The Roots of Betrayal (2 page)

“There is no treasure on this boat,” screamed Gray. “None. Look—look anywhere, everywhere! Look for yourselves!”

“Skinner, wait,” said Carew. “No treasure, you say?”

Gray bit his lip, weeping. Skinner waited. He turned the dagger in his hand, ready to pin the flesh to the table.

Carew inspected the wainscoting, the shuttered window. A basket of bread and cold meat stood on a rimmed shelf. There was indeed no sign of wealth in here. Apart from the space under the berth, the only other place where treasure might be kept was the chest. He pointed. “Luke, open it.”

Luke stepped around the table and lifted the lid. He tipped the chest forward: clothes and linen tumbled out, along with a Bible, a rosary, a small box, a cutlass, a pistol, a powder flask, some fine cotton kerchiefs, a comb, a purse, some documents, three pewter plates, two pewter cups, and a flagon. He then opened the small box and let the contents fall on to the floor: two rings, a few gaming pieces, dice, quills, and a small inkpot made of horn. The top came off the inkpot and the ink started to spread across the linen.

Carew turned back to Gray. “Where is the treasure?”

Gray remained motionless, in too much pain to react. His jaw started to move before any sound came out. “I…I do not know…I have not…heard of—”

“You must know! Why are you here? Who sent you?”

“I brought the woman—and the man.”

“What woman? What man?”

“Rebecca Machyn was her name. The man was Robert—Robert Lowe, I think. I…I was paid…to bring them to Southampton.”

“How much?”

“Two h-h-hundred…pounds,” stuttered Gray, shivering. “One hundred and fifty…in advance. It is under the bed.”

Carew looked at Kahlu and glanced through the door. Hugh Dean was still guarding the crew.

Kahlu went to the bed, reached beneath it, and pulled out a second small chest. He opened it, showing the contents to Carew. The bottom was covered with gold coins.

Carew grabbed the captain's hair and gestured to his broken left hand. “Skinner!”

A moment later, although the captain lifted his arm and tried to clench his broken hand, his fingers barely moved. Skinner Simpkins placed it flat on the table and drove his dagger through it with a thud, causing a trickle of blood to run quickly across the wood. Gray screamed again. Another scream lifted his body from the seat and tore his hands further. As the first screams subsided, more surged in him. Carew waited, still holding the man's hair. When Gray's cries had turned to sobbing and gasping, Carew started to pull the man's head back, drawing the knives' blades into the flesh of his hands.

“No one is running to your aid,” he said, looking at the door. “None of your crew. Perhaps it is because you are a bad captain? Perhaps because you keep your door locked, like a coward, when intruders board your ship? Perhaps because you abduct defenseless girls? What were you going to do with her? Take her home so she could inform the authorities what you did—or throw her overboard in the middle of the Channel? I know your sort.” He let go of the man's hair.

Gray, with his bloody hands splayed out in front of him, lurched forward. He put his head on the table, trembling with shock.

“Where is the treasure?” said Carew.

“I do not know,” sobbed Gray. “I do not know what…you are talking about.”

“What was your mission?”

“To deliver…the man and the woman.”

“Who paid you?”

“A man called Percy—Percy Roy.”

“When? Where?”

“In London.”

“Who is Percy Roy?” When the captain hesitated, Carew grabbed his hair once more and pulled it back. Gray screamed as the blades cut his hands again. “Speak!”

“His real name…is Denisot. He did not tell me, but I know—from the old days. It is Nicholas Denisot.”

Carew let go of the man's hair. For a long time he was quiet, staring at oblivion through the wainscoting of the cabin. Then his eyes focused on something inside his mind. “Where is Denisot?”

“London.”

“Where in London?” he demanded, regaining his urgency, as if
he
was now the one feeling the pain. “
Where
in
London?
”

“I don't know, I don't know.”

Carew drew the knife from his belt and held it before the man's eyes, then placed it against his throat. “Tell me.
Now!
”

“I cannot,” cried Gray, with tears in his eyes. “I cannot say, for I do not know. All I know is that Denisot…he came to me in a tavern by London Port saying that he wanted me to take a man and a woman to Southampton, that same day, to be delivered as soon as possible. I asked who was employing me and for how much…He said, ‘Percy Roy,' and an hour later he gave me one hundred and fifty pounds in gold—with a promise of another fifty on my return. But it was Denisot…That is all—all I can tell you.”

“Where is he living?”

