The Roots of Betrayal

by James Forrester

  “Get down,” yelled Carew. “Get your head down!”

  Clarenceux looked ahead, toward the approaching ship. He slowly counted the sails. They were intact: it had not yet entered the fight. He watched it close on them, yard by yard, and looked at Carew. “That is the one?” Then, without waiting for confirmation, he walked to the back of the sterncastle and prepared to hurl himself aboard. It was now just forty feet away, rolling on a higher wave. A man on the deck opposite was aiming a musket at him; he did not care. He raised his sword aloft and held the dagger at the ready. The shot cracked the air but only grazed his arm. Thirty feet. Another musketeer came forward, and another. Luke scurried across to kneel beside Clarenceux, laying out Hugh Dean’s pistols on the deck. Carew came and stood beside him, staring at the men massed on the deck of the galleon. Luke took aim carefully and fired, striking one musketeer perfectly. The second shot missed. The third shot hit a man in the leg, the fourth hit a smartly dressed gentleman on the sterncastle in the arm. The fifth he did not shoot but held on to as he prepared to leap.

  The ship came closer. They were all in a group now, anxious for it to be over, staring at the men on the other ship. Clarenceux stood alongside Carew, Kahlu, Francis Bidder, Harry Gurney, Skinner Simpkins, Swift George, Stars Johnson, Juanita, Alice, John Dunbar and about a dozen others. On the opposite ship there were scores of men, many armed with guns. Shots continued to crack the air, but the shouting had started. There was just twelve feet between the two vessels, then ten, nine, eight. Clarenceux gripped the Moorish blade. Six feet, five—he leaped, eyes white-wide as he slashed at the mariner ready to greet him with a sword.

  It was a desperate fight. Clarenceux overpowered and killed the first man he fought, then charged down the deck, slicing with the wide-bladed sword and stabbing with the cutlass in his other hand. One man he slashed across the face; another lost his entire leg to a heavy blow. Another man suffered from the cutlass that Clarenceux jabbed upward, cutting his throat. As he fought his way into the men on the deck he saw Carew climbing the rigging while fighting two men, the pirate swung down and kicked one in the head as he stabbed the other. Luke saved his bullet for one man whom he singled out. He ran toward him, discharged the gun in his face, and then drew his sword. Juanita proved terrifying, the rage in her spilling out in a wide-eyed scream and a savage cutting and thrusting. But the desperation of the Davy’s crew could not hold back the tide of men they faced. Clarenceux saw Kahlu cut down, surrounded by four men. The silent hero fell to his knees on the deck and was immediately subjected to a frenzy of stabbings, leaving his body a bloody mess. They decapitated him and threw his head into the sea. Clarenceux himself was caught by surprise by a quicker swordsman and cut across the back of the wrist. Startled, he was knocked down from behind a moment later by the butt of a musket. Very soon only Carew and Skinner were still fighting. They had seized the masthead and were sheltering on the wooden platform, protected by it from the muskets fired from below. They beat off the attacks of those climbing the rigging, sending them tumbling into the sea.

  Clarenceux was disarmed, his hands were tied behind his back and he was dragged across the deck to the foremast, where he joined the other survivors, lying facedown. Of all those who had leaped, eight were dead, including Kahlu, Gurney, and Swift George. Juanita had tried to drown herself by jumping into the sea rather than surrender; the men had immediately gone after her in a skiff, dragging her out of the water. They started tearing her clothes off before they had even returned to the ship. Clarenceux was one of nine in a row at the foot of the foremast, alongside Francis and Luke. He reflected on the morality of the victors: in a battle against a foreign enemy, there would have been mutual respect. As this was a matter of policing, the vanquished were condemned criminals—regardless of how well they had fought. The victors believed they had a right to make use of a woman who had sided with those in the wrong.

  After a quarter of an hour, the gentleman whom Luke had wounded in the arm came among them, lifting each man’s head. When he came to Luke he recognized him; those green eyes were unmistakable. Holding his head up off the deck by his thick black hair, he spat in his face. Then he smashed his head down onto the planking three or four times. He stood up and kicked him hard, causing Luke to cry out. Finally he drew a pistol with his left hand. Luke, with his head to one side, pleaded through a bloodied mouth to show mercy. “I was only doing what anyone would have done, what you too would have done,” he shouted, laying with his cheek against the deck.

