Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) (7 page)

Monday, December 23

Maurice Buckman waited in a panelled chamber in the inn in Grantham, in Lincolnshire. He was a fifty-two-year-old man with a round head and very little hair. What little there was amounted to the merest halo of white. His vision was poor, so he wore wooden spectacles with very thick lenses, and he blinked much more than most people—but nothing about him otherwise was blurred, and when wearing his spectacles, which had been made for him by a Milanese craftsman, that visual vagueness became a hawklike precision. For a man in his fifties, he was quick-thinking and agile, capable of intense concentration. He regularly wore an old black cassock, which left people wondering whether he was a priest (which he was) or merely a poor man (which he was also, although by choice). Beneath that cassock was a rough canvas shirt, and beneath that uncomfortable shirt, a heart that beat with a passion for the Catholic faith.

Placing another log on the fire, he sat back at the nearby table and sipped the glass of sack. It would not be long now. It had been a long journey, he reflected: four and a half days. But Lady Percy’s instructions had been clear. Everyone coming or going to see her was followed—Walsingham kept her houses under constant surveillance—and if Buckman was noticed coming to her from the Tower, he would be arrested, interrogated, tortured, and hanged. The route was therefore extremely elaborate. Also, speed was imperative: he had had to arrive at this inn many hours or even a day before her ladyship, so those spying on her would not see him enter the building.

From his lodging in London he had crossed by wherry to the south bank of the river at Greenwich and joined the southbound travelers taking the ferry along the Kent coast to Gravesend. Most of them had then transferred to the Canterbury road, hiring carts and coaches for the rest of their journey, but Buckman had noticed that one young man did not. When he had boarded one of the crayers that went up and down the coast, the young man had boarded another boat and followed at a distance. Buckman had accordingly deviated slightly from his intended route and landed on the Isle of Sheppey, near Shurland Hall. No one went there anymore; it was a desolate place. But he knew it well—he had grown up nearby. Any paint still left in that vast mansion was peeling. The elaborate plaster ceilings were damp and stained; in some cases they had crashed down onto the floorboards. Windows with armorial glass had lost quarrels or housed cracked panes, and were strewn with cobwebs and dead flies. The shutters of unglazed windows hung at angles where their hinges had given way. Several fireplaces were strewn with twigs where birds’ nests had fallen down, sometimes with the dead birds. And in the great hall, the tapestries’ wooden frames lay bare.

Buckman had allowed himself to be seen heading along the lane toward the hall. At a suitable point, he had turned and watched his pursuer through the long grass near the gatehouse. The young man was rash, too keen in the face of danger. Buckman had withdrawn into the shadows of the empty house and ascended a staircase that had lost its balustrade; from there he had observed the young man, who hesitated at the door. Had the young man’s nerve failed him, he would have lived. But he had entered—and he too had ascended the staircase.

It had been an easy kill. Buckman had drawn him toward the privy chamber with the creaking of a floorboard and the closing of doors. He had seen that the young man was carrying a pistol but he too had a gun. Gradually, room by room he had lured his victim to the long corridor that ran between the great chamber and the privy chamber. This corridor had a west-facing window at the end—and the glazing there was all broken; at that time of day, it was glaring with late afternoon light. Near that window was a doorway into the privy chamber. That large room was completely dark. The windows had been boarded up long ago, before the house had been abandoned.

Buckman had waited there in the darkness. Eventually the figure of the young man had appeared clearly silhouetted in the doorway, twelve feet away. There he had stopped, looking into the room and seeing only darkness within. That was when Buckman had shot him in the chest. The gun’s report had echoed around the mansion, through its courtyards and across the parish but he had not been worried. Rather he had walked forward slowly and stood over the young man, whose chest was burst open with the bullet. The dying man’s mouth was making soundless words and he was staring up. Buckman had used the young man’s own pistol to finish him off, firing it into the back of his head to obliterate his features. He had then dragged the body over to the window and thrown it out. Back downstairs, he had lugged the corpse across the unkempt grass to the great fish pond, weighing it down by placing stones in the young man’s clothes. Afterward he had walked to Eastchurch to take a boat across to the small port of Brightlingsea, then continued on his journey—by land to King’s Lynn, by sea to Boston, and by hired horse to Grantham.

There was a knock at the door. Buckman’s hand reached inside his cassock to feel the stock of his pistol.

“Come in,” he said. His voice was relatively high in tone and had a nasal sound.

The man who entered was in his late twenties, dark-haired, handsome, and thin, with a small beard. His ruff was neat and not too wide, his clothing correct. Buckman relaxed. This was Benedict Richardson, who had begun his career in Lady Percy’s household at the age of fourteen and had gained her trust soon afterward. At twenty-five he had become her chamberlain; now he was her steward, overseeing the administration of her manors and the order of her household.

