The Roots of Betrayal (32 page)

Captain Parkinson glared across the table at the lieutenant of Portchester Castle. “You assured me that you would keep a close watch on her. As Sir Henry Radcliffe's representative, you should know better than to break your word or shirk your duties. Where is she now?”

The lieutenant was a man of about forty, his hair flecked with gray. He rose from his seat. “Captain, I have two things to say in reply. First, I am no man's jailer—nor any woman's either. You entrusted this woman to my safekeeping and I gave her work in the hospital. She was there this morning, and as far as I can see, she is still under my protection.”

“You let her go. You let her escape.”

The lieutenant continued, “The second thing I have to say is that, if you wish to speak to her, I suggest you wait until she returns. As Mr. Wheatsheafen has told you, she will not be gone long. He has every confidence she will be back.”

“She has gone to meet the man who killed four of my men at Calshot.”

“Really? You told me that that was the pirate, Raw Carew. This man, Clarenceux, seems to have killed no one.”

“Damn it, the two men were together—Clarenceux and Carew—last night. I stabbed Carew and he threw himself into the sea. Clarenceux was coming here to see the widow. So if she has suddenly disappeared off to meet someone, I have no doubt who it is.”

“Then why do you not simply follow Mr. Wheatsheafen's advice and ride after them? Portsmouth is not far. You are wasting time talking to me. If you really do believe she is going back to London, go after her.”

Parkinson smashed his fist down on the table and shouted his reply. “Because I do not believe that fat surgeon.”

“Captain Parkinson, if you do not believe Mr. Wheatsheafen or anyone else under my authority, that is your problem. You have given me no reason to believe that my men are deceiving you, still less that they are deceiving
me
—and in any case, it is not against the law to tell a lie. Nor to conceal a truth. What is against the law is to accuse my men or Mr. Wheatsheafen of dishonesty. That is defamation of character and is punishable in the church courts—as you would know, if you ever went to church. Now I must ask you to return to your post—at Calshot or Southampton. I have nothing more to say on the matter.”

Parkinson searched for some response. Nothing came to mind.

The lieutenant placed his hands on the table. “While you are here, I will offer you a word of advice. Sir Henry is aware of the way you manage things at Southampton. He has so far withheld from writing to Sir William Cecil on the matter, but your continued willfulness and extortion of the local population will not serve your reputation any favors.”

Parkinson marched from the room without another word.

Widow Baker wrung out Clarenceux's shirt over the tub in which he was bathing as Rebecca washed around the cut in his arm and the stab wound near his shoulder. She carried the wet shirt across to the other side of the room. “I won't put this one near the fire, or it will smell of smoke. I have a trick for drying shirts, my dear. A flat stone. Once the stone is hot, it dries the shirt quite quickly and flattens the creases too.”

Rebecca turned back to Clarenceux and spoke in a quiet voice. “Where will you go? Are there no heraldic gentlemen in these parts you could call on?”

“None that I know personally. I have never undertaken a visitation of Hampshire. I have passed through here a few times over the years, when sailing abroad or traveling to the West Country. But that is all. Besides, I have to go back to London. To see Cecil.”

He flinched as she washed the cut on his forehead. “I'm sorry,” she said, dabbing at the blood.

“No matter,” he replied. “First, I am going to Southampton. I have to pass on the news about Raw Carew to the women he left behind there, in the Two Swans.”

“Did you say you are going to Southampton?” asked Widow Baker, returning across the room. “You should catch the carter, Roger. He's my son-in-law. He'll take you.”

“There's your carriage,” said Rebecca. “Who are these women at the Two Swans?”

“Prostitutes.”

“Really? That is not like you.”

Clarenceux went a little red. “They are sisters called Amy and Ursula and a woman called Alice. All were friends of Raw Carew's. I promised I would pass on his farewell message to them. Alice he had known for years. Amy was his sweetheart. Although so was Ursula, I gather. His personal life seems to have been a little confused. They both held him in a special regard.”

“Lucky man.”

