The Roots of Betrayal (4 page)

Clarenceux closed the heavy volume of the Skinners' Company accounts. He had been checking them in his capacity as one of the Wardens but had not been able to concentrate. His mind had been elsewhere. Seven or eight times he had realized his additions had not tallied with the written entry, and almost every time a second check had revealed that he was at fault, the written entry was correct. Only one correction was marked—one correction to show for an hour sitting in blurred contemplation.

He got up and set the account book back in its place on a shelf and left the chamber. He waved good-bye to the porter and stepped out into the mild air of the street. It was a short walk to the Machyn house in Little Trinity Lane. Every so often a quarrel of glass in an upstairs window would catch the sun and reflect a brilliant ray of light into his eyes. The mud had dried and was firm to walk on—except at intervals where a cellar or drain had leaked and the ground was still wet, churned by cartwheels and hooves. He breathed deeply of the summer air, tinged with the familiar and not dislikable aroma of the clay, mud, and horse dung of the streets, and a slight whiff of seawater. It was a good day to be out of doors. It would be even better if he were already riding down to Chislehurst, to see his friend Julius.

Perhaps Rebecca would accompany him?

Immediately he put the thought out of his mind. Although she had gone to Summerhill with him last December, that had been when they were fleeing for their lives. The moral code that permitted them to be together then now stipulated that he, a married man, should keep a respectful distance from Widow Machyn. There was no doubt what people would say if he were to be seen riding out of the city with her. He had witnessed too many otherwise respectable people clothed in white at the church door repenting of their sins to have any doubt in the matter.

Outside Rebecca Machyn's home, he paused and looked up at Mrs. Barker's elegant house on the other side of Little Trinity Lane, with its high glazed windows and its carved jetties supporting the upper floor. He recalled the horror of last December, when he had killed a man in this street and fled through the backyards behind that house, desperate beyond belief. He made the cross over his chest and closed his eyes in prayer.
Oh
Lord, may such fear and doubt never enter my heart and mind again
.

He knocked on the oak door of the Machyn house with the hilt of his eating knife and waited. After a short while he heard a woman's voice and footsteps. Rebecca opened the door.

Instantly his heart felt glad. He saw her long dark hair, her brown eyes, the large mole on the side of her face. He saw the tragic beauty of her countenance. He saw the woman with whom he had shared so many dangers. He felt purposeful. He smiled.

“Good day, Rebecca. Thomas told me you called.”

She did not respond. Just as he had been instantly gladdened by the sight of her face, now he was just as swiftly alarmed by her lack of welcome.

“You
did
call at my house?”

“Yes, I did. It was…nothing.” She looked at him, almost tearful.

“May I come in?”

She nodded, left the door open for him, and turned and walked along the corridor to the hall. Clarenceux shut the door behind him. It was dim and chilly inside, especially standing here alone. This was not the reception he had expected.

Henry Machyn's old workshop was at the front, on the right. This used to be filled with his rolls of black cloth and heraldic paintings; now it was almost empty. Looking through the open door Clarenceux could see four large chests in the center. The rest of the room was bare, the walls stripped of their decoration, the work table gone.

He walked down the corridor, past the staircase, and into the hall. Opposite was a large fireplace of stone with a bread oven built into its side. Tallow candles lit the room; there were no windows in here. Two chambers above, the storeroom at the rear and the workshop at the front blocked out any light. A series of cloths painted by Henry Machyn hung on the walls. In one or two places they had started to fray. The floor was covered in straw and there was a smell of stale ale and urine. Two chests were the only storage. A wooden table stood in the center.

“Oh, fie! What brings you here, Mr. Clarenshoo?” asked a red-faced man of about twenty-five. He was sitting on a small bench beside the table, with his legs splayed, wearing a loose, dirty linen shirt and a sleeveless mariner's leather jerkin. He was drunk. His blond hair was a mess. “No coats of arms here. None at all.”

“Good day, John. I've come to talk with your stepmother.”

“Talk? No, you want to do more than that. Lots of men like you want to do more with her. You're not the first…”

“John!” snapped Rebecca. “Enough.”

“I have a right to speak. This was my father's house and now it is mine.” John Machyn lifted an earthenware flagon to his lips. “And a man can say what he likes in his own home.”

“Shall we talk in the other room?” asked Clarenceux, glancing at Rebecca.