Buckman knew better than to greet him by name. “It is good to see you, my friend. Is her ladyship here?”

Richardson bowed a polite greeting. “I thank you for your cordial welcome. Her ladyship has arrived.” He looked around the room. “I trust you had an untroubled journey?”

“Like any other traveler, I am used to picking up and throwing aside the small obstacles I find in my way.”

Richardson smiled. “I will tell her you are ready.”

Ten minutes later, there was another knock and Benedict Richardson showed Lady Percy, dowager countess of Northumberland, into the room.

Lady Percy was in her midsixties. These days she habitually dressed in black satin and walked with two sticks. Her gray hair was neatly coiffured, she wore a farthingale that spread the hem of her skirt out wide around her ankles, and her ruff was fashionably starched. Buckman noted the signs of age: the loose skin beneath her chin, the lines around her eyes, and the wrinkled skin of her hands. Her eyes themselves were gray and full of intelligence beneath a frowning brow. He bowed. Lady Percy brusquely gestured for him to be seated and took a seat herself at the table. Mr. Richardson stood beside the door.

“I thank you for coming to me. I know it is not easy.”

“My thanks go to you, my lady,” replied Buckman, bowing again. “Someone tried to follow me from Gravesend but that was all. He will be missed but he will not be found.”

“Good.” Lady Percy was silent a long time. She looked into the fire, composing her thoughts. “One thing has been much on my mind. Was my sister killed? Did Walsingham torture her to death?”

Buckman put his hands together, the tips of each finger touching as he considered his reply. “I saw her in the Tower but once. Lady Margaret asked me to administer to her, to hear her confession. It was about a week before she died. She was not well; she looked very pale and drawn, and her eyes were bloodshot. She did not speak of torture—but that does not mean that she was not hurt. Her confession was very formal. I believe she knew the end was coming. Lady Margaret later told me that she had seen a small, shrouded body being carted away from the White Tower—not your sister’s usual dwelling—and the same day she had asked a warden if she could see your sister and was told that she was dead. Therefore I strongly suspect the answer to your question is yes, she was tortured to death.”

Slowly, like a feather settling through the air, Lady Percy’s eyes lowered, her mouth moved silently. She had loved and admired her sister—a love and admiration made all the stronger by their being involved in the same risk-filled ventures, without actually having the inconvenience of living alongside one another, for “Mistress Barker,” as her younger sibling had been known, had kept watch for her in London.

“Permit me, please, Father, a moment of reflection.”

Buckman bent his head in prayer as she prayed, and waited.

“I knew that she would die in the Tower,” she continued, “but hearing the news…it wounded me deeply. I say ‘wounded,’ but the truth is that it was not pain I felt but emptiness, which in some ways is worse than pain. I felt sad also, because all we fought against still plagues this land—all the sinfulness and indulgence, the pettiness and the self-righteousness. If I could have had just one wish, it would have been to whisper in her ear as she lay dying ‘Elizabeth is dead, Lord Henry Stewart is riding south, and the holy Catholic child rides with him.’”

“If it is any consolation, my lady, I do believe that Lady Margaret spoke to your sister about the plans ahead, telling her how Lord Henry would rescind all the heretical laws and restore the faith. She must have taken some comfort from that.”

Lady Percy silenced him with a look. “True consolation would have been to cut Clarenceaux’s throat. True consolation would have been to strip the shirt off the back of that whore Rebecca Machyn and have her flogged until the whip ends cut so deeply into her flesh they stuck there when the whip was pulled back. It was their fault. If they had used the document appropriately, as they said they would, none of this would have happened. If Clarenceux had declared Elizabeth illegitimate and then proved it, as was his duty, our Spanish and French friends would have arrived by now—in force. The righteous in England would be up in arms. But he was just too scared. Instead he led Walsingham straight to my sister.” She paused, looking at Buckman, challenging him to doubt her words. “It was not an accident. I will be revenged—on them both.”

Buckman had expected this. “I spoke to the first of the women you sent. She was impressive. Immoral but impressive.”

“They all are, Father. Each and every one. I might be practically imprisoned, unable to escape the attentions of Walsingham’s men. They are outside even now. They follow each and every one of my servants. But some places they cannot go. And while they are watching me, they do not know whom I command.” She gestured to Benedict Richardson. “My steward here makes the inquiries through the courts controlled by my family. In several places we still enjoy the legal privileges of life and death. Women who are sentenced to hang or to be burned alive are offered a reprieve from the gallows or the stake. If they undertake my command successfully, then they will be allowed to escape their sentence. They have nothing to lose. That is their first great virtue.”

