Sacred Treason (24 page)

It occurred to Clarenceux that the door to which they were heading might be locked. For a long time he did not whisper this to Rebecca, but when he did, she reassured him that Henry had told her that her brother rarely locked the gate. Still, his mind was not at ease.

On they went. Despite the dimness Clarenceux saw a rat scurry across the white of the street, and then two more. He realized that the rats were used to the streets at night.

“We're nearly there,” he whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back. “Why have you stopped?”

“If this is your brother's house…” He did not need to finish the sentence.

“Don't worry. Not many people know.”

“All the same. If something happens, and we get separated, let us meet back at the stable loft.”

“Nothing is going to happen,” she said.

They moved on. Now he could see Robert Lowe's house. There was the white of the lane outside his yard; the gate was in the shadow of the wall, twenty feet away.

“Wait here. I am going ahead to check. If it is clear, I will come back directly. If not, retrace your steps. I need to be sure you will do that, Rebecca. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

“God be with you,” he said.

He crossed the last few yards to the house in the darkness and reached out to feel the walls—first the wall of the house, then the wall of the yard. He took two more steps in the snow and his fingers touched wood. He pushed; the gate was shut. He fumbled in the dark for the latch, found it, and went through.

Francis Walsingham could not sleep. He threw back the covers, pulled open the bed curtains, and sat on the edge of the mattress in his nightgown and cap. He noticed that the candle was guttering and about to burn itself out. He pulled on a heavy robe, took a wax candle from a small pile in a recess in the wall, and lit it from the old candle before setting it in its place. The new flame flickered and rose into a perfect, small tongue of light. Feeling the cold, he got back into bed and sat there.

Six Knights had been arrested. Machyn had died—that had been a god-awful scene and a mess from start to finish—but otherwise Crackenthorpe had done well. Robert Lowe and Michael Hill had only been seized that evening. But Emery and Nicholas Hill had talked. Draper had yielded more at the second time of asking. Indeed, he had been so fearful at the thought of what they would do to him for having been circumspect first time around that he had told them everything he knew. And his new evidence this evening provided conclusive proof that Clarenceux and Rebecca Machyn were working together.

The dates were important, that was clear. So far he only had three: Draper's, June the sixteenth, 1559; Nicholas Hill's, June the fifteenth, 1552; and Emery's, June the twenty-first, 1558. But there were nine in total. If Lowe and Michael Hill also talked, then he would still need four more in order to understand the chronicle, as Draper had explained.

Six
Knights
taken
into
custody
or
dead. And I know the names of the other three: Gyttens, Heath, and Clarenceux himself.

He lay on his side, sure that there was something very obvious that he was missing. It was impossible for Clarenceux to gather all the Knights together, but it was not impossible for him, Walsingham, to learn all the dates.
If
I
do
not
find
Gyttens
and
Heath, it does not matter. All I need to do is find Clarenceux—for he will know them. He
probably
assigned them.

He turned in his bed.
If
only
I
could
see
the
chronicle. Do the dates relate to false entries? That makes the most sense: a chronicle full of true facts but with a series of false descriptions of events that together tell people how to foment a rebellion. Brilliant. If our spy had not sent word from Edinburgh in time for Crackenthorpe to save Draper from the assassin, we would never have known.

He turned over again.
But
who
is
the
woman
whom
Draper
described
as
“her ladyship”? It couldn't be the Machyn woman, could it?

Rebecca was waiting in the cold blackness beside her brother's front door when the shout rang out: “Hold fast!” She almost fell with the shock; her arms and legs felt suddenly heavy. She did not know what to do.

There was a fight going on. Something metal hit stone. A man yelled “Get him down!” and then there was just silence punctuated with the occasional crashing sound.

Christ, help me! Mr. Clarenceux made me promise to retrace my steps. But what if he needs me? Where is Robert? I must wake him—he can help.
Only then did it dawn on her that her brother was not in a position to help. He had not left the house even to investigate the noises in his own yard. Whatever they had done to him, whether they had killed him or tied him up somewhere, she was on her own.

