The door latch rattled. A voice called, “Is Raw with you?”
It was Amy. Ursula slipped out of bed, naked, and unlocked the chamber door. She immediately turned and nipped back into the bed.
Amy entered, dressed in a linen night-shift. Her long red hair swirled around her head and she turned to the door and locked it. Then, with a skip, she ran over to Carew’s side of the bed and, in a single swift movement, bent down and lifted the night-shift straight over her head.
“This is what I call a proper greeting,” said Carew, as he moved over on the bed to make room for her.
“Don’t do him for free, Amy,” said Ursula, putting her arm around Carew’s waist. “He hasn’t come back with a treasure-laden ship yet. In fact, he hasn’t come back with a ship at all.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Amy. She kissed Carew. He liked the softness of her lips and her skin, which smelt of apples. She drew away and looked him in the eye. “Pillow talk—that is our rich ship,” she said. Lying down beside Carew, she went on, “John Prouze spent all afternoon and all night with me. He’s gone now because he has to watch the quay. The truth is, he is expecting a consignment of treasure to be offloaded here, in Southampton.”
“What sort of treasure?” asked Carew, seeing the excitement in her eyes.
“Who cares what sort of treasure? Gold, jewels—I don’t know.” She kissed him again, more passionately.
“Tell us more,” said Ursula, putting her hand between their faces. Amy giggled. “No, tell us, truly.” Ursula put her arm around Carew. “No more kissing until you do.”
Amy propped herself on an elbow. “We were eating in my chamber yester evening, Prouze and me, and I asked him if he wanted an early night, in a joking way. And he said, ‘Yes, indeed, for I must be off early to watch the quay.’ So I replied, ‘Watch duty, is it? Extorting bribes for Captain Cutthroat?’ And he told me, ‘No, Captain Cutthroat is away, but an order has arrived from London to watch the quay for a ship with three St. George’s flags on its main mast. It will anchor out in Southampton Water.’ Prouze said that the ship’s captain will send a rowboat to shore with the treasure—he called it ‘the Catholic Treasure.’”
Carew felt Ursula kissing his shoulder. Her hand was moving down his body, stroking his midriff. He stayed her hand with his own. “When is this ship arriving? Today?”
“Maybe. Prouze said that he’d probably have to wait ages for it to come in and he’d rather be in bed with me.”
Carew pushed Ursula’s hand away. “What does Prouze look like? Do I know him?”
“Short tapering beard, young, a bit bad tempered. Nothing unusual. He has a high opinion of himself but actually is as frightened of Captain Parkinson as everyone else is.”
Carew clambered over Amy. He stepped across the bare boards of the chamber to the window and opened the shutters. There was early-morning sunshine across the roofs outside, seagulls were calling across the town. The roofs were all at uneven angles, as if they had been strewn there, and then the gaps in-filled with more roofs: most covered with wooden shingles, a few with slates, and some with tiles. Beyond, between two steeply inclined roofs, he could see a small section of the quay, where already the workmen and laborers were beginning to prepare for the day’s lading. A wooden crane was in position above a barge and two men were rolling a huge cask, avoiding a procession of men approaching another boat with sacks on their backs. Carew could see the tops of the masts of the larger ships moored there, but the angle of the window prevented him from looking across Southampton Water itself.
He spotted a gully between two adjoining roofs overlooking the quay. Sticks and debris lay there with the seagulls’ guano. “Can one get down there, to that gap between the two houses?” he asked.
Amy slipped out of the bed and came and stood beside him. “Only with a ladder, from the gallery.” She pointed to a corner of the inn’s external staircase.
Carew leaned out further, estimating the drop and the size of the ladder needed. Then he came back in and looked at Amy standing there naked beside him. He saw the freckles across her shoulders and her blue-eyed smile. Then he glanced at Ursula watching him from the bed. Putting his arm around Amy, he kissed her neck and felt his desire stir. He pushed her back toward the bed and slapped her rump as she turned. “If that ship truly has gold aboard it, you women are in for one hell of a payday.”
