The Roots of Betrayal

by James Forrester

  “You should have let him have a go at that one he brought here,” replied Lewis Fletcher. “If you had, he wouldn’t be so desperate for Amy.”

  “Where is she now, that dark-haired one with a mole?” asked William Knight. “She was good.”

  “She was good because she was scared,” added Serres. “When they’re scared they really want to please you—they’ll do anything.”

  “She was supposed to be protected, not molested,” Parkinson snapped. “She was sent here by Sir William Cecil. If I had been here it would not have happened. And I seem to recall saying that the condition for forgiving the incident was forgetting it—and that means not mentioning it.”

  “Where did you send her?” asked Turner.

  “Somewhere she is safe from you,” replied Parkinson, “so you will be safe from Cecil.”

  “I bet she’s at Southampton Castle,” said Serres, looking at Parkinson. “I bet you sent her to your own chamber.”

  “No, she’s not at Southampton,” answered Turner. “She’s at Netley.”

  The drunk men laughed. But then Knight added, “No. Kimpton took her to Portchester where she’s a nurse—servicing mutilated soldiers.”

  The four gunners burst out laughing.

  “No, in truth, she is,” said Knight, himself laughing.

  Parkinson was not drunk. Carew heard the laughter stop. Suddenly there was a great clatter of objects as he kicked the cups and mazers aside and struck out at those nearest to him. “You laugh!” he shouted. “You laugh at the orders you fail to follow. You drink and laugh at your own stupidity. I know it is tedious here and I turn a blind eye to your indiscretions, but you shame me. You have no loyalty. You have no values. You are weak, all of you!”

  There was a long pause. Carew imagined Parkinson glaring at the men and he smiled to himself. “Knight, you fetch Kimpton. Serres, you summon Coad. I want to speak to all of you.”

  “Sir, have a mercy, it’s late,” ventured Fletcher.

  “I swear, by these hands, that if you so much as utter another syllable before morning, I will strangle you and dump your body in the Channel.”

  Carew crept away from the shutter, back to the rope. Suddenly this was not going the way he had hoped. His plan had been to wait until the men were asleep and then challenge Parkinson, alone. Now there were just seconds to spare before the body on the roof would be discovered. There was no time now to think or plan.

  He grabbed the rope and swung out, pulling himself up as fast as he could, despite his wounded leg. He was too late. As he hauled himself over the parapet between the crenellations he heard Serres call for Coad and saw the black figure of the man beside the doorway. “Who’s there?” Serres shouted. “Paul? Paul! Damn it—speak, man.” As Carew drew near, with a dagger drawn, Serres sensed him and backed away. Carew went after him, limping. Serres started running. Carew lunged and caught his sleeve near the staircase. He raised his knife, meaning to cut his throat but Serres threw himself sideways, into the stairway. He missed his footing and fell with a shout. He tumbled halfway down to the point outside the room on the second floor, where there was an angle of the staircase.

  One moment Carew was looking at Serres’s prostrate body halfway down the stairs, in the light of the wall-mounted candle. The next he saw Captain Parkinson, sword in hand, come up the stairs and step over the injured man. Parkinson glanced up—and they looked into each other’s eyes. There was one moment of recognition in the small golden light, one moment of them both understanding the depth of their mutual hatred. Then, like a huge bull preparing to charge at a small man, Parkinson started to climb toward Carew.

  Carew drew his own sword and waited.

  It was a mistake. As Parkinson came closer, his body blocked out the light. All Carew could see was a silhouette against the candlelight. When Parkinson made his first lunge, for Carew’s stomach, the latter only managed to deflect the blow by watching his attacker’s shoulders; he could not see the blade. He tried to dislodge Parkinson’s sword with a flick of his own, desperate to end the fight before the other man realized his advantage. But Parkinson gripped his weapon too firmly. Carew’s sword darted up, to cut the captain around the face or neck; Parkinson saw the move, parried the attack, and started thrusting at Carew’s legs and body, all the time drawing closer, a rising shadow. Carew had to step back. He drew his dagger with his left hand and held it ready, more out of desperation than a feeling of opportunity. Again he had to parry a thrust as Parkinson’s sword swept up to his throat.

