The Roots of Betrayal

by James Forrester

  Carew shook his head. “You’re aboard my ship, Mr. Clarenceux. No religion. Otherwise you’ll be the one doing the swimming.”

  “One day I will talk to you about God. One day when we are not on a ship.”

  “You’ll be wasting your time. All that stuff about saints, holy bones and holy water, spirits and souls—you know it’s all just ghost droppings.”

  “What?”

  “Ghost droppings. The excrement of phantasms.”

  Clarenceux was sickened by the blasphemy. He looked down the water toward the keep of Calshot Fort, four miles further on.

  “Look,” Carew told him. “I have sailed further than most people, further than God too it would appear, because I have been to places in Africa where the people have not heard of God. They have their own gods. And you will tell me that their gods are not real—and they would say the same about yours. In the end, all we can do is make up our own minds. I see no sign of God, I hear no word of God, I feel no hand of God—not your god nor any others. I do not smell the odor of divine sanctity, and if I did I would not trust it.”

  “Just because you do not see something does not mean it isn’t there.”

  Carew untied a sheet and hauled it in tighter. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

  Clarenceux looked across the water, wondering whether some divine vision would appear to help him make this God-denying man understand. None appeared. “The other morning I was looking out from my window and could not see my wife but I knew she was there, over the hills to the south. God is like that. Or like a night that the waking man does not see. God brings blessings and we do not see them but that does not mean they do not happen. It is like the sightedness of a blind man—”

  “Let us ask God to steer this boat. We will end up where the current takes us, not at Calshot.”

  “The sightedness of a blind man,” repeated Clarenceux. “Imagine you are in a room in a house, looking at something, like a plate or a book. As the light fades in the evening you see less and less—until you can see nothing at all. Then what do you see?”

  Carew did not even look at him.

  “What do you see?” insisted Clarenceux. “You see nothing. It is not that there is nothing there. Our inability to see God is like that darkness.” Carew stood up, adjusting the sheet he had just fastened. “You are not listening to me,” Clarenceux sighed.

  Carew tied a knot. “Ghost droppings. You’ve got more important things to be worrying about.”

  “What could possibly be more important than a man’s salvation?”

  “His survival.”

  Clarenceux looked away.

  The wind caught the sail at the wrong angle and it started flapping. Carew made a small adjustment to calm it. “I don’t think you’ve properly thought this through,” he said. “You are going to go in there empty-handed. You have nothing to offer Parkinson, except your head.”

  “You’re not accompanying me?”

  “No. I pick my fights carefully.”

  Clarenceux felt the breeze chill on his face. “It is something I have to do. Regardless of the danger.”

  “I know that. But if the Catholic plotters did send word of Widow Machyn’s arrival to Calshot then it stands to reason: Captain Parkinson is no friend of yours. He may have stolen the document from her on arrival, killed her, and then taken her body out to sea. He is the sort of man who would do that. Calshot is a good place to get rid of corpses.”

  Clarenceux looked up at the clouds, which were darker now. There was a colder edge in the air, as if it might start to rain at any moment.

  “My friend,” Carew said after a few minutes, “we might not agree on religion. Nor on the pleasures of loving. But you have to agree with me on this: you need an offer. And you need some form of escape.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “Your mother wouldn’t deliver you to your executioner.”

  Half a mile short of Calshot, Carew steered the sloop toward the western side of Southampton Water, aiming for a secluded bit of beach. There was an inlet here, and a couple of sturdy posts used by shipbuilders. The woodland stretched along to the spit of shingle that led out to the fort. “Best to alight here,” he said.

  “Why not nearer?” asked Clarenceux, gesturing to the fort. There were two boats tied to a wooden jetty there, and another two pulled up on the shingle bank nearby.

  “Look on the roof: there’s someone on guard. Parkinson would recognize me.” Carew fastened a sheet around one of the shipbuilders’ posts. He held the sloop steady and gestured for Clarenceux to disembark. “I’ll be watching out. Come to this point and wave when you have spoken to Parkinson. But remember, you are on your own. I don’t have the men to rescue you if you fail to reappear.”