  “I follow my own orders,” snarled the gentleman. He slowly wound the wheel-lock key with his teeth.

  “The fight is over, let him live,” said Clarenceux. “It will only do your soul harm to kill him.”

  The gentleman kicked Clarenceux in the stomach. “Shut that mouth of yours, if you don’t also want a bullet.” He stepped on the back of Luke’s neck and then aimed his gun at the back of Luke’s head, holding the barrel just a few inches above the skull. Clarenceux saw Luke open his eyes; the next moment there was an ear-shattering report and Luke’s skull was like a smashed pot, its red contents spilled across the deck. The gentleman wiped his bloodied boot on Luke’s body and walked away.

  59

  It was early evening. Clarenceux was still lying on the deck. They had thrown Luke’s corpse over the side about an hour earlier but the smeared bloodstains were still there. He touched his lips with his tongue; they were dry and caked in salt. He was thirsty, hungry, cold, and tired. His killing of the men in the skiff in cold blood now seemed a thing of the distant past. So too did charging across the deck in a paroxysm of rage, killing and maiming. Only Luke’s death was still vivid. How had it come to this? Why had he ended up on a stolen ship with godless pirates fighting the forces of her majesty?

  A boot kicked him. “Your turn.”

  Clarenceux looked up. A red-bearded figure was looking down on him. “The boatswain will speak to you. What’s your name and parish?”

  “I am William Harley from the parish of St. Brides, London. I am Clarenceux King of Arms, an officer in her majesty’s—”

  “You’re Harley? Good. To the captain, then.”

  Clarenceux was surprised. “How does he know I am here?”

  “Get up.”

  Clarenceux struggled to his feet. He looked out to sea; the Davy had sunk, shipping its sad cargo of corpses to the seabed. The two other ships remaining above water were close at hand. Men were aloft, fitting new sails.

  He was taken across the deck to the sterncastle. Here a door led directly from the upper deck into the captain’s cabin. It was paneled and had glazed windows on the port, stern, and starboard sides, allowing in plenty of light. There was a bed beneath one of the windows and a chest beneath the other. A table in the center, fixed to the floor, was set with a basket of bread, a pewter plate of meat, a silver mug, and a wooden wine flask. Beside it stood a large, broad-shouldered gentleman, aged about fifty, with a very long double-forked black beard and black hair. Both beard and hair were streaked with gray, adding to the man’s air of distinction. There was a flash of mischief across his dark eyes too, giving a sense that this was a man of daring and charm. He was dressed in an old-fashioned leather jerkin slashed repeatedly to reveal the white shirt beneath, with no ruff but a sword on his plain leather belt. His black cap sported a white feather. Clarenceux’s eyes were drawn to the ring: Or, three lions passant sable.

  “We have met before, haven’t we, Mr. Harley?” said Sir Peter Carew in a deep Devonian accent.

  “Nineteen years ago,” said Clarenceux. But as he said the words, he reflected that he knew the man much better than past acquaintance. Sir Peter was famous. He was a fearsome soldier and a fearless naval commander, and one of the most respected of all English seafarers because of his mixture of courtliness and courage. He had traveled to see the Ottoman Emperor in Constantinople and visited Buda when it was under siege—just so he could see what an orienta
l army looked like. He was a staunch Protestant who had led the suppression of the Catholic rebels in Devon and Cornwall in 1549. He had served as an MP, largely due to the influence of his patron, Lord Russell. He had been knighted by the old king. But most of all, he had done more than anyone else to clear the seas of pirates—at least, those pirates whom he had not befriended in the course of his duties. He also was perpetually in debt; he owed a small fortune to the Crown.

  “It was at Boulogne, was it not?” said Sir Peter.

  “Indeed. I was with the duke of Suffolk’s men. I am a herald now—Clarenceux King of Arms.”

