The Roots of Betrayal (27 page)

“In London,” he said. “He works for Sir William.”

Immediately he said the name, Clarenceux regretted it. He watched Parkinson take another draught of wine, set the flagon back on the floor, and walk toward the sea-facing cannon.

“You were going to barter information concerning one of Sir William's men in order to find Widow Machyn?”

“What makes you think I was going to tell Carew?”

Parkinson turned and studied him. “You aren't the double-crossing type. Also, Carew would cut you to ribbons rather than let you make a fool of him. Were you with him in the skirmish with Sir Peter Carew?”

Clarenceux said nothing.

“And Sir Peter let you go?”

“He interrogated me and found that I was on board Carew's ship unwillingly.”

Parkinson bent down and picked up the wine jug. He took a step nearer Clarenceux, who held up a hand as if to say he was not in need of more wine. But then Clarenceux saw the momentum of his arm as Parkinson swung the earthenware jug as hard as he could against his head. It smashed against his temple, sending him sprawling on the floor, reeling, spattered in wine. “Don't you lie! Don't you dare lie!” shouted Parkinson. “You told me you had made a deal with Carew—so don't tell me that you were on board that ship unwillingly. And if you misled Sir Peter in that way to save your skin, you deserve worse than whatever fate Sir William has in mind for you.”

Clarenceux tried to get up. He was dizzy, unable even to support his weight on his arms. He fell back to the stone, gasping. The smell of the wine and the dizziness together made his stomach lurch and heave. He vomited where he lay on the stone.

Parkinson curled his lip in disgust and stepped over him. As he left the room he said to Serres, “Take this deceiving, lying, vomiting rat down to the magazine. Clear up the floor when you have done it. And bring me some paper—I am going to write to Sir William.”

It was dusk. On the roof of the tower Paul Coad felt the rain begin to fall. He raised his cloak above his head to ward off the worst of it, but a moment later it began to pelt down. He ducked into the doorway and descended the stairs. The smell of vomit rose to greet him—still lingering even though it had been mopped up several hours ago. He cursed. It should have been John Prouze's turn to be on the roof this evening, not his. Prouze had been sent off by the captain with an urgent message for Sir William Cecil, telling him that Clarenceux had arrived and was now locked in the magazine.

Coad listened to the rain and heard its force weakening. Not wanting to be shouted at by the captain, he made his way back up the stairs to shelter just inside the doorway.

A mile away to the west, Raw Carew dragged the sloop out of the water, putting the weight on his good leg. He took the rope and grappling iron he had brought with him and sat down with a tablecloth he had taken from the inn. He glanced toward the fort in the fading light and cursed as he saw the rain come down. Sheltering beneath a tree, he started to bind the cloth around the grappling iron, ripping off thin strips and tying them on tightly. As he worked, he kept a regular check on the battlements; the guard was no longer to be seen. That was good news for him approaching the fort but bad news for when he was inside. According to Amy, there were seven gunners stationed there, plus the captain. He had seen one man leave; unless there were any occasional visitors, seven were left, including Parkinson. The grappling iron was ready. He tossed it onto a rock a few times; it did not clang. He slung the rope over his shoulder and started to limp through the wood.

Ten minutes later he was sitting in the undergrowth at the edge of the spit, his wounded leg stretched out. He was watching the clouds to the west. From long experience he knew the light from the west would reflect off the water, even though there was no sunset. The waves would be silvered with the brightness of the sky. To someone at the fort, the spit itself would appear like a dark shadow between the two surfaces of light. He waited for another cloud to pass, so more light would reflect off the water. Crouching down on the lower inland side, so his silhouette would not show against the sea, he began to crawl the long distance toward the solid hulk of the fort, moving on his arms and knees, using his weak leg as best he could.

Captain Parkinson was in the guard room on the first floor with most of his men. Some were seated like the captain; others were sitting on the floor. There were bowls around them. They were playing cards by the light of a tallow candle. All the shutters were closed except one.

William Knight flung down the Queen of Clubs. A small cheer went up from the others. His amiable red-bearded face broke into a broad grin.