  Clarenceux stepped over the side of the boat and down into the shallow water. He nodded at Carew but said nothing as he reached the dry shingle above the seaweed.

  “Don’t trust him,” called Carew as he pushed against the post, sending the sloop back into the water. “Don’t believe his promises.”

  Clarenceux began to make his way along the stones toward the outcrop fortress at the mouth of the estuary.

  65

  Calshot Fort was a modern building. It had been designed to house guns to guard the approach to Southampton Water during an invasion scare about twenty-five years earlier. There had been several such forts along the south coast, finely built of stone. Each one was set low, making it difficult to attack with cannon. This one had a circular central tower of three stories on an octagonal plinth and a circular perimeter wall with embrasures for guns. It had been built on the end of the spit that projected out into Southampton Water, in order to look out in all directions and to fire across the maximum area of open sea, guarding the long approach to the port and town. Being relatively small, it did not look formidable so much as bleak. But that bleakness was striking even from a distance. On the desolate shingle, with the waves crashing below its walls and the wind howling over its forty-foot battlements, it was like an island, the last outpost of Christendom.

  The spit on which the fort was built was about half a mile long and narrow, no more than thirty yards wide. Clarenceux paused on the edge of the wood. From this point on he would be exposed, with no shelter at all. Apart from two cottages, situated about eighty yards from the fort, the spit was home to nothing but a few tussocks of grass. The low wooden jetty he had seen from the estuary was about twenty yards from the cottages. He looked up at the dark gray clouds; it felt as if it should have started raining already. The waves pounded on the shore to his right. Beyond them, across the other side of a wide channel, he could see the hills of the Isle of Wight. On his left there was the long expanse of Southampton Water, leading up to the town in the distance. The waves here lapped gently at the shingle. Between these two sections of water, the spit stretched away to the fort.

  Clarenceux started to walk. A track had been made across the shingle where earth had been packed down. He noted a man on the battlements at the top of the central tower, a black figure against the sky. On one side of the tower he could see the muzzle of a cannon protruding, looking out to sea. On the opposite side, in the outer wall, was a gatehouse, a small two-story structure built of the same light-gray stone. Two long oak beams protruded from it at first-floor level; these were the supports for the drawbridge.

  Clarenceux felt the spatter of a large wave and drew Gervys’s cloak close around him. The drawbridge was down, as to be expected in peacetime, but the gate itself was shut. The cottages near the fort were small and old. Seashore plants had started to grow in the thatch on the nearside cottage, which looked abandoned. There were two linen shirts or smocks hanging on a line near the other. The shutters downstairs were closed.

  He approached the fort, bent down, and picked up a rock from the path. Then he walked across the drawbridge, the hard stone
of the gatehouse looming above him. Without hesitation he knocked hard on the studded oak gate. A voice came ten seconds later. “Who calls?”

  “William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms. To see Captain Parkinson.”

  Clarenceux waited. He looked to his left, back up the estuary. Carew’s boat was no longer to be seen—it had become one of the dozen or so indistinguishable vessels in Southampton Water. Minutes passed. Eventually he heard footsteps, and the snap of two bolts. The gate opened; a man of about thirty appeared. He was clean shaven and had a fleshy face, blue eyes, and light brown hair. His voice was quite soft but his words were clipped, and his tone not at all friendly. “This way.”

  Clarenceux stepped forward beneath the teeth of the portcullis. “Are you John Prouze?”

  “My name is Christopher Serres. Prouze is upstairs. I thought you wanted to see Parkinson?”

  “The person I most want to find is Rebecca Machyn.”

  “Then you need to speak to Captain Parkinson.” Still not making eye contact, the man gestured with his right arm for Clarenceux to stand aside while he shut the gate. He locked it and drew across the drawbar, sealing them off from the outside world. Without another word he led the way out through the gatehouse and across the narrow yard, opening a small door in the central tower. Clarenceux followed him inside.