  “I realize.” Sir Peter’s eyes moved over Clarenceux’s scorched and scarred figure. “But you have not entirely given up the sword for the pen, I see?”

  Clarenceux said nothing.

  “Leave us, Gardiner,” said Sir Peter. The man by the door bowed and left the cabin.

  When the door was latched, Sir Peter walked over to it and pushed the bolt across. He paused and then said, “You owe me an explanation—at the very least.” He returned to the table and took the top off the wine flask and poured a draught into the mug. He resealed the flask.

  “Is it not straightforward? You attacked the Davy because she had been taken by your nephew, Raw Carew…”

  Sir Peter held up a hand. “Stop right there. The man who calls himself Ralph Carew may have been the fruit of my late brother’s loins, but that was simply recreational. Not procreational. Don’t presume that I recognize him as a member of my family.” He looked Clarenceux in the eye. “If I see a reflection of my own youth in his exploits, then that is a private source of amusement. Publicly, you understand, he is nothing but a common thief and a pirate.”

  Clarenceux remembered Sir Peter had come very close to being a renegade in the past. He had been expelled from various schools and had ended up serving at the court of the French king and in the service of the Marquis of Saluzzo, an ideal education for a courtier. But character aside, he had just sustained terrible losses at the hands of his illegitimate nephew. Why is he not angry? Why is he not seeking explanations?

  Sir Peter took a draught of his wine. “I received a letter from Francis Walsingham two days ago telling me to intercept the Davy and to take you prisoner. He instructed me to sink the ship rather than let you get away.”

  Clarenceux looked around the room, his brain struck with the surprise. How had Walsingham known? “I thought you were patrolling against pirates and that I just was unlucky,” he replied.

  “Think again. Ralph of Calais is a dangerous adversary—he has both imagination and courage. If he had chosen a different path in life, I would be glad to acknowledge him. But I held back in this ship during this morning’s encounter for good reason. I was not certain that four ships would be enough to capture you while he was in command of the Davy. So I count this a great success. I only lost two vessels and my men either killed or captured the whole misbegotten crew sailing with Ralph—and that will include the rare bird himself, when he comes down from his perch. On top of that, I succeeded in my main mission.”

  Sir Peter picked up a stool and placed it near the table. Just as he did so, a larger wave tipped the ship slightly further than usual and he had to steady his wine mug. The flask fell off the table. He picked it up and sat down, facing Clarenceux. “I know Walsingham from Parliament. He is a devious man—I knew the letter came from him, even though he sent it in Sir William Cecil’s name, because there was no seal. Cecil, as the queen’s Secretary, would have applied the queen’s seal. So I am intrigued that Walsingham did not explain the meaning or purpose of this mission. Men who are physically weak, as he is, are always wary of how military men see them, so they tend to explain everything at tedious length. But he did not. That makes me curious. It makes me hopeful that you will tell me.”

  “It is a long story.”

  “Then sit down and start telling it. It will while away the time until Ralph of Calais considers his position. Be careful you leave nothing out.”

  Clarenceux sat down. He placed his left hand on the table and explained about the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement and how Sir William Cecil had entrusted it to his keeping. He spoke of Rebecca Machyn and how she had taken it on the instructions of the Catholic Knights of the Round Table and then betrayed them. He spoke about how Nicholas Denisot had paid for her to go to Southampton in the Davy, and how he, Clarenceux, was even now trying to track her down. He mentioned his being tortured in the house of Mrs. Barker, knowing that the indication of his opposition to a Catholic cause would appeal to Sir Peter; and he told him about the scar in his right hand, where Kahlu had cut him three days earlier.

  “Show me,” demanded Sir Peter. Clarenceux placed his right hand on the table. Sir Peter looked at it and grunted. “What happened to that man, Kahlu?”

  “Your men killed him on the deck of this ship.”

  “You have been avenged then,” said Sir Peter.

  “I am not looking for vengeance. If I were, I would spend all my time fighting old battles.”

  “A wise man. What are you looking for?”

  “The woman who betrayed me.”

  “Not so wise after all.” Sir Peter scratched his bearded chin. “I still do not see why Walsingham is so desperate to capture you.”

