Carew glanced up at Amy. With a nod, she confirmed it was Prouze. “Swift,” said Carew in a low voice, “give the signal to the men in the inn.”
Prouze and his companions were standing directly behind Skinner, who was still whittling. Carew and his men were five or six yards away. More of his men casually gathered in groups of three and four nearby. As the seconds passed and the skiff came nearer, more of Carew’s men gathered. There were thirty now. Prouze stopped speaking and walked closer to the quay.
Carew walked forward, nearer to the quay edge. He looked down into the approaching skiff. There was nothing there—no chests—just the people.
He walked away from the edge, shaking his head, then looked up at the place where Amy had been. She was not there. He caught the eyes of members of his crew silently looking to him for orders and gave a subtle signal with his right hand, palm down. Wait. He glanced back at Prouze. The boat had touched the dock now, and three of those aboard were disembarking. There was a woman in her early forties coming up the steps, with long dark hair, brown eyes, and a distinctive large mole on the side of her face. With her was a muscular man who greeted Prouze with a nod of his head, and a shorter man who was talking to him. Carew overheard the man say the words “from here on” and “return to London,” but that was all. A moment later Prouze was leading the man and the woman along the quay. The third man said farewell to them and went back aboard the skiff. The oarsmen pushed off.
Carew turned and looked at his men. Their faces were full of questions. He could only shrug and nod toward the inn. Kahlu asked in hand signs whether the money was still on the ship.
“I do not know, my friend,” replied Carew, drawing close. “Those people cannot be carrying it. My guess is that it will be unloaded later, after nightfall. They have come to make contact with Prouze first.” He gestured for George Thompson to approach. “Follow them, Swift. Don’t let them out of your sight. Take Skinner with you and keep me informed.”
37
Clarenceux turned his head, unsure of whether he was awake or dreaming. He was lying spread-eagled on the floor, naked, apart from a blindfold. A long nail had been driven into the floorboards on either side of each wrist and then hammered to bend it over. The same had been done to his ankles. The air was unmoving and warm, like that of an attic.
He heard a woman’s voice. It seemed to be coming at him from underwater, bubbling through his mind. He heard her say “Rebecca Machyn” and “betrayed us.” Or did he imagine these things? Was she saying that Clarenceux had betrayed them or that Rebecca had? He did not understand.
He had the feeling that cold water was about to hit his face. He turned his head to avoid it but it was always on the point of hitting him. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling. As he did so, the whole house seemed to be bobbing on a deep ocean. His mouth tasted of bile. He was sweating. The blindfold itched.
He heard the woman’s voice again. It was Mrs. Barker. She was not speaking to him but to someone else in the room. “Why did he come here?”
“To find Widow Machyn,” said a man, who sounded like Emery. “He knows we arranged for her to steal the document. He believes that she has betrayed him.”
“That was not what Father Tucker believed, God rest his soul,” said a second man. “Clarenceux knew that Widow Machyn had taken the document from him. He knew we were his enemies. Yet still he came. He came to kill us.”
“No. Think about it from Widow Machyn’s point of view,” said the woman. “Suppose she did betray Clarenceux as well as us, and that he truly doesn’t know where she is. Why did she betray both of us? If she did not want to use the document for a Catholic purpose—our cause—then what? She must have taken it to stop us, on behalf of the government. If so, she would have warned him. That is why Clarenceux came here—looking for more information on Cecil’s behalf.”
“We will soon see,” said the second man.
Clarenceux felt the whip cut the skin of his inner thighs, first the left then the right. He bit his tongue. But he screamed at the first kick to his testicles, which followed soon afterward. His cry surged as the pain poured through him and the feeling echoed in his body.
“Maybe Widow Machyn told him what she was going to do,” said the second man. “Maybe he gave the document to Cecil himself.”
Clarenceux felt the two lashes again: left, right. He screamed even more at the second kick between his legs.
“Perhaps Lowe told him what we had planned,” said Emery, “and he warned both him and Widow Machyn to flee. I do not doubt that he has come as a spy for Cecil.”
Clarenceux felt the leather whip on each of his thighs. The next kick on his bruised testicles was excruciating.
“Where is she?”
Another two cuts with the whip and another kick. Clarenceux screamed again and this time his scream went on and on—as the pain resounded through his whole form. He started to talk, to tell the voices about going to see James Emery and Nicholas Hill.
“Why did you come here?” the woman’s voice demanded.
Clarenceux heard his own voice, his words drifting apart—and then he heard his silence. High in the sky of darkness, high above the ocean of pain, a brown-winged moth was fluttering, rising up among the stars and the moon. He let himself fly with that moth, away from the pain and the questions. As he watched the moth fluttering in the moonlight, he knew that all he had to do to survive was to stay quiet. The silence of the moth was his blessing. The best way to keep quiet was to hide with the moth—and never to doubt that he could fly into the darkest reaches of the night and hide from every man and woman. In the bosom of the moth was a place of silence and refuge from all torture.
They would never find him here among the stars, so far away from his body.
38
Carew set his mazer down when he saw Skinner enter the inn. “Has she weighed anchor?” he asked.