She tried a weak smile and led the way out of the hall and through into the workshop. “He's impossible,” she muttered when Clarenceux drew close. “All he does is drink, swear, and complain. He has no manners. He pisses in the corner of the hall at night rather than go outside. I wish he would go back to sea.”

“You would be welcome to stay at my house.”

“You know I cannot. Nor would I want to.” She still did not look at him.

“What is the matter, Rebecca? You are out of keeping with yourself. Tell me.”

She sat down on one of the chests. “I am going away.”

“Forever?”

“Probably. I don't expect we shall meet again. In fact, I hope we do not.”

Clarenceux felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. “Why? What have I said or done? Have I neglected you? Is that the reason?”

Her eyes were sad. “It is nothing you have said or done. I can hardly say you have neglected me. I have no claim on a married gentleman like you. No, I have been glad of your attention. But we are both laboring under a great weight. You seem to be able to deal with it better than I.”

“I do not understand. Do you mean we are under scrutiny in our personal lives? Or because of the document—the marriage agreement?”

Rebecca sighed. “Both. The document mostly. Other people know about it. The surviving Knights of the Round Table know, including my brother Robert. They all expect you to do something, Mr. Clarenceux. And in some ways, so do I. I am too vulnerable to continue living like this.”

“I am the one who guards the document. I am far more vulnerable than you.”

“But you are an important and well-connected man. There are people to whom you can turn for protection. I have no one. And when powerful people come into my house and ask me when you are going to proclaim the queen illegitimate, I have no answer. I wish I did. They talk to me so much; they tell me that allowing you to keep the document was a mistake. They talk of stealing it.”

“What are you trying to say? That I should start some sort of rebellion, with no coherent plan or support, just to please a few disaffected supporters of the old religion? If they are so keen to foment change, let them say so openly. Let them risk their lives, and the lives of their families. I have too much to lose. And so have you.”

“Oh, for the Lord's sake, keep your peace, Mr. Clarenceux. I do not want to hear another word. You are condemning me for the way I feel, for being weak as well as poor and useless.”

He shook his head, unmoved. “You told me once you did not want to start a revolution; you just wanted to be safe in your own home. But now, that is not enough. You want a revolution and you want to be safe—you cannot have it both ways.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” she yelled. “Go on, stab me some more. It seems you find it quite to your liking. And I, who took so many blows for you just six months ago, who went through all that in the hope that we would be safe…”

She started crying. Clarenceux instinctively wanted to comfort her but in her present mood he dared not touch her. He looked at her sitting on the chest, sobbing, and felt at a loss. He so wanted to make her smile again.

“Go. Go away—out of my house,” said Rebecca. She glared at him through her tears. “Please, leave now.”

Clarenceux looked at her and she held his gaze. He could see that she still held a love for him, but he could also see the strength of her conviction. She was doing this in spite of her feelings.

“Please, Mr. Clarenceux. Go.”

Clarenceux moved toward the door. He paused beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. She did not say anything. Nor did she move. He then walked out of the room into the corridor, opened the door to the house, and closed it behind him as he emerged into the street.

Two boys were playing in the shadow of Mrs. Barker's house. It felt as if he had walked between two distant cities in an instant. Here he was looking on new faces and a brighter future. He had come with affection in his heart and he was leaving with a pain-filled hollow.

Saturday, May 6

William Gray sat at a table in a tavern on Thames Street, a little to the east of the Tower of London. It was an inexpensive but respectable establishment, with cloths on the tables and good wine on display in marked barrels. The bread was good, and he ate it hungrily. Freshly baked white bread was something he missed at sea.

It was still before noon. Men were eating and drinking at the tables, talking in low voices. They were almost all gentlemen mariners: men who dressed well and looked at the sea as one vast opportunity. They transported their chests aboard, full of their most treasured belongings, and slept on mattresses in their own cabins. They had little to do with the penniless urchins who slept where they could in the shadows of the lower decks, before the mast. These men tended to be ruthless, selfish, and lustful. William Gray felt at home among them.

The tavern door opened and Gray found himself looking at the face of a man he had not seen for six years. He had lank black hair and a narrow face. His hose were of the loose, flouncy style and he was wearing a doublet and cape. Without invitation he sat down opposite Gray, looking at him.

“Nicholas Denisot,” said Gray, chewing his bread. “What do you want, after all this time?”