  “Hatred. Distrust. I don’t know—you would have to ask him yourself. But this much I do know: if that document stays in the hands of Catholic leaders, there will be a war. Walsingham believes that my purpose is to ensure it reaches them. In truth, I am trying to reclaim it and stop that war. You know from your own experience how damaging a Catholic conspiracy can be.”

  Sir Peter did not like to be reminded of the fact. His suppression of the rebellion in 1549 had led to a massacre so that his name was a byword for horror in his native county.

  “There are reasons not to trust you,” he said. “You escaped from Cecil House—very much to Sir William’s embarrassment, I imagine.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “And you consorted with pirates.”

  Clarenceux looked into Sir Peter’s eyes. “Again, I had no choice.”

  “And, finally, you yourself are a Catholic.”

  Clarenceux hesitated. “In that too I have no choice.”

  Sir Peter rose to his feet. “You cannot pass all your faults on to God, Mr. Clarenceux. You cannot blame Him for your sins, for your misdeeds, saying you have no choice. You cannot blame those who locked you up for the fact you escaped. You cannot blame the man who orders you to commit a wrong; you can always rebel. That is why Protestantism—to protest—is the only way.”

  Clarenceux watched as Sir Peter walked to the window, looking out to sea. “You too could protest,” he said to the man’s back.

  “What do you mean?” asked Sir Peter.

  “You could rebel. You do not have to take me to Walsingham. You could set me ashore in Southampton—and tell Walsingham I was still on the Davy when she sank. You know what is at stake.”

  Sir Peter shook his head. “I do not need to disobey orders. I have lost too much even to entertain the idea. You are going to come with me and face Sir William Cecil. If you are as well intentioned and as innocent as you claim, he will let you go.”

  At that moment Clarenceux heard the loud report of a musket shot. Suddenly there were many shouts of alarm from outside. There was a second musket shot.

  Sir Peter reluctantly turned away from Clarenceux and unbolted the door just as there came a loud knocking. “What?”

  “One of the pirates has jumped. He climbed to the top of the mast and jumped into the sea.”

  “Stay here,” Sir Peter said to Clarenceux, shutting the cabin door behind him.

  Clarenceux clenched his fist in frustration. He could see no way out of this situation. He would be taken back to London. No one would stand up for him now. He felt so tired—too tired even to shed te
ars. He heard the shouts and stood up to look out of the window on the landward side of the ship. It was a good six miles to the shore. He had no doubt that it was Carew who had jumped; but even so, he had not resurfaced. The sea was rough and there was no sign of anyone swimming. Even if Carew could swim the six miles, doing so against the currents would have been nigh on impossible, especially in heavy seas. He had made a final, desperate bid for freedom—and that desperation would be his end. It was a reflection of the man’s spirit. No one could destroy him—only he could destroy himself.

  Clarenceux crossed himself and said a short prayer for the pirate, lest his atheistic soul spend eternity in damnation. He forgave him for kidnapping him. He looked at the wound in his hand and forgave him that too. He forgave him for leading him into the disaster he now faced. He forgave him everything.

  The seas rolled, green and gray-blue. A seagull swooped low, fighting against the breeze, before turning and flying northward. In the distance, pieces of broken timber from the Davy and the other sunken ships bobbed about on the water. No one was bothering to rescue the dead bodies from the sea. They were just floating, to be glimpsed for a moment at the swell of a wave, then to disappear.

  He turned from the sea where Carew had plunged and looked east, from the rear of the galleon. There was no debris. Maybe battles would be fought there one day and for a brief hour or two it would be a blood-soaked, timber-littered place of fear and sorrow. When the guns fell quiet, it would gradually clear itself and return to being just another stretch of water, rolling for eternity.

  Running his hand across the window he moved around and looked toward the south. Here an even wider stretch of water, unbounded by land, presented itself. He knew the Channel here was sixty miles wide. Apart from a ship on the horizon, there was nothing to see at all but the waves. Sky and sea: a simplicity that reminded him again of the Creation story. And on that sea there was nothing: no birds, no flotsam, nothing. Just that one tiny, distant ship.