The Roots of Betrayal

by James Forrester

  “Where are you going?”

  “The sea. Out of the embrasure, I am going to drop down into the yard and cross to the outer wall. Then I am going to climb through one of the embrasures there and lower myself into the moat. It’s close to the sea—he cannot follow me there. I still have strength in my arms; I can still swim.”

  Both men listened for sounds of Parkinson in the darkness.

  “You take the sword,” said Clarenceux eventually. “You’d better go.”

  Carew lifted the rope and grappling iron. Clarenceux heard it scrape on the floor. “I can’t swim with this rope,” he said. “I’ll leave it hanging from the outer wall.”

  Clarenceux heard the silence now. Not the silence of them not speaking but the greater silence that surrounded the fort and consumed them entirely—containing all that they were not saying. They were going to face a killer in the darkness. He himself was going to do so unarmed. And Carew, this man who was a hero to many but, as Clarenceux now realized, was like a lost boy wherever he was in the world—was going out to throw his wounded body into the sea.

  “Clarenceux,” whispered Carew, gritting his teeth. “Promise me you’ll save the others.”

  “I will try.”

  “Don’t let any of them die at Wapping.” Carew exhaled slowly with the pain. “You always seem to do what you set out to, even if you make some damned-fool mistakes along the way. I trust you.” He spat again, and breathed heavily with the pain. “What is my family’s motto?”

  “J’espère bien. I hope for good.”

  “Does your family have a motto?” asked Carew.

  “No. But I am thinking of adopting one. ‘In all our struggles, the last word is hope.’”

  Carew reached out and put his hand on Clarenceux’s shoulder. “You have ‘hope’ too, like the Carews. We may be different sorts of men, and we may believe different things and be on different sides of the law, but in that one thing—hope—we are brothers. And that is the most important thing.” He paused. “Say good-bye to Amy and Ursula for me, and Alice.”

  Clarenceux felt Carew’s hand move from his shoulder, then he heard him start up the stairs, dragging his feet. His progress seemed very slow. If Parkinson found him, he would not be able to run. Nor could he easily defend himself. He would not be able to do anything, in fact, but warn Clarenceux with his death.

  It seemed that Carew was climbing the stairs for a very long time. In the darkness each step seemed to take a minute as he dragged his failing body toward its final destination, the sea. Clarenceux felt as if he should be helping him, but that would have defeated the whole plan. He could only wait and listen. Eventually the sound diminished so that there was hardly any noise at all. He could just hear Carew walking unsteadily across the first floor, stumbling against something in the middle of the room. Then there was silence.

  Minutes passed. Clarenceux started to wonder when he should move. What if Carew has been killed noiselessly? Parkinson will come looking for me. He could hear nothing of Carew now, only the vaguest whistling of the wind through the tower. Had he heard that before? Or did it mean there was now a set of shutters open where before they had been closed? All he knew was that Carew had not shouted or clashed swords with Parkinson. That meant Parkinson was probably waiting outside this door, or in the gatehouse.

  Clarenceux counted slowly until he reached one hundred and then started to move in the direction of the stairs. He touched the cold stone of the wall, balancing himself. Without a sword he felt vulnerable. He went up another step, placing his leather sole gently on the stone and increasing the weight, so his footfall was silent. Another step, still touching the wall, listening as he moved. Three minutes later he reached the turn in the stairs and went to take the last step into the first-floor room.

  It was colder here. The fire had gone out, the window on the far side of the room was just visible, the darkness of the sky being the tiniest shade lighter than that of the room. Clarenceux paused. Carew must have left the window open. He stepped forward with more confidence.

  Beside the window, Captain Parkinson waited.

  Parkinson had heard Carew drop down from the tower and had watched the outline of the man as he limped into the sea. He knew it was Carew; Clarenceux was taller. He had let Carew go—Clarenceux was the important one. Parkinson had climbed into the tower the same way that Carew had climbed out. If Clarenceux followed, he would walk straight into him.