“You've been hiding that up your sleeve,” declared Lewis Fletcher, a pale, thin young man. He threw down his cards and dropped two pennies into the pot in the middle of the floor.

“Should have played dice,” declared Bill Turner, doing likewise. He was the oldest member of the garrison, in his fifties and gray haired.

“No, not dice,” said Parkinson, tossing down his cards. “Cards at least have some skill, even if it is little more than memorizing a few numbers. Dice is nothing but luck.”

“But luck is the will of the Lord,” said Christopher Serres.

“And so is the luck of the cards,” replied Knight, lifting up his cards for Serres to see.

“For that, you can take all these bowls to Widow Reid's,” said Parkinson.

“Tomorrow,” pleaded Knight, passing his cards to Serres.

“Now,” insisted Parkinson. “On your way back up, bring some more wine. And tell Kimpton he should bar the gatehouse when you come back through.”

In the darkness of the magazine Clarenceux heard Serres and Knight go down the stairs. He heard one of them drop a bowl and curse and place the rest of his load on the floor. He listened to the conversation as they left the tower and went out across the yard, and noted the phrases “Paul on the roof” and “Widow Reid the washerwoman” and “Captain says bar the gate when we're back.” As they passed out of hearing he caught the end of a sentence: “he sent John in the rain with a letter for Cecil.”

Clarenceux sank down against the wall of his cell. He was disappointed with himself. Carew had been right; he had not thought deeply enough about Parkinson. No one knew where he was and the message to Cecil had already been dispatched. The stench of sulfurous gunpowder in the magazine was nauseating. The taste in his mouth was worse. He was hungry, not having eaten since that morning. And the only person who knew his whereabouts was Carew—a man who had recently turned his back on several men who had risked their lives for him. Perhaps worst of all, he now knew that Cecil was the architect behind all this—that Cecil was the one who had arranged for Rebecca's escape from London by ship. Cecil had been playing games with him all along.

What
now, William? What now?
At least he could be sure they would not bother him tonight. It must be dark by now and they could not enter here with a burning light for fear of sparks or dropping the candle. That meant he had the night to think.

He understood now why Rebecca had been so anxious that last time he had seen her. She had already had discussions with Mrs. Barker and the Knights and they had persuaded her to steal the document for them. They had planned her journey away from London. Only someone else had got to her first: Cecil himself. Using Denisot to contact the captain of the
Davy
and Parkinson to arrange Rebecca's reception in Southampton, he had effected a smooth escape for her. All Cecil had to do was to arrange for someone to collect the document from her, wherever she might be. It was a brilliant coup. It meant Cecil got the document and left the Knights and Mrs. Barker thinking Rebecca had betrayed them. And it left him, Clarenceux, thinking the same thing.

Yes, thought Clarenceux, Cecil had almost pulled it off. But he could not afford to risk the herald telling anyone else what had happened. That messenger who had gone off to Cecil—he would certainly return with a death warrant. It would be an unwritten one. They were the most deadly kind.

Carew pressed his face to the shingle, tasting the saltwater as the waves lapped around his face.

He was hiding behind an upturned rowing boat. His left leg and sword were in the waves and his right one was stinging as if the Devil's claws were fastened in it, but he dared not move. It was not quite dark enough. Two men were talking to a woman in front of the cottage only twenty feet ahead of him. If he stood up now, they would probably hear him on the noisy shingle. They would certainly see him.

He listened intently. He heard the waves beside his ear and the rain falling around him. The men at the door to the cottage spoke about a butcher in Southampton and the amount of gristle that one of them had had in a meal. He heard that a man called Paul was on the roof in John's place because John was “taking an urgent message to the queen's Secretary.” That told him enough. Clarenceux had been detained but Parkinson was not bold enough simply to kill him without authority. The herald was a lucky man.

A little later, he heard the woman close the door to the cottage and watched the men return to the fort. He was alone in the near-darkness, with only the waves and the rain for company. Just as he wanted.

