“He abandoned me. A man called Prouze was sent to collect us from the port. There was a delay. When we arrived at Calshot, Captain Parkinson was not there. After one day of waiting, my brother said he was only supposed to accompany me as far as the fort…” She stopped and put her hand to her mouth, nauseated by the memory. “They were just flirtatious at first, and I played along. Then one evening they got drunk.” She swallowed, choking back her memory. “How could he leave me there? How could anyone regard their kin so coldly and be so selfish?” Then she wiped her eyes and said wearily, “Now, you must tell me: why have you come here?”
“When I set out to find you, it was because I believed you had stolen the document on behalf of Mrs. Barker. Then I thought you had stolen it in league with Nicholas Denisot. Now I realize that Cecil used you to mislead both me and the Knights. This journey…” Clarenceux shut his eyes, thinking back. He remembered being tied to the rope and dragged from the Davy, Kahlu plunging the knife through his hand, firing the cannon at the boatload of boarders, attacking Sir Peter Carew’s ship, being locked in the magazine at Calshot Fort, and fighting Parkinson in the darkness before making that jump onto the gatehouse roof. “This journey, which has been the worst experience of my life, has all been in vain—except for one thing. I have seen you again, and you are alive.”
“That is nothing; it is unimportant.”
A tear ran down his cheeks into his beard. Then another. “No, it is not unimportant. For if you had just disappeared, I would never have been happy. I would never have forgotten you, but always would have worried about you, not knowing what had happened.”
Rebecca looked at his clothes. “You need to wash and dress in something else before you go anywhere. And those wounds need attention.”
“I have no clothes—these are borrowed. I am a hundred miles from home, sodden, covered in mud, without a penny, let alone enough to sustain me. If the wound in my shoulder goes bad and kills me, it will probably be the best thing that has happened since…” He wiped his face on his sleeve. “I’ve reached the end, Rebecca. I can’t think or act anymore.”
“William, this is not like you,” she said, dismayed. “You are always so strong, so purposeful. I have never before heard you admit defeat. True, you have made yourself a powerful enemy in Sir William Cecil—I always thought you should not have trusted him as much as you did—but you are still standing. You are still alive. So am I. Where are Awdrey and your daughters? Are they safe?”
Clarenceux shrugged. “I do not know. They went down to Julius’s house. Since then I have heard nothing.”
“You have lost no one. You have some cuts, that is all. Some dents to your pride. I myself have been treated shamefully and unkindly. I have been made to feel like a whore—worse, for a whore is at least paid. A whore can at least say no. I have been stripped of my dignity, my home—everything. Yet I am not beaten. I have not ‘reached the end,’ as you put it. In fact, I have found something in this last week that is good and true. I have found that I can be useful to some people, and valued. After months of doubt and shame, I have at last found a place where I can make a kind gesture and it is appreciated. And I can do an unpleasant task and be respected for it, not scorned or insulted for lowering myself. I have rediscovered what it is to be a woman in a world ruled by men. I can help and heal and caress and encourage—and all these things touch men’s and women’s hearts equally. I may only have been here a few days, and I might have had to go through hell to get here, but I have glimpsed the path I will take from now on.”
Clarenceux listened. Tears of shame came to his eyes. Tears of shame for the way he had presumed he knew her and what she wanted. Tears of shame because he had thought of her only in terms of his own desire for her womanliness, even though he could never offer her more than friendship. If he had thought of her in any other way, it was that she had betrayed him. He had never properly understood the trauma of the months since her husband had died. Now he was glad for her. Mingled among those tears of shame and regret were tears of another kind. Not of joy but of satisfaction, the sort that is not a momentary ecstasy but the result of completeness and harmony.
Rebecca stepped forward and wiped his face with the sleeve of her dress. He took her hand and pressed it to his bearded cheek. “I am sorry for the pain I caused you,” he said. “I am sorry for suspecting you betrayed me. I am sorry that in trying to protect me you have suffered. I am glad for you now, that you have found your path. I am glad.” He kissed her hand.