29
Clarenceux opened his eyes. He was lying on his bed, fully clothed. A moment later the hell of his situation cascaded down on him, as if each individual worry had been a heavy volume and someone had tipped a whole press of books on top of him. The document…his wife in Chislehurst. Ascension Day morning. Mrs. Barker in league with the Knights of the Round Table. They had turned Rebecca against him. He was going to enter the lions’ den.
Crossing himself, he said a prayer, got off the bed, and opened the shutters. He then bent down to the basin where yesterday’s water still remained and splashed that over his face, rinsing his hands thoroughly and wiping them on a dirty linen towel nearby. There he paused, listening. He could hear nothing unusual. After reaching for the dagger under his pillow and the sword hanging from one of the bedposts, he went down to the kitchen at the back of his house.
The fire was cold. The bread on the worktable was old and hard. He forgot the basics of managing a household when he was by himself. Finding a piece of cheese, he started to eat.
Sir Percival had to be the fourth Knight, still coordinating the other three. He reckoned that they had been instructed by Lady Percy, through messages carried by Sir Percival, to force Rebecca Machyn to steal the document. She had agreed and taken it, probably with their help in picking the locks when he was away. They must know where she had gone. Collectively they would meet on the following morning, at Mrs. Barker’s house.
It was a trap—it had to be. Had he not met Mrs. Barker, he would have assumed she might simply be a kindhearted old woman who had sheltered Rebecca and now was prepared to offer him, as Rebecca’s friend, the same courtesy. But the woman was scheming and devious. She was luring him. She could be blatant because she was aware he had no choice. No one else could tell him what had happened to the document or Rebecca Machyn.
Finishing the cheese, Clarenceux looked up at the light coming in through the high windows of the kitchen, above the great fireplace. He was wrong; he did have a choice. He could simply forget that he had ever had the document. But how would it feel, never to know where it was? He could not afford to wait until Sir William called for it. Worse, if these Catholic revolutionaries or their superiors tried to declare the truth of the document, then there would be a bloody war. Thousands would die. There would be an attempt to stamp out Catholicism altogether. Queen Elizabeth might well respond by burning Catholics in the same way her sister had burnt Protestants.
That decided him. Going through to the cool dark of the buttery, he poured a jug of three-day-old ale from a barrel and drank straight from the jug. He would assemble his weapons. He would check three or four hiding places he knew around the city. And then he would go in search of one thing he had never actually possessed. A gun.
30
Walsingham and John Richards rode at a gallop westward up Fleet Street and into the Strand. Coming to Cecil House, they swerved in through the gate, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles. They kicked off their stirrups and dismounted at speed. “Take the horses!” shouted Walsingham at a lad who ran out to greet them. Richards followed Walsingham as he strode to the main entrance.
“Where is Sir William?” he barked at a servant in the hall.
“Sir, he is in consultation with an emissary from the merchants at Antwerp.”
“Go and tell him I have broken the cipher. Now. Do not delay a moment.”
The servant bowed and departed. Walsingham started pacing up and down across the width of the hall. John Richards stood nearby, excited at th
e prospect of meeting Sir William Cecil but anxious at the same time. Ten minutes passed before another servant appeared and asked them to come up and see Cecil in one of his private chambers.
“Good day to you, gentlemen. You have a deciphered version with you, I presume?” asked Sir William. He was standing beside a circular marble-topped table, dressed in a black robe, slashed to show its scarlet lining, with an elegant gold chain, a narrow white ruff, and a black cap of velvet ringed with jewels. He gestured for them to be seated.
Walsingham and Richards both bowed. “This young man, John Richards, is the one we have to thank,” Walsingham said. “I applaud his efforts.”
“As do we all, I am sure. Tell me.”
Walsingham glanced at Richards and pulled out a neat copy of the message on folded paper from his doublet and read it aloud.