  Serres began to cry out from where he lay on the staircase. “Christ Holy, Lord God, I cannot move my legs, sweet mother of God, I cannot move my legs!” Over and over again he called out. Parkinson came up another step, ignoring the man’s cries.

  Carew felt his mouth dry. The staircase was too narrow—there was no room to move. Nor could he see the man’s eyes—he could not read Parkinson’s face or predict his thrusts. It was like fighting smoke. He parried another thrust and tried to come forward again, jabbing at the left side of Parkinson’s face with his sword. He almost reached Parkinson’s neck but Parkinson reacted in time, smashing Carew’s blade against the wall. Immediately Carew drew it back across his line of vision and jabbed the other side. Parkinson dodged the cut, tried to grab Carew’s sword hand with his left hand, and lunged with his own blade at Carew’s abdomen. Carew did not see the thrust coming. He felt Parkinson’s blade pierce his skin, sinking deep into the flesh above his left hip. When it was suddenly withdrawn it felt as though his guts were slithering out through a hole of pain.

  Carew’s face creased but he dared not look down at the wound. He fended off another downward slashing cut, and another, as Parkinson tried to finish him there. Suddenly, with a chilling clarity, he realized he might very well die here on these stairs. It was not the pain so much as the new feeling; the thought of his entrails slipping, his nerves sparklingly cold. How disappointing it would be, to die here! How mundane. All his life he had believed he was indestructible. Now, through a simple mistake, everything was undone. Everything he had ever learned was going to be unlearnt, unknowable, unknown.

  Gasping, he looked at Parkinson. The captain took another step up and paused for a moment, looking at him. Carew sensed the man was smiling.

  The pain, the thought of dying in Calshot Fort and his adversary’s smile were all too much for Carew. Fury seized his mind, hatred took hold of his body, and his spirit lifted him. Suddenly everything was so simple. He only had one enemy—one enemy in the whole world. The rest of his life could be spent killing him. He took a step down toward the captain and whisked the tip of his sword across his gaze, drawing it back and just touching the man on the head for an instant before withdrawing it to parry the man’s next thrust. All the things he had hoped for and fought for—they were all gone now. All there was, was this dark staircase and this murderous black shape.

  Taking another step forward, he remembered the war cry that Clarenceux had told him was what his ancestors used to shriek in Ireland. It was his birthright, no matter that he was a bastard. If ever there was a time to use it, it was now. “A Carew! A Carew!” he yelled, his face twisted with anger and the desire to kill. He advanced three more steps. Parkinson lifted his sword and hacked at him hard, once, twice—but the third time he saw Carew’s blade suddenly coming straight into his face. He stepped back and prepared to lunge at the oncoming pirate, but he was not prepared for the ferocity of the attack.

  Carew cut furiously, bellowing “A Carew! A Carew!” over and over again. He could see better now—he could see the shape of his enemy’s face. And he cut harder and faster.

  Serres screamed again on the stairs. Men started shouting on the floor below. Parkinson shouted back. “Damn you! Knight, Fletcher, Turner! Come—now!” He redoubled his efforts and put his foot on the step above, stabbing at Carew’s bleeding thigh, but Carew twisted his sword before his eyes and unexp
ectedly cut sideways, catching the captain above his left eye, then cut down, slicing open two inches of the man’s left cheek. Blood flowed straight into Parkinson’s eye and down the side of his face, forcing him to retreat several steps while he wiped it away. He felt the wide cut of the wound. Down came Carew’s sword again, forcing him to lift his sword and look through the red cloud of blood. “Knight, Fletcher—fetch weapons!” he roared again. “Come up here and fight!” He wiped his eye and tried to come forward, the side of his cheek hanging loose. “Curse your soul, Carew. This is where this ends.”

