The Roots of Betrayal c-2

by James Forrester

  Walsingham bowed. “Greetings, Sir William. I am glad of your return.”

  “The feeling is mutual. If I am to be hounded day and night by requests and complaints, let it at least be in the comfort of my own home. But even so, look.” Cecil held up the pile of papers. He flicked among them, found one, and opened it, passing it to his protégé, setting the rest on the table. “Trade with the Low Countries is on the point of collapse. The Merchant Adventurers cannot access the ports because the Hanse has reimposed trade restrictions. It means Spanish intervention, of course; we all know it but we cannot say it. And that is the least of my worries. What am I to do about the earl of Hertford and Lady Katherine Gray, the queen’s cousin? Hales’s book has just made everything ten times worse.”

  “I am sorry, Sir William. Hales’s book? You’ll have to forgive me. Who is Hales?”

  Cecil walked across to a table beside the window, where a pair of silver goblets was standing next to a lidded pewter wine flagon. He filled one and quaffed it. “When Lady Katherine Gray gave birth, she confessed to my wife’s sister that the father was Lord Hertford and that Hertford had secretly married her in a Catholic ceremony.”

  “That was at least two years ago.”

  “Indeed. But do you recall the consequence-that trial, at which the marriage was declared void? Lord Hertford was found guilty of violating a virgin of the royal family.”

  “It’s not the sort of thing one forgets,” said Walsingham. “He was fined fifteen thousand pounds. For sleeping with his wife.”

  “Quite. His wife just happened to be the queen’s cousin, and the queen…Well, you know what I think. My suspicion is that our queen would rather neither of her cousins have any children, so there are no potential heirs to rival whomsoever she eventually chooses. So when Lady Katherine takes matters into her own hands…” Cecil gestured to suggest his frustration. “But the queen’s spite has no basis in law.” He took a deep breath. “A man called John Hales has written a pamphlet pointing out that Lady Katherine’s children should be recognized in the order of succession. Privately, I agree. I had Lord Hertford transferred to Hanworth last year, on the pretext of there being an outbreak of the plague, and placed him in the keeping of his stepfather, Francis Newdigate. I was trying to lessen the injustice of her majesty’s ire. Now it turns out that Newdigate has involved himself in the composition of Hales’s book. I have here letters from Newdigate, Lord Hertford, and John Hales all seeking clemency and intervention. Even that damned Robert Dudley has written one. The queen is isolated-and yet she wants me to bring charges of treason against them. It is a disaster. I am meant to arrange for Hales to be found guilty. Ultimately Hertford is guilty of nothing more than falling in love. Frankly, having seen Lady Katherine, I cannot blame him. She could easily make traitors of us all.”

  Cecil paused and took another gulp of wine. “Hales’s only offense is to point out the legal situation that automatically follows on from them marrying-which no one can deny they have done, with witnesses, and willingly. That the queen does not like it does not render it unlawful: we do not follow Roman Law in this kingdom but our own Common Law. It is hardly surprising that there are plots against her. It’s not made any easier by the fact that she won’t marry. She has said categorically that she will not marry one of her own subjects. So what are we to do? We look overseas. I favor the house of Austria. Throckmorton, from whom I have just received yet another letter, says that he too favors Austria. Roger Strange favors Austria. Robert Dudley also favors Austria. And what does the queen say? ‘No, Sir William, not Austria.’ I despair.”

  “I am all the more sorry to be the one who bears you further reason to frown.”

  “Francis, you are not sorry. It is a constant delight to you, to bring me new challenges. But I trust you not to bother me with trifles. That is why I came back as soon as I could.”

  “Thank you. This concerns the dowager countess of Northumberland. You asked that I keep her ladyship under close watch. Several weeks ago I instructed two young men from Oxford to take up lodgings in the area and monitor the movements of those coming and going to her at Sheffield Manor. The day before yesterday, one of them, George Latham, came to me. He had ridden hard, changing horses, and was in a terrible state. Three days earlier, on the thirtieth, he and his companion noticed a messenger riding through the rain toward Sheffield-a man whom they had previously seen carrying messages to her ladyship. And so they moved to intercept him. They caught up with him at Melton Mowbray, in an inn. The messenger killed Latham’s companion, and then was himself killed. When Latham searched the corpse, he found a message. The original was soiled in the man’s blood, but here is a copy.”