Skinner shook his head—and grinned.
“Then the treasure is still aboard.” Carew clenched his fist and thumped the table. “Hugh, prime all your pistols. We are going to take her. You will lead one skiff and board from starboard. I’ll lead the portside attack. Ten men apiece.”
“What are we after?” asked Dean. “The treasure or the ship?”
“The treasure and the ship, my friend. Can you imagine a sleeker, faster vessel in which to sail from Southampton? Who could possibly catch us in a vessel like that? In the Nightingale we were living on our wits, night and day. Aboard a beauty like that we could sail away with a smile and wave of a hat.” He paused. “Why, in such a ship we could outsail everyone—bring gold from India, slaves from Africa, silver from the New World, spices from the Moluccas…”
Kahlu uttered some incomprehensible sounds.
“No slaves from Kahlu’s tribe,” said Carew, lifting his mazer. “Unless they are very pretty.” He drained the mazer and rolled his shoulders, exercising his muscles. “The curfew bell is our signal. We’ll board that boat, offer the crew terms, and send what treasure is needed back here. Pieter Gervys and his wife have looked after us well, and all the women here have treated us with kindness. What we can share, we will—and I hope it is plenty.”
39
It was a gray midafternoon when Walsingham’s men took up position in Little Trinity Lane. They had closed the road half an hour earlier, allowing pedestrians to leave the area but not return. The captain, a fierce Londoner by the name of Jack Walker, had personally reconnoitred the area. He was aware of the passages through the backyards of the adjacent properties. He had identified a small back door too. It looked to be an easy matter to isolate the house and make sure that all those within could not escape. He brought up a large cart to block the exit from the back door and left a musketeer there to guard it. Four other men armed with muskets were stationed in the backyards. The remaining nineteen were lined up and told to follow him in a line, silently
.
Walsingham watched from a distance with John Richards and two guards. Both men were mounted. They said nothing as Captain Walker led the troop in a single file beneath the eaves of the houses, so they could not be seen from the windows of Mrs. Barker’s house. When they were in position, Captain Walker knocked on the door.
Walsingham and Richards saw the door open and Walker’s troops entering. There were shouts and a shot was fired. Then another. A man started screaming. Local residents who had no knowledge of what was happening came out to see what the matter was. Walsingham rode forward and ordered them to return inside their homes. Had he been on foot, his diminutive figure would have carried little authority, but looking down on them, dressed entirely in black and with an expensive lace ruff at this neck, no one questioned his commands.
Walker reappeared fifteen minutes later with his sword sheathed. He bowed briefly in salute to Walsingham. “We have a total of seventeen prisoners, including three men wounded, one gravely so and likely to die. An eighteenth individual resisted arrest and was shot dead. A nineteenth was already dead.”
“Who are the dead men?”
“An old man and a priest. I don’t know their names. The priest had been shot. His corpse was cold.”
Walsingham accepted this news without a response. He turned to Richards. “I think the time has come for us to find who in that house sent the message to Lady Percy.” He dismounted and took his horse by the bridle.
“There is one other thing, sir,” said Walker. “In an attic room, there is a naked man nailed to the floor. He has clearly been tortured. There are cuts all over his thighs and lower abdomen, and blood on his hands where he has lost three fingernails recently—pulled off with a pair of pliers, it would appear.”
Walsingham led his horse across to the house. “I don’t suppose you know the name of this brave enemy of the Catholic cause?”
Walker followed him. “Yes, sir. He is Mr. Harley, the Clarenceux Herald.”
Walsingham almost fell off his horse. “Clarenceux? Describe him for me—no, better still, take me straight to him.”
Walker led Walsingham and Richards through the house and up to the attic. The narrow stairs creaked with every step and it was dark: the attic itself was almost without light. There was a stench of sweat and fear. Clarenceux was pinned out, his naked body filthy and bruised. The blindfold had already been removed.
Walsingham peered over him, inspecting his face. “What are you here for? Is this punishment? Or are they trying to extract information from you?” He walked around Clarenceux, studying the marks on his body. Some showed signs of inventiveness. The interrogator had not been entirely inexperienced.
“Why are you here like this, Clarenceux? Answer me! Or this torture will not be over. In fact, you will begin to think it has not even started. What do these people want with you?”
“Mr. Walsingham, sir,” said Richards from the doorway, “I think it would be better if you question this gentleman elsewhere.”
“I did not ask you for your opinion,” replied Walsingham. “But maybe taking him to my house would give him a chance to come to his senses. Find something with which to cover him up. Take four guards and make sure he doesn’t escape—he has a history of it. Captain Walker, lead me to the other prisoners.”