  The blades clanged together as Carew’s steel met Parkinson’s. A second time he met Parkinson’s cut, and a third. Then he made an attack of his own, catching Parkinson’s shoulder and slicing his tunic open, cutting his skin. With blood in his eyes, the captain had to give up yet another step and stumbled on the hysterical Serres, who cried out again. Surprised to find flesh beneath his feet, he retreated two more steps.

  At that moment, a movement behind Carew caught Parkinson’s attention. Carew saw the captain shift his gaze. The guards had not come to Parkinson’s aid because they had found Carew’s rope.

  Carew did not turn around. Seizing the one opportunity open to him, he swung his sword into the candle on the wall, extinguishing it while he dived into the dark of the second-floor room. He then stretched out with his hand and made his way to the right as men shouted in the darkness and Serres yelled and Parkinson tried to give orders. Serres suddenly fell silent, his wind pipe cut.

  Carew touched a wooden partition and tried to crouch behind it. The wound in his abdomen was painful; his clothes were already stiffening with the blood caked on them. He felt his way toward the embrasure nearest to where his rope was hanging and stumbled. For an instant there was a flicker of golden light in the doorway.

  “Give me that torch,” shouted Parkinson. “Go and fetch the others, and more lights. Kimpton, you follow me.”

  Carew sheathed his sword, put his dagger between his teeth, and pushed himself toward the shutters. He felt the catch, pulled them open, and climbed out into the embrasure.

  When Parkinson entered the second floor with the flaming torch held aloft, he looked around the central area, and then within each partitioned chamber. The shutters to the embrasures where the two cannon were positioned were open as usual, but so was a third set of shutters. He went to them and looked out. There was no one there. Curious, he placed the torch on the stonework and climbed through the opening. Being considerably larger than Carew, it took him longer. Once out, he took the torch and held it out beyond the wall. He looked down but could see nothing—the torchlight did not extend so far. He looked both ways around the wall; there was only a limp rope. If Carew had left the second floor, he had made his escape very quickly.

  Suddenly, Parkinson heard a scuffling behind him. He turned—just in time to see the shutters close.

  “Damn you!” he cursed, kicking hard at them. They did not open. “Kimpton!” he roared. “Open the shutters!” He called in vain. Kimpton was lying in a pool of blood. Carew had swung around and climbed into another embrasure, and had re-entered the second floor in darkness. He had seen Kimpton’s silhouette against the door, grabbed him, cupped his hand over his mouth, cut his throat, and let him fall. He now had his shoulder against the shutters, blocking Parkinson from re-entering. He jammed his dagger into the catch, holding the shutters fast. “Open these shutters, you dog!” shouted Parkinson. Then he fell silent, realizing that Carew was on the other side.

  Carew waited, gasping, touching his abdomen, and feeling the wetness of the blood. He tried to quiet his breathing. He wanted to listen. When Parkinson tried to descend by the rope, he would cut it. Parkinson would fall onto the jagged edges of the stonework below. But as Carew listened, he heard more footsteps on the stairs and saw more flickering lights. The remaining gunners were coming in search of him. He limped across the room and opened another set of shutters and climbed into the embrasure there, and lowered himself from the edge by his arms until he was hanging from his fingers. The pointed top of the embrasure of the first floor was now level with his shoulders. Fighting the pain in his abdomen and leg, he began to swing his lower body to and fro—and when he had enough momentum, he let go, falling into the first-floor embrasure. Picking himself up, he turned and lowered himself again, dropping onto the octagonal plinth on which the tower was built. He pressed himself to the stone in the darkness and shuffled around to where his rope hung down, directly below the embrasure where Parkinson was shouting.

  Inside, Parkinson’s men were afraid and confused.

  “Captain Parkinson,” called William Knight from the staircase, a torch in one hand and a sword in the other. “Captain, are you there?” He darted across the doorway and held the torch aloft. Peeping around the jamb he could see nothing in the room. He glanced at Bill Turner, also holding a torch and a sword, and entered tentatively. He heard a kick against the shutters and moved to see who was there. He saw the dagger fastening the catch. “Bill, come here. Cover me.” As soon as Turner was near, Knight set down his sword and pulled out the dagger, undid the catch and opened the shutter.