Creeping forward to the drawbridge, he knelt at the foot and tested the strength of the ropes that connected it to the beams above. An instant later he was climbing one of them. Swinging his wounded leg over the edge of the beam, he bit his lip to control the pain in his thigh. But he was up. He shifted along to the gatehouse wall and took the rope from his shoulder. Looking up, he carefully swung the muffled grappling iron; it landed beyond the crenellations on top of the gatehouse. Even if the man on the tower roof had heard that dampened noise he would be unlikely to see anything. Nevertheless Carew waited, listening. After a minute he climbed; twenty seconds later he was on the roof of the gatehouse, crouched down inside the darkened battlements.

He took the rope and coiled it again, deciding his next move. He had thought initially that he would use the grappling iron to get on to the roof of the tower, but even a muffled grappling iron would be bound to alert the guard. Swinging hard across the gully would mean a loud landing against the tower wall and a hasty climb, with the certainty of an unfriendly greeting at the top. A better plan was required.

He climbed over the battlements of the gatehouse and, holding on to the parapet, lowered himself down as far as he could. He let himself drop the last two feet onto the top of the perimeter wall, then moved to a point directly above one of the embrasures, through which the cannon fired, and climbed down onto one of the cannon, which he could just make out in the darkness. From there he slipped soundlessly onto the courtyard flagstones. Flat against the wall, he moved in a clockwise direction, crossing the gatehouse passage, until he was facing the door to the tower. He moved closer, listened, heard nothing, and tried the door. The two men he had seen earlier had left it unlocked.

Inside it was completely dark. But he had been here before, when he had had his last run-in with Captain Parkinson, and knew that there were a few steps and then the passage turned forty-five degrees to the left. The door to the magazine was on the right, and that was where Parkinson would have put Clarenceux. It was where he himself had spent three tedious nights a few years ago. There were no other places in the small fort where a prisoner could be secured.

Carew looked up the stairs. No light, not even the flicker of a candle. The gunners must have closed the door to the guard room at the top of the stairs.

Inside, Clarenceux had found a sack and had emptied it of its contents to have something softer than the stone to sit on, but even when he had doubled it over, the hemp gave him little comfort. He shifted again, thinking of Awdrey at Summerhill, talking to Julius. If truth be known, they were probably boring each other. She did not share Julius's antiquarian interests and he had scant concern for anything that was not connected with the chivalric past, theology, or the management and improvement of farming land. He imagined her tucking their daughters into bed by the light of a candle and sighing with relief that Julius would have gone off to his study with a pint of sack and a pile of papers. She would be worrying about where he was, never thinking of this darkness, this smell of sulfur, or the corruption in the government that she so trusted. She would not have believed the duplicity of Sir William Cecil, nor the double standards of his wife Mildred.
Lady
Cecil's offer of an ambassadorial post must have been part of Sir William's plot to get us out of London. Lady Cecil must have known
.

Suddenly he heard a soft knocking in the darkness: three short taps on a piece of wood.
Was
that
a
rat? Or a noise from upstairs?
“Who's there?” he said quietly, testing the silence.

Three more quiet knocks. That was all.

Clarenceux's heart leaped. “Carew?”

One knock.

Clarenceux scrambled to his feet and felt his way to the steps that led up to the door. He pressed his mouth to the jamb. “Can you get me out?”

There was a pause. He heard the sound of Carew kneeling down beside the door. Then a whisper: “There is no key, but I will do my best.”

Clarenceux was so surprised that he hardly cared that the man had no means of freeing him. Someone knew where he was. He sat on the steps and said a prayer for Carew. Even though the man was a godless creature, he had shown faith—in him, Clarenceux.

“What is your plan?” he whispered again. But there was no answer. Time started to flow slowly through the darkness, as if it had been frozen and was now melting.