Rebecca looked at the wound in his right hand and the blood caked on his doublet. She reached down for his left hand and looked at that, inspecting the fresh cuts, the missing fingernails. “When Parkinson has gone, I will take you to the hospital and—”
Clarenceux withdrew his hand. “Parkinson is here? He will be looking for you too.”
“Only because of you. Sir William Cecil ordered him to keep me safely. I will not be in danger when you have gone.”
At that moment, Rebecca turned; an old woman with a clean white headscarf was walking slowly along the side of the house into the yard, her expression apprehensive. When she saw them, she relaxed and walked toward them. “Oh, Rebecca, Mr. Wheatsheafen told me you had come to meet someone at my cottage, and that I should leave off the washing of sheets and make sure all is well.”
Rebecca nodded. “Thank you, Margaret. This is Mr. William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms.” She turned to him. “Although his appearance is somewhat less refined than usual, he is a good man and has come a long way to see me on a matter of importance. I hope you do not mind us using the yard of your cottage for our conversation.”
“Of course I do not mind, Rebecca. Can I offer you and Mr. Harley some refreshment? Would Mr. Harley like to wash?”
Clarenceux nodded. “Some hot water would be most welcome,” he replied.
72
Captain Parkinson glared across the table at the lieutenant of Portchester Castle. “You assured me that you would keep a close watch on her. As Sir Henry Radcliffe’s representative, you should know better than to break your word or shirk your duties. Where is she now?”
The lieutenant was a man of about forty, his hair flecked with gray. He rose from his seat. “Captain, I have two things to say in reply. First, I am no man’s jailer—nor any woman’s either. You entrusted this woman to my safekeeping and I gave her work in the hospital. She was there this morning, and as far as I can see, she is still under my protection.”
“You let her go. You let her escape.”
The lieutenant continued, “The second thing I have to say is that, if you wish to speak to her, I suggest you wait until she returns. As Mr. Wheatsheafen has told you, she will not be gone long. He has every confidence she will be back.”
“She has gone to meet the man who killed four of my men at Calshot.”
“Really? You told me that that was the pirate, Raw Carew. This man, Clarenceux, seems to have killed no one.”
“Damn it, the two men were together—Clarenceux and Carew—last night. I stabbed Carew and he threw himself into the sea. Clarenceux was coming here to see the widow. So if she has suddenly disappeared off to meet someone, I have no doubt who it is.”
“Then why do you not simply follow Mr. Wheatsheafen’s advice and ride after them? Portsmouth is not far. You are wasting time talking to me. If you really do believe she is going back to London, go after her.”
Parkinson smashed his fist down on the table and shouted his reply. “Because I do not believe that fat surgeon.”
“Captain Parkinson, if you do not believe Mr. Wheatsheafen or anyone else under my authority, that is your problem. You have given me no reason to believe that my men are deceiving you, still less that they are deceiving me—and in any case, it is not against the law to tell a lie. Nor to conceal a truth. What is against the law is to accuse my men or Mr. Wheatsheafen of dishonesty. That is defamation of charac
ter and is punishable in the church courts—as you would know, if you ever went to church. Now I must ask you to return to your post—at Calshot or Southampton. I have nothing more to say on the matter.”
Parkinson searched for some response. Nothing came to mind.
The lieutenant placed his hands on the table. “While you are here, I will offer you a word of advice. Sir Henry is aware of the way you manage things at Southampton. He has so far withheld from writing to Sir William Cecil on the matter, but your continued willfulness and extortion of the local population will not serve your reputation any favors.”
Parkinson marched from the room without another word.
73
Widow Baker wrung out Clarenceux’s shirt over the tub in which he was bathing as Rebecca washed around the cut in his arm and the stab wound near his shoulder. She carried the wet shirt across to the other side of the room. “I won’t put this one near the fire, or it will smell of smoke. I have a trick for drying shirts, my dear. A flat stone. Once the stone is hot, it dries the shirt quite quickly and flattens the creases too.”