“For God's sake, I do not know. I do not know.” The captain started sobbing uncontrollably.

Carew seemed hardened by the news. “Tell me! Tell me how you know the names of the man and the woman. Why were they going to Southampton? I need to know everything.”

“I do not know them—only that they mentioned another man…”

“Who? Tell me!”

“The woman—I overheard her. She said that Mr. Clarenceux…that Mr. Clarenceux would never forgive them.”

“Forgive them for what?” Carew struck the captain on the side of the face.

“I don't know! I have told you everything—I swear it.”

“Who is Clarenceux?”

“I don't know, I don't know.” The man collapsed in sobs, his head falling forward.

Carew noticed Kahlu gesticulating. The black man held his left arm out in front of his breast and with his right drew the outline of a shield.

“A herald,” said Skinner. “They often have foreign names.”

Kahlu pointed to Skinner and nodded.

“It looks as though we have found a treasure—albeit not the one we were looking for,” Carew said. “I would value Denisot's head more than any amount of gold and silver.” He glanced at the girl and bit his lip, thinking, before turning back to Gray.

“First, let's take this devil up on deck, cut his throat, and throw him overboard. Then we will escort this girl back to her mother—it is what our law requires. Is Alice here?”

Kahlu shook his head.

“She's ashore still,” added John Devenish in a deep voice. “At the Swans.”

“Bring her aboard. Bring everyone aboard. This is our new ship. Those out there we will deal with in the normal way—the usual terms. Then we will hold the election. If elected, I will go after Denisot, sailing to London. If I can't find him, I will find this Clarenceux and I will make him tell me where Denisot is—if I have to cut him open to get the information out of him.”

Twelve days earlier

Saturday, April 29, 1564

William Harley, officially known by his heraldic title of Clarenceux King of Arms, was naked. He was lying in his bed in his house in the parish of St. Bride, just outside the city walls of London. Leaning up on one arm, he ran his fingers down the skin of his wife's back, golden in the candlelight. He drew them back again, slowly, up to her shoulders, moving her blond hair aside so he could see her more fully.
She
is
so
precious, so beautiful
, he thought.
My Saxon Princess. My Aethelfritha, my Etheldreda,
my Awdrey.

He withdrew his hand as the candle in the alcove above him spluttered. He looked at the curve of the side of her breast, pressed into the bed. The feeling of their union was still with him. The ecstasy had not just been one thrill; it had been many simultaneous pleasures—all of which had merged into one euphoria that had overwhelmed him, leaving him aglow.

She turned her head and smiled up at him again, lovingly. She was twenty-five years of age now. He felt lucky and grateful. Not only for the pleasure but also for the knowledge of just how great his pleasure could be. He leaned over and kissed her.

The candle in the alcove above the bed went out.

He lay down and let his thoughts drift in the darkness. Six months ago he had almost destroyed his own happiness, disconcerted and attracted by another woman. Rebecca Machyn. He shuddered as he remembered how he and Rebecca had been pursued, terrified together. She had seen him at his lowest, and he her. They had supported each other and, in a way, he had fallen in love with her. But he had never had doubts about his loyalty to his wife. That was what troubled him. Two women and two forms of love. It was not something that most God-fearing men and women ever spoke about.

What did he feel for Rebecca now? In the darkness, he sought his true feelings. There was a part of him that still loved her. His feelings for his wife were an inward thing: a matter of the heart. He loved Awdrey because of what he knew about her and what they had built together, what they shared. His affection for Rebecca Machyn was the opposite: an outward thing. She showed him what he did not know, the doubts, the wonder, and the fear that he knew existed in the world.

That outward-looking, questioning part of his nature worried him. The reason he had spent so much time with Rebecca was his possession of a secret document, and that document was still here, in this house. Awdrey did not know. That in itself felt like a betrayal. The document was so dangerous that men had died because of it. When Rebecca's husband, Henry Machyn, had given it to him the previous year, the man had declared that the fate of two queens depended on its safekeeping. And when Clarenceux had discovered its true nature—a marriage agreement between Lord Percy and Anne Boleyn, which proved that Queen Elizabeth was illegitimate and had no right to the throne—he had understood why it was so sensitive. Only when Sir William Cecil, the queen's Principal Secretary, had asked him to keep it safely did his life start to return to normal. But never did he feel safe. Not for one moment.

