Clarenceux leaned on the gunwale. “How long do you think it will take us?”
“To get to Southampton? The wind has changed direction to a southeasterly, which is better. Four days maybe?”
Clarenceux gazed across the sea, watching the gulls swoop down and fly just above the waves. “Widow Machyn and her brother might be miles away from Southampton by then.”
“We will go after them.”
Clarenceux looked at Carew. “Why are you so desperate? This goes beyond revenge.”
“Denisot did not just take away my hometown. He took away all the people who protected me, all the people I loved. He took away the women in the house where I grew up. He took away everything.”
“You mean, when he betrayed the town.”
“Then, and immediately after.”
“Was it a house of ill repute, where you grew up?”
Carew smiled. “Ill repute? You mean ‘was it a whorehouse’? Yes, it was. My mother turned to prostitution to keep us after her father died, the year after I was born. She was a good woman. All of them in the House of the Three Suns were good women. They had the biggest hearts, and they were always kind to me as a child. When my mother died, I was ten years old. The other women took on her role, trying to send me to school and paying for the weekly fee by taking in extra clients. It was my mother’s desire that I should learn to read and write and not suffer the indignities of poverty. The others tried to continue what she started. I hated school and ran away to sea. Now, when I think back, I feel ashamed.” He scanned the horizon, as if looking for something that might resemble hope. “For a long time it made me want to weep. Then it made me want to kill. Now when I feel I might cry, I do not shed tears. I shed blood—other men’s blood.”
He turned to face Clarenceux. Despite what he had just said, there were tears in his eyes. “It was because of religion. That is why no word of religion is to be spoken on my ship. No Bibles, no prayers. Never. Now you understand.”
55
Clarenceux did not speak to Carew again for the rest of the day. He saw him bustling about the ship, giving orders, talking to everyone. Although just over one hundred feet in length, there were more than sixty people aboard, and as conversations over the day revealed, there should have been more. Clarenceux had never seen a ship so untidy, in which everyone was free to scatter their possessions. It was only later in the day that he realized why: these were not their possessions. The only things that seemed to be regarded as personally owned by the crew were weapons and musical instruments. It mattered to Hugh Dean that he had his pistols, and to Luke Treleaven that he had his fiddle. They were not the same men without them. Plates, mugs, mallets, spoons—all these things served the same function whoever owned them. The men and women aboard treated all such things as property in common.
The women aboard were “in common” too. No one referred to them as whores to their faces. Juanita was attractive but had a fiery temper and was as likely to stab a man as surrender to his advances. Charity was pretty and calmer than Juanita. She was more timid too and, as far as Clarenceux could see, more considerate. Occasionally he saw one of them in a corner with a man, or slinking off to the orlop deck hand in hand with someone. Alice seemed to be in charge of the women, and she presided over an area of the main deck reserved for their exclusive use. Apart from that, every other area was shared. The traditional distinction of ordinary sailors living before the mast and officers behind did not hold aboard Carew’s ship. Everyone went everywhere. Thus no one gave much thought to keeping any area tidy. The captain’s cabin was soon as untidy as the rest of the vessel. The surgeon’s cabin was similarly despoiled. Alice took some ointments and salves from the surgeon’s medical box; the rest were soon scattered underfoot. There being no surgeon aboard, no respect was paid to the tools of his trade. Technical instruments became general-purpose saws and knives.
Not long before midday, they hauled anchor and started once more to head into the wind, taking a course further out to sea. Clarenceux noticed various mariners about the ship carrying platters of food. He went down to the galley in the hold and was served by those tending the ovens. The ceramic bowl held a portion of salt beef and pea stew. He helped himself to an apple and some prunes that were in a basket and returned to the upper deck. The prunes were good, better than the stew, and Clarenceux was amused to see so many of the mariners ignore them. Most of them thought that only meat really counted as food fit for a man.