RIGHT HUMBLY WE COMMEND US TO YOUR LADYSHIP WE HAVE RECEIVED YOUR INSTRUCTIONS FROM SIR PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW IS WILLING TO DO WHAT SHE CAN TO RESTORE THE CATHOLIC TREASURE TO US SO THAT YOU AND WE TOGETHER MIGHT EFFECT ITS TRUTH SHE WILL BE DESPATCHED BY SHIP IN THE COMPANY OF ROBERT LOWE FROM LONDON TO SANDWICH AND THERE CHANGED TO A VESSEL BOUND FOR SCOTLAND WHEREUPON SHE WILL CONFIRM HER ARRIVAL WITH YOUR REPRESENTATIVES SHE WILL LEAVE FROM LONDON AT DAWN ON THE SEVENTH THAT WE MAY BE SURE YOU WILL SEND YOUR REPRESENTATIVES TO HOLYROOD WE BEG YOU SEND WORD BY THIS SAME MESSENGER GODSPEED YOUR LADYSHIP YOUR DEVOTED SERVANTS PERCY ROY
Cecil nodded and looked at John Richards. “Well done, Master Richards. I am impressed. I see you are following in Francis’s footsteps. God knows that the government could do with a few more good minds.”
Richards bowed. “Your words of courtesy overpraise my achievement; but you do me great honor, and I am most grateful, Sir William.”
Cecil nodded. “Yes, well. Shall we be seated?” He gestured to the awkward-looking wooden seats around the marble table. “My apologies for the chairs. Her majesty does not like them either and offered them to me. I could hardly refuse.”
Walsingham was impatient. “Two things particularly interest me. The first is the people mentioned—‘the widow’ and Robert Lowe—and the second is the signature. ‘Your devoted servants’ is in the plural and yet the name given is that of just one man, Percy Roy.”
Richards saw an opportunity to show off his knowledge. “The name Percy Roy could be a reference to the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1403, when the supporters of Henry Percy, the eldest son of the earl of Northumberland, took arms against King Henry IV. His men shouted for Percy to be king at that battle—Percy Roy.”
Cecil raised an eyebrow. “Or it might be a code name.”
“There is no doubt whom the Percy refers to,” said Walsingham. “The dowager countess of Northumberl—”
“I know,” Richards interrupted enthusiastically. “George Latham was watching Sheffield Manor when he saw the messenger.”
Walsingham did not like to be interrupted, especially not by an underling. He looked at Richards, who realized he had overstepped his mark.
Cecil smiled. “You are right again, young Richards. Only you are jumping to conclusions. Just because the name could reflect that ancient war cry does not mean that it does. Francis—you were going to remind us about Robert Lowe, I presume?”
“He is the brother of Rebecca Machyn. I have no doubt that she is the widow in this document.”
Sir William nodded. “Yes. The Machyn problem…”
Walsingham was sitting forward, leaning over the table. “You let them go—her and Clarenceux.”
Cecil glanced at Richards before turning to Walsingham. “You made up a false story to try to convict her and Clarenceux and the so-called Knights of the Round Table. I had no alternative.”
Walsingham shook his head. “I was close. You know I was.” He held up the paper with the message. “This is proof of their plotting. And it clearly says that the widow has agreed with a plan to restore ‘the Catholic Treasure’ to Catholic hands. What more sign of her guilt do you need? If she is guilty, so is Clarenceux.”
Cecil narrowed his eyes. “You have no idea what Clarenceux knows and doesn’t know. While on the whole I applaud your testing every hypothesis that suggests itself, and being thorough in examining every possibility, I will not have you denigrating and humiliating important men on a whim. It brings disgrace upon the government and it alienates those who would otherwise support us in our attempts to maintain the rule of law and the state of religion.”
Richards could see the resolution in Cecil’s eyes. He expected Walsingham to back away from such a stand. But Walsingham rose slowly to his feet. “Sir William, you are committing a grave error if you think that that message is not treasonable. It would be folly not to arrest the protagonists immediately. Robert Dudley will tear your reputation apart in front of the court, if he discovered you failed to act.”
Cecil gestured to Walsingham to sit down. Walsingham did not take his seat, however. Cecil spoke in sharp tones. “Francis, I am not suggesting for one moment that you should do nothing. But I know there is great enmity between you and Mr. Clarenceux and I want you to put that out of your mind. I will not let you use a situation like this to abuse his good name. Last time you wrecked—”
“Last time you let him go,” interrupted Walsingham. “Last time you said he was innocent and the Machyn woman too. That is why we have this problem now.” With that he turned his back on Cecil and walked across to the window.