“I've come to thank you for rescuing me from Calais.”

“A little late,” he said, still chewing.

“Even so. I did say that one day I would repay my debt. I have a task for you, one that will prove lucrative.”

“Go on.”

“My employer has an urgent need for two people to be transported to Southampton, a man and a woman. They are inconspicuous and socially unimportant, but they bear something of great value—inestimable value. I cannot tell you what it is. Suffice to say, my employer refers to it as ‘the Catholic Treasure.'”

“And after I have taken them to Southampton?”

“That is all you have to do. Take them, as quickly as possible. If you set sail this afternoon you should arrive in four days.”

“Five, with the wind coming up the Channel. How much?”

“Two hundred pounds. In gold. As long as you get them there within four days. Five at the most.”

Gray stopped chewing. He stared at Denisot. “Why such a sum?”

“Two hundred is the maximum I am authorized to offer, no more. I could bargain with you but that would be a waste of time. The Catholic Treasure is a precious cargo. And you are to ask no questions of either the man or the woman. Nor are any of your men.”

Gray was still unsure. “Who is my employer?”

“If anyone asks you, you are to say ‘Percy Roy.' That is all you need to know.”

Gray lifted his mazer of wine and took a draught. He turned the silver-mounted wooden cup between his fingers. “I cannot guarantee the weather. And as this is not ordinary business, I will want more than half in advance.”

Denisot looked around and caught the taverner's attention. “More wine and another cup.” He turned back to face Gray. “You are quite right. This is
not
ordinary business. If you guarantee you can set sail today, I will arrange delivery of one hundred and fifty in advance. A message has already gone ahead to Southampton for a local agent called James Parkinson, the captain of Calshot Fort, to look out for the Catholic Treasure on the tenth. You should fly three St. George's flags from the main mast as you come into the harbor and send the passengers ashore in a rowing boat. Captain Parkinson will confirm their safe arrival by a letter, and he will direct you to where in London you are to go to pick up the last fifty pounds. One word of warning, though: if you disappear with the passengers, it will not be in a court that my employer seeks redress.”

The taverner placed the wine and cup in front of Denisot. Gray set his own cup firmly on the table and looked up. “Why me?”

Denisot shrugged and poured his wine. “Because I value what you did for me all those years ago. I am glad I can put this business your way. Also, I need a captain I can trust.”

“Does your employer know who you really are?”

“I need a decision from you. Two hundred pounds—or would you like me to make inquiries elsewhere?”

“One hundred and fifty pounds in one hour. And another fifty on my return.”

Denisot lifted his cup. “Let's drink to the wind being in your favor.”

Clarenceux hung his hat and cloak on a hook and walked wearily up the stairs from his front door to his hall. Awdrey was there to greet him.

“How does the idea of becoming her majesty's ambassador to the Low Countries appeal to you?” she asked with a smile. “To take up a post in Antwerp in six weeks, to be exact?”

“Ambassador?” Clarenceux was astonished. Heralds were gentlemen but few gentlemen were of sufficient social rank to aspire to be diplomatic representatives. The nearest he had ever come to such a position was declaring war against France in Rheims, on behalf of Queen Mary. That was different. That was a matter of arms and war; it was natural it should fall to a herald. Negotiating with the Catholic Spanish rulers of the Protestant Low Countries was quite another thing.

Awdrey pushed her long golden hair back behind her ear. “I spoke with Lady Cecil today, at Cecil House. She told me that Sir William needs someone to sort out a dispute between the English Merchant Adventurers and the Company of Antwerp. The Spanish are preventing the English from trading, and the Dutch are similarly frustrated because they cannot get hold of the raw materials they need from England. Sir William needs someone who is experienced in international protocol, of a logical mind, loyal, and of sufficient rank to tell the merchants what they must do. Lady Cecil suggested you. Sir William thinks you would be ideal. He told me himself.”

Clarenceux walked into the hall and called for Thomas to bring him some wine. Awdrey's excitement indicated that she expected to travel to Antwerp too. That was understandable: the commodities passing through the Low Countries these days made it a center of fashionable interest and conversation. But it would entail their elder daughter Annie having to have a personal tutor. Clarenceux himself would have to give up being a herald. He had only recently agreed with Garter King of Arms that Devon would be the subject of his next visitation. He would lose his position, and thus he would lose much of his income. No longer would he be able to ride off down to Chislehurst to see a friend when he chose to; nor would he be able to return to England at all until recalled by Sir William. If he was successful, who knows where he might be sent next. However, if he was not reappointed, he would lose his principal income. He were not like most ambassadors—able to retire to a country estate if all went wrong.