Nothing much happened that day. Clarenceux watched, talked to people, washed his wounds, helped carry food, picked up some of the broken ceramic things on the main deck, and observed Carew exercising command. Life aboard ship, he reflected, was more intense than on land. So many people were gathered doing so many different things in such close proximity. It was unlike a manor house where you might have just as many people doing just as many things but over a far larger area. At sea, lives overlapped. Sounds were different: always there were voices. Physical movement and feeling was different, because there was so much less space. People even looked at one another and things differently. Arguments broke out simply because there was nowhere else to go. Men rushed to settle disagreements between crew members—aware that trouble could easily spread or escalate into violence. Late that evening, John Dunbar, the gunner, exchanged harsh words with a Breton called Jean, who was supposed to be learning from him how to load and fire the cannon. Carew himself swiftly intervened and confiscated Jean’s dagger, thereby saving both men: Dunbar from being stabbed and Jean from being hanged from the yard. Clarenceux was impressed. The chaotic state of the deck and the stench and mess everywhere made the ship seem as if she was running herself, or rather, that no one cared how she was run. Very clearly that was untrue: the captain and many of the crew did. But they were concerned only for the people, not the broken and cast-aside things strewn across the decks.
Clarenceux left the main deck shortly afterward. He went up to the forecastle and leaned out, looking over the sea. He heard Carew give the order to change tack, then shout as the lateen sail was swung across the sterncastle. He stayed where he was, his mind shifting between the events he had witnessed aboard and his experiences on land. He felt uncomfortable even thinking back to Mrs. Barker’s house, remembering how he had gone there with guns to intimidate the Knights. He had been naive.
He thought of his family. He imagined Awdrey at Summerhill and his girls playing there in the hall. How were they managing without him? Awdrey was no doubt worried. He missed her conversation, telling him what she thought he should do. He missed the ordinariness of their lives together. He missed his daily routine: sitting down with his heraldic manuscripts and piecing together some ancient family’s lineage and claims to coats of arms and titles. He missed knowing what his wife was doing while he was working. When he thought of her, and of his daughters’ laughter, he felt again that sense of incompleteness that one has in an empty house.
He heard footsteps. Carew slapped him on the shoulder and leaned across the gunwale next to him, holding the dagger he had taken from Jean.
“These are extraordinary things. So often they are the cause of a problem and so often they are the only solution.”
“You mean killing your enemy?”
Carew touched the sharp point. “No. That is normally the start of another problem. I was thinking: knives have probably saved more lives than taken them. Have you ever heard the story of Peter Serrano?”
“No, tell me.”
“He was a Spaniard, so Pedro I guess was his real name. He was on board a boat on the other side of the world—beyond Cathay, in the Pacific Ocean—when his ship was caught in a storm and sank. Although he was wearing only a shirt and belt, he threw himself into the sea and swam for miles, finally coming across a small island, where he rested. The island had no trees, no shade, no grass, no streams—no fresh water. It was just two miles across and covered with hot sand. There he would have
died had it not been for the knife he had tucked into his belt before he dived off the ship. At first he ate the seafood washed up on the shore, but without fresh water he knew he would soon die. So he swam out to sea where there were giant turtles and hauled them to the island. Once he got them ashore, he turned them upside down and killed them when he needed them. He roasted the flesh on the shells of other turtles in the heat of the sun and caught rainwater in their shells. For warmth he dried seaweed and other driftwood. There were no flints on the island. However, he eventually managed to make sparks by diving deep into the sea and finding a couple of stones that would make sparks when struck with his knife. So you see what I mean? Without his knife, he would have died. The thing that ends lives also saves lives.”
“Did this man, Serrano, ever return?”
Carew looked at him. “I thought you were an intelligent man. Of course he survived—otherwise how would I know his story?” Carew looked back out to sea. “Seven years he was on that island. Three years he had to share it with another man, only having half an island.”
“Surely the two of them had the whole island—they just had to share it?”
