The Roots of Betrayal

by James Forrester

  At first it was difficult—a lot of work went into removing barely a thumbnail of plaster—but as the gash grew bigger, it allowed more and more purchase for the metal point of the basin. After ten minutes, large lumps of plaster were coming away from the walls. He threw them down the chute: judging from the “plop,” each piece seemed to fall into liquid several feet deep. After twenty minutes he had stripped all the plaster away from the walls along two sides of the seat and tried to lift the wood. It moved a little. Five minutes after that, he was able to pull it away from the wall altogether.

  His bruises hurt, his fingertips were stinging, and he was panting—but he had done it. He was staring at a large square opening in the brickwork, about eighteen inches by twenty. He hesitated, mindful still of the gongfermors’ fate. But, thinking of Château Gaillard, he knew that this was a lot easier than breaking into a castle by such a route—and facing a hostile army on the inside. He climbed into the chute, lowering himself at first and then using his feet and knees to jam his back against the stinking bricks.

  As he went down, the smell became worse. He paid less heed to it, bothered more by the slipperiness than the stench and the slime. He descended slowly and prayerfully. He wanted to make the sign of the cross but he did not dare take his arms away from the walls. Down he went, whispering incantations to the Virgin, St. Peter, and the two saint-kings of England: Edward the Martyr and Edward the Confessor.

  Slowly he descended into the rank darkness. Ten feet below the latrine seat, the brick was saturated with urine; it was both grainy and slippery at the same time. His legs hurt where he had suffered the lacerations on his thighs from the knives and whips. Down he went, another foot, and another. Eventually his foot lost touch with the chute, flailing in midair. He tried to look down, but the lack of space and the darkness prevented him from seeing anything. He moved his leg again—still there was nothing. He knew that if he fell now he would fall into several feet of decomposing excrement and urine. He waited and shifted his knees, so he could try with the other foot. He kicked with that one and heard a vague wooden thud. There was indeed a barrel. He inched down further and kicked again. It was a large barrel—larger than the chute—in order to catch everything that fell. But that meant the chute descended to a point just above the barrel.

  Clarenceux lowered himself a little further and felt again with his foot. There was a space of about two feet between the top of the heavy barrel and the bottom of the chute. He would have to clamber through it. Gradually he maneuvered himself until his feet were on the rim of the barrel. He managed to put his hands on the slimy rim also, on all fours, retching at the overpowering vapors. He turned until he was able to slide off the barrel and through the gap into the basement.

  He moved away from the barrel and chute as quickly as he could, stumbling across the floor. Now came the task of finding a way out. A man like Cecil would not want such a large barrel and its noisome contents carried through the house, so there had to be a door somewhere—and the lock had to be on the inside, to avoid thieves and spies being able to gain entry. Clarenceux walked with arms outstretched across the cellar, looking for any signs of light around the edge of a door.

  When he finally found the exit, he heard footsteps hurrying across the floor above. Pray God, let them not find I have gone. Not yet. Not until I am out of this place. He moved toward the day-lit outline of a large door—a double door, wide enough to move a large, full barrel. It was locked; a search with his hands revealed no bolts. The two doors were locked with a key—which was not in the lock. His heart thumping, cursing, Clarenceux felt around the edges desperately, hoping to find some way through. He tried lifting a door off its hinges, but each door was solid oak and fitted well within its frame. He felt around the tops: nothing. Then he felt around the bottom edges. One was bolted shut at the foot. He undid the bolt, allowing the two doors to move a little on their hinges. He held the ring handle that lifted the latch between them and pulled. More light shone through the crack between the two doors. He pulled again, even harder, so that he could see the silhouette of the lock between the doors. Again he pulled; this time he was able to slip his hand between the two doors and grab hold of its edge. Holding that and the handle, one last pull brought the lock’s bolt out of its socket, and he staggered back into the cellar, blinded by the morning light.

  He squinted. After a moment he saw a ramp to his right, leading up to the level of the garden. He went up it as quickly as he could, listening for shouts and warnings. Breathing deeply of the fresh air of the garden, he moved along to the corner of the house. Peering around it, he saw a tall wall that cut off the front from the back. Although there was an arch and a gate, this was clearly secured. Looking the other way, he spotted the small gate in the high garden wall that he had noticed from his window. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a long shadow from the wall over the dew-wet grass of the garden. He hastened toward the gate, hoping that no one in the house would notice him. To his great relief, the gate was secured by bolts: one at the top, one in the middle, and one at the bottom.

