James Forrester - Sacred Treason

Eyes blurred with tears of shame, he thrust his hand inside his doublet for his own pistol. The scarred man was too close. But he forced his trembling hands to respond and drew back the wheel of the lock. Gasping, he twisted around, aimed at Draper’s head, and pulled the trigger.

The noise of the gun was the last thing he heard. An instant later the blade of the side-sword flashed through his throat and lodged in the back of his neck, in the bone. And then he was suffocating and tumbling in a frothing sea of his own blood.

It was not an easy death to behold.

Friday, December 10, 1563

Clarenceux sat at the table board in his candlelit study, listening to the rain. It drummed on the roof and splattered in the puddles in the street two stories below. He pulled his robe close around him against the December chill, nuzzling his bearded chin in the fur collar, smelling the wood smoke that had infused the fur over the years spent in the same chair, in the same robe. Thunder rumbled across the sky. The rain seemed to increase in intensity, as if in answer to the thunder’s command. He was alone but for his papers and this little halo of golden light.

Ever since the birth of their second child seventeen months ago, he had spent the evenings working on his heraldic manuscripts, his visitations. His wife, Awdrey, had retired early as usual, to do her embroidery by the light of the candle in the alcove above their bed. He liked to think of her there, needle in hand, in her candlelight, while he worked here at the other end of the house, in his own light. It was as if their evenings were joined by the two golden flames. Even though they were doing different things in different places, they were together.

He reached forward and lifted an old gold cup-once the property of a royal duke, to judge from the enameled coat of arms it bore-and sipped some wine. He opened the manuscript book before him and read the first page. The title read: A Visitation of ye counties of Essex and Suffolke, commenc’d July ye 20th 1561, by me, William Harley, Clarenceux King of Armes . That had been two and a half years ago, one of his regular expeditions to catalogue all the gentlemen in those two counties who were entitled to bear coats of arms. Such expeditions were among the most enjoyable aspects of his work as a herald. When war threatened and he had to ride through enemy territory to confront a king or a general, his responsibilities were far more onerous. And dangerous. But that trip through Essex and Suffolk had been a good occasion; he had met many amiable gentlemen and very few pretentious ones. He smiled at the memory of setting out that day with his companions all dressed in his heraldic livery. Even Thomas, his old manservant, had joined them, persuaded for the first time to don the brightly colored clothes of a herald’s entourage. He had frowned constantly and grumbled regularly, but he too had been proud.

Clarenceux was about to turn the page when he heard a knocking sound down below. Three clear strikes on his front door, echoing through the silent house.

Few people called after curfew. Queen Elizabeth might have abolished the law by which Protestants, religious dissidents, and dangerous free-thinkers were burnt at the stake, but everyone was aware that the searches continued. Only now they searched for Catholics. A week ago a Catholic priest had been found sheltering in a house in London. The royal guard had put him in the pillory on Cornhill. In full view of the crowd, they had nailed his ears to the wood. When the blood ran down, they smeared the word papa -pope-on his forehead and laughed as they drank wine and spat it on him. After three hours they sliced off his ears and dragged him, screaming, to the Tower. No one had seen him since.

The echoing thud of metal on oak rang out again. Clarenceux sat still. His house had never been searched before, let alone in the middle of the night. He himself had never been questioned. He had always believed a man of his rank to be above accusations of religious treason. He had led diplomatic embassies to Germany, Spain, Holland, and Denmark. He had declared war on France, personally, in Rheims, on behalf of Queen Mary…

The knocking came again, hard, insistent.

But he was a Catholic.

He covered his face with his hands and whispered a prayer into his palms. He did not have much time. Where was everybody? The boy servants would be sleeping in the back attic. Awdrey would be lying in bed with the baby in her cot. Annie, his daughter, would be in her room. The maidservant, Emily, and Nurse Brown would be asleep in the front attic. Thomas normally slept in the hall on the first floor, but he would think twice about answering the door at this late hour.

Again came the knocking, sounding through the house.

Clarenceux went to the door and lifted the latch. He felt a slight draught on his face. There was darkness beyond, and silence.

In his mind he saw torches by night. He saw himself manacled, being led to the Tower. He imagined the cut of the iron on his wrists, the sound of the chains. The fact he had not done anything treasonable would not save him. It was the use of accusations, the spectacle of men being arrested, that mattered. He would matter, a gentleman paraded through the city in his heraldic livery, his ears nailed to the pillory-an example to the people.

Two more heavy strikes on the door.

He looked back into the candlelit room, across at the coat of arms painted on the paneling above the fireplace. They were his family arms, granted to his father, whose portrait also hung in the room. His father’s sword was on one side of the fireplace, his own on the other. Like his father, who had served the old king, he was a gentleman. He had rights. But this might be the last time he would see this room. This might be the point at which he lost those rights, and all his status and property.

And so would his family.

He strode to the fireplace and took his sword from its hook on the wall. He picked up the candlestick from the table and left the chamber. The stairs creaked under his weight as he stepped down, feeling his way with his heels against the wooden steps, left hand holding the sheathed sword.

He entered the hall and raised the candle. The light was reflected in a small round mirror on the opposite wall. Further along, to his left, he could see the pile of blankets on Thomas’s mattress in front of the fireplace. The fire was now just faintly glowing embers.

“Thomas?” Clarenceux called.

He heard his own deep voice fall away into the silence. He searched the shadows with the candle glow. “Thomas, are you down here?”

The door in the wall opposite was open. Beyond were the stairs leading down to the main entrance.

“Mr. Clarenceux,” came an urgent whisper from below. “Sir, what would you have me do?”

Clarenceux went to the door. Thomas was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. His shock of white hair, deep-set eyes, and heavily lined face gave him a gaunt look at the best of times. Worry made him look even older.

“Open it. If it is the queen’s men, they will only return. If our visitors are our friends, they need our help.”

Thomas nodded and turned to the front door.

Clarenceux lifted his candle to the cresset lamp in the wall to his left. He lit it. The wick began to burn brightly. He heard Thomas shoot open the three bolts on the heavy oak door. The fist of his mind clenched, listening for men’s footsteps, for the clink of armor, the knock of a drawn sword against a breastplate, the men shoving his servant aside…

There was a pause.

“It’s Henry Machyn. Mr. Clarenceux, it’s Henry Machyn!”

Clarenceux felt relief shine through him. He smiled. Machyn was harmless, an old man, well into his sixties, with a deep love for the Catholic saints and rituals. He looked down the stairs and saw Thomas taking Machyn’s sopping wet cloak.