“Are you telling me you are here because of him? What did he want with you?”
Clarenceux breathed deeply. “He thought that I could lead him to Nicholas Denisot. He offered to take me to Rebecca Machyn if I would lead him to Denisot.”
“And did you?”
Clarenceux looked down at the table, trying to keep calm. He had discovered the limits of Parkinson’s knowledge. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the agreement was that he should lead me to Widow Machyn first. Only when I had seen her and discovered why she had betrayed me—only then was I going to lead him to Denisot.”
Parkinson bent down and lifted the jug, swirling around the liquid. He raised it to his lips and drank, looking at Clarenceux. “Do you want some? It’s not good,” he said, offering the jug.
Clarenceux hesitated, then decided it was a sign of peace. He took it, drank a mouthful of the old wine, and handed it back.
“Where is Denisot now?” Parkinson demanded.
Clarenceux was about to answer that he did not know. But at that instant he realized that that was not true. If Denisot paid for Rebecca to be taken to Southampton, and if Cecil had sent the instructions ahead to Captain Parkinson, then Denisot was taking orders from Cecil.
“In London,” he said. “He works for Sir William.”
Immediately he said the name, Clarenceux regretted it. He watched Parkinson take another draught of wine, set the flagon back on the floor, and walk toward the sea-facing cannon.
“You were going to barter information concerning one of Sir William’s men in order to find Widow Machyn?”
“What makes you think I was going to tell Carew?”
Parkinson turned and studied him. “You aren’t the double-crossing type. Also, Carew would cut you to ribbons rather than let you make a fool of him. Were you with him in the skirmish with Sir Peter Carew?”
Clarenceux said nothing.
“And Sir Peter let you go?”
“He interrogated me and found that I was on board Carew’s ship unwillingly.”
Parkinson bent down and picked up the wine jug. He took a step nearer Clarenceux, who held up a hand as if to say he was not in need of more wine. But then Clarenceux saw the momentum of his arm as Parkinson swung the earthenware jug as hard as he could against his head. It smashed against his temple, sending him sprawling on the floor, reeling, spattered in wine. “Don’t you lie! Don’t you dare lie!” shouted Parkinson. “You told me you had made a deal with Carew—so don’t tell me that you were on board that ship unwillingly. And if you misled Sir Peter in that way to save your skin, you deserve worse than whatever fate Sir William has in mind for you.”
Clarenceux tried to get up. He was dizzy, unable even to support his weight on his arms. He fell back to the stone, gasping. The smell of the wine and the dizziness together made his stomach lurch and heave. He vomited where he lay on the stone.
Parkinson curled his lip in disgust and stepped over him. As he left the room he said to Serres, “Take this deceiving, lying, vomiting rat down to the magazine. Clear up the floor when you have done it. And bring me some paper—I am going to write to Sir William.”
66
It was dusk. On the roof of the tower Paul Coad felt the rain begin to fall. He raised his cloak above his head to ward off the worst of it, but a moment later it began to pelt down. He ducked into the doorway and descended the stairs. The smell of vomit rose to greet him—still lingering even though it had been mopped up several hours ago. He cursed. It should have been John Prouze’s turn to be on the roof this evening, not his. Prouze had been sent off by the captain with an urgent message for Sir William Cecil, telling him that Clarenceux had arrived and was now locked in the magazine.
Coad listened to the rain and heard its force weakening. Not wanting to be shouted at by the captain, he made his way back up the stairs to shelter just inside the doorway.
A mile away to the west, Raw Carew dragged the sloop out of the water, putting the weight on his good leg. He took the rope and grappling iron he had brought with him and sat down with a tablecloth he had taken from the inn. He glanced toward the fort in the fading light and cursed as he saw the rain come down. Sheltering beneath a tree, he started to bind the cloth around the grappling iron, ripping off thin strips and tying them on tightly. As he worked, he kept a regular check on the battlements; the guard was no longer to be seen. That was good news for him approaching the fort but bad news for when he was inside. According to Amy, there were seven gunners stationed there, plus the captain. He had seen one man leave; unless there were any occasional visitors, seven were left, including Parkinson. The grappling iron was ready. He tossed it onto a rock a few times; it did not clang. He slung the rope over his shoulder and started to limp through the wood.