  Undoing the bolts as quietly as he could, he stepped through into Drury Lane, pleased to feel the stones and grass under his feet and even happier to close the gate of Sir William’s house behind him. Never before had he wanted to wash so much, so urgently. He started walking toward the graziers’ fields to the north, to plunge his face in one of the dewponds there. And to hide. He would go home later, after Cecil’s men had searched his house.

  49

  Apart from the dangerous currents at the mouth of the Thames, the Davy had had a remarkably fast passage to London. The southwesterly had stayed with them even after they sailed out of Dover, having left the girl with someone she knew. Although it meant that Carew had to tack heavily to sail up the Thames estuary, even he was surprised by the speed of their progress. By midday he was at Greenwich, almost in sight of the Tower of London, with the sun bright above them. There he dropped anchor. Even though his passage had been fast, news of the ship’s loss would have traveled even faster. No doubt the owners of the vessel had already been informed.

  He chose eight men to accompany him in one of the skiffs: Kahlu and Hugh Dean because he trusted them the most. Skinner Simpkins because of his rat-like cunning and his courage. Luke Treleaven because he was unquestioningly loyal. The four others he chose for their various skills. Francis Bidder had an extraordinary memory. Stars had an instinct for finding his way around and could sense which way was north. Swift George was the messenger. John Devenish was the carpenter.

  Kahlu, Devenish, Skinner, and Treleaven took the oars and rowed the skiff along the south bank of the Thames to Southwark. It was late morning and high tide, so they had no trouble negotiating the currents of the river beneath London Bridge. The water sparkled as they rowed, but their mood was solemn. They all knew the danger of being here. They moored at the steps not far from the bear-baiting theatre at Southwark, and Luke and Francis went ashore to ask for directions to Clarenceux’s house.

  The two men were away some time. Carew was silent and serious, checking every alley, every other boat that came near them. The crew spoke in low voices, waiting. Every so often they would catch a glimpse of one of their companions on the shore. But more than twenty minutes passed before they returned.

  “Everyone has heard of him; no one knows where he lives,” explained Luke.

  “It took us ages to find someone who knew,” added Bidder. He pointed across the river to the north bank. “That over there is Three Cranes Steps. If we go west, along past Queenhithe, Broken Wharf, Trig Lane, Boss Alley, Pole’s Wharf…” As he named each of the stopping places and wharves, he moved his finger. “Past Baynards Castle, Puddle Wharf, there, that’s the Fleet River and Bridewell beside it. North beyond that is the tower of St. Bride’s Church. That’s the parish. He lives on Fleet Street, the south side, just to the east of Hanging Sword Court. The man I spoke to suggested landing at Whitefriar
s and walking up from there.”

  “Good,” said Carew. “When we land, Stars, you keep the boat ready. The rest come with me to find the herald. There’s room in the skiff to bring him with us if he doesn’t talk.”

  50

  Clarenceux lay in the long grass at the edge of the field. A cloud drifted slowly across the face of the sun, plunging him into shadow. That was his life now. Things he could not control were coming between him and the light, the True Light, and he was left in shadow. Each shadow would pass after a time. But each shadow would have a successor.

  He looked down at his shirt. He stank. He needed to get home and change. But he also needed a key. His house was locked and he had lost his clothes at Mrs. Barker’s. He could wait here longer; but it was already midafternoon and it would be another six hours until dark.

  Through the tall grasses he peered toward Drury Lane. His house was less than ten minutes’ walk from here. But he dared not risk walking past Cecil House in broad daylight. He decided to walk up to Holborn and along to Holborn Bridge, and fetch the key he had hidden in the stable loft in the city.

  An hour later, having fetched the key, he came to the bottom of Shoe Lane. After checking to make sure no one was watching the door of the house, he walked across Fleet Street and down the alley to his back door. He reached over the top to unbolt the gate into the yard, but to his surprise, it was already unlocked. Cecil’s men have already been here; they might still be inside. He crept closer to the back door and inserted the key in the lock, but it would not turn. The lock had been broken.

