The Roots of Betrayal (13 page)

“Henry Machyn used to appoint successors to take the places of the dead.”

“Henry Machyn is no longer with us. He appointed you to take his place. You are in the position of leadership, should you wish to assume it.”

Clarenceux looked at Father Tucker. He looked at Hill and Emery, then returned his attention to Mrs. Barker. “Let us pray.”

Clarenceux knelt on the window-side of the chapel, Mrs. Barker in the center, and the two Knights nearest the door. Father Tucker's voice was melodious; he had obviously been trained in one of the singing schools. In his early forties, he was old enough to have learned before the old king closed the monasteries.

As Father Tucker sang and the minutes passed by, Clarenceux realized that he had been a fool. He had come here with the intention of threatening the Knights and Mrs. Barker. Had there been just the four of them, he could have got away. Now he was trapped. He had foreseen that it was a trap—he had even guarded against it—and yet he had walked straight into it.

Where was Rebecca? As he thought about the document, he realized that, if she had betrayed the Knights and him, then someone else must have gained some sort of influence over her. Lady Percy? It hardly mattered. Whatever he did in this house—even if he unloaded his guns into one of them—it would not stop the revolution. The pyres on which Queen Mary had burned hundreds of Protestants in the 1550s would be relit for Catholics. Heresy and treason would once more go hand in hand: the most frightening combination of human forces he could imagine. But a heavy dose of revenge would be added. No doubt Sir William Cecil and Francis Walsingham would arrange the trials and executions of the leading Catholics, dragging them through the city and then burning them in public. He himself would be one of the first.

As the singing continued, Clarenceux forced himself to examine every inch of the room for a way out. He saw the oil painting of the altarpiece and the highlighting of the linenfold paneling on the door and walls. He saw the wooden shutters of the window—too solid and close together to break through easily—and the oak floorboards. He looked up at the ceiling: elaborate molded plasterwork.

Father Tucker had stopped singing. Clarenceux was aware that the others were all surreptitiously watching him. The priest turned to face him. He was carrying the paten with the holy bread, the body of Christ. The paten was enameled silver of a sort much favored in the past by aristocratic families when traveling around the country. He looked at Father Tucker's purple robe and his hands on the paten. He glanced at the altar. There the chalice stood. It was similarly enameled, holding the wine that was the blood of Christ. Father Tucker spoke a Latin blessing over the paten and Clarenceux allowed him to place the bread on his tongue. Everyone was watching him. Clarenceux swallowed the bread, crossed himself, and said, “Amen.”

Father Tucker resumed singing. “
Agnus
dei, qui tollis peccatur mundi…
” Later there were prayers. As Father Tucker expressed his hopes of a restoration of England to the fold of Rome, Clarenceux's eyes were drawn to the design on the chalice. It was a coat of arms—the only coat of arms he had seen in the whole building. He remembered that he had seen shields on the woodwork downstairs but the designs had been painted out. Now he was looking at the arms of the Talbot family on the side of the chalice.

The Talbot family. The family into which Lady Percy, dowager countess of Northumberland, had been born.

Clarenceux looked up at Father Tucker, who nervously made the sign of the cross.
He
either
brought
this
chalice
and
paten
from
Lady
Percy, at Sheffield Manor, or
…He looked at the floorboards, struggling to understand his own thoughts.
Or…Mrs. Barker is of the same family
.

He remembered the conversation at Nicholas Hill's house.
Who
is
Sir
Percival?
A
holier
man
than
you
. The floorboards seemed to move, he felt dizzy. Father Tucker was backing away.

“
You
are Sir Percival,” Clarenceux said. “And you are…are…” His heart was beating frantically. This was not normal. His hands were shaking and he could barely control his movements. But as his throat and heart started to burn, he remembered the bread. The priest had given him poison under the guise of Holy Communion.