Rebecca turned back to Clarenceux and spoke in a quiet voice. “Where will you go? Are there no heraldic gentlemen in these parts you could call on?”
“None that I know personally. I have never undertaken a visitation of Hampshire. I have passed through here a few times over the years, when sailing abroad or traveling to the West Country. But that is all. Besides, I have to go back to London. To see Cecil.”
He flinched as she washed the cut on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said, dabbing at the blood.
“No matter,” he replied. “First, I am going to Southampton. I have to pass on the news about Raw Carew to the women he left behind there, in the Two Swans.”
“Did you say you are going to Southampton?” asked Widow Baker, returning across the room. “You should catch the carter, Roger. He’s my son-in-law. He’ll take you.”
“There’s your carriage,” said Rebecca. “Who are these women at the Two Swans?”
“Prostitutes.”
“Really? That is not like you.”
Clarenceux went a little red. “They are sisters called Amy and Ursula and a woman called Alice. All were friends of Raw Carew’s. I promised I would pass on his farewell message to them. Alice he had known for years. Amy was his sweetheart. Although so was Ursula, I gather. His personal life seems to have been a little confused. They both held him in a special regard.”
“Lucky man.”
Clarenceux thought about this. He was at first inclined to agree; but then he thought of the long days and nights at sea, the poor food, the fear, the alienation, and the not being accepted anywhere. Then he thought of the man limping off into the sea, still bleeding from his guts. “No. Everything he had, he had to fight for. And the women weren’t his, as such, like wives. In fact, he had to share them with any man who paid—and many men did. Including John Prouze, the man who took you to Calshot.”
“Ah—that Amy. Now I remember. The men at the fort mentioned her. They suggested I be taken to the Two Swans ‘for safekeeping, like Amy.’ Is she pretty?”
“Yes. But probably not for long. Her sister Ursula has a large scar across her face. Sooner or later it will happen to Amy too.”
“Sooner or later it happens to all of us. It doesn’t always show though.”
Clarenceux looked at her. “You are not the only one who feels it, you know. I carry scars too—some because of you, some because of what you have suffered, and some because of what my wife has suffered on account of me.”
“Scars that can be concealed are easily overlooked.”
Clarenceux stayed only an hour and a half longer at Widow Baker’s house. While he was still in the bath, Rebecca shaved off his beard to make him less noticeable in the streets. Afterward he waited in a towel while both women worked on drying his clothes with hot stones. While he dressed, Widow Baker heated some pottage that she had cooked the previous evening, adding a small portion of mutton that she had put by for her Sunday dinner, and shared it with them. Then she led Clarenceux and Rebecca through the back paths to the carter’s house, avoiding the lanes as far as possible. The carter agreed to take Clarenceux into town and lent him a hat and cloak for the journey. In the yard, standing beside the cart, Clarenceux gave his thanks to the old lady and then turned to Rebecca.
“I don’t know how to say good-bye to you,” he said.
“You don’t have to. Maybe when people part for the last time it is better that they do not say anything.”
“Especially if they love each other.”
“Yes, especially,” she said. A tear ran down the side of her face.
“My dear, you shouldn’t be letting him go, if he feels so tenderly about you,” the Widow Baker said kindly. “It’s a marked rare thing in a man. And he doesn’t look so bad when he’s cleaned up.”
“Thank you for your kind words, Margaret,” said Clarenceux, wiping away his own tears. “Look after her. I find it very hard to leave her. She once told me it was best for both of us if we never met again. And now I know it, in my mind.” He stepped forward, put his arms around Rebecca, and kissed her on the lips. “Not good-bye but thank you,” he said as their lips parted.
“Be brave, be careful,” she replied in a whisper.