The six men in the guard room played cards, argued, and drank late into the night. Only once were they alerted to something unusual; two of them noticed a distant clatter of metal on stone. William Knight went over to the window nearest the noise, opened the wooden shutter, and examined the embrasure; there was nothing to see. The guttering candlelight only showed the blank space and the flagstones of the embrasure—a wide space in the thick wall designed to allow the cannon the widest possible range and elevation. Had he crawled into the embrasure itself and looked up, he would have seen the cause of the disturbance, for Carew was hanging by his hands from the edge of the second-floor embrasure, pulling himself up. But Knight did no such thing. He closed the shutters and rejoined the card game.

“Lock the door to the tower,” said Parkinson, who was more alert to the possible dangers than the rest of his men.

Carew pulled himself up slowly into the darkness of the embrasure on the second floor. He found the edges of the shutters and tried to open them. There was a fastening in place, stopping them from banging in a high wind. Pulling out a knife, he ran it up the central crack between them and lifted the catch. Hearing nothing but the wind and the waves, and laughter from the men on the floor below, he opened the shutters and crept in. He closed them behind him and made his way across the chamber toward the stairs, where the single flame of a wall-mounted candle was burning.

Paul Coad was huddled in the most sheltered corner of the roof, as Carew knew he would be. Over the wind Coad heard a voice call him from the direction of the door. “Paul? Captain says you've done your shift. You can go in. William will take over.”

Coad did not recognize the voice. Nor could he see anyone in the darkness. The clouds concealed the half-moon that had risen earlier. Nevertheless the message was welcome and he rose to his feet and made his way to the dark silhouette of the door. He reached out with his left hand and turned inside. Carew was waiting with a knife. Coad opened his mouth but never spoke. A hand clamped over his face and the blade slipped through the skin and muscle of his neck. He struggled and kicked for barely a second before all the life force drained out of him with a spurt of blood that splattered against the wall of the staircase. Then he slumped, a dead weight in Carew's arms.

Carew hauled the corpse back onto the roof and dragged it across to the point where Coad had been sitting earlier, in the concealed lee of the battlements. With the body stowed in the darkness, he fastened the grappling iron over the battlements and let himself down the outside of the wall to the first floor. He tucked himself into one of the embrasures, to wait and listen to the conversations within.

Half an hour passed. He cursed the cold of the wind but knew it was his safety. None of the men within would open the shutter and allow a gale to blow through the warm room. He heard bets placed and coins dropped into the pot. He heard one man accuse another of cheating and the shouts of Captain Parkinson bringing them to order. He heard John Prouze's name and the comment that he had probably got no further on his journey than the Two Swans, where he had a sweetheart. “He had better be halfway to London by now,” said Parkinson in a serious voice. “No time for common women.”

“You should have let him have a go at that one he brought here,” replied Lewis Fletcher. “If you had, he wouldn't be so desperate for Amy.”

“Where is she now, that dark-haired one with a mole?” asked William Knight. “She was good.”

“She was good because she was scared,” added Serres. “When they're scared they really want to please you—they'll do anything.”

“She was supposed to be protected, not molested,” Parkinson snapped. “She was sent here by Sir William Cecil. If I had been here it would not have happened. And I seem to recall saying that the condition for forgiving the incident was forgetting it—and that means not mentioning it.”

“Where did you send her?” asked Turner.

“Somewhere she is safe from you,” replied Parkinson, “so you will be safe from Cecil.”

“I bet she's at Southampton Castle,” said Serres, looking at Parkinson. “I bet you sent her to your own chamber.”

“No, she's not at Southampton,” answered Turner. “She's at Netley.”

The drunk men laughed. But then Knight added, “No. Kimpton took her to Portchester where she's a nurse—servicing mutilated soldiers.”

The four gunners burst out laughing.

“No, in truth, she is,” said Knight, himself laughing.

Parkinson was not drunk. Carew heard the laughter stop. Suddenly there was a great clatter of objects as he kicked the cups and mazers aside and struck out at those nearest to him. “You laugh!” he shouted. “You laugh at the orders you fail to follow. You drink and laugh at your own stupidity. I know it is tedious here and I turn a blind eye to your indiscretions, but you shame me. You have no loyalty. You have no values. You are weak, all of you!”

There was a long pause. Carew imagined Parkinson glaring at the men and he smiled to himself. “Knight, you fetch Kimpton. Serres, you summon Coad. I want to speak to all of you.”