“Their first?” He blinked several times.

“The second great virtue is that they are not men. That was my mistake in the past: to trust men. Men are weak. Men let us down because they are too easily frightened. Men are unreliable—they can be seduced.” She noted the look in Buckman’s eye. “Yes, I hate to say so, Father, but even some clergymen can be swayed. The third great virtue of these women is that no one, not even Walsingham, imagines that I would choose
women
to cut the throats of my enemies. Walsingham’s men are too busy looking for soldierly-types. My women slip between them like smoke.”

“But how do you ensure their loyalty? If these women are all thieves, murderers, traitors, and witches—why do they not escape as soon as you send them on a mission?”

“They all have children,” answered Lady Percy immediately. “More particularly, they all have daughters, vulnerable daughters. If they defy me, their daughters will suffer the same fate that they would have suffered.”

Buckman nodded. “Have you yet hanged any of them?”

“It has not been necessary. One woman proved uncaring of her offspring from the outset—I used her as a test for the others, to see if they had the resolve to kill her. One did, the woman you have already met, and she did so admirably. But, rest assured, I will carry out my threat. The negligence of the mother and her defiance of my orders will be additional crimes to that for which she faced death in the first place.” She held his gaze. “Were you able to assist the first of my revenging angels?”

“It was not difficult. Widow Machyn’s house was directly opposite that of your sister. She left London two years ago and now nurses the injured soldiers in Portchester Castle. Her stepson told us where she was—for the price of a quart of wine.” He leaned forward and picked up his glass of sack. “You are right: some men are easily seduced—and not just by the pleasures of the flesh.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Lady Percy’s lips. “Do you hunt, Father?”

“No. It is not possible in the city.”

“As you spoke those words just now, I had an image of one of my hawks in flight, swooping in for the kill. And you are like my falconer, calling in and sending out my beautiful birds. They have the talons, and they can spiral high, looking for their prey.”

Buckman sipped from his glass. “One of them will drop silently from a great height soon and seize a small, frightened rabbit near Portchester.”

Joan Hellier lay on the hay in the darkness of a barn. An owl hooted outside. Everything seemed so precarious: her life, her daughter’s life—the next meal, even. She was cold but not as cold as she would be if John had not found this barn at dusk. He was her godsend—and yet being with him brought more problems. He had been known back in the north as “Egyptian John” or “John the Egyptian”—he being the illegitimate son of an English prostitute by an Egyptian vagabond. Those features were clearly to be seen in his face, which meant he was distrusted at best, and hated at worst, wherever he went. She could be arrested just for being with him.

She felt John behind her. He reached around and cupped her breast in his hand. She let it lie there for a moment, but when she felt him fondling her, she pushed his hand away.

“Not now.”

He moved his hand. “What then? You want to sleep?”

“I want to think.”

“About the woman?”

“About Jenifer. About the assizes. About Lady Percy. God’s breath, I wish I could wipe the smile off that judge’s face. And Lady Percy’s too. They sicken me. I wish it could be them that we had to kill and not this poor woman. What does she do except help sick soldiers?”

John moved, trying to dig himself deeper into the hay for warmth. “She is alone in the cottage. We could go back and do it now.”

“Too dangerous. If she cried out, the whole community would come running—and they know the lanes and alleys; we don’t. They will have lights; we’ll be hunted down. And remember, it’s not just a matter of killing her. Father Buckman gave us precise instructions.”

“Then we don’t let her cry out.”

Joan remembered how scared she had been when Lady Percy’s officers came for her in the prison. And how nervous she had been later, at Sheffield Manor. She and two other women, Jane Carr and Sarah Cowie, had been told to kill another condemned woman in front of Lady Percy. Sarah had proved weak-willed; Jane simply weak. Joan had done the killing almost alone, using the hem of the victim’s own skirt to throttle her. Then, slumped in the torment of what she had done, she had seen her seven-year-old daughter Jenifer carried into that same great chamber, and the other women’s daughters too, including the daughters of the woman she had just killed. The memories were horrible: the dead woman’s petticoat, the crying of the children. She had been told to go to London and call at a certain tavern, the Black Swan, where a priest in a dark attic room would give her instructions. Given what she had already done, the prospect of killing this middle-aged, lonely nurse had not worried her at the time. Only now, faced with the necessity of killing again, with these houses and these people around her—all of them southern, strange, and untrustworthy—did it unnerve her. Also, the sense of being someone else’s instrument made her feel as if she was owned. Like a slave.

She settled herself into the hay. The owl outside continued hooting. Soon afterward she heard John snore. When the memories of Lady Percy came into her mind she beat them back, each time saying a prayer for Jenifer, wishing her more and more good things—wishing her a smile.