“I am glad you have brought this to me without delay,” Cecil told him. “I am glad you have translated the message. But there is nothing here that incriminates Clarenceux. What we need to focus on is what this message really does say, not what you would like it to. What it shows us is that there is a Catholic plot afoot and that it answers to Lady Percy. It shows us there are at least two go-betweens—or there were two. One is dead—the bearer of this message. The other is here named as Sir Percival. Whoever Percy Roy is, or whatever it refers to, it seems that Rebecca Machyn has something of value to these Catholics and is being escorted by her brother into Scotland on a boat sailing from Sandwich.”
Walsingham turned. “It also shows us that the Knights of the Round Table are still functioning. Whatever they may have been plotting last year, we did not stop them. And you know as well as I do that they had some hidden means of threatening her majesty—using Machyn’s chronicle…”
“Enough!” said Cecil, holding up a hand. “You have seen Machyn’s chronicle. Do you honestly think that that is the Catholic Treasure?”
Walsingham remained silent.
“No, it is not,” Cecil went on. “But something is. And whatever it is has sailed from Sandwich with Robert Lowe. Do you not feel that you are wasting time here, arguing with me?”
“I have already closed the port of Sandwich. I have men looking for Robert Lowe and Widow Machyn.”
“And the identity of the messenger?”
“Twenty-six men, all from different wards of the city, went to view the body at Hertford yesterday. Four knew him by sight—none knew his name. Two of those who recognized him lived on the river, in adjacent wards—Queenhithe and Bread Street. When the body comes tomorrow, we will start exhibiting it in those places.”
“Good. Excellent. Have you contacted Admiral Clinton yet?”
“Yes. Lord Clinton is in the North Sea now. I have sent a messenger to tell him to intercept any ship heading north that might be carrying Robert Lowe and Widow Machyn.”
“Even better.” Cecil stood and Richards did likewise. “Master Richards, I am pleased to meet you, and I thank you for your attention to duty and your assiduous work. No doubt we will meet again. Francis, I expect we will meet on the morrow, when I hope you will have established the dead messenger’s identity.”
31
John Prouze was uneasy. It was now early afternoon and all day he had had the feeling that someone was watching him as he waited on the
quay. He had been into a tavern at one point, and later he had stood under the eaves of a baker’s stall. He had seen no sign of the ship—but he was beginning to suspect that he was not the only man expecting it.
There was the black-haired man with green eyes sitting on the old steps to the western wharf. He had been there since midmorning, just sitting there, only moving when someone needed to use the steps. He had a straw in his teeth and he seemed to have been chewing it for ages. He was waiting for someone or something. Every time Prouze approached, the green-eyed man looked at him. Prouze confronted him at one point and demanded to know his business. “Waiting,” the man had replied. When asked what he was waiting for, he had replied, “For whatever comes along.”
Halfway down the quay there was a fat man who wore a scarf around his head in the morning and around his neck in the afternoon. He was almost chinless and bald. His white shirt was newly clean, unlike his blue breeches, which looked as though he had been living in them, sleeping in them, and swimming in them for several months. His ears were pierced with earrings and his boots decrepit. On the few occasions when he moved from his post, he shuffled, dragging his feet. He too caught Prouze’s eye on more than one occasion.
At the southern end of the promontory, sitting at the end of the quay, was a huge black man. Prouze presumed he must be the servant of a lord or a runaway slave who worked as a servant. There were several Negro men and women in the ports; most of the women were the parents of illegitimate half-colored babies, the results of their masters’ adventures in fornication with women of another race. But this man’s stillness was ominous. Negros always did other people’s bidding, so if he was waiting there for hours, it was on behalf of someone else.
Prouze looked at the horizon, in the direction that the black man was looking. Gulls called overhead. Waves lapped at the quay. But no ships flying three St. George’s flags were to be seen. He walked back along the quay past the workers lading the ships. A dozen laborers were off-loading woolsacks one by one from a cart and onto a wooden platform to be craned over the side of a boat bound for Bordeaux. He passed the captain and boatswain, who were looking up at the rigging that had seen damage in the recent gales. He ducked in through the door of the Two Swans and gestured to the landlord. The next twenty minutes were spent supping a large mug of wine, sitting at a table, glancing at the door.
The Roots of Betrayal Page 12