He climbed onto the cart and turned, waving once. He could not smile; it hurt too much. Instead he faced forward, along the lane. He did not look back again. He wanted to preserve the thought that he could turn around and look at her just once more for as long as he could, even after the cart had passed out of sight of the village.
74
Clarenceux was in a melancholy state when he arrived in Southampton. He walked through the alleys to the Two Swans trying not to think of Rebecca. He tried to think of Carew instead, and of what he was going to say to Sir William Cecil, but his thoughts inevitably swung back to her. There was a pain in his chest at the thought that he would never see her again.
When he walked into the Two Swans there was the familiar smell of old wine and woodsmoke in the air. Four men were discussing their business at one table, two merchants were sitting at another. Clarenceux recognized no one except Marie Gervys, serving a plate of cold beef and bread to the merchants. At first she didn’t recognize him but looked at his clothes, realizing they had belonged to her husband.
“It’s William Harley, the Clarenceux herald.”
“Ah.” Marie gestured to his face. “The beard.”
“Yes, I cut it off. Tell me, is either Amy or Ursula here? I have news for them.”
Marie beckoned Clarenceux closer. “Amy has gone with a man who owns a skiff she borrowed. Really she is looking for Carew, though. Ursula has paying company.”
For a moment the incongruity of Ursula’s position hit Clarenceux. No doubt she had to be all smiles and soft and loving, despite the fear of what might have happened at Calshot. “Where is Alice?”
“In the hall at the back. Go through the door over there,” she said, pointing.
Clarenceux thanked her and went over to the door.
Alice was kneeling beside a large tub of hot water, singing a tune as she washed sheets. Steam rose into the air. She hauled out a length of material and started rubbing it on the scrubbing board. Clarenceux could smell the potash of the soap. He watched her for a few moments, her upper arms wobbling as she scrubbed, her ample breasts bouncing with the movement of her body. There was a child near her, Amy’s son, dressed in a linen smock, playing in the dirt of the floor with a stick.
Clarenceux coughed. Alice turned around.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Clarenceux,” she said amiably. Then she stopped and let the sheet slip into the water. “Where is he?”
Clarenceux walked closer and crouched down beside her. “I have to say, it does not look good. He asked me to say good-bye to you, and to Ursula and Amy.”
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“What happened?” She remained kneeling, her hands now on the edge of the tub.
“He came to my rescue at Calshot. He freed me from the room where I was held and then helped me escape. But he was badly wounded. He is probably still out at sea, or at best lying wounded on a beach somewhere.”
Clarenceux stood up and walked across the hall to where there were two small benches side by side. The child laughed, playing with his stick, smiling up at Alice. Clarenceux picked both benches up and carried them back to the tub. He placed one down for Alice and sat on the other himself. He began to tell her everything, from the moment that Carew had set him down on the beach away from the jetty. He told her about his meeting with Parkinson and about being imprisoned. He talked about listening to Carew as, one by one, he picked off the soldiers, and about their desperate bid for freedom.
“So,” said Alice grimly. “The Robin Hood of the High Seas is floating out there on the waves somewhere. Possibly forever more.”
The child threw his stick out of reach and started crawling toward it.
“I presume that’s Amy’s son? Is he better now?”
“He’s Amy’s. Raw’s too—or so Amy says. That’s why he’s called Ralph.”
“Raw’s? But…he never said anything about a son.”
Alice shrugged. “If Raw had acknowledged all the children he’d fathered, he’d soon forget which ones he’d acknowledged and which weren’t his. As he saw it, he’d never really know if this boy was his or not, unless he grew up to look like him. He loved all children dearly—he went out of his way to help a girl we found aboard the Davy—but he would never take responsibility for one of his own. He thought looking after children was a woman’s job. He thought quite a lot of things were women’s work. It’s what comes of him being brought up in a whorehouse.”
Clarenceux felt guilty, having left Carew out at sea, not having gone to search for him—having practically abandoned him.
The Roots of Betrayal Page 33