“Sir, have a mercy, it's late,” ventured Fletcher.

“I swear, by these hands, that if you so much as utter another syllable before morning, I will strangle you and dump your body in the Channel.”

Carew crept away from the shutter, back to the rope. Suddenly this was not going the way he had hoped. His plan had been to wait until the men were asleep and then challenge Parkinson, alone. Now there were just seconds to spare before the body on the roof would be discovered. There was no time now to think or plan.

He grabbed the rope and swung out, pulling himself up as fast as he could, despite his wounded leg. He was too late. As he hauled himself over the parapet between the crenellations he heard Serres call for Coad and saw the black figure of the man beside the doorway. “Who's there?” Serres shouted. “Paul? Paul! Damn it—speak, man.” As Carew drew near, with a dagger drawn, Serres sensed him and backed away. Carew went after him, limping. Serres started running. Carew lunged and caught his sleeve near the staircase. He raised his knife, meaning to cut his throat but Serres threw himself sideways, into the stairway. He missed his footing and fell with a shout. He tumbled halfway down to the point outside the room on the second floor, where there was an angle of the staircase.

One moment Carew was looking at Serres's prostrate body halfway down the stairs, in the light of the wall-mounted candle. The next he saw Captain Parkinson, sword in hand, come up the stairs and step over the injured man. Parkinson glanced up—and they looked into each other's eyes. There was one moment of recognition in the small golden light, one moment of them both understanding the depth of their mutual hatred. Then, like a huge bull preparing to charge at a small man, Parkinson started to climb toward Carew.

Carew drew his own sword and waited.

It was a mistake. As Parkinson came closer, his body blocked out the light. All Carew could see was a silhouette against the candlelight. When Parkinson made his first lunge, for Carew's stomach, the latter only managed to deflect the blow by watching his attacker's shoulders; he could not see the blade. He tried to dislodge Parkinson's sword with a flick of his own, desperate to end the fight before the other man realized his advantage. But Parkinson gripped his weapon too firmly. Carew's sword darted up, to cut the captain around the face or neck; Parkinson saw the move, parried the attack, and started thrusting at Carew's legs and body, all the time drawing closer, a rising shadow. Carew had to step back. He drew his dagger with his left hand and held it ready, more out of desperation than a feeling of opportunity. Again he had to parry a thrust as Parkinson's sword swept up to his throat.

Serres began to cry out from where he lay on the staircase. “Christ Holy, Lord God, I cannot move my legs, sweet mother of God, I cannot move my legs!” Over and over again he called out. Parkinson came up another step, ignoring the man's cries.

Carew felt his mouth dry. The staircase was too narrow—there was no room to move. Nor could he see the man's eyes—he could not read Parkinson's face or predict his thrusts. It was like fighting smoke. He parried another thrust and tried to come forward again, jabbing at the left side of Parkinson's face with his sword. He almost reached Parkinson's neck but Parkinson reacted in time, smashing Carew's blade against the wall. Immediately Carew drew it back across his line of vision and jabbed the other side. Parkinson dodged the cut, tried to grab Carew's sword hand with his left hand, and lunged with his own blade at Carew's abdomen. Carew did not see the thrust coming. He felt Parkinson's blade pierce his skin, sinking deep into the flesh above his left hip. When it was suddenly withdrawn it felt as though his guts were slithering out through a hole of pain.

Carew's face creased but he dared not look down at the wound. He fended off another downward slashing cut, and another, as Parkinson tried to finish him there. Suddenly, with a chilling clarity, he realized he might very well die here on these stairs. It was not the pain so much as the new feeling; the thought of his entrails slipping, his nerves sparklingly cold. How disappointing it would be, to die here! How mundane. All his life he had believed he was indestructible. Now, through a simple mistake, everything was undone. Everything he had ever learned was going to be unlearnt, unknowable, unknown.

Gasping, he looked at Parkinson. The captain took another step up and paused for a moment, looking at him. Carew sensed the man was smiling.