Ten minutes later he was sitting in the undergrowth at the edge of the spit, his wounded leg stretched out. He was watching the clouds to the west. From long experience he knew the light from the west would reflect off the water, even though there was no sunset. The waves would be silvered with the brightness of the sky. To someone at the fort, the spit itself would appear like a dark shadow between the two surfaces of light. He waited for another cloud to pass, so more light would reflect off the water. Crouching down on the lower inland side, so his silhouette would not show against the sea, he began to crawl the long distance toward the solid hulk of the fort, moving on his arms and knees, using his weak leg as best he could.
Captain Parkinson was in the guard room on the first floor with most of his men. Some were seated like the captain; others were sitting on the floor. There were bowls around them. They were playing cards by the light of a tallow candle. All the shutters were closed except one.
William Knight flung down the Queen of Clubs. A small cheer went up from the others. His amiable red-bearded face broke into a broad grin.
“You’ve been hiding that up your sleeve,” declared Lewis Fletcher, a pale, thin young man. He threw down his cards and dropped two pennies into the pot in the middle of the floor.
“Should have played dice,” declared Bill Turner, doing likewise. He was the oldest member of the garrison, in his fifties and gray haired.
“No, not dice,” said Parkinson, tossing down his cards. “Cards at least have some skill, even if it is little more than memorizing a few numbers. Dice is nothing but luck.”
“But luck is the will of the Lord,” said Christopher Serres.
“And so is the luck of the cards,” replied Knight, lifting up his cards for Serres to see.
“For that, you can take all these bowls to Widow Reid’s,” said Parkinson.
“Tomorrow,” pleaded Knight, passing his cards to Serres.
“Now,” insisted Parkinson. “On your way back up, bring some more wine. And tell Kimpton he should bar the gatehouse when you come back through.”
In the darkness of the magazine Clarenceux heard Serres and Knight go down the stairs. He heard one of them drop a bowl and curse and place the rest of his load on the floor. He listened to the conversation as they left the tower and went out across the yard, and noted the phrases “Paul on the roof” and “Widow Reid the washerwoman” and “Captain says bar the gate when we’re back.” As they passed out of hearing he caught the end of a sentence: “he sent John in the rain with a letter for Cecil.”
Clarenceux sank down against the wall of his cell. He was disappointed with himself. Carew had been right; he had not thought deeply enough about Parkinson. No one knew where he was and the message to Cecil had already been dispatched. The stench of sulfurous gunpowder in the magazine was nauseating. The taste in his mouth was worse. He was hungry, not having eaten since that morning. And the only person who knew his whereabouts was Carew—a man who had recently turned his back on several men who had risked their lives for him. Perhaps worst of all, he now knew that Cecil was the architect behin
d all this—that Cecil was the one who had arranged for Rebecca’s escape from London by ship. Cecil had been playing games with him all along.
What now, William? What now? At least he could be sure they would not bother him tonight. It must be dark by now and they could not enter here with a burning light for fear of sparks or dropping the candle. That meant he had the night to think.
He understood now why Rebecca had been so anxious that last time he had seen her. She had already had discussions with Mrs. Barker and the Knights and they had persuaded her to steal the document for them. They had planned her journey away from London. Only someone else had got to her first: Cecil himself. Using Denisot to contact the captain of the Davy and Parkinson to arrange Rebecca’s reception in Southampton, he had effected a smooth escape for her. All Cecil had to do was to arrange for someone to collect the document from her, wherever she might be. It was a brilliant coup. It meant Cecil got the document and left the Knights and Mrs. Barker thinking Rebecca had betrayed them. And it left him, Clarenceux, thinking the same thing.
