The chronicle of Henry of Abingdon I wish to be returned to its rightful owner, Sir Richard Wenman, of Caswell in Oxfordshire. My father’s sword I bequeath to our daughter Mildred, to be passed to her eldest son; and my Bible in English I bequeath to Annie. I would like my manuscripts and preparatory notes for a visitation of Devon to be given to Mr. John Hooker of Exeter. Finally, the elm table in the hall I bequeath to your sister’s husband, Mr. Andrew Holcroft, as a memento of our friendship.

To you, my dearest, beloved wife, I leave everything else.

I urge you to bring up our daughters in the understanding of the True Faith. Teach them that it is better to live peacefully under a Protestant queen in the eyes of the Lord than agitate and live in a state of war, and cause our fellow believers to be persecuted. God knows the truth of faith lies in our hearts, not just in what we profess. I wish them and you peace.

Know that I love you and always have loved you, and I weep to think that I shall not see you again. You have been the greatest joy of my life. You are young and beautiful; you can make a new life for yourself. When you feel the time is right, it is my will that you marry again-a gentleman suitable to take charge of our daughters’ upbringing. And when they marry, on their wedding days, kiss each of our daughters for me, and know that in their bodies, my blood mingles with yours still, and, in their kisses, I am kissing you.

Farewell, my love,

William

Awdrey let the paper fall from her fingers. The world was cold, and only shadows moved in it; the only color was gray and the only sound was silence.

Friday, February 21

That afternoon, as light was beginning to fade, Cecil passed under the arch of King’s Gate at Whitehall Palace and saw the boy there, Ralph Cleaver. The boy bowed low, backing out of Cecil’s way. “I see you have gloves, young Ralph,” he called.

“Her majesty ordered them for me,” replied the boy enthusiastically.

“Excellent,” replied Cecil, continuing on his way. “May they last you many years. If you see Mr. Walsingham, tell him I have been expecting him for two hours now.”

Walsingham was waiting in the paneled parlor at Cecil House.

“You have a considerable amount of explaining to do,” said Cecil sharply when he saw him. “First to me, then to Mistress Harley and, depending on your answers, to the queen. What were you thinking?”

Cecil hobbled across the room, his gouty foot causing him great pain. He poured himself a glass of sack and sat on a turned wooden chair near the fire, pushing his foot out in front of him. He did not offer a drink to Walsingham.

“I am sorry. I knew Greystoke would betray Buckman. I knew he had no love for Lord Henry Stewart-”

“You just did not think he would betray you as well.” Cecil knocked back his sweetened wine. “I trusted you. I defended you against Clarenceux.”

“I am sorry. He was right. What more can I say?”

Cecil shouted with fury. “You could damn well tell me that he need not have paid for being right with his life! You can tell his widow that she need not have lost her husband, and his daughters their father.” He took a deep breath. “The truth I have learned is this: it took a loyal Catholic to stop the damage that a loyal Protestant was about to do.”

“I had the queen’s best interests in mind.”

“You always do. Fortunately for us, the late Clarenceux was similarly high-minded-and he was the better man. Have you caught the priest, Buckman, yet?”

“I have men working on it.”

“Oh, God’s wounds, Francis! Where is your sharpness, your attention to detail? You have become complacent. Find him, arrest him, and then haul him into the Tower and hang him by his hands every day until we know everything he knows.”