Another minute passed and Rebecca remained motionless, half expecting Clarenceux to come limping out of the fight. But all was quiet now.
Retrace
your
steps
, she told herself.
It
is
all
you
can
do. You promised you would.
But still she did not move.
Go
back—for what? To wait and starve until Clarenceux is hauled off to…I don't know where. The Tower. Or Walsingham's house. I must wait and find out where they take him.

Suddenly the gate of the yard banged open. There were hurried footsteps on the snow and shadows moving toward her. She pressed herself against the house, praying that the men would not see her.

And then they were gone, running westward across the snowy lane.

Eventually she felt her way back to the stable loft, shivering, with her arms wrapped around herself for warmth. As she found the ladder and started to climb she carried a hope that somehow Clarenceux would have escaped and be here. But he was not. There was nothing of comfort except the hay where they had so recently lain.

The first sign of danger that Clarenceux noticed was the smell of coal smoke in the darkness. He paused. Suddenly someone grabbed him from behind and pressed a knife to his throat.

“Don't move. There are four of us,” his assailant hissed.

Clarenceux did not try to struggle, feeling the blade against his windpipe. He sensed other men gathering around him, coming from the workshop at the back of the yard. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a glow: they had the forge burning.

“The woman?”

“She ran from the house in Basinghall Street. I have not seen her since.”

“Liar,” growled the voice. But short of actually cutting Clarenceux's throat there was little he could do to force him to speak the truth. “Tie him up. We'll take him to the sergeant straight away.”

Clarenceux sensed that his last opportunity to escape was about to disappear. He tried to remember the layout of the yard from when he had felt his way around here before. He could remember the gate in the wall and the low roof of the forge. And there had been a stone cistern, full of water. He felt the knife blade sharp against his throat and a second man trying to tie his hands. If he succeeded, then Clarenceux was as good as dead, with only the agony of torture in a dank cellar between him and the gallows.

“For God's sake, man, hold your hands steady.”

Clarenceux sensed that they were tired and nervous. He twisted again in the darkness and his fingers brushed the exposed hilt of a weapon.
O
Lord, help me now.

One instant he was standing with his chin up and a blade against his throat. The next he had dropped and turned his body suddenly: he felt the knife cut into his cheek as he grabbed the hand holding it and twisted the man's arm. He threw himself against the man holding the rope and seized the hilt he had touched—it turned out to be a long dagger, not the sword he had hoped for—and slashed down in the darkness, striking an unseen arm and causing a man to scream in pain. For a moment he was off balance, stumbling, with two men reaching forward; but in his falling he managed to push himself away from them, toward the forge. By the faint red light he could see the silhouettes of the cistern and the low roof. He placed a foot on the cistern, hauled himself up onto the roof, and scrambled across the snow-covered shingles to the center, where the snow had melted with the heat coming from the forge below.

“Get him down!” yelled one of the men as Clarenceux strained to look around. Behind, two shadows were hauling themselves up in pursuit across the dim white of the roof. Ahead there was a rim of ice around the dilapidated walkway of the city wall. He decided that that would be his means of escape—until he had to turn and fight.

I
will
not
be
taken. I am not going to be a prisoner again. They will need to overpower me if they want me alive.

They were not far behind. He stepped unsteadily across the slippery shingles, hurrying to the wall. There he placed his gloved hands on the edge of the wall-walk and tried to haul himself up, but he failed to lock his arms and fell back. He kicked out, knocking the first pursuer off balance, sending him tumbling from the roof in the darkness. But two men remained: he could see their shadowy figures against the snow, advancing toward him. He turned and prepared to meet them, the dagger drawn.

He had the advantage of the wall behind him, to steady himself. But they might have swords. The dagger in his hand was anything but reassuring.

They hesitated. They felt precarious on an icy, sloping roof, facing a man whom they knew to be armed.
The
wall
is
behind
me—they cannot see me at all, not even an outline.
He fumbled with his left hand for a better grip, searching with his fingers for a gap in the stones where the exterior mortar was weak.
O
God, please! They will attack soon.
His hand touched a projecting, rigid nail. It was perfect.