  Clarenceux could hear the wind in the casement and the waves beyond the outer wall. As Parkinson held his sword ready, unable to see his prey but listening to him, Clarenceux took another step closer. He hesitated, barely five feet away in the darkness.

  That hesitation was seconds long. Teetering on the very edge of stabbing him, Parkinson shifted his weight. His shoe made a tiny scraping noise on the stone floor. It was enough. Clarenceux realized he was not alone.

  Suddenly, Parkinson lunged—and missed. Clarenceux heard the man move and heard the swish of the sword moving through the air as Parkinson sought him.

  “Where are you?” Parkinson shouted, stepping toward Clarenceux and slashing with the sword. It caught Clarenceux’s right arm, cut the cloth and the skin. Parkinson advanced, cutting again, catching Clarenceux—this time on the shoulder. He followed it up with an attempted thrust into his body. Clarenceux threw himself back across the room, toward the doorway, desperately feeling for the opening. Knowing the layout of the room better, Parkinson reached the doorway first, blocking Clarenceux’s way. Frantic now, Clarenceux tried to push past him, getting in too close for Parkinson to use his sword. Parkinson grabbed Clarenceux around the neck and tried to stab him, but the herald seized his wrist, preventing him. Parkinson then attempted to wrestle him to the ground. Clarenceux elbowed him painfully in the gut, but still Parkinson did not let go. Reaching for the man’s face, Clarenceux felt the bandage and tore it away as Parkinson yelled and tried again to throw him to the ground. Both men fell heavily on the stone floor and Parkinson’s arm gave way. Clarenceux rolled quickly to one side, knowing the captain’s sword arm was now free. He heard the blade strike stone and grabbed at the hilt; finding Parkinson’s wrists, he tried to shake the sword from his grasp but the man was too strong.

  Clarenceux knew he had only an instant to get away. Scrambling to his feet, he heard the clang of Parkinson’s sword on the stone behind him as he pushed himself up the stairs, hoping to get up to the next room. Each man climbed as fast as he could, Parkinson falling a few feet behind as he struck out with the sword. Clarenceux stumbled on the body of Christopher Serres, allowing Parkinson to close on him; he felt a sharp cut as Parkinson’s sword struck the back of his thigh. However, he forced himself on and up in the darkness—and then realized that he had trapped himself. There was no escape from the roof—none except leaping down from there to the gatehouse.

  Clarenceux rushed out of the stairway. Making the sign of the cross on his heart, he stepped up onto the parapet beside the entrance and readied himself to jump. He recalled the twelve-foot gap down to the top of the gatehouse, and his heart failed him. He could not make the jump.

  Stepping down from the parapet, he ran to hide beside one of the cannon. Parkinson did not immediately follow. Instead he waited at the top of the stairs, fumbling with something on his belt, before walking out slowly across the roof. He found the dead body that lay in the lee of the battlements and nudged it with his foot, holding his sword ready. He moved between the guns, tapping with his sword in the crevices and shadows.

  Clarenceux looked up; the clouds were thinning, the silver half-moon was about to appear. The light would reveal him. He had to reach the stairs.

  He felt a few pieces of gravel beneath his knees and threw them across to his left. Parkinson heard the noise and turned in that direction. The clouds began to part.

  Parkinson was just a few feet to one side of his path but Clarenceux could wait no
longer. Rising to his feet, he sprang forward, running straight across the roof. Wrong footed, Parkinson tried to sweep his sword around but was too slow. Clarenceux reached the stairs and found out that the door there was now closed. To his horror, it was also locked.

  Parkinson could see Clarenceux clearly in the half-moonlight. He walked slowly toward him, raising his sword. Clarenceux tugged at the door again but his struggles were useless. Parkinson was ten feet away, eight, six. With a glance to his right, the herald once again saw the jump that he had not dared to make, its stomach-churning drop. But this time he could see the edge of the gatehouse wall in the moonlight. He made a decision, stepped onto the parapet, and hurled himself with all the force he could muster across the dark space.

