Read Online Sacred Treason by James Forrester - Free Book Online

you.”
    The two men walked on in silence. Clarenceux’s thoughts occupied him so totally that he forgot about the man following them. What drove Machyn to come out in such weather to pass on his chronicle? Fear of Crackenthorpe? Yes, but that can’t be all. Why was he so fearful? What is it about that book? I must read it more closely when I get home. It feels different, looking at these houses, to know there is a secret society here, behind these shop fronts, if that is what the Knights of the Round Table really is. Lancelot Heath has to be one of the knights, with that Christian name. Perhaps Sir Arthur Darcy was one too. But he died many years ago. Have the Knights been going many years? Has this conspiracy existed all this time, spying on me? Did Machyn have a role in that group—was he discovered by Crackenthorpe? What else is going on here, behind these houses’ shutters?
    â€œA city has so many secrets.”
    Thomas looked at him.
    â€œI was just thinking, Thomas, about all the things going on in this city that we don’t know about. All the intrigues, the plots, the schemes, the conspiracies. Sometimes I wonder—sometimes another revolution seems possible.”
    â€œRevolution?”
    Clarenceux gestured along the road. “Left here and then right, into Little Trinity Lane. I mean an uprising against the queen, to return the country to the Catholic faith.”
    They turned the corner, avoiding a large puddle in the middle of the street. “I felt happier with the old ways, I confess,” said Thomas wistfully, “but I can’t believe that it will happen. Not now. No one wants to go back to the days of burning people alive. Do you remember the dead cur?”
    Clarenceux nodded. Some years ago a tonsured dead dog dressed in a priest’s dalmatic had been thrown into Queen Mary’s presence chamber after she had forced Parliament to ban the Protestant service.
    â€œMind you,” continued Thomas, “if there were to be another uprising, we would see more processions in the city.”
    Clarenceux smiled. “Would that cheer you, Thomas? The Lord Mayor and the masters of the companies all decked out in their finery?”
    â€œI mean for the lads and lasses. When I was a boy, it was like a holiday. The wardens of the companies would throw us pennies. The baker in our street would give us pies. My father, God rest his—”
    Thomas stopped. Before them in the street, a crowd of about twenty people were staring at a door. Henry Machyn’s door.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” whispered Clarenceux.
    They were looking at the house with the low jetty. The door and ground-floor window were both barricaded with planks, and over them were painted large red crosses. A young man with a breastplate, helmet, and sword stood by the door.
    â€œNot possible,” muttered Thomas, frowning.
    â€œThe last plague victim was buried three weeks ago,” agreed Clarenceux. He looked up and down Little Trinity Lane. He half expected to see Crackenthorpe but did not. He could see no sign of the man who, until a few moments ago, had been following them. “Thomas,” he said quietly, looking around. “Go back to my house and fetch a crowbar. I believe there is one in the loft above the stable. Wrap it in some cloth and bring it here.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Clarenceux. Shall I fetch help?”
    â€œNo, Thomas. These people want information. They won’t hurt us. Not without orders, anyway.”

13
    Walsingham sat writing at a table by a window in his parlor, the morning light shining onto the page. A fire burnt in the large decorated hearth. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and paused, looking out of the window at the water in the Tower moat. It was not that he was unsure of his facts, but rather that he doubted whether he should commit this particular piece of information to paper. Perhaps it was safer to send a messenger? He could