It was more than perfect.

Without waiting a second more, Clarenceux turned and jumped, stamping his left foot onto the nail at the same time as placing his hands on the wall-walk. The nail held. The soldiers heard him—and suddenly saw his shadow against the thick ice piled on the walkway. “He's on the wall,” shouted one, running forward with a blade and stabbing at him as Clarenceux pushed himself to his feet and started to run. “He's heading to Aldersgate.”

It took the men behind some time to find the projecting nail; when they had, Clarenceux was already thirty seconds ahead, gasping as he scrambled over the old walkway. The surface was broken and uneven beneath the snow. He slid the dagger into his belt, needing both his hands free to balance. Several times he stumbled before he reached the corner and turned southward with the wall. No one walked along here these days. Cracked stones and split surfaces constantly tripped him. In some places the flat stones of the wall-walk had simply been removed, leaving a snow-covered gap into which Clarenceux's foot plunged. He cursed as his foot fell into another deep fissure and the ragged stones tore at his shin.
At
this
rate, I am going to break a leg.
He struggled back to his feet.

On he went, soaked, gasping now for breath in the night's cold air. After a minute he looked behind. At first he could not see his pursuers but then realized they had waited for one of their number to fetch a lantern; he could see its small light in the distance coming along the wall-walk about a hundred yards behind.

After nine or ten minutes of struggling along the snow-covered rubble of the walkway, he paused and looked ahead, panting for breath. He saw the kink in the snow-covered wall near Noble Street. Beyond rose the dark spire of St. Anne's Church. He heard a shout from Aldersgate and then saw torches appear on the wall-walk, coming from the gatehouse ahead. His heart sank.
One
of
the
men
from
the
blacksmith's house must have taken a message. I am trapped here. I must get down.

Clarenceux hurried ahead to the kink in the corner of the wall: a right angle where it turned west for about fifteen feet before turning southward again.
If
I
wait, they will see where I fall.
He crossed himself, and then got down into a sitting position on the edge of the wall. He knew the drop here was about twenty feet; he placed one hand on either side of the right angle made by the stones and began to lower himself. But then he heard his pursuers. He remained, hanging by his hands as the men from the blacksmith's house came closer.
If
I
drop
now, they will surely hear me.
But he could not hang on—already his gloves were slipping on the ice.

He fell.

Clarenceux had intended to roll on hitting the ground, but not being able to judge the drop he winded himself. He lay in the soft snow in the backyard of a house, choking, trying desperately to regain his breath, and praying that he would be able to get out into the street. He looked up. The torches were coming along the wall; there were men above him: he had to move. He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled across the unseen obstacles in the yard to the fence.

“There! See him against the snow, down there!”

Clarenceux started striking the fence with his hand, hoping to find a gate or a door. It seemed there was none. But the fence itself was only six feet high. Now, breathing again, he placed his hands on the top of it, and jumped. He straightened his arms and swung his legs over, one after the other, letting himself drop on the other side just as the first man fell to the ground from the wall-walk behind him.

Clarenceux ran forward across the second yard. The vague whiteness of the snow was marked by the dark ruts of a cart—there had to be a gate somewhere. He came to a stone wall and felt around in the darkness. Here it was—locked, yes, but the bolt had to be on this side somewhere…
somewhere…where?
He found it at head height, opened it, and rushed out into Noble Street as the pursuing soldiers clambered over the fence behind.

He knew where he was now, crossing the street into a narrow alley and running as fast as he could along one side. He was not far from the stable loft where he had been with Rebecca.
But
she
must
be
back
there
by
now—I must lead them away, in another direction.

He turned right down another alley and slipped on some ice. The first man pursuing came to the corner and saw his shape clearly outlined against the snow. Clarenceux scrambled to his feet and pushed himself on, drawing the dagger from his belt and holding it ready for the strike, when it should come. The man was almost on him when Clarenceux suddenly turned, thrust once with the dagger, caught the man's arm with the point, and slashed through the air in front of his face, just catching his nose. He started to run again, down another turning, aiming to get back to Wood Street.