  Clarenceux backed away. There were sounds from within. He knew that, if he entered, he would be recaptured—all for the sake of clean clothes and a sword. What is the alternative? If I can get across the river, I could walk to Chislehurst and seek refuge with Julius Fawcett. Or, if I go into London, there are friends who would shelter me, companions in the Skinners Company, or Tom Griffiths, the pelterer, or Robert Rokeby, the jeweler on London Bridge. He turned around to leave the yard—and found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol.

  Momentarily the metal of the wheel lock reflected the late afternoon sun into his eyes. A large man with a mop of thick black hair was looking at him. “Are you Clarenceux?” he demanded in a deep voice, his eyes seeming to smile.

  “Who are you who asks?” replied Clarenceux. “Do you come from Cecil? Or Walsingham? Or Lady Percy?”

  Hugh Dean jabbed the cocked pistol forward into Clarenceux’s face. “Inside, now. Or you can answer the captain’s questions with your brains spilling over your doorstep. Put your hands up.”

  Clarenceux turned slowly and put his hands up. He kicked the back door of his own house open and entered. Inside, it was cool and dark. He smelled the ale and wine casks in the buttery.

  Two men were in the kitchen, helping themselves to food.

  “Go on,” ordered the tall man behind him. “Up the stairs.” Clarenceux continued with his hands raised. He passed a man on the landing, who had brilliant green eyes. He entered the hall to see three more men—a fat bald man, a powerfully built Negro, and a shorter man with bright blue eyes and cropped fair hair. The smell of unwashed skin and the sea was on their clothes, noticeable even above the stench of his own latrine-smeared garments.

  The shorter man walked toward him with a swagger, holding one of Clarenceux’s silver-rimmed mazers. He lifted it to his mouth, watching him. As the man drank, Clarenceux noticed a heraldic design of yellow and black on an enameled ring.

  “You are the herald Clarenceux?” said Carew.

  “Why do you want to know?” asked Clarenceux, lowering his arms to his sides.

  “Why? Because if I set about extracting some information from a man, I do prefer…”

  Clarenceux suddenly felt his right arm grabbed from behind and his legs kicked from beneath him. He fell to the floor heavily, able only to break his fall with his left arm. The shock winded him. He struggled to regain his breath while Carew continued: “I do prefer to have the right man to begin with.” He lifted the mazer to his lips again. “There are two ways to speak to me, Mr. Clarenceux. Humbly or with a gun. Since you lack any weapon—as far as I can see—I suggest you adopt the penitential position.”

  Clarenceux got to his knees slowly.

  “Do you know who I am?” Carew asked him.

  Clarenceux swallowed. “You are a member of the Carew family—originally of the manor of Mohun’s Ottery in Devon.”

  Carew smiled. “Very good. You noticed my ring. So, again, I ask you: who am I then?”

  Clarenceux looked up, aware that this was no agent of Cecil’s or Walsingham. “The baseborn son of the late Sir George Carew,” he muttered.

  “Indeed. My name is Ralph Carew, but men call me Raw as a result of an incident in my youth. I have come here to find out where Nicholas Denisot is. Tell me that and we will leave you now in peace.”

  “I have never knowingly met anyone called Nicholas Denisot.”

  “A bad start. Let us try again. Where is he? Under what name is he hiding?”

  Clarenceux shook his head. “I cannot tell you, for I do not know. No amount of pressure will serve your cause because I do not know the answer.”

  A heavy blow from a large wooden stick to the side of his head sent him sprawling sideways across the floor. He passed out momentarily. When he opened his eyes, the room was swirling, and tiny lights were turning like flies in summer. He could hear a sound like metal vibrating on stone.

  Carew walked over and put his foot on his neck. “I do not have time to play games, Mr. Clarenceux. I need that information. As soon as you give it to me, we will be gone. Otherwise we will take you with us. We will question you at sea and if you do not tell us, we will cut your throat and throw your body overboard, and come back to seek out the next person of your acquaintance for a similar treatment. Your wife, perhaps? Or maybe you have a brother or sister? Now, talk.”

