The Roots of Betrayal (10 page)

Pieter Gervys, landlord of the Two Swans at Southampton, was half Flemish. Like many proprietors of houses of ill repute, he and his Flemish wife Marie lived on the fringes of society. In the old days, many stews and bordellos had been run by Flemish women, but then the great pox had come to England. One by one the stews were closed and the whores driven out of the cities. Those who had worked in Southwark had almost all left by the end of Henry VIII's reign. The city officials never gave a thought to where they went. Many citizens saw the pox as a purifying thing, for they presumed the women had all turned to more honest occupations. In reality they had either turned to crime—organized theft—or removed themselves from the city to carry on their trade elsewhere, in less rigidly controlled towns. Thus Pieter and Marie had come to Southampton in 1555.

The inn they ran, the Two Swans, was on the quay. Behind its respectable-looking front building was a second hall, the “long hall” as it was affectionately known. In fact it was a barn that Peter and Marie used when the occasion demanded. The return of Raw Carew was just the sort of occasion. By eleven o'clock, they had been told he was in town. By twelve, two casks of ale had been opened in the long hall and a pig set to roast in the kitchen. By four o'clock, the real festivities were beginning. There were bagpipes playing, and Luke Treleaven was playing a fiddle, his green eyes dancing between his fellow survivors as they sat on long benches and guzzled their way through the feast of pork and ale. Hugh Dean was plucking a lute in time to the bagpipes and Francis Bidder was lying on the floor, half wishing he was asleep and half wishing he could get up and dance some more. Harry Gurney was in a corner, laughing, with his hand up the skirts of a fat young woman, and Stars Johnson and Skinner Simpkins were dancing with another woman, who darted her kisses between the two of them, teasing them. George Thompson—a young man known as Swift or Swift George to his fellow mariners—had his arms around a woman in a corner, as she helped herself to ale from his flagon. John Devenish was leading a dozen others and their newly found womenfolk in a drunken line of dancers. Charity Pool had tied her hair up in an extravagant style, complete with ribbons and flowers, and was dancing with a dark-haired lad from the ship, Nick Laver, who had a soft spot for her. Alice had in her clutches two young men: one was an apprentice shipwright whom she had taken a liking to on the quay, and the other had heard the dancing and come in from the street. A third woman from the ship, dark-eyed Juanita, known for her fierce temper, was dancing alone in her native Spanish style, four or five men clapping and cheering around her as she lifted her skirts, jumped, and swirled in time to the music. With a hundred people laughing, singing, and dancing, with meat in their stomachs and ale in their flagons, it was a heart-warming sight.

Raw Carew was sitting on a table with a half-full ceramic flagon of ale. He was keeping one eye on the door. His attention was mostly on Ursula. Tall and blond—but sadly now afflicted with a long scar across her face—she was the elder sister of Amy, the woman with whom Carew had spent two whole days and nights in this inn, nine weeks earlier. Ursula was dancing with Hugh Dean, who grinned at her from under his mop of black hair as if she had wholly bewitched him. He put down the lute, stood behind her, and cupped her breasts in his hands; she wiggled her hips provocatively, pressing herself into his hose. Hugh was beginning to feel the effects of the ale on top of the two days without sleep, and she slipped away from him, holding her skirts.

“Amy not here?” Carew shouted at her as she spun around and another bearded sailor, Cleofas Harvy, a Breton, seized her and ran his hands appreciatively over her hips.

“She has a customer. One who pays good money,” she shouted back, succumbing to Cleofas's groping hands and moving her neck as he almost slobbered over her with his ardent kisses.

“Who is he?”

“A watchman. From the fort.”

Carew nodded and said nothing more. It was a wise thing to do, to keep Captain Parkinson's men happy. He turned back to the dancing. He had lost a ship, a number of friends, and a large amount of money—but with the help of Stars Johnson's knowledge of the skies, he had saved many and steered them back to safety. The end of the evening would be as usual—a lot of drunken men and women, a lot of mess to clear up, and an argument about the bill. Pieter Gervys was generally tolerant but he could prove a stickler for money, and even if he was content to let the bill mount up, it made him grumpy. Gervys would add sums here and there because he knew that Carew had nowhere else to go. Here a debt on the shop book would never be written off, and it would never be cheap; but it would not lead to a covert attempt to bring the constables to him in the night. For his part, Gervys knew that when Carew had money he did not stint but spent it generously.

