James Forrester - Sacred Treason

“Francis is going to think he is on trial.”

“Good,” Clarenceux replied.

Cecil shook his head gently. “If he comes, and if he does as he has agreed, he is still under my protection, Mr. Clarenceux. I hope you don’t make unwarranted statements that would prejudice your case or any threats that will throw the burden of shame back on yourself.”

Clarenceux said nothing. He understood.

Walsingham’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. He was alone.

He was wearing his usual attire of black doublet, small ruff, black skullcap, and black hose; but Clarenceux noted a certain distinction in the lace at his throat and on his cuffs, and that he was wearing a sword. The latter was not technically permitted. Francis Walsingham was not a knight, and therefore not allowed to walk around the city’s liberties displaying a blade. But Clarenceux knew that the sword served a more subtle purpose: to remind Cecil that he acted under his authority and with his protection.

“Good day, Francis,” Cecil began. “I am glad you have come. It would appear that we owe Mr. Clarenceux an apology. He tells me there is no plot, and that there never was any plot, against her majesty.”

Walsingham looked coldly at Clarenceux, as if examining him. Then he turned back to Cecil. “Do you believe him? Would you believe him if he told you he has persuaded her majesty to return the Church of England to the Roman fold? The man is a liar, a traitor, and a heretic.”

“Well, Francis, that may be your opinion. But we do not prosecute or punish people simply on the strength of your opinion.” Cecil paused for a moment. “And if we have acted against people in the past on that account-prosecuted them, punished them, searched their premises, damaged their possessions, threatened them-then that was wrong. Do you not agree? And if it has been done under my protection, that constitutes an abuse of privilege, no?”

“Sir William, you and I have a difficult balance to maintain. As you yourself have said, the stability of the ship of State is all-important. If I remember your exact words, you said: ‘If a mariner falls overboard, we do not turn the whole ship around. I would rather that innocent men drown than the ship be unsteadied.’”

There was a shifting among the men in the room. Cecil remained calm. “How many innocent men have drowned, exactly?”

“That depends on what you mean by innocent.”

“How many?”

“Two have died. Both royal servants-one outside the Machyn house, killed by Mr. Clarenceux; and the other in the alley north of the churchyard of St. Peter’s, also killed by Mr. Clarenceux.”

“Let me repeat the question. How many?”

Walsingham hesitated. “I will allow that Clarenceux’s servant boy and Daniel Gyttens should not have died.”

“And Henry Machyn?”

“Henry Machyn was a traitor and a heretic. He was not innocent.”

Clarenceux could contain himself no longer. “Henry Machyn was merely the guardian of a private document. He never plotted against the Church or the State. He was guilty of nothing more than writing a chronicle-one that is not remotely seditious.”

Walsingham’s eyes narrowed. “But if you look in that chronicle, what does it say under the date of the fifteenth of June 1552? And the sixteenth of June 1553? It is seditious, I’ll have you admit.”

Cecil held up a hand to silence Clarenceux. “I believe, Mr. Walsingham, that now is your opportunity to put that theory to the test.” He gestured to the book. “Here is the chronicle of Henry Machyn.”

Walsingham looked at the vellum-bound book. Everyone else looked at him. He stepped forward and picked it up. The cover was loose and almost came away in his hand. But he paid no attention to that. His eyes went straight to the uneven script. He squinted as he tried to read. He set the book back down on the table and turned the pages. He started reading silently again, looking for the incriminating entries. He found nothing under the first date he examined, so he turned more pages, looking for another date. Again he found nothing. Increasingly frantic, he turned back to the start. A sneer of satisfaction came across his face as he found an entry for the thirteenth of June 1550 and glanced up at Clarenceux. Then he read the entry and realized that it was not incriminating. After checking six or seven more entries, he set the book down.

“Read the last entry,” Clarenceux commanded.

Walsingham turned the pages brusquely, looking occasionally at Clarenceux, until the last page was revealed. He read it silently.

“Read it aloud,” ordered Cecil.

Walsingham looked Cecil in the eye and held his gaze before turning to the book. “It says: ‘The eleventh of December. Harry Machyn writer of this chronicle died, being killed by the order of Richard Crackenthorpe, queen’s sergeant-at-arms. Esperance.’ And that,” said Cecil, “is the basis on which you have killed innocent people in the name of her majesty, Mr. Walsingham?”

Walsingham tossed the heavy book onto the table. “The word ‘Esperance’ appears on Lord Percy’s tomb-it points to Machyn’s complicity-”

“In what, exactly? His complicity in what?”

Unnerved by Cecil’s smooth opposition, Walsingham looked around the room for support. Every face told the single story of deserved revenge. He turned back to Cecil. “Sir William, you know about the messenger sent from Scotland. You know about the assassin sent to kill William Draper. There was a conspiracy. You and I discussed it many times.”

“No. You told me about it. Did I ever tell you to kill anyone? Did I ever instruct you to do anything except take the precaution of searching this very house? And when you did search it, did you find anything? No. Yet you clearly intimidated this man, wrecked his property, murdered his servant, and drove his wife and daughters out of their home.”

“I was looking for the chronicle-”

“And now you have found it. Does it justify your behavior? I think not. So, what are you going to do? What is going to be your final conclusion on this matter?”

Walsingham said nothing.

“I have a grave suspicion that, without my intervention, you would have hanged Mr. Clarenceux and told me that all was well because you had foiled the plot. But the only crimes that have been committed have been committed by you and your hirelings. That is how it appears to me.”

Walsingham swallowed. “I will ensure that Sergeant Crackenthorpe faces the full penalty of the law.”

Cecil looked away. “It is too late for that.”

“He is dead,” said Clarenceux.

Walsingham’s mouth opened. He searched for words but none were forthcoming. “God have mercy on his soul,” he eventually said in a hoarse voice.

“God will do nothing of the sort,” retorted Clarenceux. “Do you think it was an accident that I ended up like this, with wounds to my body, arms, and legs? You gave him instructions to kill me once he had the chronicle, so I would not return today by the appointed hour. You were not here at noon. You never had any intention of honoring your side of the deal we struck yesterday in Hackney Church.”

Walsingham looked toward the door.

“Don’t turn away from us, Francis,” said Cecil. “Explain to me first your understanding of the bargain. Mr. Clarenceux and you were to meet today, at noon, in this house, when he would give you the chronicle and you would release the prisoners, is that correct?”

“Those that were still alive.”

“And how many is that?”

Walsingham looked at the ground. “Five men,” he said at last.

“Where are they now?” snapped Cecil.

Walsingham looked Cecil in the eye. “If I have been harsh, it was because you wanted me to be…”