Yes, thought Clarenceux, Cecil had almost pulled it off. But he could not afford to risk the herald telling anyone else what had happened. That messenger who had gone off to Cecil—he would certainly return with a death warrant. It would be an unwritten one. They were the most deadly kind.
67
Carew pressed his face to the shingle, tasting the saltwater as the waves lapped around his face.
He was hiding behind an upturned rowing boat. His left leg and sword were in the waves and his right one was stinging as if the Devil’s claws were fastened in it, but he dared not move. It was not quite dark enough. Two men were talking to a woman in front of the cottage only twenty feet ahead of him. If he stood up now, they would probably hear him on the noisy shingle. They would certainly see him.
He listened intently. He heard the waves beside his ear and the rain falling around him. The men at the door to the cottage spoke about a butcher in Southampton and the amount of gristle that one of them had had in a meal. He heard that a man called Paul was on the roof in John’s place because John was “taking an urgent message to the queen’s Secretary.” That told him enough. Clarenceux had been detained but Parkinson was not bold enough simply to kill him without authority. The herald was a lucky man.
A little later, he heard the woman close the door to the cottage and watched the men return to the fort. He was alone in the near-darkness, with only the waves and the rain for company. Just as he wanted.
Creeping forward to the drawbridge, he knelt at the foot and tested the strength of the ropes that connected it to the beams above. An instant later he was climbing one of them. Swinging his wounded leg over the edge of the beam, he bit his lip to control the pain in his thigh. But he was up. He shifted along to the gatehouse wall and took the rope from his shoulder. Looking up, he carefully swung the muffled grappling iron; it landed beyond the crenellations on top of the gatehouse. Even if the man on the tower roof had heard that dampened noise he would be unlikely to see anything. Nevertheless Carew waited, listening. After a minute he climbed; twenty seconds later he was on the roof of the gatehouse, crouched down inside the darkened battlements.
He took the rope and coiled it again, deciding his next move. He had thought initially that he would use the grappling iron to get on to the roof of the tower, but even a muffled grappling iron would be bound to alert the guard. Swinging hard across the gully would mean a loud landing against the tower wall and a hasty climb, with the certainty of an unfriendly greeting at the top. A better plan was required.
He climbed over the battlements of the gatehouse and, holding on to the parapet, lowered himself down as far as he could. He let himself drop the last two feet onto the top of the perimeter wall, then moved to a point directly above one of the embrasures, through which the cannon fired, and climbed down onto one of the cannon, which he could just make out in the darkness. From there he slipped soundlessly onto the courtyard flagstones. Flat against the wall, he moved in a clockwise direction, crossing the gatehouse passage, until he was facing the door to the tower. He moved closer, listened, heard nothing, and tried the door. The two men he had seen earlier had left it unlocked.
Inside it was completely dark. But he had been here before, when he had had his last run-in with Captain Parkinson, and knew that there were a few steps and then the passage turned forty-five degrees to the left. The door to the magazine was on the right, and that was where Parkinson would have put Clarenceux. It was where he himself had spent three tedious nights a few years ago. There were no other places in the small fort where a prisoner could be secured.
Carew looked up the stairs. No light, not even the flicker of a candle. The gunners must have closed the door to the guard room at the top of the stairs.
Inside, Clarenceux had found a sack and had emptied it of its contents to have something softer than the stone to sit on, but even when he had doubled it over, the hemp gave him little comfort. He shifted again, thinking of Awdrey at Summerhill, talking to Julius. If truth be known, they were probably boring each other. She did not share Julius’s antiquarian interests and he had scant concern for anything that was not connected with the chivalric past, theology, or the management and improvement of farming land. He imagined her tucking their daughters into bed by the light of a candle and sighing with relief that Julius would have gone off to his study with a pint of sack and a pile of papers. She would be worrying about where he was, never thinking of this darkness, this smell of sulfur, or the corruption in the government that she so trusted. She would not have believed the duplicity of Sir William Cecil, nor the double standards of his wife Mildred. Lady Cecil’s offer of an ambassadorial post must have been part of Sir William’s plot to get us out of London. Lady Cecil must have known.