  It seemed he was a long time in the air, falling. Time crystallized. Each instant seemed to last for several seconds, and in each of those seconds, he felt the air rushing past him and heard the sounds of the night. Yet he did not have the time to think—only to feel. He did not even have the presence of mind to lift his legs or prepare to land. When he crashed heavily on the lead of the gatehouse roof, all the instants compressed themselves suddenly once more. His right knee hurt, his left shin, the ribs on his left side, his left shoulder, and his still-bleeding left hand, which had instinctively been protecting his head. He lay still, aware that he was not breathing. Then the desire for air came upon him overwhelmingly. Yet he could not breathe. He was suffocating, it seemed, unable to open his lungs. He reached out and steadied himself on all fours, finally drawing a sweet full breath. In that position, gasping still, he felt the various pains in his body begin to prioritize themselves, his left hand and ribs most of all. He could feel the wind on his face and hear the sound of the waves…and then the scrape of a drawbar being pulled across down below. Parkinson was coming after him.

  Clarenceux struggled to his feet, holding on to the gatehouse battlements, and stepped along the edge of the roof, looking for a way down. The light of the moon revealed only a trapdoor—but he saw Parkinson’s curl of rope around the stonework, hanging down above the gate. He limped over to it and tried its strength.

  Inside the gatehouse, Parkinson was running up the stairs to the first-floor chamber. He reached the door as Clarenceux let himself down between the battlements, clutching the rope. Clarenceux’s left hand hurt as if the Devil’s claws were in it; his pierced right one was not much better, but he gritted his teeth and held on. Down he went, hand over hand, cursing and feeling a trickle of blood over his left wrist. He heard Parkinson’s feet running across the floor of the guard chamber. He kicked away from the wall and tried to descend faster, but the panic made him lose his grip and he started to fall. He tried to slow himself but the rope tore through his hands. The agony was too much; he let go and crashed the last ten feet to the drawbridge.

  Looking up, he could see Parkinson reaching for the rope. He struggled to his feet and limped as fast as he could away from the fort. Moonlight shimmered off the sea on both sides. He heard Parkinson land on the drawbridge and start running. The man was closing on him. As Clarenceux passed the cottages, Parkinson was just ten or twelve paces behind him. Veering off the path, he made for the jetty, where Carew had broken the boats, and ran into the sea, stumbling on the wet shingle through the shallows, until he was waist deep in the water. Then he started to swim. His ribs hurt with the effort but he pushed himself on, not stopping, fearing Parkinson’s sword. He did not slow down nor turn until he had swum about eighty yards; then he pulled a few more strokes, listened, and looked back.

  In the moonlight he could see the dark figure of Captain Parkinson still standing on the shore.

  69

  Sunday, May 21

  Clarenceux swam across to the west bank of Southampton Water, finding his way by the shapes of the hills against the night sky. He hoped to find the place where Carew had left him the day before. He crawled out of the water, shaking with cold, and sat looking at the dark estuary, listening to the gentle waves. There was no sign of the boat; he was too tired to go looking for it. All he could do was listen to the waves and shiver. In that state he remained for about an hour before he moved to a clump of trees, lay down beneath some bushes, and rested. Later he slept.

  The moment he awoke he was in a panic. It was daylight. Parkinson would be looking for him. Apart from the waves and the breeze in the trees above him, there was no sound. He cursed himself for not finding the boat before dawn. He had to get to Portchester discreetly and as quickly as possible.

  It took him half an hour to find Carew’s boat. There were no oars, which presented him with a problem as he had very little experience of sailing. Also, the tide was halfway out. But having hauled it down to the water, he attempted to use the rear sail. After a few minutes he managed to catch enough wind to move in more or less the right direction. In combination with the rudder he sailed eastward, aided by the wind coming up the Channel.

  He reckoned the time was about seven o’clock. There were already some larger ships coming into Southampton Water and others departing. Several large waves smacked against the side of the boat, splashing him and chilling him again. With every moment of the crossing, he prayed that he would reach the far side of the estuary before Parkinson’s men saw him.