Clarenceux took a goblet from Thomas and sat on a form, leaning forward. He scratched his beard. The truth was he did not want to be a diplomatic representative—not if it came at the cost of everything he had achieved and enjoyed. But how could he refuse and not incur Cecil's displeasure? He sat there mulling over the problem in silence for some minutes.

“I know you will curse me for this, but the answer is no.”

Awdrey looked at him through disbelieving eyes. “How can you be so dismissive? This is a wonderful opportunity!”

“To do what? Disrupt our family and way of life? To put an end to my work?”

“Your work as a herald is…Well, it is less important. Someone else can do it. This is national and prestigious; it benefits the whole commonwealth.”

“My work as a herald is both national
and
prestigious,” he replied firmly. “And not just anyone can do it. I do it well, better than anyone else. Just because you can't even describe our own coat of arms does not mean such things have no value.”

“Your heraldry pays little, William. And it is demeaning to both of us. You could be so much more. You are fit, you are clever, and you are brave. You could be properly influential—not having to scrape around for whatever operations Sir William deigns to give you, or Robert Dudley, not that
he
gives you anything.”

“Is that what this is about? You want me to be more influential and rich and unhappy because it would boost your pride and help you win the respect of well-connected friends like Lady Cecil? Well then, I have all the more reason to refuse.”

Awdrey turned and faced the fireplace. “So, is that it? We are not going to Antwerp because you take more enjoyment and pride in drawing shields?”

Clarenceux got up. “I am going up to my study. To work.”

He opened the door in the corner and walked briskly up the stairs. He opened his study door equally abruptly and cursed as he sat down at his writing table. How had it happened? One moment, not so long ago, he had been very happy. Now it seemed that, without having done anything wrong, he was balanced on the blade of a knife, feeling the pain.

He sat back, growing calmer, and made himself think about the situation from Awdrey's position. It was true; he did hold back from high office—for the same reason that he did not want to do anything with the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement: he wanted those around him to be safe and secure. His very possession of the document worked at his mind in such a way as to make him a little on edge, all the time, and Awdrey had to bear the brunt of his bad moods.

But would he be any happier if he did seek a position of influence? Would he actually get one suited to his abilities? Would he be any happier if he had more money and more responsibilities—would Awdrey? Perhaps he would take the position in Antwerp only to find that Awdrey hated being there. Few people would speak English and she knew no foreign languages. Perhaps her youthful enthusiasm for being elsewhere would diminish all too soon. But there would be nothing left in England for them to return to.

Then there was that other problem. Clarenceux's faith in the Holy Catholic Church of Rome had become impossible for him to profess publicly. Perhaps that was what Sir William wanted? The proposal was a test of his religion. In sending him to Antwerp, the Cecils had a hidden agenda: to force him and Awdrey to accept the Protestant way.

Clarenceux left his study and went down into the hall. He called for Awdrey: no answer came. He walked to the other staircase and out onto the landing. One flight led down to the service rooms at the back of the house: the buttery, kitchens, and stores. The other led up to the sleeping chambers. He went up.

Awdrey was lying on their bed, facedown.

“That offer is not what it seems,” he said.

Awdrey did not reply. Mildred started crying in the next room. They both listened as Joan, Awdrey's maid, comforted the infant.

“If I accept Sir William's offer, our religion will be under examination. Men will watch us in church, to see if we abide by the Protestant rites or those of the old religion.”

“But Catholics and Protestants live side by side in Antwerp.”

“We will not be able to. As her majesty's representatives, we will be expected to observe the rites authorized by her government. Exclusively.”

Awdrey remained quiet.

“Few people speak English in Antwerp,” he added. “Very few.”

“I was happy for you,” she replied, looking up. “Did that deserve such a flat rebuttal? To want you to be more important than you are? To be recognized as a leader?”

“No, it did not. I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you.”

She smiled weakly, tears in her eyes. “You never do. But you are so forceful when you are passionate about something. It does not take much for you to frighten me.” She moved across the bed, allowing him to sit beside her. “I can see the religious problem. But I still wish we could go there.”

“Perhaps we will, one day.”