The dancing stopped and the bagpipes and fiddle began a merry jig, accompanied by a horn blown by a drunken woman from the ship and a tabor played skillfully by Kahlu. Carew laughed as John Devenish tried to lift Harry Gurney and then both men fell headlong, crashing into a trestle table that promptly collapsed, sending flagons flying and two men and their women sprawling on the floor. Recovering, Devenish lifted one of the women and turned her upside down, and danced with her that way until her would-be bedmate raised a fist at him. At that he put the woman down and started dancing with her lover instead.

Ursula broke away from Cleofas and came over to Carew. “Are you not going to dance?”

Apart from the scar, of which she was very conscious, Ursula was still pretty. She had pale skin and freckles like her sister but she was taller and less given to laughing. She also lacked the vivacious spark and sexual beauty of her younger sister. But she was shrewd, imaginative, and caring. Carew liked her.

“Is that an invitation?” he inquired.

“I'll dance with you,” she said. “Or are you asking for a business deal?”

“You mean, you won't take me for love.”

“Love I get every day. It's money we need.”

Carew lifted a hand to her cheek and ran a finger over her skin, down her neck, and over her breast. The same finger drew an imaginary circle on her dress and then followed the curve of her hips. “It does a man good to see you, Ursula. But something is not right.”

Ursula leaned forward and kissed his lips. “It is good to see you too—and not just because we need the money.”

“Tell me.”

“Ralph is sick. Amy's already lost one child—losing another would be hard, cruel hard.”

Carew remembered the bodies in the sea. He thought back to earlier times, worse hardships, terrible fears. The great sea of darkness. The truth was that he was proud to confront journeys and challenges that other men would not even dare to think about; yet the reward for such courage might be nothing more than oblivion and a watery grave. At that moment he understood that these women did something similar. They were proud to have men love their smiles and try to please them; it was part of who they were—desirable and beyond possession, only temporarily attainable. But then, in childbed, the reward for their loving might be nothing more than a feverish death, if not their own then that of a loved one. The death of a child might be tragic or it might be a blessing. In Amy's case she had loved her dead daughter, and no doubt she still did.

Ursula kissed him again, snapping him out of his reverie. “So? Will you dance?”

A moment later she was dragging Carew forward from the table and he was dancing with her—to and fro, then in each other's arms—as the crowd watched them and clapped or danced alongside them. As one dance gave way to another they grew bolder: Carew throwing Ursula up in the air and catching her. At the end of one dance he called for silence and then, after a long pause, held everyone spellbound as he sang a mournful ballad of companions who sailed no more; following this, he sang a fast song with which the bagpipes, pipe, and fiddle joined in, everyone stamping and thumping on the table. Then the dancing began again and he lifted Ursula and raised her skirts to show off her legs, while she playfully tried to fight him off and he carried her around the hall.

The drinking went on through the afternoon. Every so often Carew would stop trying not to remember, weighing the joy of life against the sadness of his memories. Every time he caught Ursula's eye the message passed between them, about Amy and her sick son. Every time he felt the sea swallowing him again, as it had almost done in the wreck, he would crack a joke to make Ursula laugh. The anticipation of having her later dabbed at the great tear welling within him. He did not know exactly what caused it: it seemed to be connected to so many things. The loss of the ship and the cannon. The loss of so many friends. But then he reflected that it was none of those things. It was the more distant past.

“Are you all right, Mr. Carew?” Ursula looked genuinely worried.

“I am, thank you.” Then he shook his head. “Sometimes I think I ought to be different from what I am. I should have—I don't know—done other things.”

“Like what, Mr. Carew?”

“Like…learning to write.” It pained him to say the words. “Or marrying an honest woman.”