He knew, later that morning, he would go up to his study at the front of the house and check that the document was still where he had hidden it. It was a ritual. More than a ritual: it was an obsession. Sometimes he would check it three or four times in one day. The knowledge that he possessed the means to demonstrate that the Protestant queen was illegitimate and that the rightful queen should be one of her cousins—either the Protestant Lady Katherine Gray, sister of the beheaded Lady Jane Gray; or Mary, the Catholic queen of Scotland—was not something he could ever forget. His fear of what would happen if he should lose the marriage agreement beat in his heart like his love for Rebecca Machyn. Both were dark and dangerous. The ecstasy of his lovemaking with his wife was so blissful and so pure by comparison—and yet he could not ignore the dark side within himself.

He felt Awdrey turn over and cuddle up beside him, nestling under his arm. He was a tall man and she of average height, so his arm around her felt protective. She ran her hand over his side, where he had been scarred in a sword fight five months earlier.

“How is it now?”

“Fine.”

“I don't want you to exert yourself too much.”

“If it had torn just now, it would have been worth it.”

He remembered the day when he had suffered the wound—at Summerhill, the house of his old friend Julius Fawcett, near Chislehurst. He wondered how Julius was now. “What would you say to the idea of going down to Summerhill next week?”

“I promised I would take the girls to see Lady Cecil. She wants them to play with her little boy, Robert.”

Clarenceux lay silent. Sir William Cecil's wife was godmother to their younger daughter, Mildred. The idea of Annie and Mildred playing with Robert was a little optimistic. Robert Cecil was three, their daughter Annie was six, and Mildred just one. It was Awdrey's polite way of saying that she would not refuse the invitation. Lady Cecil, being one of the cleverest women in England, was something of a heroine to her. Both women had been pregnant together and, although that child of Lady's Cecil's had died, she was expecting again, which made her call more frequently on Awdrey. The relationship was not without its benefits to him too. It was immensely valuable to have a family connection through Lady Cecil to Sir William, the queen's Principle Secretary and one of the two most powerful men in the country, the other being Robert Dudley, the queen's favorite.

Awdrey moved her hand over his chest, feeling the hair. “You could go by yourself.”

He was meant to be planning his next visitation. Soon he would have to ride out and record all the genealogies in one of the counties, visiting all the great houses with his pursuivants, clerks, and official companions. The purpose was to check the veracity of all claims to coats of arms and heraldic insignia, and to make sure that those with dubious or nonexistent claims were exposed as false claimants. He had completed a visitation of Suffolk three years earlier and one of Norfolk the previous year. He had finished his notes on the visitation of Devon, and had discussed the gentry of that county at length with his friend and fellow antiquary John Hooker. But he could put off actually going to Devon until June, and so could delay the planning for another week and enjoy the late spring in Kent with his old friend.

“I may well do that,” he replied.

Awdrey touched his face. He felt her hand move over his beard and cheek. Her finger traced his lips, then slipped down over his chest, to his midriff.

“How tired are you?” she asked.

Sunday, April 30

A piece of mud thrown up by the hooves of his partner's horse caught Philip France in the eye, and he took a hand off the reins to wipe it away. It had been raining for the last six miles now—indeed, it was the rain that had alerted them to the messenger. The man had been galloping through a heavy downpour when they had spotted him from where they were sheltering beneath some trees. No one would be out in this unless they had an important and urgent mission. The fading light was not a good enough reason by itself, not with the rain coming down so hard. Moreover, they had seen this man twice before, in the vicinity of Sheffield Manor, taking messages to or from Lady Percy, the dowager countess of Northumberland. And their instructions, as given to them by Francis Walsingham himself, were unambiguous. “Arrest ten innocent men rather than let one conspirator slip by.”

France dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and drew up alongside his friend and companion, George Latham. “What if he doesn't stop in Melton?” he shouted.

“Then we press on,” Latham yelled back, his hat in his hand and his black hair plastered wet across his forehead. “But he'll stop. His mount must be as tired as ours.”

They rode into Melton Mowbray ten minutes later. The man they were following entered an inn: a stone-fronted building called the Mowbray Arms. France and Latham watched him pass beneath the central arch.

“I presume you have our warrant?” asked Latham.

“Aye. But need we arrest him in the inn?”

“Are you worried?”

“No, not unduly,” replied France. “But if there are many people, and they know him…We are a hundred miles from London.”

Latham smiled. “You
are
worried. Like when we slipped out of college.”

France did not rise to the taunt. “What if we are wrong? What if he is riding hard in this weather because his mother is ill or his wife is in labor?”

