James Forrester - Sacred Treason

Outside, men were talking in low voices. She turned again on the straw mattress, her cheek lying on the wet pillow.

Clarenceux gasped, sodden and cold. His face was soaked with rain. He was shaking.

Here is the street, Little Trinity Lane. Machyn’s house is on the left, about forty yards down the road. The first-floor jetty is lower than those on either side.

He walked on. At full stretch he could touch the projecting beams of the houses with his fingertips. He ran his hand along and felt the jetties until he found one that was lower. He felt a wooden beam, plaster, a wooden doorframe, a door…

He drew the knife that hung from his belt and struck with the hilt against the door three times, just as Machyn had knocked on his door earlier.

No answer came, nor was there any sound except the raindrops in the puddles. If Henry is not at home, I’ll speak to his wife or his son.

Again, he knocked.

As he waited, the doubts came upon him. And then the fear grew again. This time he knew he had reason to be afraid. He heard footsteps somewhere, splashing through puddles.

Suddenly a gloved hand clamped down on his neck and forced his face hard against the door. A shoulder shoved him in the back, so that one of the iron studs bruised his ribs. Held there, with an arm across his throat, he dropped the lantern. He felt a stranger’s gloved hand searching him, pulling apart his fingers.

“Drop the knife.” The voice was rough and deep, the uneducated growl of a soldier from the north.

Clarenceux did not drop the knife. “I am William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms, herald to her majesty Queen Elizabeth, by divine grace Queen of England, France, and Wales and Lord of Ireland,” he shouted into the darkness. “Take your hands off me!”

“Drop the knife,” said the man holding him, “or I’ll stick it in your groin.”

Clarenceux sensed several men around him. “Give your name!” he shouted back, letting go of the knife.

“What are you doing here, herald? And without a light?”

“Had you a light yourself, you would see that I do have a lantern. It went out some time ago in this accursed rain. It is on the ground at my feet.”

The stranger’s hand let go. Clarenceux turned. Suddenly a brilliant, intense light burst in his face. It burnt into his eyes, making him flinch. One of his interrogator’s companions had opened the aperture of a mirrored lantern and was holding it up. Clarenceux could only blink as the light rose and swept down to the doorstep and mud where his own cold lantern lay.

There were six of them. He saw the circle of their hats and faces briefly. Then the light disappeared, and he was once more in darkness.

“Pick up your knife and put it away.”

Clarenceux bent down and slotted the blade into the sheath on his belt. “I demand to know who is addressing me in this manner.”

“I am Richard Crackenthorpe, one of her majesty’s sergeants-at-arms. These men are warders of the city, acting under my orders. And now, herald, tell me what you are doing here.” An arm reached forward and started to push him against Machyn’s front door.

Clarenceux knocked it away. “Address me with civility. I am Mr. Clarenceux to you, Cracken-”

A hand shoved his head back hard against the door and held him there by the throat.

“I don’t care about your title or you. All I care about is why you are here. Getting to the marrow of truth within your bones, even if I have to snap them. Do you understand?”

Clarenceux struggled to speak. “My business…is my own. And I will have you…hauled before the mayor…for this outrage.”

“You will regret that comment. Lord Paget was your patron. A dead man. And I piss on you for threatening me.”

The man who had been holding him withdrew and punched him in the stomach. However, Clarenceux had anticipated the blow and had braced himself in advance. It did not wind him. There was a moment’s silence.

Clarenceux swallowed and wiped the water from his face angrily. Crackenthorpe must have spent time in the army. That is how he knows about Paget.

“I will drive a chisel between your ribs,” said Crackenthorpe. “I ask you again, what are you doing here?”

Clarenceux shook his head. He did not understand the danger he was facing, but he knew he would gain nothing by backing down now. “Where is Henry Machyn? What have you done with him?”

“Damn your eyes! Why are you calling on him?”

“For the sake of Him who died for us. For the sake of mercy-and because of my duty. I am an officer in the queen’s service!”

“And so am I, Mr. Clarenceux. Performing my duty.”

“But are you about her majesty’s business? Or your own?”

“Don’t waste my time, herald. I am investigating a case of treason against the Crown. Do you think I want to be out, getting my boots and hose sodden? Do you think I like this wind and rain? So, I have told you my business. You tell me yours. You are not designing shields in this darkness. Or researching the history of some noble family. Speak.”

Clarenceux wiped the rain from his face. Now he realized why no one had answered the door. Crackenthorpe had been watching the house.

“I am going to return home now.”

“You are going to answer my questions first.”

“Your questions are no concern of mine,” shouted Clarenceux, knowing people nearby would be listening in their bedchambers. “I am not only a herald. I am a freeman of this city. I am a warden of a livery company. I have the right to go about the city after curfew with a lantern. There is no crime in knocking on the door of an old friend-whose declining health is of deep concern to me-whatever the hour of the night.”

“I am warning you, Mr. Clarenceux-”

“No, Crackenthorpe. I am warning you . I am also a member of her majesty’s household. I can bully and cajole and throw my weight around like you. But I have more weight. It bears more heavily in higher places. What would her majesty’s Secretary of State think of your accusing me of treason without due cause, just for being out at night and calling on an old friend?”

“You fool. You don’t know-”

“Listen to me. Whom will Sir William Cecil trust more-you or me? The last time I spoke to him, at my daughter’s christening, he urged me to look out for abuses of royal authority. Do you want to keep your position? Or do you want to end up running a tavern in some run-down tenement, with shit and vomit in the sewer outside the front door and a stinking tanyard out back? That seems to be the only other line of occupation open to old soldiers in this city.”

Crackenthorpe put his face close to Clarenceux’s. “I too have friends in power, friends who will persuade her majesty to grant me a pardon for your death. And I know you did not come here to inquire after that man’s health.”

“Then I presume you have some evidence, and some reason for this harassment. If so, the magistrates will listen to you. But you do not.”

“I know about Sir Dagonet,” hissed Crackenthorpe, trying to keep his voice down. “He talked.”

“And who, I pray your accursed soul, is Sir Dagonet?”

Clarenceux sensed a shifting among the men. No one spoke. He bent down and felt around on the ground for his hat and lantern. The ring of his hat was cold when he put it on. “Now, as I said, I am going to return to my own house.”

“And how will you get past the gate? Perhaps the same way you came in?” There was a sneer in Crackenthorpe’s voice.

Clarenceux paused. To mention the Cripplegate entrance would be to betray Machyn. “I was going to ask the watch on Ludgate if they would kindly allow me through.”