James Forrester - Sacred Treason

A minute later Cecil came into the hall. His eyes went straight to Clarenceux. He saw that another gentleman was present, dressed in a similar black robe.

“My greetings on seeing you, Clarenceux, would be glad and hearty, but today you come unexpectedly and accompanied by men I neither know nor trust.”

“That, Sir William,” replied Clarenceux firmly, “is because you trust the wrong men. Or let me be particular. You trust Francis Walsingham-a man who has tried to kill me, who has allowed a royal sergeant-at-arms to murder a boy in my service, William Terry, as well as an old man, Henry Machyn, and this gentleman’s chamberlain, Mr. James Hopton-this gentleman being Mr. Julius Fawcett of Summerhill, Chislehurst. Forgive me if I appear rude by not waiting to be invited into your hall, but you and I have too much talking to do to waste time on courtesies.”

“Then tell me, Clarenceux, what is your explanation for the charges of high treason against you?” Cecil’s eyes settled on Julius for a moment, then returned to him. “Correct me if I am wrong, but you have failed to produce a seditious document in your keeping, you have harbored others guilty of the same crime, you have resisted arrest, murdered two servants of the Crown, and-worst of all-you have sought to encompass the overthrow of her majesty the queen herself. That is treason as laid out in the Great Treason Act of Edward the Third-you cannot deny it.”

More of Cecil’s men were coming into the hall, six servants in his household livery and eight guards wearing breastplates. Julius’s men were now outnumbered, and, standing around Clarenceux, they began to feel uneasy. But Clarenceux himself did not flinch.

“Sir William, you do not know this, but I will tell you freely. You can add to that list of crimes that I have killed not two but five so-called ‘servants of the Crown.’ Last night I killed the sergeant-at-arms, Richard Crackenthorpe, in a duel, and I led two of his men to their deaths. I believe their names were Fraser and Ridley. If you want proof, Crackenthorpe’s head is in the back of the cart in your front courtyard.”

Clarenceux looked at Cecil, daring him to speak. But Cecil was taking his time. Suddenly Clarenceux’s declamatory voice filled the room, rising with the emotion of the remembered killings. “And do you know why I killed Crackenthorpe? Because he had sworn to slay me for accidentally killing his brother. It was a personal matter. These men might have been paid by the Crown, but they were not acting in its interests. They were serving themselves, using their royal authority to further their own ends-to bully, intimidate, steal, rape, injure, and murder the queen’s subjects. That is what you do not understand, Sir William. And nor does Francis Walsingham. You are too far removed from real events to see it. There is no plot. I repeat: there is no plot . It is all a figment of your terrified imaginations. You, in your great house, with the ear of the queen-what do you know about the way other people live their lives? You are so sheltered from danger you fear every gathering of men is a conspiracy. Walsingham and Crackenthorpe-acting supposedly under instructions from you-have killed a number of people who never sought to overthrow the queen. They may have had their secrets, but they were not revolutionaries. Now I want revenge for…” But Clarenceux could not go on. The thought of Rebecca caused him to flounder in a sea of despair.

Cecil was shaken but he remained in control of himself. “Then explain to me the meaning of the chronicle of Henry Machyn. You cannot deny you have seen it and have possession of it.”

“I agreed to hand it over this noon to Francis Walsingham at my house. It would appear he does not want it, for he defaulted on our agreement. He did not attend. That is how seriously he takes your plot, Mr. Secretary. But more, let me tell you that he guaranteed the lives of the men he has mercilessly imprisoned in return for this book. Where are those men? As it happens, the book does indeed refer to a secret document that would enable the overthrow of the queen. I am sure I only need mention the marriage of Lord Percy and Anne Boleyn and you will know exactly what I am talking about. You are one of the few who will understand how serious such a plot could have been. But this was a secret to be kept, not a plot to be enacted. However, if I do not have Walsingham at my house in Fleet Street within the hour-with all those whose freedoms he has promised-and with you in attendance, then I will give myself over to bringing it about. And I will give my dying strength to undermining the authority you have built up and which Walsingham exercises in your name, and which Crackenthorpe exercised also, because I am sick to my very soul with the deaths of innocent people.”

More men were coming into the hall, alerted by Cecil’s servants. But Julius’s men stood their ground.

Cecil walked forward, toward Clarenceux. “There is no plot, you say?”

“Not if you do not want there to be one.”

“You mean, you are the plot.”

“No, Sir William. Upon the life of my daughter-your wife’s god-daughter-there is no plot. I have possession of a chronicle, that is all. And that chronicle gives me certain knowledge that you understand and I understand, but which Francis Walsingham does not understand and very few would.”

Cecil held his gaze for a long time. When he eventually spoke, his voice was low. “Very well. Today is your day. As long as you can guarantee that, the future is mine. Do we have a bargain? Do I have that guarantee?”

“We will see-if Walsingham complies. You have my word.”

Cecil turned to a man standing nearby. “Find Walsingham as quickly as possible. Tell him this, exactly: if he has made an agreement with William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms, he is to observe it in its minutest detail or face a charge of high treason. Tell him to hand over the prisoners he has promised by two of the clock, on pain of death and forfeiture of his estates. Tell him that exactly as I have said it to you.” Cecil turned to Clarenceux, “And rest assured, William-I hope I can call you William still-if Walsingham fails, then you may have his head, to add to your collection.”

Clarenceux tried to bow but the pain in his abdomen prevented him. “I am grateful for your trust, Sir William.”

“Good. My men will escort your company to your house and I will see you there at two of the clock.”

There was little furniture left in Clarenceux’s hall. Thomas had done a good job of tidying up, but the spaces on the wall where his round mirror and paintings had hung told a quiet story of loss. The smashed plasterwork above the fireplace still testified to the destructiveness of Richard Crackenthorpe and his men. Nevertheless, Clarenceux was happy to see the place again. He was especially pleased to see the elm table in its usual place.

“I have not attended to your study,” said Thomas as Julius’s men helped Clarenceux to a chair that had been prepared for him. “With all the papers and documents on the floor, I thought it best to leave that to you personally.”

“Thank you, Thomas. You have done well. I am pleased.”

Clarenceux asked for the elm table to be brought across the room and positioned in front of his seat, and he had Machyn’s chronicle placed on it. Julius instructed half his servants and retainers to wait outside as there would be insufficient room within. A mug of ale was brought for Clarenceux, and the first sweet taste was like an instant of homeliness.

Sir William Cecil arrived shortly afterward with a good company of men. He walked briskly up the stairs, with guards preceding and following him. A plush seat was carried up from a neighbor’s property and he took his place beside Clarenceux. He looked at the table and the chronicle, and the array of men before them.