  “Kill him,” snarled Parkinson as he climbed back through. “Find Carew and kill him. I want him dead within five minutes.” Holding his torch, he strode to the doorway and stepped over Serres’s corpse. He looked up the stairs and down. “Bring me Carew’s head.”

  “Where is he?” asked Turner. “Tell us and we will find him.”

  “I wounded him. Look for the blood,” shouted Parkinson.

  Knight looked at the captain’s ruined face; he wanted to point out that he too was bleeding heavily. There was also blood on the roof, blood on the stairs, and pools of blood around Coad, Kimpton, and Serres—but he said nothing. When Parkinson was this angry, there was no saying what he might do.

  Outside, Carew flicked the rope and dislodged the grappling iron. It fell with a heavy muffled clang in the yard. He hid in the shadows until he was certain there was no one there. Then he began to wind the rope.

  “Where’s Fletcher? Where’s Coad?” demanded Parkinson, standing beside Serres’s dead body in the doorway to the second-floor room.

  “Coad is dead—on the roof,” replied Knight. “Carew cut his throat.”

  “And Fletcher went to warn Widow Reid,” said Turner. “He hasn’t come back.”

  “Bloody coward!” shouted Parkinson. “I’ll lock him up for a month.” He looked at Knight and Turner, both holding torches. There was a moment of complete silence, in which only the wind whistling through the shutters could be heard. “What are you waiting for?”

  Knight started to look around the room, in each of the partitioned areas.

  “You, go and fetch the rope he’s been using,” said Parkinson to Turner. “It’s hanging from the roof.”

  Turner stared at Parkinson in frightened astonishment. He put a hand to his wrinkled forehead. “There are only the three of us left. What if he is…”

  Parkinson struggled to control his anger. “Lean out of that embrasure near you,” he hissed, “and cut the rope you find there. That will stop him escaping. When you have done that, we will go up on the roof together. And if he is not there, that means he is not in the upper part of this tower.”

  Turner did as he was told. He placed his torch down carefully and climbed through the window with some awkwardness. He felt around to the left, then to the right. He checked both sides again. There was a long pause. After a minute, he started to crawl back into the room. “There’s no rope there, Captain Parkinson.”

  As Turner and Knight looked at Parkinson’s grim face in the torchlight, they heard a distant, knocking sound. The sound of wood on metal.

  “What’s that?” said Knight, looking at Parkinson. “The prisoner?”

  Parkinson waited, listening further. “Go down and find out.”

  Knight hesitated. “By
myself?”

  “Yes, by your God-abandoned self. Why am I surrounded by cowards?”

  Knight left the room and started to creep downstairs.

  Turner picked up his torch. “Sir, there is no rope outside. At least none I can feel.”

  Parkinson looked at the door. “Knight!” he shouted. The red-bearded man had not gone far and soon reappeared in the doorway. “From here on, we stick together. We will search this tower inside and out, starting from the top. All three of us. I will lead. Knight, you watch our backs. Turner, you follow in the middle.”

  The three men started to climb the staircase, all clutching torches in one hand and swords in the other. Parkinson took each step very slowly as he neared the top, listening for any sound of the pirate. With a couple of steps still to go, he stopped and silently gestured for Turner to take his torch, allowing him to go on ahead unseen. He drew near to the top step and pressed his back against the wall, holding his sword ready for a quick thrust. His left arm he held up as protection. But no blow came. He eased himself into the doorway and then through. The next moment he moved swiftly away from the door and swept his sword along the top of the roof over the staircase. No one. “Come up,” he commanded, trying to look around the roof in the darkness. Turner emerged with the torch and then Knight, each looking apprehensive. Parkinson took his torch again and saw the body of Coad lying against the wall. He examined the crenellations all the way around; there was no sign of the rope. “It must have been a hook,” he said “He must have shaken it loose after he went down.”

  “Does that mean he has gone?” asked Turner.

  Parkinson held up a hand. He could hear the sound of knocking on wood again. Except that now there were two knocking sounds: one louder than the other. One was coming from within the fort, the other from the beach.