  Walsingham reached inside his doublet and pulled out a neatly folded paper. He walked closer and handed it to Cecil, who opened it. In neat black pen was written the following:

  CCCCX›CCDCCICCCIIIMMCII-‹CCCCCC-,

  /IMMMDCICCCCMMV/CMMMCCX+II–CCVI–CCCC-

  ‹-XI-/CICCCCX, MMMDCCCCI‹DX, MMMLCCCC

  CCCMMMXCCCC+-CCCC‹XIVMMV, /DCCIIX/

  IIXMMMIIXMMMMX,›D/IICCVDMMMCC-›V,D

  CCCC-MMMDCCCC-DCC-‹VDCCMMX‹DCCCC-

  VMMMICCCC-DIMMMMMMDCCVDCIV, /II-D›-

  DCCCCCCCCCX›CCD-LL-‹DXDMMMDCCCCIDCCMMMCC-

  ‹DXDMMMDCCCCIDCCMMMCC–IIXMMMMIII-/-MMM+

  VD‹CC-/IIICMMMCCX+X, DCC-‹CCC+V, CLCCCC

  III–CCCCDMMIILCCCCCCCMM, /, DMMMV, /IIX‹

  CCV, /DCC–CCCC-‹CCV, ›-/DVIMMMMMMMMIIII,/L

  CCCCMMM‹DMMV, /IICC–CCCC–I+, MMMCC–IIXMMMM‹

  , LXCCCCCCCCC–CCCCVCCCCCCCCXIVMMIIXDCCC

  ICCCCCCCC-+CCCC-MMM-, DVDXI-MMMMMMCC-

  IIXMMMMMM-VI–LCCCCCCCMM, /, VD/VII, , DCC-

  MMM-I-,DCCDCCVDII–CCCVCIII-MMMICCCC–C

  IIIXMMMMMMM-, /CICCCCCCCC-+CCCC-MMM-,

  DVDXI-MMMDCCMMCCCCC\/II–III-›CIMMM-,

  /IICCCC/IIICDCCXMMMMMMVCCC–CCC-MMMMMM-,

  ›-CCCC›/MMM+- /CICCCCMMV/CMMMCCX+C

  ICCCC/-ID-/MMM-CCCCIV, DMMM+- CCCC‹CCCCCC

  Cecil glanced at him. “Is it a cipher? Or a code?”

  “I do not know yet. But whichever it is, it shows that Lady Percy is involved with Catholic plots again. She is communicating in secret with someone south of Melton Mowbray, probably here in London. And this new development must be serious. Normally her agents use cut-out templates that relate to commonly available books. To decipher those, all we need is the name of the book and the relevant page numbers, and often that can be determined by a search of the sender’s and recipient’s premises, coupled with some persuasive questioning. This is different. It is hard to decide whether it is a cipher or a code-because it is based partly on Roman numerals and partly on symbols. If it is a cipher, it is not a straightforward one.”

  Cecil studied the document. “There are repetitions nonetheless. I see a few instances of ‘DCC-.’ It should not be too difficult.”

  Walsingham stood beside Cecil, pointing with his finger. “But there are six consecutive appearances of the letter ‘C’; here, seven; and here eight of the letter ‘M.’ No word has a treble letter in it, let alone six, seven, or eight. These are Roman numerals. And that is where the problem lies, for there is no easy way to determine whether ‘CCCCC’ is one word or one letter, or two letters, or two words or a single number representing a sentence. Likewise the appearance of ‘IV’-is that one letter, one word, or two?”

  “Someone must be able to decipher it, Francis. If it is meaningful, there has to be a way to extract that meaning.” Cecil looked at the DCC and tried the usual first step of substituting the most common element in the message with the most common word in the language. But the most common four-letter words with a double letter in the middle used vowels-EE and OO-and those did not fit the other appearances of CC in the code. Even separating out the numerical equivalents-500, 200, and a dash-did not simplify things. If that was a common three-letter word like “and,�
� for example, then 200 was an N and the first word had to begin with a double N. If 200 was “the,” then the first word began with a double H.

