Sacred Treason Read Online Free PDF Page B

roofs on the other side of the road. He pulled the shutter to. But as he did so he caught sight of a book on the table board, the one he had opened just before Machyn had knocked. A Visitation of ye counties of Essex and Suffolke …
    For heaven’s sake, Machyn’s life is at stake. And I am worried about getting wet.
    He threw off his robe, lifted the candlestick, and went downstairs. “No, don’t get up, Thomas,” he commanded, as he marched along the length of the hall. He pulled back the carpet draped over a chest, lifted the lid, and pulled out his leather boots and traveling cope. “I’m going out to search for Machyn,” he explained, seeing Thomas raise himself onto one elbow in the shadows. He unbuckled his shoes, tossed them across into the corner of the hall. “Is there a lantern by the back door?”
    â€œBy the door to the kitchen, sir, as always. But Mr. Clarenceux, can you not hear the weather?”
    Clarenceux started to pull on his boots. “I know it is bad, Thomas, but I fear for his life. Tell my wife where I am, if she asks for me. I’ll be back by dawn.”

6
    Clarenceux and Thomas were not the only men awake that night. Across London, in dark bedchambers, dozens of people were stirring uneasily at the sound of thunder and heavy rain. Some men were lying beside their wives, imagining the mud on the roads in the morning or worrying about money, or disease, or business, or God, or death. Women were awake, listening to their husbands’ snoring or their children crying, or the breathing of babies in cradles beside them, hoping that they would survive the cold nights of winter. And a few lay thinking of the searches for heretical texts and the brutal beatings and trials of those who were found practicing the old faith. Had God deserted them? Was this what their queen wanted for them: to be terrorized into this new Protestant faith? Everyone was in darkness, feeling their way around bedchambers, cradles, fears, doubts, injustices.
    Among those who were not sleeping were two richly dressed men in a large, high-ceilinged room of a grand new house on the Strand. One of them was in his early forties. His clothes were formal: a deep red velvet robe with gold buttons and shoulder studs, and an elaborate chain of office upon his shoulders. He wore a small ruff around his neck, which was almost concealed by the folds of the hood of the robe. His long, reddish-brown beard was full, and his mustache equally so. His eyes were tired—there were folds of skin beneath them—but they were not unkind. His middle fingers were laden with rings. He was standing, concentrating on a paper document, which he now set down on a fine linen–covered table. Leaning forward, he marked the paper with a quill pen. Cecil. He put the pen back on its holder and reached for a cup of wine.
    â€œMore traitors, Sir William?” asked his companion, who had been waiting for some while.
    â€œMore than ever, Francis. This business is like killing beetles. You see one, and you pick up a stone nearby to crush it, and in so doing you find a dozen more of the damned things crawling around beneath that stone.” Cecil lifted another paper, glanced at it, and then shifted his gaze to the other man. “Talking of crushing, this informer of yours, is he going to live?”
    Francis Walsingham was a small, neat man of thirty-one. His black beard and mustache were trimmed short. His hair had begun to recede on the sides, forming a widow’s peak; this he tried to cover up with a black cap that fitted tightly to his head. He was dressed entirely in black—doublet, hose, and robe—apart from his white ruff and a single gold ring. Although small, he had the look of an ambitious man, not a compassionate one. He did not smile often, and when he did, it did not signal pleasure so much as the achievement of a personal goal.
    â€œSo Draper is my informer now, is he, Sir