“No. They couldn’t stand each other. They divided the island in half.”
Clarenceux began to laugh. It seemed absurd. He looked at Carew and chuckled more. And then the laughter triggered something joyous in him and he laughed fully. Even Carew started sniggering, then he too laughed.
“Three years!” Clarenceux’s eyes were watering. “The sheer absurdity of human suffering—it is never enough! We have got to make it worse for ourselves.” He looked at his hand and held it up for Carew to see. And that too seemed funny. Carew showed him his hand, and their laughter doubled.
“But mine still hurts,” said Clarenceux between bouts of mirth. “It still hurts like the Devil, you bastard!” Which only made them both laugh more.
When they had calmed down, Clarenceux said, “You are a strange man. Yesterday you stabbed me and here I am today laughing with you about it. If Walsingham had done that to me and was standing here beside me, I would throw him over the side—if it was the last thing I did. Why is it people allow you to get away with things? Why do people want you to like them?” Carew shook his head. “Not all people do. There are plenty who would hang me if they could.” He turned to look across the upper deck. “They would hang my crew too—for just being aboard. Desperate men we all are. And the women. They will hang too, if we are caught. It was brave of those who came with me to London.”
Clarenceux looked at the south coast of England, about seven miles away. “How much longer?”
“Depends if the wind holds. At this rate, I’d say another day and a half.”
Carew made to go, but Clarenceux detained him. “Peter Serrano is really you, under another name, yes?”
“No,” replied Carew. “He was a real Spaniard. I never met him—but I have been in a similar situation. I also refused to share my island.”
56
Wednesday, May 17
Francis Walsingham dismounted at the front of Cecil House, passed the servant who bowed, and strode into the hall. There were red marks around his eyes.
“I am glad to see you, Francis,” declared Cecil, beckoning him from the table on the dais where he was reading documents. There were several clerks around him, each holding sheaves of papers. Another clerk was sitting beside him, recording decisions in a large ledger.
“I thought you were going to wait on her majesty, at Richmond,” snapped Walsingham.
“I was—and indeed I am. As you can see, I am still attending to some unfinished business.” He rose and adjusted his formal robe. “We must talk in private.”
He walked off the dais and through a wide doorway that led to a small parlor. Walsingham followed. “Close the door, please,” said Cecil, standing with his back to the window.
“Sometimes you make me feel as if I am a schoolboy,” Walsingham grumbled.
“Sometimes you leave me no choice,” replied Cecil. “What do you mean by sending instructions in my name for Sir Peter Carew to fire on an English merchant ship? Are you out of your mind?”
“Richards told you? Is he now spying for you?”
“He is an intelligent young man, but even if he was a dullard he would have been able to see that it is not sensible to order one of her majesty’s commissioned officers to fire on an English ship. Nor was it wise for you to issue such instructions in my name.”
Walsingham shook his head. “There was no time to consult you. Besides, Raw Carew is in command of it, so it is no longer an English ship. It belongs to pirates—men of no nation.” Walsingham looked away, exasperated that Cecil should intervene when he was making progress. “And most important of all, he has Clarenceux.”
“You don’t know that. You have simply heard a rumor and on the strength of that alone you have decided to blow a merchant ship out of the water.”
“Your own men told me! They saw the two of them together at Clarenceux’s house. Damn your eyes, Sir William—do you give me credit for nothing? Do you expect me to let him go? He will simply put his plan into action.”
“Speak to me with civility, Mr. Walsingham, or you can say good-bye to both your freedom and your seat in Parliament.” Cecil fixed him with a stern look. “I do not believe Clarenceux has the marriage agreement. I think he is chasing Rebecca Machyn, who has double-crossed him. I think he was telling us the truth.”
“You cannot be sure.”
“Neither can you. That is why I think it madness to sink a ship.”