Rage burst through Clarenceux. He put his fingers to the back of his throat and retched. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nicholas Hill getting to his feet. He started to stand as well, but Hill was faster. Hill pushed him down and tried to grab the pistols from inside Clarenceux's doublet. Clarenceux twisted away from him and drew a pistol himself. Panicking, blind to everything but his own survival, he pulled the trigger as he staggered to his feet. A sharp recoil made him drop the weapon and he stumbled, retching again, as light and darkness flashed alternately across his eyes. He pulled the other gun from his doublet. There was a blurred shape in purple in front of him; he shot at it as he fell.

It felt as if he was on the head of a pin. A sharp pain seemed to be penetrating him through the belly.
God's needle
. But whether it was really a knife or the poison, or divine judgment, he could not tell. His mind was shifting like a cloud that one moment has one form and the next has quite another, through no will of its own.

“Lock him in the room at the top of the back stairs,” said Mrs. Barker. “Fasten him down and give him another dose. We need to find out what he knows about us, and what he has told Cecil, before he dies.”

Walsingham ascended the grand stairs of Cecil House. At the top, he saw Sir William himself, anxiously pacing from one end of the paneled landing to the other. He was only half dressed, wearing nothing over his linen shirt, which was most unusual for the queen's Secretary. Walsingham could not remember ever having seen him so incomplete in his attire.

“My heartiest greetings, Sir William,” hailed Walsingham. “You look troubled.”

“What do you expect if you send me such a message?”

“I am sorry, Sir William, but you did say—”

“Yes, yes. You did the right thing. I would be far more vexed if you had not told me.” He stopped pacing. “I presume the identity of the messenger has been confirmed?”

Walsingham stood on the top step, his hand on the newel post. “The body is in the church of St. James, in Garlickhithe. Two neighbors agree. His name was Stephen Langhill and he was a servant in a house in Little Trinity Lane, directly opposite the Machyn residence.”

“And the proprietor?”

“A woman who goes by the name of Mrs. Barker. Catholicism is suspected. The churchwardens have said that she is a recusant—she does not attend parochial services. The same goes for her servants. You see what this means? The Machyn plot did not come to an end. It never came to an end. Clarenceux is still plotting.”

Cecil looked over the balcony. “Come into my study, Francis. We don't want to go speculating wildly out here, where servants, visitors, and all sorts of people can hear us.” He walked to the door, opened it, and went through, leaving Walsingham to come in and close it behind him.

“Francis, if you are right, then we have a whole locality of Catholic sympathizers, a nest of vipers. But you need to be careful regarding what you say about Clarenceux's involvement. You may be right—but you must not let your distrust of the man cloud your judgment.”

“Your
trust
of the man has allowed him to continue his activities. Did he take you up on the offer to go to Antwerp?”

“He has not yet responded, no. But there are many possible reasons why. It is a major decision for a man with a family.”

“Forget the other reasons. He is reluctant to go because he wishes to concentrate on Lady Percy's conspiracy. Why else would a man like that not go?” Walsingham held Cecil's gaze. “I'll tell you why. Because he would be exposed as a Catholic sympathizer. He is afraid—for good reason.”

Walsingham walked to the wine table and took a goblet but found that the servants had not yet refilled the flask. He set the goblet down again. “I have taken the liberty of having men search for him. They entered his house; no one was at home, not even his servants. With this in mind, I will have his house searched once again. I am also intending to search Mrs. Barker's house and the Machyn house. They are all being watched.”

Cecil shrugged. “What can I say? It seems you have decided on your strategy.”

“That coded letter said Widow Machyn is
willing
to restore the Catholic Treasure to someone. She has already set sail. And I believe Clarenceux knows where she is going.”

Cecil listened and started walking slowly beneath the portrait of himself. “Francis, let me ask you this. What do you think the Catholic Treasure is? For that is the root of this plot. The people involved are just the branches and leaves. We need to concentrate on the root. Cut that, and we kill the whole tree. Do you have any idea?”

Walsingham shook his head. “I doubt it is a casket of jewels. More likely to be a relic or an icon. But I will say this: there is more than one way to fell a tree. Cutting off all the branches and leaves is as effective as severing its roots.”

“Sit down, Francis.”

