James Forrester - Sacred Treason

He leaned against the doorjamb until he had gathered his strength to walk to the next doorway. Several men were now clustering around him. Halfway across he fell. Two men were quickly at his sides, lifting him. “Help me through to the library,” he said, seeing the light ahead.

Once they had hauled him into the library, Clarenceux once more sought the refuge of the doorway, keeping himself on his feet.

Julius appeared, having run up the stairs. “William, what are you doing? Sit down. I’ll have someone carry you to bed.”

“No, Julius. Four or five men will die at noon if I do not hand the chronicle over to Mr. Walsingham.”

“After all this, you are going to give it up?”

“He is going to hang them-at best. He may even have them burnt for heresy. I have no choice. Enough men have died. Enough women too.”

“You cannot be in your right mind, William. Look at you. You have been stabbed in the gut-I can see the blood still coming-and you have two, three deep cuts to your arms and several other wounds, including a cut to the chest. Never mind going to London-how are you even standing up?”

“God is with me, Julius. I am to save these men. He has given me a plan. I need your help. I need you to take me to the city. Take me in a cart if you have to-but, damn it, get me there quickly, before noon.”

Clarenceux’s declamatory voice, given force through his pain, echoed in the room and in the minds of everyone present.

At length Julius spoke. “I will accompany you-with as many men as I have spare horses. But first you will let Lychorus dress your wounds.”

Clarenceux gestured to a book press on the far side of the room. A pile of books were stacked at its foot. “Over there, at the bottom of that pile, you’ll find the chronicle.”

Julius went over to the pile, took the topmost books off, and lifted the chronicle. He set it down on the table. Once more the golden gleam of a candle touched it. So much of Julius’s study had been damaged by Crackenthorpe’s soldiers, so many books torn apart, that its intactness gave it a certain aura.

“Thank you,” said Clarenceux, pointing to another heavy vellum-bound volume that was lying on a shelf nearby. It had been mutilated and the cover was loose. “May I also borrow this? I trust you won’t be needing it for a day or two.”

Thursday, December 30

No one troubled them on the return to London. If any of Walsingham’s men were watching the road, they did not confront Julius and his company of fifteen men.

Clarenceux was carried in a cart, covered in blankets, and was silent most of the way, sometimes biting his lip against the pain. They made a fast pace in the bright morning air. Clarenceux felt confident he would not die; the wound in his abdomen had continued to bleed for a long time but now had stopped. He knew that he should see a surgeon, but he did not even mention the word-and would allow no one else to do so either. There was no time. Besides, the spectre of death by surgery still haunted him, as it did every man who had seen what military surgeons could do. As he knew well, untrained women in rural parishes sometimes performed surgical operations on injured people who then lived. Military surgeons undertook the more complex operations, requiring considerably greater knowledge and dexterity-and half their patients died after a few days. The only explanation was that it was God’s will. We will keep clear of surgeons.

At London Bridge, Julius talked to the guards. They were uncertain but could not prevent him and his men from passing. At Bridge Gate the company was simply waved through. But thereafter, they were followed. At Ludgate the cart passed under the arch that Clarenceux knew so well, and rumbled over Fleet Bridge. For a moment it seemed that the nightmare was receding. But Clarenceux reminded himself that it only seemed that way. There was no guarantee that the cold-blooded killing was not about to resume.

They stopped outside the house in Fleet Street. Clarenceux threw off the blankets and signaled to Julius to knock as he maneuvered himself to the edge of the cart and let himself down onto the ground. He glanced at the following guards, who had remained at a safe distance. Two of Julius’s men supported him as he tentatively walked toward his front door.

It did not open.

Even if all my servants have left, Walsingham should be here. And he should have the prisoners with him. And why are those guards watching?

“Knock again.”

A minute went by. This time the door did open. A gaunt, white-haired old man with a deeply lined face looked out nervously.

“Thomas, I am glad to see you.” Clarenceux could not help but smile.

Thomas’s eyes alighted on Clarenceux and his face lit up. His expression was beyond mere happiness. “Sir, I had given up hope! I thought…Oh, Mr. Clarenceux, sir!” And in his emotion he rushed forward and knelt in front of Clarenceux, and kissed his hand.

Clarenceux pulled his servant to his feet and embraced him gently. “Thomas, a fine welcome, for which I thank you heartily. But tell me: is anyone else at home? My wife? Nurse Brown?”

“No, sir, I am here alone. Nurse Brown has left the city. The other servants have not returned. But Mistress Harley and your daughters are well, sir, and still with your sister-in-law in Devon. Your house is not yet fit for their return. I came back to do what I could to mend things, but much has been damaged.”

“Thomas, my heartfelt thanks. Has Mr. Walsingham called in the last day or so? Or anyone else of his following?”

“No, sir, no one. I have been here all the time.”

“I see.” Clarenceux looked along the street to the west and saw the carts and packhorses approaching the city, and the street vendors, water carriers, and milk carriers. He turned and looked the other way, toward the city wall and Ludgate, the bridge, and the broken shape of the tower of St. Paul’s. Walsingham’s guards were still watching him from just this side of the bridge.

“Julius, what time is it?”

“About noon, I would say, William. We are on time. The bells will ring soon.”

“It would appear that I have been deceived. Francis Walsingham has defaulted on his part of our bargain. But he is acting under the protection of Sir William Cecil, her majesty’s Secretary. What would you advise me to do? Go to Walsingham’s house by the Tower? Or pay a visit to Mr. Secretary Cecil?”

Clarenceux did not wait for an answer. Instead he turned and, pointing west, limped back to the cart, aided by Julius’s men. “Go with God, Thomas,” he called as the cart jolted and began to move westward. “I will be back later. And thank you.”

***

It was only a short journey from Fleet Street to Cecil House, in the Strand. Julius rode ahead through the gates and into the courtyard. When the gatekeeper sought the meaning of the intrusion, Julius calmly asked that the man announce the arrival of Mr. William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms. Without waiting for a refusal, he led all his men up to the door of the grand house.

“For heaven’s sake, can’t you see this man is in great pain?” he snapped at a servant who stood in their way and dared to suggest they should not enter without being invited.

“Then he needs a surgeon. Sir William cannot satisfy you on that score,” the man replied indignantly.

“No, but Sir William has many other scores to settle with me,” replied Clarenceux, his arms on the shoulders of two of Julius’s servants. “And he will need more than mere surgery if he fails.”

After this exchange, twelve of Julius’s men accompanied their master and Clarenceux into the great hall of Cecil House while the other three remained outside, looking after the horses in the front courtyard.