“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.”
1
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.
2
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.
The Roots of Betrayal Page 2