  The wind whistled through the windows and apertures of the building, the notes rising and falling. By the light of a small window he could see Serres ascending the steps. He followed him, his left hand on the stone. He could hear men’s voices from upstairs; two of them laughed. There was a doorway on his right, apparently leading down. That will be the magazine, he thought as he went past. The steps turned again and opened into a large guard room on the first floor. It was spacious but not very light. All but three of the low windows were shuttered, there being no glass. Several mattresses and blankets lay on the floor. A pewter flagon lay on its side just inside the doorway. Three men were playing cards at a table by a fireplace on the right-hand side of the room. Their conversation ceased as they heard footsteps. When Clarenceux glanced in, two looked back at him silently. Another deliberately did not turn but instead tended to the fire. None of them spoke.

  “Up,” commanded Serres.

  Clarenceux continued to climb the stone steps. On the second floor the doorway opened to reveal several rooms partitioned off behind a screen. He could see a fire glowing in a hearth in a wall on the far side. Directly opposite was a cannon aiming out to sea, the shutters of its embrasure open. A second gun was in an aperture to the right, beside a partitioned area. There was an earthenware jug on the table and three mazers.

  “Keep going.”

  Clarenceux turned and went up the final flight of stone steps. He could see daylight at the top. It seemed bright after the semidarkness of the first- and second-floor rooms, where most of the shutters had been closed. He blinked as he walked out on to the windswept roof.

  “He’s here!” shouted Serres.

  Clarenceux looked across the roof. There were five cannon, one facing toward Southampton Water, one to the mouth of the estuary, and the other three pointing out to sea. A tall man dressed in black stood by one of the sea-facing guns. He did not turn around. Serres went back to the door to the staircase and stood guard.

  Clarenceux walked part of the way across the roof, his hair pulled by the wind. “Captain Parkinson?” he called. Still the figure did not turn.

  Clarenceux had no doubt that the captain had heard him. He looked at the back of his head and studied the brown curls, the thick neck. The man exuded power.

  “What finally brought you here?” Captain Parkinson spoke quietly. The wind coming from the southeast carried every syllable.

  Clarenceux had been expecting an ordinary soldier stuck in a boring routine, with all the frustrations and opportunities for personal advancement that a remote command offered. Someone corrupt enough to accept the Catholics’ silver. But this man who still had his back to him was no ordinary soldier. He was very clearly his own man. There was a reason that he had been singled out as the guardian of Rebecca Machyn. Far from being alienated by this position, captain of a windswept fort, Parkinson seemed at home, staring out to sea—as if the waves too were part of his command.

  Clarenceux understood now why Carew was not here. He was afraid of Captain Parkinson.

  And then the captain turned around.

  Clarenceux felt the horror creep over him as if it was a chill air touching his skin. There was authority in that brow, a handsome structure to the face marked by the sneer of cold command. But the skin was scarred—three quarters of his face was covered with the marks where smallpox pustules had scabbed and discolored the skin. In that instant, Clarenceux saw the tragedy and the monstrosity of Parkinson’s life. With scars like that, men would see that he had been blighted by God, struck with a disease that killed thousands. But Parkinson had survived—he had triumphed even over the deadly ailment.

  “I asked you a question,” Parkinson repeated. “What brought you here?”

  Clarenceux was totally disarmed. He could not think; he was incapable of being evasive. All he could say was the one thing he wanted to know. “Rebecca Machyn,” he said. “You have heard of her, of the Catholic Treasure. Your man John Prouze escorted her from the boat in which she arrived a few days ago. We need to know where he took her and her brother, Robert Lowe. The other man we need to track down is the one who paid for and arranged their passage—Nicholas Denisot, a traitor to her majesty and the State.”

  “You say ‘we.’ That is you and who else?”