“Mr. Caroooby—you're drunk!” giggled Ursula, and as she said the words, she sounded just like her sister, and she had the same sparkle in her eye. “You'll never marry anyone—you could not remain faithful for more than an hour. And I bet you've not been in a church since you was baptized.”

Carew cleared his throat. “It would give me great pleasure if you and I were to retire now with this flagon of ale, go to your quarters, and stay there until dawn.”

“Is this for cash or credit?”

“Don't worry. I won't charge you.” He kissed her. Then kissed her again, more passionately, running his hands over her back. “Truth is, you could ask for whatever you wanted right now and I'd promise it.”

Clarenceux walked down Little Trinity Lane in the early evening sunlight and knocked at the iron-studded oak door of Mrs. Barker's house. A dark-haired man answered, barely as tall as Clarenceux's shoulder.

“Good day. I need to speak with your mistress. Is she within?”

“Who seeks an audience?”

“William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms—a friend of Rebecca Machyn.”

“Sir, if you would wait inside, I will speak to her ladyship straightaway.”

The front of the house was not quite as Clarenceux had expected. The door opened into a long, narrow reception chamber lit by glazed windows facing the street, with a fireplace at both ends and an elaborate plastered ceiling. There was a table large enough for about twenty servants, with benches on both sides and brass candlesticks and wooden and pewter drinking vessels in the center. About halfway down the long chamber was a staircase with elaborately carved newel posts. Although Clarenceux had been inside this house once before, he had only seen the rear corridor and a wine vault. This wide entrance and servants' dining hall was a surprise. Nor was the layout the only unexpected thing. His eyes were drawn to the shields carved above the fireplaces: they were plain red and blue—no coats of arms were depicted at all. And now he saw that the arms carved on the newel posts similarly were plain silver. Whatever had been painted there before had been obliterated.

The short man was gone a considerable time. When he reappeared, he bowed respectfully. “I do apologize for the delay, Mr. Clarenceux. Mrs. Barker says she would be very pleased to receive you in her audience chamber upstairs. If you would follow me.”

Clarenceux followed the servant up the wooden staircase. It was perfectly made; the oak steps were solid, like stone. The servant led him along a short corridor to a large room, with another decorated plaster ceiling and linen-fold paneling. One wall was covered with a bright tapestry showing Dido and Aeneas hand in hand at the mouth of a cave, with nymphs and satyrs watching them. Another wall was almost entirely glass: a myriad of small diamond-shaped quarrels, allowing in some of the evening sunlight. A log fire was burning in the fireplace; a table and chair in front of this were arranged for Mrs. Barker to write, not far from a candelabrum. She was seated there now, with various papers before her. A thin man in his early forties was attending her, standing quietly to one side.

Clarenceux bowed and studied her. Her face was narrow and elegant although her skin was wrinkled with age. Sharp blue eyes followed his movements. Her gray hair was pinned back in a neat coiffure, and her deep-blue velvet dress, cut at the front to expose a white silk lining, was pristine; its silk sleeves bound in gold brocade. She had an elegant poise, as if her body was balanced on a pivot and she was in total control of every movement, every nuance of expression and manner.

“Good day to you, Mr. Clarenceux,” she said. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“Good day, my lady. You have heard of me then?”

She smiled. “Of course. Rebecca Machyn often spoke of you. You were the herald in whom she placed all her trust, in whom she could confide. She made you sound very attractive.”

Clarenceux paused. “I rather thought that
you
were her confidante. I confess, of late she has shown no trust in me.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

“She has gone.”

Mrs. Barker looked at him with a concerned expression. “Gone? Where? Do you know if she has other protectors?”

“No, I do not know. That is exactly what worries me.”

Mrs. Barker looked up at her companion. “Leave us, Father. I wish to speak to Mr. Clarenceux alone.”

Father Tucker caught Clarenceux's eye, then turned and bowed to Mrs. Barker. “Godspeed, my lady,” he said and departed. The candles guttered at the closing of the door.

Mrs. Barker moved a loose strand of gray hair that had fallen across her cheek. “I know you and Rebecca were close.”