The pain, the thought of dying in Calshot Fort and his adversary's smile were all too much for Carew. Fury seized his mind, hatred took hold of his body, and his spirit lifted him. Suddenly everything was so simple. He only had one enemy—one enemy in the whole world. The rest of his life could be spent killing him. He took a step down toward the captain and whisked the tip of his sword across his gaze, drawing it back and just touching the man on the head for an instant before withdrawing it to parry the man's next thrust. All the things he had hoped for and fought for—they were all gone now. All there was, was this dark staircase and this murderous black shape.

Taking another step forward, he remembered the war cry that Clarenceux had told him was what his ancestors used to shriek in Ireland. It was his birthright, no matter that he was a bastard. If ever there was a time to use it, it was now. “
A
Carew! A Carew!
” he yelled, his face twisted with anger and the desire to kill. He advanced three more steps. Parkinson lifted his sword and hacked at him hard, once, twice—but the third time he saw Carew's blade suddenly coming straight into his face. He stepped back and prepared to lunge at the oncoming pirate, but he was not prepared for the ferocity of the attack.

Carew cut furiously, bellowing “
A
Carew! A Carew!
” over and over again. He could see better now—he could see the shape of his enemy's face. And he cut harder and faster.

Serres screamed again on the stairs. Men started shouting on the floor below. Parkinson shouted back. “Damn you! Knight, Fletcher, Turner! Come—
now!
” He redoubled his efforts and put his foot on the step above, stabbing at Carew's bleeding thigh, but Carew twisted his sword before his eyes and unexpectedly cut sideways, catching the captain above his left eye, then cut down, slicing open two inches of the man's left cheek. Blood flowed straight into Parkinson's eye and down the side of his face, forcing him to retreat several steps while he wiped it away. He felt the wide cut of the wound. Down came Carew's sword again, forcing him to lift his sword and look through the red cloud of blood. “Knight, Fletcher—fetch weapons!” he roared again. “Come up here and fight!” He wiped his eye and tried to come forward, the side of his cheek hanging loose. “Curse your soul, Carew. This is where this ends.”

The blades clanged together as Carew's steel met Parkinson's. A second time he met Parkinson's cut, and a third. Then he made an attack of his own, catching Parkinson's shoulder and slicing his tunic open, cutting his skin. With blood in his eyes, the captain had to give up yet another step and stumbled on the hysterical Serres, who cried out again. Surprised to find flesh beneath his feet, he retreated two more steps.

At that moment, a movement behind Carew caught Parkinson's attention. Carew saw the captain shift his gaze. The guards had not come to Parkinson's aid because they had found Carew's rope.

Carew did not turn around. Seizing the one opportunity open to him, he swung his sword into the candle on the wall, extinguishing it while he dived into the dark of the second-floor room. He then stretched out with his hand and made his way to the right as men shouted in the darkness and Serres yelled and Parkinson tried to give orders. Serres suddenly fell silent, his wind pipe cut.

Carew touched a wooden partition and tried to crouch behind it. The wound in his abdomen was painful; his clothes were already stiffening with the blood caked on them. He felt his way toward the embrasure nearest to where his rope was hanging and stumbled. For an instant there was a flicker of golden light in the doorway.

“Give me that torch,” shouted Parkinson. “Go and fetch the others, and more lights. Kimpton, you follow me.”

Carew sheathed his sword, put his dagger between his teeth, and pushed himself toward the shutters. He felt the catch, pulled them open, and climbed out into the embrasure.

When Parkinson entered the second floor with the flaming torch held aloft, he looked around the central area, and then within each partitioned chamber. The shutters to the embrasures where the two cannon were positioned were open as usual, but so was a third set of shutters. He went to them and looked out. There was no one there. Curious, he placed the torch on the stonework and climbed through the opening. Being considerably larger than Carew, it took him longer. Once out, he took the torch and held it out beyond the wall. He looked down but could see nothing—the torchlight did not extend so far. He looked both ways around the wall; there was only a limp rope. If Carew had left the second floor, he had made his escape very quickly.