Sunlight was pouring through the window, gleaming off the polished wooden surfaces. The paintings seemed very dark against the whitewashed walls. Walsingham looked at Cecil and saw the man's grave expression silhouetted by the window.

Cecil leaned on the table, pressing his fingers and thumbs on its surface. “The Catholic Treasure is a document. It is the marriage agreement between Lord Percy and the queen's mother, Anne Boleyn. If any traitors managed to seize it, they would have in their possession a notarial instrument that could be used to depose the queen on the grounds of illegitimacy.”

“How do you know this? Is that what Clarenceux's plot…” Walsingham's trailed off as he saw the implications of what Cecil had just said. The queen's Secretary had been withholding information from him—information relating to a Catholic conspiracy that he, Walsingham, was supposed to be investigating.

“I am sorry, Francis. I should have told you earlier. Clarenceux knew the whereabouts of the document. I did not inform you. That was wrong and I apologize.”

“Why?”

“Why did I not tell you? Well…” Cecil sighed. “I thought it best not discussed. Clarenceux would not have revealed its whereabouts—he is as stubborn as a mule. But he is also not the sort of person to use it himself. He is not a revolutionary by nature.”

“But he has allowed it to pass to Widow Machyn.”

“Or maybe she stole it from him.”

Walsingham was still recovering from his shock. “How long have you known all this?” he asked, staring at the floorboards.

“About the document's existence? For years. That Clarenceux knew where it was: about six months. He told me—in strict confidence.”

“So I am right. We cannot trust Clarenceux. He is one of them.”

Cecil took a seat and moved it to face Walsingham. He spoke in a low voice. “It depends on whether he willingly colluded with the Knights or was betrayed.”

“By Widow Machyn? Damn his eyes—he has probably sailed with her.”

“Or is trying to find her in London. There are many reasons why he might be away from home. Some of them point to his innocence and others to his guilt. I hope he is innocent. But what I hope does not matter now. It is the conspiracy as a whole we must consider. By comparison, individual fates are trivialities.”

Raw Carew shifted his position in the valley between the two roofs facing the quay of Southampton. He knelt, shielding his eyes from the sun. It was late morning and he was looking almost due south—straight into the glare. There was a ship approaching, just visible.

“Prouze has seen it,” said Luke Treleaven. He was lying down and shuffled forward to peer over the edge of the roofs. He looked each way along the quay. “Who has the sharper eyes—Kahlu or Devenish?”

“Kahlu,” replied Carew. “He is also the more cautious. Devenish will shout that he has seen it when he just thinks he has. Kahlu will wait and make sure.”

“Then that is our ship.” Luke shuffled back. “Kahlu is coming this way.”

“Stay here. Watch Prouze. I'll be waiting inside the front door of the inn.”

Carew went back toward the ladder. He climbed down to the gallery that linked the second-floor chambers and down the steps to the ground floor. Having passed through the hall he waited just inside the door, watching the movements of those outside. He saw Kahlu approaching and spoke to him as he entered. “What news?”

Kahlu pointed to the south, the direction of the ship. He jabbed his right middle finger against his left hand, palm up, indicating the middle mast, and then presented Carew with three fingers.

Carew moved to the door and peered out. The ship was a three-master, a fast-looking modern galleon. He checked the people nearby, then stepped out of the inn and walked across the quay to have a better look. Kahlu followed him and tapped him on the shoulder. He made the sign of a ship with his left hand and patted his heart with his right.

“True, my friend, that is indeed a boat to fall in love with. They've cut the forecastle down to make her faster through the water. Compact and maneuverable. Elegant.”

Kahlu tapped him on the shoulder again and made a sign with his fingers meaning “money.”

“I haven't forgotten.” He looked around again at those on the quay. Then indulged himself once more in gazing at the boat. For these moments he could fantasize. She would not come to the quay and he had no vessel of his own with which to pursue and take her. In a short while he would be waiting for Prouze to off-load the treasure and soon after that the ship would be gone. But just for a few minutes he could dream of standing on the deck confident that nothing was faster. If he had a ship like that, no one would be able to catch him—no one except someone in an identical ship.

