James Forrester: The Roots of Betrayal

That outward-looking, questioning part of his nature worried him. The reason he had spent so much time with Rebecca was his possession of a secret document, and that document was still here, in this house. Awdrey did not know. That in itself felt like a betrayal. The document was so dangerous that men had died because of it. When Rebecca’s husband, Henry Machyn, had given it to him the previous year, the man had declared that the fate of two queens depended on its safekeeping. And when Clarenceux had discovered its true nature-a marriage agreement between Lord Percy and Anne Boleyn, which proved that Queen Elizabeth was illegitimate and had no right to the throne-he had understood why it was so sensitive. Only when Sir William Cecil, the queen’s Principal Secretary, had asked him to keep it safely did his life start to return to normal. But never did he feel safe. Not for one moment.

He knew, later that morning, he would go up to his study at the front of the house and check that the document was still where he had hidden it. It was a ritual. More than a ritual: it was an obsession. Sometimes he would check it three or four times in one day. The knowledge that he possessed the means to demonstrate that the Protestant queen was illegitimate and that the rightful queen should be one of her cousins-either the Protestant Lady Katherine Gray, sister of the beheaded Lady Jane Gray; or Mary, the Catholic queen of Scotland-was not something he could ever forget. His fear of what would happen if he should lose the marriage agreement beat in his heart like his love for Rebecca Machyn. Both were dark and dangerous. The ecstasy of his lovemaking with his wife was so blissful and so pure by comparison-and yet he could not ignore the dark side within himself.

He felt Awdrey turn over and cuddle up beside him, nestling under his arm. He was a tall man and she of average height, so his arm around her felt protective. She ran her hand over his side, where he had been scarred in a sword fight five months earlier.

“How is it now?”

“Fine.”

“I don’t want you to exert yourself too much.”

“If it had torn just now, it would have been worth it.”

He remembered the day when he had suffered the wound-at Summerhill, the house of his old friend Julius Fawcett, near Chislehurst. He wondered how Julius was now. “What would you say to the idea of going down to Summerhill next week?”

“I promised I would take the girls to see Lady Cecil. She wants them to play with her little boy, Robert.”

Clarenceux lay silent. Sir William Cecil’s wife was godmother to their younger daughter, Mildred. The idea of Annie and Mildred playing with Robert was a little optimistic. Robert Cecil was three, their daughter Annie was six, and Mildred just one. It was Awdrey’s polite way of saying that she would not refuse the invitation. Lady Cecil, being one of the cleverest women in England, was something of a heroine to her. Both women had been pregnant together and, although that child of Lady’s Cecil’s had died, she was expecting again, which made her call more frequently on Awdrey. The relationship was not without its benefits to him too. It was immensely valuable to have a family connection through Lady Cecil to Sir William, the queen’s Principle Secretary and one of the two most powerful men in the country, the other being Robert Dudley, the queen’s favorite.

Awdrey moved her hand over his chest, feeling the hair. “You could go by yourself.”

He was meant to be planning his next visitation. Soon he would have to ride out and record all the genealogies in one of the counties, visiting all the great houses with his pursuivants, clerks, and official companions. The purpose was to check the veracity of all claims to coats of arms and heraldic insignia, and to make sure that those with dubious or nonexistent claims were exposed as false claimants. He had completed a visitation of Suffolk three years earlier and one of Norfolk the previous year. He had finished his notes on the visitation of Devon, and had discussed the gentry of that county at length with his friend and fellow antiquary John Hooker. But he could put off actually going to Devon until June, and so could delay the planning for another week and enjoy the late spring in Kent with his old friend.

“I may well do that,” he replied.

Awdrey touched his face. He felt her hand move over his beard and cheek. Her finger traced his lips, then slipped down over his chest, to his midriff.

“How tired are you?” she asked.

Sunday, April 30

A piece of mud thrown up by the hooves of his partner’s horse caught Philip France in the eye, and he took a hand off the reins to wipe it away. It had been raining for the last six miles now-indeed, it was the rain that had alerted them to the messenger. The man had been galloping through a heavy downpour when they had spotted him from where they were sheltering beneath some trees. No one would be out in this unless they had an important and urgent mission. The fading light was not a good enough reason by itself, not with the rain coming down so hard. Moreover, they had seen this man twice before, in the vicinity of Sheffield Manor, taking messages to or from Lady Percy, the dowager countess of Northumberland. And their instructions, as given to them by Francis Walsingham himself, were unambiguous. “Arrest ten innocent men rather than let one conspirator slip by.”

France dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and drew up alongside his friend and companion, George Latham. “What if he doesn’t stop in Melton?” he shouted.

“Then we press on,” Latham yelled back, his hat in his hand and his black hair plastered wet across his forehead. “But he’ll stop. His mount must be as tired as ours.”

They rode into Melton Mowbray ten minutes later. The man they were following entered an inn: a stone-fronted building called the Mowbray Arms. France and Latham watched him pass beneath the central arch.

“I presume you have our warrant?” asked Latham.

“Aye. But need we arrest him in the inn?”

“Are you worried?”

“No, not unduly,” replied France. “But if there are many people, and they know him…We are a hundred miles from London.”

Latham smiled. “You are worried. Like when we slipped out of college.”

France did not rise to the taunt. “What if we are wrong? What if he is riding hard in this weather because his mother is ill or his wife is in labor?”

“We have seen that man twice before, two weeks ago, on both occasions riding hard near Sheffield Manor. It would be something of a surprise if his wife lived so near to Lady Percy.”

France allowed his horse to step forward and then sat there in the rain, watching the gate. “So, we take him in his chamber?”

“Yes, in his chamber.” Latham began to ride forward too. He did not stop.

The inn was a proud structure, with a central arch giving way onto a puddle-streaked courtyard. There were stables on the far side, outbuildings built along each flank. France and Latham dismounted and led their horses through, passing the reins to a stable boy who ran forward to greet them, taking their names and making a polite little bow before taking their mounts away. The door to the hall was on the left, up a couple of steps. As they approached, one of the inn servants came out carrying an empty pitcher, and in the moment that the door was open, they heard the noise of the crowd within.

The hall was between thirty and forty feet long and darker than they expected. A second floor had been inserted, cutting in two the pair of high windows on the courtyard side. There was a candelabrum with half its candles alight above them. France counted how many people he could see-thirty-one. A young lawyer was sitting beside a haughty-looking well-dressed woman, a young boy playing with a kitten at her feet. A tall traveler with a wide hat was plucking a stringed instrument, clearly hoping to catch the woman’s attention but she was not giving in to his musical entreaties. Standing at another table was a maid in an apron, offering a plate of food and a flagon of wine to a modest man and woman who were clearly traveling together. Two merchants stood to one side, one nodding gravely as he listened to his companion and ate a piece of cheese. A servant was clearing up some spilled oysters from a table at which four hearty yeomen were dining, striking out with his hand to keep a small dog from gnawing the food. Beside the near-dark window, a student was trying to read a book.