  “I see what you mean,” Cecil acknowledged. “This is nothing like a straightforward Caesar cipher.”

  “There seems to be a pattern of variation on numbers. Two hundred appears regularly, in the form of ‘CC.’ But does ‘IICCV’ relate to two, three, or four numbers? It is difficult to know where the breaks are, where a word begins and ends.”

  “The messenger riding through the rain-do we know who he is? Where he comes from?”

  Walsingham walked to the small table by the window and poured himself a goblet of wine. “No. I have asked for the body to be embalmed and brought to the city as quickly as possible. It will take some days. No one locally knows him. Latham says that he took fright immediately when accosted. Also, he was riding hard through very heavy rain when they noticed him. This message, whatever it means, was urgent. Given that fact and its originality, it must be important.”

  “How many men do you have working on it?”

  “Two. I had three copies made last night. The original is safely stored in my house.”

  “Good.” Cecil paused. “The more men, the greater the danger of information leaking out. Work your clerks around the clock. Offer them every incentive to keep going. Decipher it quickly, but don’t make any more copies-and don’t let the existing copies out of your house. Until we know what this means, treat it as dangerous.”

  7

  Clarenceux closed the heavy volume of the Skinners’ Company accounts. He had been checking them in his capacity as one of the Wardens but had not been able to concentrate. His mind had been elsewhere. Seven or eight times he had realized his additions had not tallied with the written entry, and almost every time a second check had revealed that he was at fault, the written entry was correct. Only one correction was marked-one correction to show for an hour sitting in blurred contemplation.

  He got up and set the account book back in its place on a shelf and left the chamber. He waved good-bye to the porter and stepped out into the mild air of the street. It was a short walk to the Machyn house in Little Trinity Lane. Every so often a quarrel of glass in an upstairs window would catch the sun and reflect a brilliant ray of light into his eyes. The mud had dried and was firm to walk on-except at intervals where a cellar or drain had leaked and the ground was still wet, churned by cartwheels and hooves. He breathed deeply of the summer air, tinged with the familiar and not dislikable aroma of the clay, mud, and horse dung of the streets, and a slight whiff of seawater. It was a good day to be out of doors. It would be even better if he were already riding down to Chislehurst, to see his friend Julius.

  Perhaps Rebecca would accompany him?

  Immediately he put the thought out of his mind. Although she had gone to Summerhill with him last December, that had been when they were fleeing for their lives. The moral code that permitted them to be together then now stipulated that he, a married man, should keep a respectful distance from Widow Machyn. There was no doubt what people would say if he were to be seen riding out of the city with her. He had witnessed too many otherwise respectable people clothed in white at the church door repenting of their sins to have any doubt in the matter.

  Outside Rebecca Machyn’s home, he paused and looked up at Mrs. Barker’s elegant house on the other side of Little Trinity Lane, with its high glazed windows and its carved jetties supporting the upper floor. He recalled the horror of last December, when he had killed a man in this street and fled through the backyards behind that house, desperate beyond belief. He made the cross over his chest and closed his eyes in prayer. Oh Lord, may such fear and doubt never enter my heart and mind again.

  He knocked on the oak door of the Machyn house with the hilt of his eating knife and waited. After a short while he heard a woman’s voice and footsteps. Rebecca opened the door.

  Instantly his heart felt glad. He saw her long dark hair, her brown eyes, the large mole on the side of her face. He saw the tragic beauty of her countenance. He saw the woman with whom he had shared so many dangers. He felt purposeful. He smiled.

  “Good day, Rebecca. Thomas told me you called.”

  She did not respond. Just as he had been instantly gladdened by the sight of her face, now he was just as swiftly alarmed by her lack of welcome.

  “You did call at my house?”

  “Yes, I did. It was…nothing.” She looked at him, almost tearful.

  “May I come in?”

  She nodded, left the door open for him, and turned and walked along the corridor to the hall. Clarenceux shut the door behind him. It was dim and chilly inside, especially standing here alone. This was not the reception he had expected.

  Henry Machyn’s old workshop was at the front, on the right. This used to be filled with his rolls of black cloth and heraldic paintings; now it was almost empty. Looking through the open door Clarenceux could see four large chests in the center. The rest of the room was bare, the walls stripped of their decoration, the work table gone.