“We have seen that man twice before, two weeks ago, on both occasions riding hard near Sheffield Manor. It would be something of a surprise if his wife lived so near to Lady Percy.”

France allowed his horse to step forward and then sat there in the rain, watching the gate. “So, we take him in his chamber?”

“Yes, in his chamber.” Latham began to ride forward too. He did not stop.

The inn was a proud structure, with a central arch giving way onto a puddle-streaked courtyard. There were stables on the far side, outbuildings built along each flank. France and Latham dismounted and led their horses through, passing the reins to a stable boy who ran forward to greet them, taking their names and making a polite little bow before taking their mounts away. The door to the hall was on the left, up a couple of steps. As they approached, one of the inn servants came out carrying an empty pitcher, and in the moment that the door was open, they heard the noise of the crowd within.

The hall was between thirty and forty feet long and darker than they expected. A second floor had been inserted, cutting in two the pair of high windows on the courtyard side. There was a candelabrum with half its candles alight above them. France counted how many people he could see—thirty-one. A young lawyer was sitting beside a haughty-looking well-dressed woman, a young boy playing with a kitten at her feet. A tall traveler with a wide hat was plucking a stringed instrument, clearly hoping to catch the woman's attention but she was not giving in to his musical entreaties. Standing at another table was a maid in an apron, offering a plate of food and a flagon of wine to a modest man and woman who were clearly traveling together. Two merchants stood to one side, one nodding gravely as he listened to his companion and ate a piece of cheese. A servant was clearing up some spilled oysters from a table at which four hearty yeomen were dining, striking out with his hand to keep a small dog from gnawing the food. Beside the near-dark window, a student was trying to read a book.

Latham caught France's arm and gestured toward the furthest corner. There in the shadows, sitting at a table, was the man they had been following. He was bearded, about thirty years of age, with a gaunt expression. His sopping wet jerkin hung heavily from his shoulders, and he wore no ruff. He was watching them, a piece of bread in both of his hands, which he had just broken but was not eating.

“I think we have just lost the chance of surprise,” Latham murmured.

France looked around. “It doesn't matter. He's cornered. There are only two doors—and if he leaves by the one on the far side…It must lead back into the courtyard.”

Latham caught the attention of the woman in the apron as she began to return to the kitchen. “My good woman, can you tell me where that far door leads? And are you familiar with the man at the table in the corner?”

“The door leads to the stairs, which go up to the best chambers. They are all taken. But there may be space in one of the second-best chambers, off the gallery. In this weather we have our hands full.”

“And the man?”

She looked in his direction. “Can't say I've ever seen him before. He just came in and demanded something to eat. He said he did not mind what. I gave him a piece of bread and told him I'd send a maid with some pottage when it's done. Will you and your friend be joining him? I am sure there will be pottage enough, and it's both beans and bacon. Three pence a bowl, four with bread.”

Latham put a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. Some pottage would be a fine thing. First, though, about that man over there. He is no friend of ours—nor of yours. We are carrying a warrant from Sir William Cecil, her majesty's Secretary, to arrest him on suspicion of sedition.”

The woman looked blankly at Latham.

“He is a Catholic spy,” France explained.

“There's not going to be any trouble, is there?” the woman asked anxiously. “I mean, there are many guests, some children too.”

“Don't you worry,” replied France. “All we need you to do is to close and secure the main gate until we have apprehended him. When he is locked up in the nearest magistrate's house, we will be back—looking forward to some of that pottage.”

“I really ought to be asking my husband. When he returns, I'll do as you say. We do usually close the gate at this hour, at dusk.”

“Where is your husband?”

“At the mill.”

Latham glanced again at the man. He was eating the bread, still watching them. “Look, my good woman, trust me. Close it now, just for five minutes. We will arrest him quietly and lead him out through the upstairs passage if that would suit you better.”

“George, he's getting up,” said France. “He's leaving by the far door.”

“Go after him. I'll head him off at the gate.”

France stepped forward. The general chatter subsided as he pushed past the seat on which the well-dressed woman was sitting and knocked the lawyer into another man who stumbled backward, falling almost on top of the boy and the kitten. He did not listen to the complaints nor the calls for him to be careful, but kept on toward the doorway. When he reached it, he swung blindly around the jamb—and ran straight on to the poised knife of the man, who was waiting immediately around the corner.

