James Forrester - Sacred Treason

In silence they listened to his rapid footsteps on the stairs.

“I think we should leave too,” said Michael Hill, looking at his son. “Mr. Clarenceux, please forgive us for what must appear to you ingratitude. It’s just that for years we have prepared ourselves to face imprisonment and death for the sake of this secret. That gave us strength throughout our recent ordeals. Even in the Tower I knew that my suffering had a greater purpose-that it would bring about a change. It is difficult for me to accept that there will be no change. But I know that I should be grateful, and I am grateful-doubly so on behalf of my wife and son. On all our accounts, I thank you.”

Nicholas Hill said nothing. He simply went to his father, put his arm around him to support him, and led him to the door. Emery followed them, without a word or a backward glance.

Clarenceux and Rebecca listened to the men going down and the front door closing. The light in the hall was growing dim. Neither of them spoke.

“Are you going to talk to me?” he asked after a while.

“What is there to say?”

“What happened in Hackney?”

“I don’t want to tell you. What happened is between me and those men’s consciences. It is over. Forgotten.”

Clarenceux leaned forward. With the light fading rapidly he could only indistinctly see her face. She was not looking at him. “Shall I ask Thomas for a light?”

“No. The darkness is good.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it hides my tears.”

Clarenceux felt reprimanded, chastened. There could be many reasons for her tears but the most obvious left him feeling guilty. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.”

He sat back again. “Rebecca, what is on your mind?”

She sighed. “After it was all over they put me in a brick cellar. It was cold and damp. I wanted to die. And in those dark hours I saw myself as I truly am: a poor widow. I have no money, nor any trade. I cannot continue Henry’s business. No one would want to marry me with nothing to my name. My best hope is to become a servant in Mistress Barker’s household and there end my days.”

She paused, wiping her eyes.

“I realized there in that cellar how much I was fooling myself, being with you. You are married; you cannot protect me. I am no one’s woman: no one’s daughter, no one’s wife, no one’s mother. Any man with a knife and the inclination can violate me and walk away. Who will defend me? What is my word against a man’s when no one will speak up for me? I was fooling myself by pretending that you and I have something in common, that I could share something with you as my husband did. It wasn’t true, and it isn’t true.”

Clarenceux closed his eyes. “You are not just a widow, Rebecca. You are a much-loved woman. And you have much love to give too. In the church, at Hackney, you said we would fight them with love.”

“I am sorry for that.”

“No. I am glad that you said it. I am glad of your closeness to me. Lying next to me all those nights, I wanted your respect so much that I never touched you, even though I longed to. And in the church, your words urged me to be strong-for you as well as me. I kept thinking of you on the way back to Summerhill. On that journey Crackenthorpe told me you were dead, and the very thought caused me so much pain, so much…”

“What has happened to Crackenthorpe?”

“He is dead.”

“You killed him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“You do not need to thank me.”

“Nevertheless, you have avenged Henry’s death as well as my ordeal.” She paused, nervous, trying to find the right words-words that she could bear to hear herself saying. “They kept me in the cellar where he died. Walsingham’s guards told me. They also told me about what they did to him before they killed him-cutting strips of skin off his back, burning him, and other terrible things.”

They fell silent. One church bell began to ring in the distance. Very soon other bells were ringing too, including the bell of St. Bride’s nearby.

“Will you go down to Devon to find your wife tomorrow?” Clarenceux felt the pain in his abdomen and shoulder, and remembered what difficulty he had had just walking up the stairs and across the room. “Not tomorrow, no. It is a long way. But soon.”

They fell silent again.

“What will you do with Lord Percy’s document?”

“I have not had much time to think about it. I have to keep it safe. Sir William Cecil wants me to guard it for him.”

“He will use you. He is a cunning man.”

“Maybe. But it is still in my possession. And we are still alive.”

“Under the rule of a Protestant queen.”

Clarenceux lifted his hand. “Don’t say that. Don’t be like the others. You told me that you did not want a revolution, but only to be safe. That is what you have got.”

Rebecca smiled weakly. Then she realized Clarenceux could not see her face in the darkness of the hall, so she leaned forward and took his hand in hers and gave it a little squeeze.

“Yes, and I am grateful. I just wish there was something I could do for you to make you as grateful to me.”

He felt for her hand and held it in his. “You have already done enough. You saved my life. You worked out the sequence of letters in the book. You gave me strength in Hackney Church. Most of all you are still alive. I saw what a world without you looks like, just for one night, and it was so cold. I do not want to see such a world again.”

“Sweet words, Mr. Clarenceux. But you understand my meaning, I am sure. Your wife will soon return, and when she does, you will be glad. She will not want me around, and nor will you. I understand now.”

“What do you understand?”

“You. And her. After Crackenthorpe arrested you, in this room, she and I talked upstairs in your study. And I did not understand then what it is about her that you love. The two of you seem so different. At times on our travels I thought perhaps you do not love her. But now I see that you do. For you, love is a matter of honor-just as it was for Lord Percy. He could not change and nor can you. Honor, duty, love, respect-all these things are the same to you. You are intrinsically loyal-you protect those you love as a matter of duty and those you love depend on you. You have built your own world around yourself, and you will defend it with your life.”

“And now you too are part of that world.”

“No. No, I am not. And I never can be. I was-but only while you were alone and in need of me. Now I must stay away from you. For both our sakes.”

The prospect of being apart from her all the time was an emptiness. “This afternoon, Rebecca, sitting in this seat, I was alone for a short while. And I found myself reflecting on all the events of the last week. And I thought of all the people to whom I am grateful. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I owe more to you than to anyone else. It’s not just that I owe you my life; it is everything you-”

“But that is what I am saying, Mr. Clarenceux. You cling to the past. For you the past is one long series of triumphs, adventures, and splendor, and wondrous proud moments and honorable gentlemanly things. You genuinely love the past. For me the past is not something to love. It is hunger, through not having enough bread. It is pain, the loss of three babies. The loss of my husband. Can’t you see that?”

Clarenceux said nothing.

Her voice was urgent, convinced of her rightness but struggling with emotion. “The big difference between you and Francis Walsingham is that the past means little or nothing to him. For him only the future counts; and he does not love it, he fears it. I am like that too. I fear the future, I really do.”