The two men confronted each other. Walsingham knew that he understood the situation better than Cecil. He could not understand Cecil’s stance…not for some moments. Then a possible reason began to occur to him. He waited, thinking through the thought that had just entered his head. “Why did you only mention Sir Peter Carew? Why just him?”
“I am sorry?”
“Why not Lord Clinton as well?”
Cecil shrugged. “Well, of course, what I said applies equally to your message to Lord Clinton.”
“No. You were only concerned with what I sent to Sir Peter Carew.” He paused. “You know about this. You withheld news of this document’s existence from me, and you did not tell me that you asked Clarenceux to look after it.”
Cecil said nothing.
Walsingham continued, “You know—somehow—that Clarenceux has sailed south. Neither Richards nor I knew that. Carew came from Southampton but that does not mean he is taking Clarenceux back there. You have some other source. You know what is going on here.”
“Listen, Francis. Yes, there is more going on here than I can reveal. But you must trust me, now more than ever.”
“Damn you, Sir William! Damn you and damn your scheming! I did think that Widow Machyn was acting in accordance with Clarenceux, but now it seems that Clarenceux’s partner in treason is you—none other than you, her majesty’s own Secretary. I cannot believe your hypocrisy. You, of all people, who have urged me so many times to seek out and arrest conspirators—you are one yourself. You have lied to me repeatedly, about the marriage agreement, about Clarenceux seeking Widow Machyn, about—” He stopped suddenly. “Oh, by God’s blood,” he whispered. “You are not working with him. You are working with her.”
Cecil walked to the door. He opened it and called across the hall to two guards. They approached and he spoke to them in a low voice. Then he turned back to face Walsingham.
“Francis, you saw that coded message. You yourself presented it to me. You saw what it said. Widow Machyn had agreed to help the Knights of the Round Table. I helped her disappear.” He held Walsingham’s gaze. “I knew she was under huge pressure to betray Clarenceux and so I decided to remove her from him and from the Knights of the Round Table. It was simply a precaution. It meant that the Knights of the Round Table and, as it turns out, their associate Mrs. Barker
, were left without the document they so desperately seek. And Clarenceux was left without it too. That is why I know he is innocent.”
Walsingham was furious. “He might be innocent, but you most clearly are not. You are a traitor! You did not destroy the document when you had the chance. You have arranged for it to be stolen and sent it by ship…God knows where. Where is it? Where has she gone? God’s wounds—I should have you arrested. Indeed, I think I will, I am just that angry. I will speak to her majesty, and I will tell her that two traitors are being protected by Sir William Cecil—Clarenceux and Widow Machyn.”
“Francis, that would not be helpful.”
“But it would be true.”
“Then you would be arresting me for the sake of my methods, not my intentions. And you would be protecting yourself, not the State.”
“I…am…the…State!”
“No, you are not! Her majesty is the State. You are just a tiny part of her organization—one of the State’s many instruments. A finger of the State, nothing more.”
Walsingham’s eyes narrowed. He held up his forefinger and turned it toward Cecil. “I have an itch. It is called treason. I will do the scratching.”
Cecil shook his head. “Francis, you have to trust me. Believe me, I had to take matters into my own hands. I had to take the initiative. I did not think that events would turn out as they have and so I did not tell you. But you must trust me in this. What I have done is for all our safety—yours, mine, the queen’s, everyone’s. Even Rebecca Machyn’s.”
He stepped over to the door and signaled to the guards outside. “See to Mr. Walsingham’s horse, please. He and I will be spending some hours together.”
“This is betrayal,” said Walsingham beneath his breath.
“No, Francis, sincerely, it is not. It is loyalty—to her majesty. If you expect me to show a greater loyalty to you, then you have misplaced your expectations. But I know that is not the case. I have simply surprised you. Rather than go to her majesty and accuse me of things that you do not understand, I suggest we call for wine and wafers and discuss this situation. I owe you the courtesy of a full explanation.”
The Roots of Betrayal Page 21