“And I know that she used to find shelter with you, here.”

“But you do not know where she has gone?”

“No. Do you?”

“I did not even know that she had departed. I get out very little. Most people who need to see me come to this house. If they do not come here, then I do not hear news of them, it is as simple as that. My limbs do not permit me to walk very far and, for reasons of religion, few people in this city invite me to visit.”

Clarenceux walked closer. “Rebecca Machyn—has she stayed here or sought refuge with you since Christmas?”

“No, not at all. What makes you ask?”

“Her disappearance.”

Suddenly a silence grew between them, as if neither knew how to continue the conversation.

“Why are the coats of arms in this house painted over?” asked Clarenceux.

Mrs. Barker coughed slightly. “I had the old arms covered up when I moved in and I never had my own painted. It is always hard to find good workmen.”

Clarenceux frowned. “But you live next door to Painter Stainers' Hall.”

She looked down. The silence continued. It became awkward.

“Is there something you are not telling me?” he asked.

“That man who has just left us, Father Tucker, is a priest of the old religion. He has a price on his head. Does that concern you?”

“If Mr. Walsingham were to catch him, there would be little chance of him keeping his head, whether or not there is a price on it. But his losing it would be none of my will. You know that.”

“Rebecca attended Masses here several times over the past three or four months. In my chapel.” She nodded in the direction of the tapestry.

“Do you have any idea why she might have fled?”

“No.”

“Do you know about the document that her husband used to guard?” he said.

She said nothing.

“Do you, Mistress Barker?”

She started to get to her feet, holding the edge of the table. He watched her walk toward the fire. The roundedness of her shoulders and back struck him as more revealing of her age and frailty than her eyes and face. Except that her frailty was only physical. In spirit she was as lithe as a young killing beast.

“You know what I am talking about,” he said to her back. “Did she tell you? Or did her husband?”

“A mutual friend told me. Years ago.”

“Did you know that Rebecca was planning to steal it from me?”

She turned to face him. “I protected her, Mr. Clarenceux. When there were soldiers in the street, searching her house, I looked after her. When you killed a royal guard outside, I protected you too, in a manner of speaking. I know what happened that day I sent her to you in the street as you lay beside the corpse. I told her to arrange your escape.”

“But why did you protect her? And why me? Was it for our benefit or yours?” The question hung in the air, turning it sour. “Did you intend to steal the document from me? Are you in league with the Knights of the Round Table?”

There was a coldness in her eyes now. Her poise was no longer delicately held; it was defiant—as the thinnest blade is not just the most delicate but also the sharpest. “You never showed any sign of using it—or even proclaiming its existence.”

“You are one of them,” he said, his mouth dry.

“No, Mr. Clarenceux, but I know what the Knights are planning to do. You would not act, so they had to. You had a choice; you had a chance. They felt frustrated and envious—angry too. If Widow Machyn hadn't been persuaded to take the document, I suspect the Knights would have taken your children. They might even have threatened to kill them.”

“And Sir Percival? Are
you
Sir Percival?”

“No, Mr. Clarenceux. I am not one of the Knights. I am a woman.”

“But…they meet here, don't they? In your chapel.”

She paused for a moment and almost smiled. “Would you consider joining them?”

“I do not approve of the use of that document to foment revolution.”

She shook her head. “You are not so far apart. You are a Catholic, no? At least, you believe the old ways are best. If you joined them, you could make your protest directly to them, in person.”

Clarenceux looked at her. “After they have betrayed me like this?”

“There has been a misunderstanding, that is all. I suggest that you join us for Mass in my chapel on Thursday, Ascension Day, at dawn. My servants will prepare a chamber for you if you wish to stay tomorrow night. Or, simply come here before four of the clock.”

Clarenceux walked slowly to the tapestry and lifted the corner, seeing the door concealed in the wainscoting. He glanced back at Mrs. Barker. The Knights had arranged the theft. They had organized Rebecca's departure. He had to put himself in their hands to find out where she had taken the document. “Very well. I will come for Mass on Ascension Day.”