James Forrester - Sacred Treason

The sound of rain on the roof, and the sweet smell of hay and horse dung. Machyn heard the horses stir and his own short breaths. Feeling dizzy, he moved toward the ladder leading up into the hayloft. The horses moved uneasily in the blackness. Machyn felt the rung of a ladder and tucked his stick under his arm. He began to climb. He told himself that at the top of this ladder was a place where he could at last lay his head down and sleep on the hay, as he had done as a boy in the stable adjoining his father’s mill. Another step, a steadying of his foot, and another heave of his tired body on one leg. The dizziness increased. He needed to hold himself still. But a minute or two more, that was all it would take. He put his forehead against the ladder. A minute or two. And then he would be safe and dry.

Whatever was to happen to him tomorrow, he would at least spend this night in peace. Crackenthorpe would never think of looking for him here, in Mr. Clarenceux’s stable loft.

It was past midnight, but Clarenceux could not close Machyn’s chronicle. Every so often he noted his name, Harley, or his title, Clarenshux; for the earlier years, there were many references to Norrey, Norroy, or Norray, when he had been Norroy King of Arms. He saw an entry dealing with a feast held by the Worshipful Company of Skinners, of which he was a warden. He turned back a few pages and noted the funeral of Lady Darcy: amp; ther was ij haroldes of armes, Mr. Clarenshux and Mr. Somersett in ther ryche cottes.

He flicked backward and forward. Norrey. Clarenshux… His titles echoed in his mind as he read them over and over again. Among the previous year’s entries was one that mentioned the proclamation that the English and Scottish queens would meet. Elizabeth and her Catholic cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots. The proclamation had been made in both English and French, and, Machyn had noted, with a trumpett blohyng and a harolde of armes Mr. Clarenshux in a ryche cotte with a serjant of armes.

Clarenshux again. He began to feel uneasy. This was almost a chronicle about him. True, there were many other entries that did not name him, or have anything to do with him; but the world of Henry Machyn, as contained in this book, revolved around him. Machyn had almost been spying on him. Events in Machyn’s own life were hardly ever mentioned. But there were many references to Clarenceux’s personal life. Here was one describing the baptism of his second daughter. Another referring to his marriage. Another referring to his promotion from Norroy to Clarenceux. Another about his visitation of Suffolk.

Clarenceux looked around his study. He looked at the book presses: one stood against the side wall, the other at the far end of the chamber. He looked at the fireplace and the painted carved wood above. His coat of arms. He looked at the chest and the books on it, and the piles of books on the floor. A loose piece of paper had fallen out of one. A few vellum indentures were piled beside it. He looked at his table board, scattered with vellum deeds and books. Three candlesticks, two of which were without candles, stood there. Four quills, two of which needed sharpening. A knife. A metal pen. Ink. Red wax for his seal. Everything was normal, untidy, and connected to him.

He turned back to Machyn’s chronicle.

This was not like a chronicle. This was more as if someone else-Henry Machyn-had been writing the diary of another man’s life, his life. Why on earth would anyone write someone else’s diary for them? He pulled his robe closer against the cold. Machyn had spent the last thirteen years writing a chronicle about him and had never previously breathed a word about it. Why? What did that entry for 20 June 1557 mean?

…dyves amp; Lazarus…

He crossed the room and reached for a New Testament that lay on the top of the book press against the far wall. Taking it back to his table board, he turned to Luke, chapter sixteen, and started to read, in Latin, the story of the rich man and the poor man, Lazarus. The rich man gave nothing to Lazarus and so ended up in hell, while the poor man was taken into heaven to be with Abraham.

Was Machyn referring to himself as the poor man and him, Clarenceux, as the rich one? He read on. The rich man begged Abraham to send Lazarus to his brothers, to tell them to give generously to the poor. Abraham replied that the living brothers had the writings of Moses and the prophets. If they would not listen to those ancient texts, they would not listen even if a man were to rise from the dead.

Clarenceux rubbed his eyes, unable to make sense of the story. Why did it apply to him? He had no brothers. Did Machyn think that he, Clarenceux, had not been generous enough to the poor? Surely not. As for the reference to ancient texts, did it mean that men in the future should pay attention to chronicles? Like Machyn’s own? Was that all there was to this?

Thunder rolled across the sky. Still the rain continued. He put the Bible back on the shelf and turned again to Machyn’s book. If this was really about preserving the past, why had he been given the book now? Surely Machyn had more to write? I asked Machyn the wrong question. I should not have asked “why me?” but “why now?”

He turned to the last page. The bottom half was blank. His eye settled on the last passage. It read: The xj day of Desember Hare Machyn wrytre of this cronacle dyed beyng kylled by ye order of Ricd Crackenthorpe queenes serjant att armes. Esperance.

Clarenceux felt as if he had been punched. Machyn killed? By this Crackenthorpe? That date is tomorrow. What did Machyn say? “If anything happens to me”? It isn’t a case of “if.” He believes he is going to die. He believes it so sincerely that he’s written it in his chronicle.

Clarenceux shook his head, his thoughts whirling. Machyn cannot mean to kill himself. Not unless he has some mad idea of doing so and blaming his enemy, through this book. But what does he mean by Esperance? What does hope have to do with his own murder? He mentioned the name of Crackenthorpe on the stairs as he left. He must have known that I would make the connection. But if he had something to say, why did he not tell me? He was more concerned about the book itself and making sure that I took charge of it.

Machyn was concealed in a great cloak of darkness, thunder, and falling water. Clarenceux had no hope of finding him before morning. He might as well go to bed. But how could he? He would not be able to sleep, knowing what he knew. Besides, if Machyn’s prediction was right, there were only hours to spare.

He pushed open the shutter to his study and looked down. He felt the cold air on his face and heard the rain on the tiles and in the street. It was pitch black. He could not even see the outline of the roofs on the other side of the road. He pulled the shutter to. But as he did so he caught sight of a book on the table board, the one he had opened just before Machyn had knocked. A Visitation of ye counties of Essex and Suffolke …

For heaven’s sake, Machyn’s life is at stake. And I am worried about getting wet.

He threw off his robe, lifted the candlestick, and went downstairs. “No, don’t get up, Thomas,” he commanded, as he marched along the length of the hall. He pulled back the carpet draped over a chest, lifted the lid, and pulled out his leather boots and traveling cope. “I’m going out to search for Machyn,” he explained, seeing Thomas raise himself onto one elbow in the shadows. He unbuckled his shoes, tossed them across into the corner of the hall. “Is there a lantern by the back door?”

“By the door to the kitchen, sir, as always. But Mr. Clarenceux, can you not hear the weather?”