Carew and Kahlu went back to the inn to discuss their plans. Twenty minutes later, the crew was all at their agreed stations. Everything continued as usual around them. In the bright sunshine, the laborers hauled sacks and carts to the ships. The harbormaster made his tour of the vessels that afternoon and noticed nothing amiss. The heavy horses pulled on the largest wooden crane to off-load the heavy goods from a Mediterranean galley. Captains made agreements with merchants inside and outside of the taverns nearby. Sacks of cloth were stacked ready for loading onto two Portuguese vessels. And in and around the bustling scene men waited discreetly. Stars Johnson and old James Miller helped to carry sacks of oats from one pile on the quay to another. Hugh Dean was in a quiet corner near the end of the quay with all five of his pistols laid out in front of him, lovingly tending to them after their soaking in the wreck of the
Nightingale
. Every so often he cast a glance toward the ship with the three flags. John Devenish had cleaned his broad-bladed sword and hidden it in a sack; with this slung across his back, he was helping to off-load crates of chickens from a small boat onto a cart. Skinner Simpkins was just sitting on the quayside in plain view of everyone, whittling a stick. Luke was still at his post on the roof. Francis Bidder and Swift George Thompson were apparently in deep conversation at the southern end of the quay, both looking out to the vessel. The rest were waiting in the long hall at the back of the Two Swans and in the marketplace.

A skiff put out from the three-flagged ship. Carew and Kahlu joined Bidder and Thompson at the southern point and watched it. Five people were on board, two of them rowing. Carew waited until he was sure they were coming to the quay. “Kahlu, you stay here until they have landed, watch in case they change course and go toward the River Itchen. Swift, Francis, come with me.”

He walked along the quay looking for Prouze and pretending to talk to Swift while Francis reported to them what was happening with the skiff. “She's about a hundred yards from the quay, coming straight toward where Skinner is sitting.” Carew looked for Prouze, checking all the faces of those watching, searching them for subtle signs of recognition and communication. He looked up at the rooftop. Amy was pointing down at a group of men standing on the quay near Skinner. Two looked like yeomen in their rustic clothes, another looked like an unsuccessful merchant, dressed in garments that had once been smart. The fourth man was young. He had a tidy, short beard, a burgundy doublet, and was openly wearing a sword.

Carew glanced up at Amy. With a nod, she confirmed it was Prouze. “Swift,” said Carew in a low voice, “give the signal to the men in the inn.”

Prouze and his companions were standing directly behind Skinner, who was still whittling. Carew and his men were five or six yards away. More of his men casually gathered in groups of three and four nearby. As the seconds passed and the skiff came nearer, more of Carew's men gathered. There were thirty now. Prouze stopped speaking and walked closer to the quay.

Carew walked forward, nearer to the quay edge. He looked down into the approaching skiff. There was nothing there—no chests—just the people.

He walked away from the edge, shaking his head, then looked up at the place where Amy had been. She was not there. He caught the eyes of members of his crew silently looking to him for orders and gave a subtle signal with his right hand, palm down.
Wait
. He glanced back at Prouze. The boat had touched the dock now, and three of those aboard were disembarking. There was a woman in her early forties coming up the steps, with long dark hair, brown eyes, and a distinctive large mole on the side of her face. With her was a muscular man who greeted Prouze with a nod of his head, and a shorter man who was talking to him. Carew overheard the man say the words “from here on” and “return to London,” but that was all. A moment later Prouze was leading the man and the woman along the quay. The third man said farewell to them and went back aboard the skiff. The oarsmen pushed off.

Carew turned and looked at his men. Their faces were full of questions. He could only shrug and nod toward the inn. Kahlu asked in hand signs whether the money was still on the ship.

“I do not know, my friend,” replied Carew, drawing close. “Those people cannot be carrying it. My guess is that it will be unloaded later, after nightfall. They have come to make contact with Prouze first.” He gestured for George Thompson to approach. “Follow them, Swift. Don't let them out of your sight. Take Skinner with you and keep me informed.”