Clarenceux thought about this. He was at first inclined to agree; but then he thought of the long days and nights at sea, the poor food, the fear, the alienation, and the not being accepted anywhere. Then he thought of the man limping off into the sea, still bleeding from his guts. “No. Everything he had, he had to fight for. And the women weren't his, as such, like wives. In fact, he had to share them with any man who paid—and many men did. Including John Prouze, the man who took you to Calshot.”

“Ah—
that
Amy. Now I remember. The men at the fort mentioned her. They suggested I be taken to the Two Swans ‘for safekeeping, like Amy.' Is she pretty?”

“Yes. But probably not for long. Her sister Ursula has a large scar across her face. Sooner or later it will happen to Amy too.”

“Sooner or later it happens to all of us. It doesn't always show though.”

Clarenceux looked at her. “You are not the only one who feels it, you know. I carry scars too—some because of you, some because of what you have suffered, and some because of what my wife has suffered on account of me.”

“Scars that can be concealed are easily overlooked.”

Clarenceux stayed only an hour and a half longer at Widow Baker's house. While he was still in the bath, Rebecca shaved off his beard to make him less noticeable in the streets. Afterward he waited in a towel while both women worked on drying his clothes with hot stones. While he dressed, Widow Baker heated some pottage that she had cooked the previous evening, adding a small portion of mutton that she had put by for her Sunday dinner, and shared it with them. Then she led Clarenceux and Rebecca through the back paths to the carter's house, avoiding the lanes as far as possible. The carter agreed to take Clarenceux into town and lent him a hat and cloak for the journey. In the yard, standing beside the cart, Clarenceux gave his thanks to the old lady and then turned to Rebecca.

“I don't know how to say good-bye to you,” he said.

“You don't have to. Maybe when people part for the last time it is better that they do not say anything.”

“Especially if they love each other.”

“Yes, especially,” she said. A tear ran down the side of her face.

“My dear, you shouldn't be letting him go, if he feels so tenderly about you,” the Widow Baker said kindly. “It's a marked rare thing in a man. And he doesn't look so bad when he's cleaned up.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Margaret,” said Clarenceux, wiping away his own tears. “Look after her. I find it very hard to leave her. She once told me it was best for both of us if we never met again. And now I know it, in my mind.” He stepped forward, put his arms around Rebecca, and kissed her on the lips. “Not good-bye but thank you,” he said as their lips parted.

“Be brave, be careful,” she replied in a whisper.

He climbed onto the cart and turned, waving once. He could not smile; it hurt too much. Instead he faced forward, along the lane. He did not look back again. He wanted to preserve the thought that he could turn around and look at her just once more for as long as he could, even after the cart had passed out of sight of the village.

Clarenceux was in a melancholy state when he arrived in Southampton. He walked through the alleys to the Two Swans trying not to think of Rebecca. He tried to think of Carew instead, and of what he was going to say to Sir William Cecil, but his thoughts inevitably swung back to her. There was a pain in his chest at the thought that he would never see her again.

When he walked into the Two Swans there was the familiar smell of old wine and woodsmoke in the air. Four men were discussing their business at one table, two merchants were sitting at another. Clarenceux recognized no one except Marie Gervys, serving a plate of cold beef and bread to the merchants. At first she didn't recognize him but looked at his clothes, realizing they had belonged to her husband.

“It's William Harley, the Clarenceux herald.”

“Ah.” Marie gestured to his face. “The beard.”

“Yes, I cut it off. Tell me, is either Amy or Ursula here? I have news for them.”

Marie beckoned Clarenceux closer. “Amy has gone with a man who owns a skiff she borrowed. Really she is looking for Carew, though. Ursula has paying company.”

For a moment the incongruity of Ursula's position hit Clarenceux. No doubt she had to be all smiles and soft and loving, despite the fear of what might have happened at Calshot. “Where is Alice?”

“In the hall at the back. Go through the door over there,” she said, pointing.

Clarenceux thanked her and went over to the door.

