Sacred Treason by James Forrester

the buttery; it was totally dark within. The pungent smell of ale wafted around him. He felt for the first barrel and placed the book on top of it. He strode to a large wine cask in the far corner, took hold of it, and pulled it toward him, tipping it onto its rim, and moving it sideways.
    He heard the knocking again from the front of the house.
    He went down on his knees and felt around on the floor for the loose floorboard that he knew was there. He could not find it. Panicking now, he gave up looking and felt his way back to the barrel where he had left the book and picked it up.
    Then he stopped. If Crackenthorpe boards up this house and marks it with red crosses, it will only be a matter of time before his men find the book. There has to be a solution—something more subtle.
    But it was already too late. He could hear the bolts being pulled back on the front door. And footsteps. He cursed and hurried through to the kitchen. The kitchen boy, Thomas’s great-nephew Will Terry, was holding a glowing taper, lighting rushlights. He watched as Clarenceux plunged the book into an open sack of oats, burying it beneath the surface, pushing it right to the bottom. Clarenceux turned to the boy, who had paused.
    â€œThis is important, Will,” he said hurriedly. “No one must know it is there, do you understand?”
    The fair-haired lad nodded in alarm and watched as Clarenceux ran from the kitchen and along the corridor. That was foolish. The boy is only eleven. I hope that he has the sense to confide in Thomas and ask him for advice.
    Clarenceux hurried up the back stairs and entered the hall. Awdrey was with Goodwife Machyn; they were standing together, having just embraced to comfort one another. He could hear the bells ringing out all over the city. Soon the gates would shut for the night.
    â€œYou have a summons,” said Awdrey anxiously, stepping quickly toward him. “A Mr. Walsingham wants to see you.”
    â€œWhen?” he asked, turning from one woman to the other.
    But at that moment he heard many footsteps echoing on the stairs from the front door.
    He looked at Goodwife Machyn. He began to mouth the word “hide” and pointed to the stairs, but she had already grasped his meaning, seeing it instantly in his eyes. She turned and hurried to the door that led to the stairs up to his study.
    A moment later, a tall, dark-haired man entered. He had a long scar across the right-hand side of his face. He strode into the room, followed by three other armed men, and looked around the hall at the paneling, the paintings, the mirror, the plaster ceiling. Clarenceux did not recognize him at first. But when he spoke, he knew exactly who had walked into his house.
    â€œMr. Clarenceux,” said Crackenthorpe. “You will come with me.”
    â€œWhere to? For what reason?”
    â€œTo the house of the Secretary’s chief counselor, Mr. Francis Walsingham, the Member of Parliament for Lyme Regis.”
    â€œI protest. Why?”
    â€œBecause Mr. Walsingham would like to ask you some questions. If you refuse, I will arrest you in the name of her majesty. And then you will be taken to Mr. Walsingham’s house in chains.”
    Clarenceux glanced from Crackenthorpe to the other men. One was very tall, with lank brown hair hanging on either side of his face and an expression like a slow-witted dog. Another was small and weasel-like, prim and ready for action. The third was medium height, with a narrow face, a thin goatee beard, and cruel eyes. All four were staring at him. There was no hope of escape.
    â€œThe choice is yours, Mr. Clarenceux. Choose now.”
    In an upstairs chamber his younger daughter Mildred began to cry. He turned to his wife and saw the tears welling in her eyes. He himself felt sick with nerves, too anxious to be sad. He moved closer to her, put his hands on her cheeks, and wiped her tears away with his thumbs. Their daughter’s crying and the thought