The blow had gained him a few seconds, that was all. The sudden stopping and twisting had weakened his knee further and he knew he was going to have to rest soon. Then they would surround him.
I
have
to
hide
somewhere. Use the darkness; I am wearing a dark robe. Disappear.

A church loomed in the darkness, and there was a lighter patch of ground just this side. Clarenceux knew it was St. Peter's and that the lighter patch was the churchyard on the north side of the church. He turned down the alley that ran alongside it and, after about ten yards, pressed himself flat against the dark front of a house overlooking the snow-covered open space. He held the dagger at the ready.

He edged along the wall but then froze, hearing his pursuers come to the turning.

“He turned right here,” said one man.

Clarenceux could hear himself breathing heavily and realized there were two men walking toward him. They were bound to sense his presence. He edged away into the darkness as silently as he could, biting his lip, trying to quieten the heaving of his chest. The wall behind him seemed to give way to a gap, and he inched around it. This second alley was even darker, for the upper stories of the houses projected out and closed over the passageway so that there was barely any starlight visible. Less snow had fallen here, and what had fallen had been churned to mud over the past day.

He backed down the alley a little further, and his hand touched wood. There was a tub of frozen water behind him. If he moved around it, the men at the end of the alley might see him. He saw their shapes silhouetted in the starlight of the alley's opening, just fifteen feet away. They were coming toward him, one feeling in the shadows with his sword.

Very slowly, Clarenceux crouched down, with his back to the barrel.

“What do you think?” whispered one of the men to the other.

“He's here,” replied the man with the sword. “You take the left-hand side, I'll take the right.”

Clarenceux strained his eyes to see in the darkness. The man with the sword was waving it along the gutter, feeling for Clarenceux in the dark shadows at the edge of the road. Clarenceux knew he could not be seen. But the man with the sword was coming straight for him. He heard the point scrape the wall and stab the stones on the ground. He saw the man's shadow come closer, and closer—and he knew he had no choice.

This was where he had to fight.

He waited. As the sword swung toward him, he stood, took one silent step forward, and thrust upward with the dagger, hard, puncturing the man's windpipe at the top of his throat. The long blade skewered his tongue as Clarenceux drove the point through the top of his mouth into his skull. The man had no chance to cry out, not even to draw a breath; half a second after realizing Clarenceux was there he was dying, the blood flooding his brain and frothing out of his mouth and out through the cut in his neck. Clarenceux twisted the dagger and withdrew it as the blood spurted. He tried to catch the body, but it was heavy and already falling away from him. The sword fell silently into the icy mud and snow but the man's body thumped onto the ice.

“Roger?” called the other man, alarmed.

Clarenceux slowly bent down and felt for the sword. He picked it up, swapping the dagger to his left hand. He could see nothing against the shadows of the houses on the other side of the alley. He heard the other man's footsteps crunch on the frozen mud. Then they stopped.

“He's here,” he shouted to the men still in the churchyard, backing away from the corpse. “He's here somewhere.”

Clarenceux watched the man and saw him move into the blackness on the far side of the alley. He listened carefully, to sense if he moved. He did not. But nor was he coming to look for Clarenceux.

If
he
shouts
again, I will have three of them to contend with. If I fight this one, I have just the one.

Clarenceux had no choice. Staying hidden was unsafe when his location was known. They could simply seal off the alley and wait until dawn. He crept along, knowing the other man could not see him, until he was ten feet further away, and then darted across to the other side of the alley and waited, listening.

After a minute he edged slowly and silently back toward the opening of the alley. Soon he could see the vague outline of the second man, hunched low, directly adjacent to the dead figure in the snow. He watched as he too crossed the alley, placing himself again on the opposite side from Clarenceux.

“Quickly. He's here,” the man shouted again.

The man was a coward; his strategy was simply to call for help. He was also blind to Clarenceux's movements, so there was a chance of escape. Clarenceux began to back away down the alley, watching in case the other men appeared. Then he turned and made his way quickly and quietly to the far end, leaving his pursuers to search the dark corners of the empty alley in fear of their lives, while he made his escape.