Alice was kneeling beside a large tub of hot water, singing a tune as she washed sheets. Steam rose into the air. She hauled out a length of material and started rubbing it on the scrubbing board. Clarenceux could smell the potash of the soap. He watched her for a few moments, her upper arms wobbling as she scrubbed, her ample breasts bouncing with the movement of her body. There was a child near her, Amy's son, dressed in a linen smock, playing in the dirt of the floor with a stick.

Clarenceux coughed. Alice turned around.

“Oh, it's you, Mr. Clarenceux,” she said amiably. Then she stopped and let the sheet slip into the water. “Where is he?”

Clarenceux walked closer and crouched down beside her. “I have to say, it does not look good. He asked me to say good-bye to you, and to Ursula and Amy.”

“What happened?” She remained kneeling, her hands now on the edge of the tub.

“He came to my rescue at Calshot. He freed me from the room where I was held and then helped me escape. But he was badly wounded. He is probably still out at sea, or at best lying wounded on a beach somewhere.”

Clarenceux stood up and walked across the hall to where there were two small benches side by side. The child laughed, playing with his stick, smiling up at Alice. Clarenceux picked both benches up and carried them back to the tub. He placed one down for Alice and sat on the other himself. He began to tell her everything, from the moment that Carew had set him down on the beach away from the jetty. He told her about his meeting with Parkinson and about being imprisoned. He talked about listening to Carew as, one by one, he picked off the soldiers, and about their desperate bid for freedom.

“So,” said Alice grimly. “The Robin Hood of the High Seas is floating out there on the waves somewhere. Possibly forever more.”

The child threw his stick out of reach and started crawling toward it.

“I presume that's Amy's son? Is he better now?”

“He's Amy's. Raw's too—or so Amy says. That's why he's called Ralph.”

“Raw's? But…he never said anything about a son.”

Alice shrugged. “If Raw had acknowledged all the children he'd fathered, he'd soon forget which ones he'd acknowledged and which weren't his. As he saw it, he'd never really know if this boy was his or not, unless he grew up to look like him. He loved all children dearly—he went out of his way to help a girl we found aboard the
Davy
—but he would never take responsibility for one of his own. He thought looking after children was a woman's job. He thought quite a lot of things were women's work. It's what comes of him being brought up in a whorehouse.”

Clarenceux felt guilty, having left Carew out at sea, not having gone to search for him—having practically abandoned him.

Alice sighed. “I feel very sad. When all is said and done, he was my oldest friend and the man who did more to help me than any other man I ever met in my life. He gave me shelter, he gave me purpose and friends, he gave me money, and he protected me. I know he killed people, stole, blackmailed, murdered, seduced—I know all that. But he loved, cherished, protected, helped, and gave hope too. When we sailed with him, we knew who we were and that we were in the hands of a good commander. I am going to miss him terribly.”

“I am sorry,” said Clarenceux. “But he did think of the three of you when he knew he was facing death. And who knows? He may still be alive, on a beach somewhere, recovering his strength. Maybe in a few days he will walk through the door of this inn.”

Alice dried her hands on a towel at her side and stood up, steadying her large frame on the edge of the tub. “You don't believe that, Mr. Clarenceux, and you saw him last. Your coming here has been a brave thing. If I thought for one moment you had betrayed him, I would have torn you to pieces with my bare hands. But you would not have come here to tell me of his loss unless you felt that you had to. I know it is your conscience that moves you.”

Clarenceux leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands together. “In that case, if you trust me, I need your help. Raw made me promise something else too. To help the other prisoners—Skinner, Francis, Stars, and the other men that Sir Peter Carew is taking to London. Sir Peter sailed three days ago; maybe they are already there. Maybe Sir Peter is sailing up the Thames with one man hanging dead from each of the yards of his ship—I don't know. But yesterday, as we sailed to Calshot, Carew said the wind would be holding him up. If I can borrow a horse strong and swift enough, I could get to see Sir William Cecil and ask him to pardon the men.”

“Why would Sir William Cecil agree to pardon our friends—even though they be your friends and you a gentleman? He thinks they are pirates.”