Suddenly he heard a soft knocking in the darkness: three short taps on a piece of wood. Was that a rat? Or a noise from upstairs? “Who’s there?” he said quietly, testing the silence.
Three more quiet knocks. That was all.
Clarenceux’s heart leaped. “Carew?”
One knock.
Clarenceux scrambled to his feet and felt his way to the steps that led up to the door. He pressed his mouth to the jamb. “Can you get me out?”
There was a pause. He heard the sound of Carew kneeling down beside the door. Then a whisper: “There is no key, but I will do my best.”
Clarenceux was so surprised that he hardly cared that the man had no means of freeing him. Someone knew where he was. He sat on the steps and said a prayer for Carew. Even though the man was a godless creature, he had shown faith—in him, Clarenceux.
“What is your plan?” he whispered again. But there was no answer. Time started to flow slowly through the darkness, as if it had been frozen and was now melting.
68
The six men in the guard room played cards, argued, and drank late into the night. Only once were they alerted to something unusual; two of them noticed a distant clatter of metal on stone. William Knight went over to the window nearest the noise, opened the wooden shutter, and examined the embrasure; there was nothing to see. The guttering candlelight only showed the blank space and the flagstones of the embrasure—a wide space in the thick wall designed to allow the cannon the widest possible range and elevation. Had he crawled into the embrasure itself and looked up, he would have seen the cause of the disturbance, for Carew was hanging by his hands from the edge of the second-floor embrasure, pulling himself up. But Knight did no such thing. He closed the shutters and rejoined the card game.
“Lock the door to the tower,” said Parkinson, who was more alert to the possible dangers than the rest of his men.
Carew pulled himself up slowly into the darkness of the embrasure on the second floor. He found the edges of the shutters and tried to open them. There was a fastening in place, stopping them from banging in a high wind. Pulling out a knife, he ran it up the centr
al crack between them and lifted the catch. Hearing nothing but the wind and the waves, and laughter from the men on the floor below, he opened the shutters and crept in. He closed them behind him and made his way across the chamber toward the stairs, where the single flame of a wall-mounted candle was burning.
Paul Coad was huddled in the most sheltered corner of the roof, as Carew knew he would be. Over the wind Coad heard a voice call him from the direction of the door. “Paul? Captain says you’ve done your shift. You can go in. William will take over.”
Coad did not recognize the voice. Nor could he see anyone in the darkness. The clouds concealed the half-moon that had risen earlier. Nevertheless the message was welcome and he rose to his feet and made his way to the dark silhouette of the door. He reached out with his left hand and turned inside. Carew was waiting with a knife. Coad opened his mouth but never spoke. A hand clamped over his face and the blade slipped through the skin and muscle of his neck. He struggled and kicked for barely a second before all the life force drained out of him with a spurt of blood that splattered against the wall of the staircase. Then he slumped, a dead weight in Carew’s arms.
Carew hauled the corpse back onto the roof and dragged it across to the point where Coad had been sitting earlier, in the concealed lee of the battlements. With the body stowed in the darkness, he fastened the grappling iron over the battlements and let himself down the outside of the wall to the first floor. He tucked himself into one of the embrasures, to wait and listen to the conversations within.
Half an hour passed. He cursed the cold of the wind but knew it was his safety. None of the men within would open the shutter and allow a gale to blow through the warm room. He heard bets placed and coins dropped into the pot. He heard one man accuse another of cheating and the shouts of Captain Parkinson bringing them to order. He heard John Prouze’s name and the comment that he had probably got no further on his journey than the Two Swans, where he had a sweetheart. “He had better be halfway to London by now,” said Parkinson in a serious voice. “No time for common women.”
The Roots of Betrayal Page 28
