James Forrester - The Roots of Betrayal

He knew that, when watchmen had gone looking for Rebecca in the past, she had taken refuge on the other side of the road, at Mrs. Barker’s house. He glanced at that proud building, wondering if she was over there now-perhaps even observing him.

Still no answer.

After another minute he walked to the end of Little Trinity Lane. Then, counting his steps-one hundred and fifty-he turned right at the end and then right again, counting the same number of paces down Garlick Hill. When he reached the correct spot, he found the nearest passageway through to a backyard tenement. Many of the old merchants’ properties here were subdivided, due to the heavy overcrowding, with ramshackle houses built in adjoining yards, each containing one or two rooms. He went down an untidy alley, with an overflowing trough of water and puddles beneath the eaves of the shingle-covered roofs. An old woman was sitting spinning in the doorway of a single-story lean-to. He nodded to her politely.

“My good woman, is that the back of the Machyn house?”

She looked at him suspiciously. “What do you want to know for?”

“My name is William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms. I am a friend of Rebecca Machyn. She is sick, taken to her bed, and no one is looking after her. Her stepson is a wastrel, so I am worried that the front door is being left unanswered.”

“’Tis indeed Goodwife Machyn’s. And I know the young man. Drunkard, he is. It sounds as if it is a good deed that you do-and I can see you’re no thief, sir.”

Clarenceux thanked the woman, then shifted a barrel to enable him to climb over the wall and up on to the roof of the outhouse, making sure the weapons underneath his cloak remained concealed. After jumping down into Rebecca’s yard, where he was greeted by the stench of the privy, he unlatched the rear door and entered the house.

It was silent. The storeroom at the back was where the food was kept: a sack of oats, another smaller one of flour. There were turnips and apples, leeks and onions. Hanging up on a hook were the thin remains of a flitch of bacon, most of which had been consumed.

“Hello? Rebecca? John? Are you here?”

He went into the hall. The ash on the hearth was not even warm. An empty wooden tankard and bowl stood on the table, with crumbs of bread strewn across the surface. There were two old candle pricks there too, and a rushlight holder. A pottery wine flask, covered in wicker, lay on its side on the floor. The rushes needed changing.

Clarenceux started to look around the hall systematically. There was no proper paneling, only a section in one corner that had remained when most of the original wainscoting had been removed. The walls had been whitewashed and were bare, except for Henry’s painted cloths and a crucifix. There was a lidless chest of cookware by the fireplace, full of old chafing dishes and skillets, brass pans, and bashed pewterware. Apart from that there was only one other chest. He lifted the lid and looked through the contents: a rolled-up old shirt, a blanket, several towels and tablecloths, and two old books in which Henry Machyn had written some heraldic notes. In addition, there were some old wooden toys, a linen sheet painted as a St. George’s flag, some dice, a couple of wooden board games, and a pipe. A cursory inspection was enough for Clarenceux to be sure that the document was not in this chest. Nowhere else in the hall looked likely.

He went through to Henry Machyn’s old workshop at the front of the house. Nothing had changed since his visit the previous day. The four large chests were still there, in the dim light. Clarenceux pulled back the shutters and lifted the lid of one. He had presumed they were Rebecca’s possessions, ready for her departure; but inside were the old tools of Henry Machyn’s trade as a merchant tailor. There were scissors and knives, rulers and various scraps of cloth. The next chest he opened contained rolls of black cloth and tenterhooks for hanging the same. There were also a couple of books showing the heraldic designs used by members of the nobility and gentry, whose arms Henry had been paid to depict at their funerals. A third chest was full of candles, many of wax and good quality. The last held rolled-up lengths of linen.

Clarenceux climbed the stairs and went into the front chamber, above the workshop. It was almost empty, except only for a large old featherbed, unmade, with sheets that were so creased and soiled they were disgusting. There was also a sea chest in the corner, which obviously belonged to John Machyn. Clarenceux ignored it and went into the back chamber, directly above the hall. Here there was a small fireplace with firedogs and some skillets and other cooking apparatus. A small bed was set against the whitewashed wall opposite the fire; a table and a chair stood next to the rear window, which was unglazed. Candlesticks and pewterware adorned the table, and bellows, tongs, two low stools, and andirons were neatly arranged in front of the fire. The shutters were ajar, and Clarenceux could see out over the yard. A chest in the corner was full of neatly folded, clean bed linen. Another chest held Rebecca’s personal linen and dresses. On the topmost sheet in the clothes chest was a book-a copy of the New Testament in English. He recalled that her late husband had taught her to read. In a small wall cupboard was a box containing needles and thread.

Clarenceux was perplexed. The house was not well kept but nor was it falling down. Many families were crammed into single rooms in and around this part of the city. Here, Rebecca and John Machyn both had space. Her living quarters seemed to have shrunk to this single room: she cooked and ate, read and slept in here. Downstairs had been largely abandoned to John Machyn and the chest full of memories of another era. But there were signs of a modest wealth, such as the books and pewterware-all of which were worth money. There were candles and a great deal of linen: these too could have been sold. It gave Clarenceux the impression that Rebecca had not been entirely honest with him, for she was not as short of money as she claimed.

He felt the mattress of the bed for any sign of the document but found none. He then embarked on a thorough search of her chamber; it was not there. Eventually he gave up and went up to the top floor. This was dim and did not contain much. There was an old cradle, an old broken bedstead, a loom, some worn-out curtains for a bed, a broken chair, and a cot. A chest in a corner turned out to have nothing but old coverlets and blankets in it: a spider crawled across the topmost one as Clarenceux opened the lid.

There was nothing here. She had abandoned the house. She had abandoned everything.

She had abandoned him.

Clarenceux did not go to bed until very late. He waited up long after Awdrey had gone to sleep, fearful that Walsingham’s men would come to search the house. When he finally did retire, he did not sleep soundly. His mind shifted between horrible illusions and terrible realizations. In the early hours, long after the candle above had spluttered out, he rose and felt his way downstairs. He had no wish to wake Thomas, who was sleeping in the hall. He sat in the kitchen, by the small light of the glowing coals of the fire.

Lady Percy, the dowager countess of Northumberland, was the person most on his mind. Of all the people who knew he had the document, and how powerful it was, she was the most likely person to have ordered it to be stolen. He and Rebecca had visited her at Sheffield Manor just before Christmas. She had exhorted him to use the document-and had given him money in the belief that he would do so. She was so bitter about her treatment at the hands of Henry VIII, and so coldheartedly jealous over Lord Percy’s affections for Anne Boleyn, that Clarenceux knew she would have been angry to learn that he had done nothing. And she was not a woman to be left angry.