“Because I will go to him and tell him that I know what he has done. I will tell him what he is guilty of. I will show him that his immortal soul is in danger.”

Alice looked down at him. Putting two fingers under his chin she lifted his face, making him rise to his feet. “You are going to have to do better than that. Sir William Cecil is a man of power. You understand power, don't you? It is a sort of religion. It demands total obedience. It requires men to make the ultimate sacrifice. It makes a man think differently about his soul—and gives him the authority to kill. I doubt Sir William Cecil will take kindly to your request.”

“But we have to do something!” Clarenceux exclaimed.

“Indeed, we do. I will find you a horse, and you will set off as soon as you can. But damn it, Clarenceux, when you go to see Cecil, make sure you have something stronger on him than telling him to his face what he has done. He already knows that—and if he feels guilty about it, the easiest way to stop you reminding him is to add one more name to the list of those to be hanged.”

“You will find me a horse?”

“You are talking to Alice Prudhomme,” she said, pinching his jowl between her thumb and forefinger. “And I can make anything happen. If I wanted you to do something, believe me, sooner or later you would do it.”

Clarenceux tried to smile.

She looked at him and suddenly laughed. “You don't like subtlety, do you, Mr. Clarenceux? You're afraid of it. Think it smacks too much of deceit. Take some advice from a woman, if you can. When you go to see Cecil, be subtle. Not deceitful—
subtle
.”

Clarenceux nodded. “If Carew comes back here, I want to know. If he does, will you send me word?”

“You know that he does not write any more than I do. It was his mother's greatest wish that he should learn, and also of the women who looked after him after she died, but, you know…”

“You knew him back then, didn't you?”

“What—in Calais? Of course. I've known him all my life. I worked in the same whorehouse. Too fat to do the fucking, they said; I got to do the laundry.”

“Why was he so keen to destroy Denisot? I mean, he told me it was because Denisot betrayed Calais, but there was more to his hatred than that. He also said it was because of religion—but Carew did not really care about anyone's religion.”

Alice heard Ralph splashing his stick in her tub of soapy water. A moment later she saw him trying to tip himself forward into the tub. She went and picked him up, kissed him, and set him down further away from the water. She then came back to Clarenceux.

“He hated religion, hated it because of what happened in Calais. Denisot was a fervent believer in the old religion, a Catholic among Catholics. No doubt that was why Mary appointed him to survey the walls and defenses of the town. He did so, in great detail. But while he was making his survey, something happened. It was in the whorehouse—not that I saw it. I was washing sheets at the time. Denisot had an argument with a Huguenot gentleman customer who denied the primacy of the pope and a number of other things that provoked Denisot. There was a fight. The women, who knew and liked the Protestant gentleman, threw Denisot out in a state of partial undress. He left angrily, accusing them of favoring Protestants. A few days later he had handed a copy of his survey of the town to the duke of Guise, by which the duke learned all the weak points of the town. The town fell easily as a result. What should have been a measure to preserve Calais ended up with the town falling to the French. The young men had to leave—and so did most of the women. Raw and I lost all our friends, our protectors, and our home. Raw also lost all the women who had looked after him after his mother had died and who had tried to help him with his lessons. Denisot led the French troops to the whorehouse and told them to set it alight. The house was old and made of wood. The walls were covered with painted cloths and every bench and bed had cushions on it. The place went up so fast it almost exploded. Only two women escaped. Raw returned to see it on fire. In his dreams, he said, he still heard their screams; they were like the waves of a sea on which his life floated. And when he felt like crying he did not shed tears but the blood of his enemies.”

“I remember him saying that about tears.” Clarenceux turned to the boy, once more splashing his stick in the water. “I see now. I could not have turned the other cheek either, even though Christ would have wanted me to.”

“We are all human, Mr. Clarenceux. Whatever the Bible says about forgiveness.”

Clarenceux put his arm around her shoulder: “Find me a horse, Alice Prudhomme—the fastest one you can.”