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legs. With an awkward, painful twist of his wrist between the planks of the fence, he touched the latch, turned it, and unfastened it. He pushed the gate, which creaked open. Picking up his stick, he heaved himself forward into the yard, chilled to the bone. He stepped into a puddle but did not care at all, since his feet were already too soaked for it to make any difference. He did not even bother to lock the yard gate behind him. All that mattered to him was that he was heading to a place to rest his head in the dry. If it was the last thing he ever did, he wanted to lie down in the warm.
    He stepped forward, stumbling, reaching out with one hand, feeling for the stable door. It was further than he remembered. At last it was there, wet wood beneath his fingers. Water ran down his face as he moved along, feeling for the handle. He found it. But the door was shut fast. No! Please, no—let it open. Let me find some rest here . His fingers caught on the edge of the frame and ran slowly up the edge. They felt a wooden swivel latch and undid it.
    The sound of rain on the roof, and the sweet smell of hay and horse dung. Machyn heard the horses stir and his own short breaths. Feeling dizzy, he moved toward the ladder leading up into the hayloft. The horses moved uneasily in the blackness. Machyn felt the rung of a ladder and tucked his stick under his arm. He began to climb. He told himself that at the top of this ladder was a place where he could at last lay his head down and sleep on the hay, as he had done as a boy in the stable adjoining his father’s mill. Another step, a steadying of his foot, and another heave of his tired body on one leg. The dizziness increased. He needed to hold himself still. But a minute or two more, that was all it would take. He put his forehead against the ladder. A minute or two. And then he would be safe and dry.
    Whatever was to happen to him tomorrow, he would at least spend this night in peace. Crackenthorpe would never think of looking for him here, in Mr. Clarenceux’s stable loft.

5
    It was past midnight, but Clarenceux could not close Machyn’s chronicle. Every so often he noted his name, Harley, or his title, Clarenshux; for the earlier years, there were many references to Norrey, Norroy, or Norray, when he had been Norroy King of Arms. He saw an entry dealing with a feast held by the Worshipful Company of Skinners, of which he was a warden. He turned back a few pages and noted the funeral of Lady Darcy: & ther was ij haroldes of armes, Mr. Clarenshux and Mr. Somersett in ther ryche cottes.
    He flicked backward and forward. Norrey. Clarenshux… His titles echoed in his mind as he read them over and over again. Among the previous year’s entries was one that mentioned the proclamation that the English and Scottish queens would meet. Elizabeth and her Catholic cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots. The proclamation had been made in both English and French, and, Machyn had noted, with a trumpett blohyng and a harolde of armes Mr. Clarenshux in a ryche cotte with a serjant of armes.
    Clarenshux again. He began to feel uneasy. This was almost a chronicle about him. True, there were many other entries that did not name him, or have anything to do with him; but the world of Henry Machyn, as contained in this book, revolved around him. Machyn had almost been spying on him. Events in Machyn’s own life were hardly ever mentioned. But there were many references to Clarenceux’s personal life. Here was one describing the baptism of his second daughter. Another referring to his marriage. Another referring to his promotion from Norroy to Clarenceux. Another about his visitation of Suffolk.
    Clarenceux looked around his study. He looked at the book presses: one stood against the side wall, the other at the far end of the chamber. He looked at the fireplace and the painted carved wood above. His coat of arms. He looked at the chest and the books on it, and the piles of books on the