  Clarenceux gasped and retched. Bitter bile filled his mouth, his stomach being empty. Carew pushed harder on his neck, causing him to choke, then took the weight off. “I am kind to my friends, ruthless to my enemies. Do you understand? Tell me where Denisot is now.”

  “What…makes you think that…I know?”

  Carew heard footsteps and glanced through the door. He saw Skinner coming up the stairs. “He was followed,” he said. “Two men in livery. Hugh Dean is holding them in the yard. Want them brought up?”

  “Yes,” said Carew, not taking his eyes off Clarenceux. “You ask me why I know. A woman told me. Or rather she told the captain of the ship I now command, before I cut his throat.”

  “What woman?”

  “I cannot remember her name,” said Carew, pushing down harder on Clarenceux’s throat with his foot. Clarenceux beat at Carew’s leg with his hand, and after a moment Carew reduced the pressure.

  “Did she…have a mole…on the side of her face?”

  Carew remembered seeing the woman brought from the Davy on the quay at Southampton. “Yes, now I think of it, she did.”

  Clarenceux retched again and coughed. “Where is she?”

  Carew pressed down harder, forcing Clarenceux’s throat against the floorboards. “I am asking the questions, herald. And I am asking where Denisot is. You know. She told Captain Gray that you know.”

  Clarenceux could not answer. He coughed and gagged. Carew lifted his foot slightly. “She lied,” he gasped.

  Carew’s attention was drawn to the two men being led up the stairs. Hugh Dean walked behind them, a pistol in each hand. Both men had empty scabbards hanging from their belts.

  Carew gestured for them to enter the room and stand in the corner. “Why were you following this man?”

  The men looked at one another, uncertain as to who should speak. “He escaped from Cecil House this morning,” said one warily. “Sir William Cecil ordered us to watch out for him. W
e saw him cross the road.”

  Carew looked down at Clarenceux. “Why was he locked up? Is he a felon? A traitor?”

  “I don’t know,” replied one of the men.

  “What are you?” Carew asked Clarenceux.

  “Damn you, I am a herald! Not a felon, nor traitor, and I do not know where…” He paused. “Oh, for the love of man, let me up.”

  Carew removed his foot. “Speak truthfully now.”

  Clarenceux wiped his mouth on his sleeve, which still stank of rank urine. “I was attacked and tortured at the house of a Catholic gentlewoman in Little Trinity Lane. That house was raided by agents of Francis Walsingham, a Member of Parliament and an enforcer working under the auspices of Sir William Cecil, her majesty’s Secretary. Yesterday I was taken to Cecil House where I was imprisoned again. I escaped by climbing down a latrine chute. That is why you see me in this stinking state.”

  There was a moment of silence. A few men started laughing. “You don’t need to be clean where I am taking you,” said Carew. “I want to know where Denisot is. If you do not tell me, the next clean linen on your back will be your shroud.” He glanced at Cecil’s guards. “Luke, tie those two up. We will leave them. As for this herald, we will question him on the ship. I don’t want to stay here if the queen’s men are spying on this house. Kahlu, John—you two bring him. Hugh, you cover our backs.”

  They took Clarenceux to the skiff at Whitefriars steps and downriver to the Davy. Once on board, Carew ordered John Devenish to put Clarenceux in the hold. Devenish grabbed the herald’s arm and led him across the upper deck, stepping over the ropes and pulleys, directing him down through a trapdoor near the sterncastle. On the ladder, the smell of the living quarters rose to greet them. The humid darkness was most unpleasant, like that of a stagnant ditch in the height of summer, except that many urinals had spilled on the deck floor over the years, so that the smell immediately reminded Clarenceux of his escape from Cecil House. Four arched windows—two on either side—provided a little natural light. The beams were too low for him to stand up straight. He had had some experience of ships from his frequent crossings of the Channel, but most had been more orderly than the Davy. As he passed the main mast to another hatch, he saw belongings strewn around in an untidy fashion: pots, lanterns, blankets, clothes, knives, flagons, and other paraphernalia less easily identifiable in the gloom. A shirt lay draped across one of the cannon. A ceramic urinal lay on its sides where it had been knocked over.