Philip France's first reaction to the blade entering his chest was to look down. He saw the blood pouring out, as water pours from a drain in a storm. His second reaction was to look up at the face of the man who had stabbed him. No words passed between them but enough time elapsed for France to look questioningly at him. The man turned and fled up the stairs. France's last clear thought was that he ought to tell George to look out for himself. He took only one step more, then felt suddenly very weak and slumped in the doorway, barely aware of the shouts of alarm from the guests as his life ebbed away.

George Latham heaved the drawbar of the gate into place and stood ready. He heard the sound of a man running along an upstairs corridor, then he heard the shouts. There were rapid footsteps on a stone staircase and a shadowy figure suddenly emerged from a door nearby.

At that moment, the innkeeper's wife ran out of the hall and shouted, “Your friend has been wounded! He is bleeding.” She saw the killer's dark shape on the other side of the archway, the knife still in his hand. “Look out! He's got a dagger!”

George Latham had only once before wielded a blade in anger. That had been during his time at Oxford, in a drunken brawl with some of the townsmen who had turned vicious. But he knew the rudiments. His lack of experience was the last thing on his mind. He had forgotten his orders from Walsingham. All that mattered now was that the bearded man before him had stabbed his most faithful friend—a companion since his schooldays.

“You want to get out?” he shouted at the shadow. “To leave?”

The man did not move.

“Well, go on then,” snarled Latham, approaching him. “Go on—leave. All you have to do is open the gate and go.”

The man looked across the yard to the stables.

“If you run, you are going to have to run on foot. If you reach your horse in the stable—which will have been unsaddled by now—you will be trapped.”

“Don't go near him. Call for the constable,” cried the woman, as the men who had been inside the hall came out. “Raise the hue and cry.”

At the same time, there was a loud knocking on the gate, and a man from outside demanding: “Who has barred my house against me? Damn your eyes, open up!”

The innkeeper's wife ran across and started to pull back the drawbar. At that moment, sensing that the man might go to the gate, Latham reached for the knife at his own belt, drew it, and rushed forward. The man saw him coming and ran across the yard. Latham sprinted after him. Not far behind came the man he had seen eating cheese, closely followed by the lawyer. None of them had a lantern but all were grimly determined. The traveler with the hat joined them too. And then the boys from the stable appeared, one with a small lantern.

The killer swerved and ran down a dark alleyway between the stable and the perimeter wall of the inn. Latham knew the man was trapped. Inns that depend on the security of their guests' horses and possessions do not have easy access points behind stables. The Mowbray Arms was no exception. A moment later the man found himself in the near-darkness of a dead end, with four shadows blocking the only way out. And then the stable boy with the light joined them.

For a long moment, the man held out the knife in front of him, his hand shaking.

“Drop the knife,” shouted the traveler in the hat. “Drop it now! You will only make your punishment more severe.”

“He is going to hang whatever,” said the lawyer. “The question is whether he repents first.”

Latham stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“Go to hell,” muttered the man. Then he said it again, louder. “Go to hell!”

Latham looked at the man's shape in the dimness and held out his left hand, palm upward for the knife, concealing his own blade. “Give the knife to me. There is nowhere else to run.”

But at that moment the man lifted the knife above his head and, with a loud cry, ran straight toward them. As he came to Latham, he brought the blade down. Latham dropped to a crouch and threw himself at the man's legs, bringing him to the ground. He whirled around with his own knife and stabbed the man's thigh. Then he stabbed him in the groin as the others there also set about the felon with their day-to-day knives. It was hysterical, a frenzy of stabbing—men killing out of fear and revenge. Suddenly it was over. The killing moment was done.

“The beast is dead,” said the lawyer, his voice betraying his excitement and relief. The stable boy with the lantern held it close to the corpse.

Latham looked down at the bloody torso. It had been bad butchery: he could see a rib and pink organs. He felt sick. The man was dead—and these fellows were smiling and congratulating themselves. But what were they doing here? What was he doing here? Who were all these people around him, talking, laughing, and shouting? Only when the innkeeper called for silence and demanded to know the identity of the dead man did Latham catch the one strand of purpose left to him.

“He is a spy,” he gasped. “A Catholic conspirator.” As he spoke he knelt down and felt the side pockets of the bloody jerkin. Finding nothing, he started to undo the jerkin itself. His hands became smeared with the man's warm blood, fumbling inside the gore-soaked linen of his shirt. And then he felt a folded paper. He took it out and slipped it into his own pocket. Standing up, he wiped his brow, leaving the others to drag the body away into the yard.