James Forrester - The Roots of Betrayal

Clarenceux walked to the window. “It is not all over,” he exclaimed. He looked out at the other people in the puddle-filled street: a milk girl with pails on a yoke across her shoulders coming into the city. A water carrier followed her, leading his tired pony, mud being flung from the wheels. A man with a cart full of dung was heading in the opposite direction. There was no sign of anyone watching the house.

He turned back to face Awdrey. “I did not want to alarm you or worry you unnecessarily, but a document was left in my possession. A valuable document-one that proves that our current queen is illegitimate and an unsuitable woman to be on the throne. Needless to say, there are those who would very much like to take possession of it. Someone now has.”

“But who? Who would dare to come into this house and steal it? Who knew you had it? And how did they get in?”

“I am asking myself the same questions. And I have only one answer: Widow Machyn. She knew I had the document; she even knew where I kept it-in that Italian chitarra in my study. Her late husband gave it to me. I am sure that it is his surviving friends who are behind this, not Rebecca herself. They call themselves the Knights of the Round Table. They have not forgiven me for not using the document to start a revolution against Queen Elizabeth.”

“Why did you not tell me these things?”

“Because I did not want you to be in danger, or even to know we had such a dangerous thing in our possession.”

Awdrey shuddered. “I can’t go through all that again. Not again. Our house wrecked, our possessions…” She turned to the old stern-faced servant. “Thomas, did you see anything? Were you not here?”

The man shook his head. “Mistress Harley, if I had been here, they would not have entered. At least, they would have had to kill me first. I took the boys to Snow’s tenement to buy hay for the stables. I had no idea that anyone would even think of entering, still less steal from Mr. Clarenceux. But locks are easy to pick. If the thief came in by the back door, if he knew what he was after, he could have been out within a few minutes.”

“Not ‘he’-‘she,’” Clarenceux frowned. “I saw Rebecca Machyn yesterday, and she was not at all normal. She told me she was going away-even said that people had been encouraging her to steal the document.”

“Sir, with respect, she might simply have told those same people where to look. She did not necessarily steal it herself or even sanction the theft.”

Clarenceux nodded. He glanced at Awdrey and knew what she was thinking. You should not have trusted Rebecca so much . He knew because she had been proved right.

“What now?” she asked.

“Well, I am now a traitor in the eyes of those who would have Mary Stuart proclaimed queen, and a traitor in the eyes of Elizabeth’s Protestant supporters. It is likely this house will be searched as soon as the authorities realize where I stand. Most searches take place after dusk, when people are at home and alone. We need to be prepared.”

“I cannot believe this is happening,” muttered Awdrey.

“Awdrey, it is happening. I am going to be arrested and tried. Our possessions, goods, and chattels will be forfeit. If the searchers come this evening…” Clarenceux paused. “The Lord preserve us. Thomas, I want you to leave now. Go to your nephew’s house. You cannot stay here.”

“Mr. Clarenceux, I intend to stand by you.”

“Thomas, the best outcome to this situation I can imagine is that you and I are alive in a month’s time. I can ensure that that will be at least partly the case by sending you away now. There is nothing you can do for me here.”

“Sir, I am disappointed to hear you say that.”

“Thomas, old friend. I want you to live. The theft of that document may well cost me my life.” Clarenceux looked him in the eye. “One day you may serve me again. But not now.”

“I am not going, Mr. Clarenceux,” Thomas told him obstinately. “I will always serve you.”

“If you are so determined, then look after my wife and daughters.” He glanced at Awdrey. “I want you to go to your sister’s house in Devon.”

She looked at him steadily. “So far? I would rather stay with Lady Cecil. Or even your friend Julius.”

“You do not understand how serious this is. People will use you and the girls to get to me. Walsingham knows about Summerhill-he has sent men to search Julius’s house in the past. And what reason are you going to give Lady Cecil for seeking Sir William’s protection? That I have lost a politically valuable document? Sir William himself charged me with guarding it with my life. You must go further.”

“I am not going further than one day’s ride,” Awdrey declared.

Clarenceux stared at her. He thought of all the dangers in the city and how he needed to confront certain people and how they might retaliate against his family. Julius was at least wholly trustworthy. “Very well. Thomas will escort you down to Chislehurst tomorrow morning. Take Joan with you. Take all the horses too. If I need a mount, I will hire one. Pack in readiness now. I will write to Julius and explain. I’ll tell him I will join you when I can.”

That afternoon, Clarenceux took down his sword from above the fireplace in his study. He often said that guns were of little use: fire them once and you have to spend the next five minutes reloading them, during which time your assailant might run you through with the meanest weapon. It was easy to say that in a tavern conversation. Now, considering the danger, he wished he had the equal of the armaments that people might use against him. If someone drew a loaded pistol on him, he would have no defense but to hope the wheel did not ignite the gunpowder or that the person aiming it missed.

He put the sword back regretfully. He had to walk across London. Carrying a sword would be foolish, enough to get himself arrested by a constable. Instead he fastened a sheathed dagger with a foot-long blade onto the left-hand side of his belt, and a shorter-bladed knife to his right. They would be concealed by his cloak. He took a deep breath and mentally braced himself for what he had to do, then went downstairs and out of the house.

He walked quickly across the Fleet, stepping between the puddles, toward Ludgate. Normally the center of the street was a packed line of horse dung, trodden into the mud; now, after the heavy rain, it combined with the clay soil to give the street a rich, earthy smell. Cartwheels had churned up the surface. In such conditions anyone of quality would normally insist on riding or being carried in a chair, to preserve their clean clothes. Clarenceux was too anxious for such niceties. When a cart passed, flicking up mud, he simply walked faster.

Passing under the old stone arch of Ludgate, he wanted to run to his destination. But he knew that would draw attention to himself. He threaded his way between the people, walking through the lanes and alleys, beneath rows and rows of houses, all darkened with the upper stories projecting out over the lower ones. The barrels that were meant to be full of water in case of fire were mostly full of refuse, empty, or leaking out into trampled muddy patches of ground. Some alleyways were littered with detritus where people passing along had dropped parts of pies or bones, and the local householder had not cleared up outside his front door. In places people had strewn old rushes from their halls across the street. Clarenceux carried on through the noisome foulness toward Little Trinity Lane, mainly along the back streets, always avoiding the eyes of people walking toward him.

At the door to Rebecca Machyn’s house, he drew his day-to-day knife and banged hard with the hilt three times on the oak. He waited barely twenty seconds and then knocked again. And again. There was no sound from within. He stepped back into the street and looked up, to see if anyone was watching from upstairs. But if so, they avoided him. He knocked on the door again.