Sacred Treason by James Forrester Read Free Book Online

good to her, as usual. She had let her have a chamber at the front so she could watch over her own house. Rebecca had heard people passing several times and knocking on the door. But if Henry had returned, he was not answering their calls.
    She tried to remember happier times. The day she married Henry: it had been a bright January morning, nearly fifteen years ago. But every memory of that day led inexorably to the first terrible memory of her marriage. Mary lying there, eighteen months old, forever motionless in the cot. The stillness of death. It was as if, in dying, the child had become a cruel hoax played upon her by the Devil—as if the child had never really had life but only the appearance of it. And then Katherine at the same age. An object in the cot with its eyes open. No longer hers. No longer female or even human.
    How good Henry had been to her then. How understanding.
    The third time it had happened—three years ago—she had wanted to die herself. To be with her babies, to open the door to heaven for them. If it hadn’t been for Henry, I would have done it. I would have thrown myself off the bridge. Only he stopped me. Wise Henry. He knew. He had lost four of his five children by Joan, his first wife, and then Joan herself had died. My three girls were not even half of his sorrow. He still prays for her and for all seven of his dead children. He does not deserve even more grief.
    Outside, men were talking in low voices. She turned again on the straw mattress, her cheek lying on the wet pillow.

9
    Clarenceux gasped, sodden and cold. His face was soaked with rain. He was shaking.
    Here is the street, Little Trinity Lane. Machyn’s house is on the left, about forty yards down the road. The first-floor jetty is lower than those on either side.
    He walked on. At full stretch he could touch the projecting beams of the houses with his fingertips. He ran his hand along and felt the jetties until he found one that was lower. He felt a wooden beam, plaster, a wooden doorframe, a door…
    He drew the knife that hung from his belt and struck with the hilt against the door three times, just as Machyn had knocked on his door earlier.
    No answer came, nor was there any sound except the raindrops in the puddles. If Henry is not at home, I’ll speak to his wife or his son.
    Again, he knocked.
    As he waited, the doubts came upon him. And then the fear grew again. This time he knew he had reason to be afraid. He heard footsteps somewhere, splashing through puddles.
    Suddenly a gloved hand clamped down on his neck and forced his face hard against the door. A shoulder shoved him in the back, so that one of the iron studs bruised his ribs. Held there, with an arm across his throat, he dropped the lantern. He felt a stranger’s gloved hand searching him, pulling apart his fingers.
    â€œDrop the knife.” The voice was rough and deep, the uneducated growl of a soldier from the north.
    Clarenceux did not drop the knife. “I am William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms, herald to her majesty Queen Elizabeth, by divine grace Queen of England, France, and Wales and Lord of Ireland,” he shouted into the darkness. “Take your hands off me!”
    â€œDrop the knife,” said the man holding him, “or I’ll stick it in your groin.”
    Clarenceux sensed several men around him. “Give your name!” he shouted back, letting go of the knife.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, herald? And without a light?”
    â€œHad you a light yourself, you would see that I do have a lantern. It went out some time ago in this accursed rain. It is on the ground at my feet.”
    The stranger’s hand let go. Clarenceux turned. Suddenly a brilliant, intense light burst in his face. It burnt into his eyes, making him flinch. One of his interrogator’s companions had opened the aperture of a mirrored lantern and was holding it up. Clarenceux could only blink as the light rose and swept