40
Raw Carew stood in the darkness on the deck of the Davy, looking up at the stars and listening to the wind in the rigging. A few minutes ago, he had cut Captain Gray’s throat and pushed him over the side. It did not make him any happier but it did feel like justice, and that gave him a small measure of satisfaction. What lingered was the thought that there were too many men like Gray. They labeled him, Carew, a pirate and would feel justified in hanging him on sight. Yet they themselves abused and stole and committed all sorts of sin. Carew thought of Ursula’s scarred face, cut by a man who claimed to be holy and to detest whoredom, and who thought that he would thereby save her. Society saw the stain of sin in itself and tried to remove it, but thereby only created more opportunities for corruption and sin. It was a festering thing, constantly turning on itself in vicious outrage. Out here, on the dark waves, men and women were always an inch from death. Everyone had to fight for themselves and to protect those they loved. It was simpler and more honest than the morality of those who lived on land.
Devenish came up on deck. “They are ready.”
Carew called to Kahlu. They went over to the hatch and descended to the main deck. The crew of the Davy been lined up along one side, and Carew’s men were on the other. The girl was still in the captain’s cabin. Carew glanced in there; she had a pail of water and was washing the blood off the table. He turned to the men facing him.
“In case anyone here does not know who I am,” he said, walking up and down, “my name is Carew. I am the bastard son of Sir George Carew and his mistress, Matilda, a wonderful woman with a heart of gold, worth ten of him. People call me Raw, though I was given the name Ralph. I grew up in Calais before the French took it, so now I am homeless. I have been at sea for more than half my life. Over the years I have tried to help people who, like me, have no home, no protector, and no money. I especially like to help those who have a price on their heads and who suffer from the self-righteous indignation of the justices. Anyone who tells you I am a pirate is a liar. I am an outlaw, certainly; I have been called the Robin Hood of the High Seas. But the only people who call me pirate are those who hope to profit from such calumnies.”
He paused, looking from face to face. There were some who looked defiant, who might prove dangerous or might be good in a fight. There were some who looked eager. There were others who looked frightened.
“You have a choice. You can stay on this ship and serve under its elected captain. Or you can go ashore now. Before you make that choice, however, let me remind you that, if I am chosen to be captain again, then there are four rules aboard my ship. The first rule is that you follow orders. The second is: be honest with all your shipmates. The third is that you either throw your religion overboard or, if you can’t lose it, keep it to yourself. The fourth is that you protect your fellow sailors and all the vulnerable women and children who come into your care. Many of you will find this code preferable to the one you are used to. Those of you who prefer the law of the land, you had better to return to it.”
There were several firm assents, a few murmurs. Most of the men remained quiet. “Now is the moment of your choosing,” continued Carew. “If you wish to return you may go—with my blessing. Go aloft and wait on deck. If you wish to stay aboard and follow my code, stay where you are.”
At first, no one moved. Carew waited patiently. He had often seen this small drama played out. Suddenly and unexpectedly men who thought they knew one another well were asked to judge which side of the law really suited them best. Was the law that bound them to the manorial lords who owned their houses really so bad? And those who had responsibilities: would they leave them behind? If so, why? Would they see the chance to make themselves rich? Or were they running from an ugly or shrewish wife?
A bearded man stepped forward and walked boldly to the ladder. He did not glance backward. Two or three of the older men followed him, and then one or two younger ones. Then more went. Eventually there were only twelve men left. Carew surveyed them; they were mostly in their teens or twenties. They were looking at him and his men, not at one another.
“So, you want to stay.” Carew looked along the line at each of the twelve faces, assessing them all. “Are you good enough? When I board a boat, I seek good men. Men who are good fighters, good sailors, and who are good in themselves. I do not want idle men, or men who think it is right to beat a woman as if she is a dog. So I ask you, would you be less inclined to serve me if I were to tell you that all your companions who have chosen to go on land, who are now aloft, will have their throats cut?”
Carew looked from face to face. Several seemed to hav
e blanched. No one said anything.
“Well?” demanded Carew. Still no one spoke.
“If I was the sort of brutal thug who killed prisoners for no reason,” he said, “you would now be thinking, ‘Let me off this ship, I have made a terrible mistake.’ I don’t want that. But think about this also. Those men who have chosen to go ashore have just betrayed you. They have chosen not to help you when you and we are cast adrift on a wide ocean together. And you have betrayed them too, choosing to sail with an outlaw ship rather than your old companions. ‘How did this happen?’ you are asking yourself. But maybe you should be asking yourselves a different question. ‘Where do the roots of betrayal lie?’ In your own hearts, I tell you. No man is ever truly loyal—no woman is ever truly faithful. He must show his loyalty every day, not swear it, just as the faithful wife must show her loyalty every day. It doesn’t matter if she shares your bed for fifty years; if at the end you find her in another man’s clutches, she has betrayed you. And those men upstairs—after all the years you have sailed with them, they have chosen a different path from you, and you have chosen a different path from them. So before you choose to stay here, ask yourself whether you are a good man and can serve your captain and companions faithfully. Can you control the betrayal that is in your heart—for I know it is there. And if you cannot, you must leave, for no one else will have you. If you become one of us, you stay one of us until you die. You can never go home. Your former friends and neighbors will hang you.”
He walked closer and looked into the face of one man in his twenties. “You, what is your name?”
“John Dunbar,” replied the man.
“A Scottish name? Sounds as if your family has already jumped ship once. Are you sure you want to sail with me?”
The Roots of Betrayal Page 15
