James Forrester - Sacred Treason

For three weeks I have lived in fear. But I have learned much. In Walsingham’s cellar, I realized that I would prefer to die than live a hated, unworthy existence. And in that dark churchyard, waiting for Rebecca after escaping from William Draper’s house, I learned that God alone is not enough. Those words haunted me that evening and they still do. But there really is no mystery. Men and women need one other-otherwise our struggles would simply be unbearable.

Sir William Cecil was the last to return to Clarenceux’s hall. His guards appeared and took up their posts on either side of the door. He apologized for being late and walked past Julius’s and Walsingham’s men to his seat.

Cecil glanced at Walsingham and noted that the sword he had worn so ostentatiously earlier had gone. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Walsingham, Mr. Clarenceux, Mr. Fawcett. I do not wish to prolong this business any longer than is necessary. As far as I can see, all that needs to happen now should be a simple handing over. Given the emotions and reputations involved, I suggest we exchange as few words as possible. Mr. Clarenceux, I believe you should be the one to take matters forward?”

“Thank you, Sir William. Mr. Walsingham, you and I had an agreement, to exchange the chronicle of Henry Machyn for all the prisoners surviving, together with the restoration of all our property, including mine. I understand that Daniel Gyttens and Henry Machyn are now dead. Even so, I believe that there were seven other Knights of the Round Table. You said five survive, apart from Henry Machyn’s widow. Where are the other two?”

“The identity of one man eluded us. I cannot answer for Lancelot Heath either. My men never found him. We searched his house and his brother’s inn by London Stone, but there was no sign of him.”

“And you arrested no one else in connection with him-his brother or sister, for example?”

“No.”

“Then that leaves five men and Rebecca Machyn. Present them.”

Walsingham turned to two of his own guards. “Bring them.” Clarenceux waited patiently as the footsteps sounded on his staircase. The prisoners filed into the room and stood in a group in the middle. They looked like beggars, such was the filthy state of their clothing and bodies. Three faces were new to Clarenceux: Nicholas Hill, James Emery, and Robert Lowe. Michael Hill, in an old black tunic, looked thin and very frail. Although only a few days had passed since Clarenceux had considered him still handsome for a man of sixty years, his face was now drawn and full of bewilderment. A younger man had had his arm around him as they had entered; Clarenceux guessed this was his son, Nicholas Hill. In a fawn doublet with leather lacing on his cuffs and brown hose, he was powerfully built and had a look of efficient service about him. James Emery wore a long black coat that was now in tatters. Rebecca’s brother-the blacksmith, Robert Lowe-was recognizable from his huge chest and his burnt and callused hands. William Draper stood slightly apart from the others, his face still badly disfigured where Clarenceux had broken his nose.

Rebecca looked worst of all. The joy had gone out of her face. Her long hair was dirty and lank; her dress more torn than when he had last seen it. There was dried blood on her filthy hands. For an instant Clarenceux’s heart tightened in a fist of rage, then he relaxed. It is over now.

Clarenceux reached forward and lifted the book from the table. He held it up for Walsingham and sensed a sneer in the small man’s face. Walsingham had been humiliated, and his protector had failed him. He, Clarenceux, had played tricks on them. Walsingham must have been wondering how Cecil had been manipulated. But he knew he had to accept the chronicle.

Walsingham stood in front of Clarenceux. He reached forward and took the book from his hands. “This is still evidence.”

Cecil answered. “It is also still the property of Mr. Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms, to which you have already done enough damage. I trust you will return it to its rightful owner when you have had sufficient time to examine it, in line with your agreement with Mr. Clarenceux to restore all the prisoners’ property.”

Walsingham said nothing. He turned and marched out of the room with the chronicle under his arm, followed by his guards.

“That, I believe, concludes our business,” said Cecil. He rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, Goodmen, Goodwoman-I will leave you now. I hope that this affair is soon forgotten and that those of you who have recently been intimidated by the late Sergeant Crackenthorpe, acting beyond his authority, live the rest of your lives free from the taint of treason and heresy.” Then, turning to Clarenceux, he bowed. “Sir, your circumspection has saved the day. You have my deep respect. My salutations to your wife and daughters, when you next see them.” He paused, then he too walked to the door, his men following behind. “Good day to you all.”

And then he was gone.

Julius came forward. “William, I too must be going. It will be dusk in half an hour. And although we will be riding by moonlight, we have been up all night. So…”

Clarenceux struggled to his feet. Julius tried to stop him and then realized he would not be stopped. The two men embraced.

“Thank you for helping me,” whispered Clarenceux, clutching his friend tightly.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Julius replied. They broke away, each man looking at the other. “When you are well, you must come down to Summerhill.”

“I will, gladly. I look forward to it.”

Julius turned and approached Rebecca Machyn, still standing with the men in a silent, uneasy group. He took her hand, even though it was covered in dried blood, and kissed it as if she were a lady. “My blessings and my gratitude, Goodwife Machyn. Thank you for all you have done for my friend. My house will always be open to you-I will not forget that you are a keeper of my secrets.”

When Julius’s men had left, there remained only the Knights of the Round Table, Rebecca, and Thomas. Michael Hill, James Emery, and Nicholas Hill embraced one another. William Draper walked away from them and stood by the wall. Rebecca did not move at all. The fact she did not come close to Clarenceux worried him.

“Goodwife Machyn, now that Sir William has gone, please, take his seat.”

She came forward without a smile and sat down.

“I know you will all want to go home. But first I would like to say a couple of things. The Knights of the Round Table is no more. Forget your Arthurian names and dates. They mean nothing now. Such organizations are dangerous. What began as a means of keeping some information alive turned into a wave of fear that nearly destroyed us all. Mr. Draper, I can see that you only tried to save your own neck. I cannot blame you for that. But you did betray your fellow men-including me-without warning us. You let Henry Machyn go to his death. You were prepared to let men die, you informed on your fellow Knights, and you spoke unwisely at Holyrood and in London. You are free to go now. But I hope our paths never cross again.”

Draper did not move. “My face, my rib-you did these things to me.”

“No, you brought them upon yourself. And if you wish to compare wounds, then let me show you the stabbing in my gut, the gash in my thigh, the deep cuts on my arms and shoulders. These wounds were inflicted by Sergeant Crackenthorpe because of information you provided. Do not even think of blame or revenge; God will surely crush your soul. If anyone in this room has a right to vengeance, it is this good woman, for the loss of her husband. Now, you have one chance to leave without the enmity of us all. I suggest you go now.”