  Clarenceux knew he could not lie. He could not say “Cecil.” He saw matters too clearly to be anything other than honest. Cecil had shown him the letter with the words “Catholic Treasure.” Cecil had been the one who had known that the document was in Clarenceux’s keeping. Cecil had known about Rebecca. Cecil’s name had been on the instructions to sink Carew’s ship. All the royal dispatches to Captain Parkinson would have passed by Sir William Cecil.

  “You and who else?” Parkinson repeated.

  Clarenceux swallowed. “Until coming here I did believe, in all good faith, that I was acting on behalf of Sir William Cecil.”

  Parkinson walked slowly toward Clarenceux. His movements were elegant, cat-like; his attention intense. “Now what do you believe?”

  Clarenceux looked out to the sea as if something might come to his aid. “In God Almighty,” he whispered.

  “You have blundered, herald. Like the dumb animal that stands patiently in line while the beasts ahead of it are slaughtered. You insult me with your presence. You insult Sir William too. Did you think you could fob me off with some idle conversation about coats of arms and deeds of valorous men? He wrote to tell me that you might try. He told me that you were clever, that I was to be wary of you. What manner of traitor walks up to a loyal castellan and asks for—”

  “I am no traitor,” interrupted Clarenceux, recovering some of his self-confidence. “I am an officer of her majesty, Queen Elizabeth. I am Clarenceux King of Arms.”

  “I have nothing to say to you. You are under arrest, in the name of her majesty. You will not leave this building. I will write to Sir William inquiring as to your fate.”

  Clarenceux turned suddenly, wondering if he had time to flee, but Serres was standing immediately behind him. Serres searched him from the ground up—he soon found the dagger that Ursula had given him, strapped beneath Clarenceux’s shirt. When he had finished, he nodded to Captain Parkinson.

  “Tell me what happened to her,” asked Clarenceux. “Is she alive or dead?”

  “Go downstairs.”

  Serres turned and walked to the door, holding Clarenceux’s knife and dagger. He held it open, waiting. Clarenceux heard Parkinson following. He started to move. As he neared the edge, he looked over the parapet toward the gatehouse; it was a leap of eleven or twelve
feet. The parapet of the gatehouse was nearly ten feet lower than the tower, so it might be possible. But he quailed at such a risk. If he missed, there was a thirty-foot drop. Onto the flagstones.

  “Move,” ordered Parkinson.

  Clarenceux realized the captain had guessed his thoughts. He went down the stairs to the second floor. The guard showed him in, directing him to the table. Captain Parkinson followed, picking up the mazers and jug and setting them on the floor. “Sit down.” Clarenceux sat on the bench and placed his hands on the table. “Are you going to stab me in the hand?”

  Parkinson glanced at Clarenceux’s wound. “That depends.” He gestured for Serres to close the door. “Sir William Cecil wanted that woman to disappear completely. He did not want anyone to find her, least of all you. I want to know what brought you here. Who told you?”

  Clarenceux looked down. He was being forced to betray someone. No, he was being asked to; he did not need to say a word. If he spoke the truth, he would incriminate Carew and endanger the women at the Two Swans. If he did not speak, he would no doubt suffer himself.

  Parkinson walked behind him, his footsteps sounding on the stone. “Tell me. I am not known for my patience.” The wind was howling a low note through the window where the cannon pointed out to sea. The fire in the cubicle behind him crackled.

  “Damn you!” shouted Parkinson, slamming his palms simultaneously on the table. “Speak—or I will begin by slicing off your ears.”

  Clarenceux closed his eyes and remembered the attic in Mrs. Barker’s house. He remembered the moth. He remembered the image of the moth curled and dead when Kahlu struck his hand with the knife.

  “This is your last chance.”

  “Carew,” said Clarenceux, looking up at Parkinson. “Raw Carew.” He held up his hand, showing the palm to Parkinson. “You can believe this, since you did the same to him. Rebecca Machyn gave my name to the captain of the boat she traveled on. The captain gave it to Carew. Carew came looking for me in London.”