  He walked down the corridor, past the staircase, and into the hall. Opposite was a large fireplace of stone with a bread oven built into its side. Tallow candles lit the room; there were no windows in here. Two chambers above, the storeroom at the rear and the workshop at the front blocked out any light. A series of cloths painted by Henry Machyn hung on the walls. In one or two places they had started to fray. The floor was covered in straw and there was a smell of stale ale and urine. Two chests were the only storage. A wooden table stood in the center.

  “Oh, fie! What brings you here, Mr. Clarenshoo?” asked a red-faced man of about twenty-five. He was sitting on a small bench beside the table, with his legs splayed, wearing a loose, dirty linen shirt and a sleeveless mariner’s leather jerkin. He was drunk. His blond hair was a mess. “No coats of arms here. None at all.”

  “Good day, John. I’ve come to talk with your stepmother.”

  “Talk? No, you want to do more than that. Lots of men like you want to do more with her. You’re not the first…”

  “John!” snapped Rebecca. “Enough.”

  “I have a right to speak. This was my father’s house and now it is mine.” John Machyn lifted an earthenware flagon to his lips. “And a man can say what he likes in his own home.”

  “Shall we talk in the other room?” asked Clarenceux, glancing at Rebecca.

  She tried a weak smile and led the way out of the hall and through into the workshop. “He’s impossible,” she muttered when Clarenceux drew close. “All he does is drink, swear, and complain. He has no manners. He pisses in the corner of the hall at night rather than go outside. I wish he would go back to sea.”

  “You would be welcome to stay at my house.”

  “You know I cannot. Nor would I want to.” She still did not look at him.

  “What is the matter, Rebecca? You are out of keeping with yourself. Tell me.”

  She sat down on one of the chests. “I am going away.”

  “Forever?”

  “Probably. I don’t expect we shall meet again. In fact, I hope we do not.”

  Clarenceux felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. “Why? What have I said or done? Have I neglected you? Is that the reason?”

  Her eyes were sad. “It is nothing you have said or done. I can hardly say you have neglected me. I have no claim on a married gentleman like you. No, I have been glad of your attention. But we are both laboring under a great weight. You seem to be able to deal with it better than I.”

  “I do not understand. Do you mean we are under scrutiny in our personal lives? Or because of the document-the marriage agreement?”

  Rebecca sighed. “Both. The document mostly. Other people know about it. The surviving Knights of the Round Table know, including my brother Robert. They all expect you to do something, Mr. Clarenceux. And in some ways, so do I. I am too vulnerable to continue living like this.”

  “I am the one who guards
the document. I am far more vulnerable than you.”

  “But you are an important and well-connected man. There are people to whom you can turn for protection. I have no one. And when powerful people come into my house and ask me when you are going to proclaim the queen illegitimate, I have no answer. I wish I did. They talk to me so much; they tell me that allowing you to keep the document was a mistake. They talk of stealing it.”

  “What are you trying to say? That I should start some sort of rebellion, with no coherent plan or support, just to please a few disaffected supporters of the old religion? If they are so keen to foment change, let them say so openly. Let them risk their lives, and the lives of their families. I have too much to lose. And so have you.”

  “Oh, for the Lord’s sake, keep your peace, Mr. Clarenceux. I do not want to hear another word. You are condemning me for the way I feel, for being weak as well as poor and useless.”

  He shook his head, unmoved. “You told me once you did not want to start a revolution; you just wanted to be safe in your own home. But now, that is not enough. You want a revolution and you want to be safe-you cannot have it both ways.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” she yelled. “Go on, stab me some more. It seems you find it quite to your liking. And I, who took so many blows for you just six months ago, who went through all that in the hope that we would be safe…”

  She started crying. Clarenceux instinctively wanted to comfort her but in her present mood he dared not touch her. He looked at her sitting on the chest, sobbing, and felt at a loss. He so wanted to make her smile again.

  “Go. Go away-out of my house,” said Rebecca. She glared at him through her tears. “Please, leave now.”

  Clarenceux looked at her and she held his gaze. He could see that she still held a love for him, but he could also see the strength of her conviction. She was doing this in spite of her feelings.