  An hour later he landed. With the tide completely out, he drew the vessel up onto the shingle beach and started to walk inland. He knew from itineraries he had consulted during his travels as a herald that Portchester was a little way to the east, in the middle of Portsmouth harbor. Every step that took him further away from Southampton Water seemed a blessing; every step took him nearer to Portchester, to Rebecca and to the answer to where the document had gone.

  The land here was relatively flat, but many trees and bushes blocked his view. He found a lane and started to follow it. A couple of farmhands leading a bull confirmed that he was heading the right way. “Go on here until you come to the Fareham Road,” said one of them, “then turn left. The bridge at Fareham is what you need. It’s about an hour on foot. And the best part of an hour after that to the castle.”

  Clarenceux thanked them and started walking briskly along the lane. What was he going to say to Rebecca? Up until now he had thought it would be easy. There would be a confrontation and he would demand that she return the document she had stolen from him. As he walked through the trees overlooking the estuary, he knew things were not that simple. Carew had said Parkinson’s men had abused her. It was not the first time it had happened. Many men saw widows as outside the usual order of things. Such women had no father or husband to guard them, no protector to claim that family honor had been impugned. If such women were attacked away from home, they had very few defenses. He felt for her—but that was not why things had changed. He now understood that she had not stolen the document willingly: the Knights had made her do it. She had been trapped by Sir William Cecil, who had sent word ahead to Captain Parkinson to send a man to receive her. She had not just been maltreated at Calshot; at every step of the way she had been manipulated—by the Knights and by Cecil too. No doubt Cecil had made her give up the document. There could be no confrontation. The best he could hope for was to find out who had taken it from her.

  He stopped beneath some beech trees and began to reflect. He himself had told Parkinson that he had come to find Rebecca Machyn. Parkinson knew Rebecca was at Portchester—Carew had heard him say so. Parkinson knew where he was going.

  He started to run. What if Parkinson has sent men on ahead? He is captain of Southampton as well as Calshot—does he have command of Portchester too? No, that is presumably the person in charge of the hospital, in the absence of whichever nobleman has the income for the official title of constable of the castle. Who is that? Sir Henry Radcliffe, brother of the earl of Sussex. But he is in Ireland. His deputy is not in a position to resist Parkinson.

  Clarenceux came to the Fareham Road, panting, his chest bursting with pain, especially around his br
uised ribs, desperate to stop. But he did not let himself; the farmhands had said it would be an hour to the bridge and an hour beyond that. He turned left, around some trees. If Parkinson sent men at dawn, they would be there by now. If so, there is no point in running. But maybe Parkinson has not been so quick; he does not know that I know where Rebecca is.

  He looked for a turning westward, to the harbor. Soon he found one, leading past a couple of old farmhouses. At the second farmhouse a dog barked and ran at him, attempting halfheartedly to bite at his heels. He did not slow down but went straight on, east. He would not go all the way to Fareham Bridge; he would swim the river.

  He reached the trees above the beach on the edge of Portsmouth harbor and stepped down to the water. He could see the castle on his left, on the promontory jutting out into the harbor, about three miles away. Within those massive Roman walls was the medieval castle, which he had visited once, with its tall square keep and royal palace. In the outer bailey was the priory church and the buildings now used as a hospital. Three miles to the southeast he could see the narrow mouth of the estuary, where Portsmouth and its naval dockyard were situated. He could just see the church and houses along the foreshore, in between the ships scattered about the huge natural harbor.

  Taking a deep breath, Clarenceux started running along the fishermen’s path at the top of the beach, which wove between the trees and bushes. He could see the mouth of the river now, and the trees on the far side. Ahead was a long overgrown inlet, its banks muddy with the low tide. He did not hesitate but splashed through, swimming for a few strokes when the water came up to his chest, and then running on. He was heading for a point he could see directly ahead. There was a small wooden jetty there, with a rowing boat. For a moment he thought it meant an easy crossing. Then he saw that, once again, there were no oars. He walked to the end of the jetty and jumped into the shallow water and started to wade toward the deeper flow. Low tide meant that the river was only four hundred yards wide. Portchester Castle was within three miles.