The Roots of Betrayal c-2

by James Forrester

  “Please, Mr. Clarenceux. Go.”

  Clarenceux moved toward the door. He paused beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. She did not say anything. Nor did she move. He then walked out of the room into the corridor, opened the door to the house, and closed it behind him as he emerged into the street.

  Two boys were playing in the shadow of Mrs. Barker’s house. It felt as if he had walked between two distant cities in an instant. Here he was looking on new faces and a brighter future. He had come with affection in his heart and he was leaving with a pain-filled hollow.

  8

  Saturday, May 6

  William Gray sat at a table in a tavern on Thames Street, a little to the east of the Tower of London. It was an inexpensive but respectable establishment, with cloths on the tables and good wine on display in marked barrels. The bread was good, and he ate it hungrily. Freshly baked white bread was something he missed at sea.

  It was still before noon. Men were eating and drinking at the tables, talking in low voices. They were almost all gentlemen mariners: men who dressed well and looked at the sea as one vast opportunity. They transported their chests aboard, full of their most treasured belongings, and slept on mattresses in their own cabins. They had little to do with the penniless urchins who slept where they could in the shadows of the lower decks, before the mast. These men tended to be ruthless, selfish, and lustful. William Gray felt at home among them.

  The tavern door opened and Gray found himself looking at the face of a man he had not seen for six years. He had lank black hair and a narrow face. His hose were of the loose, flouncy style and he was wearing a doublet and cape. Without invitation he sat down opposite Gray, looking at him.

  “Nicholas Denisot,” said Gray, chewing his bread. “What do you want, after all this time?”

  “I’ve come to thank you for rescuing me from Calais.”

  “A little late,” he said, still chewing.

  “Even so. I did say that one day I would repay my debt. I have a task for you, one that will prove lucrative.”

  “Go on.”

  “My employer has an urgent need for two people to be transported to Southampton, a man and a woman. They are inconspicuous and socially unimportant, but they bear something of great value-inestimable value. I cannot tell you what it is. Suffice to say, my employer refers to it as ‘the Catholic Treasure.’”

  “And after I have taken them to Southampton?”

  “That is all you have to do. Take them, as quickly as possible. If you set sail this afternoon you should arrive in four days.”

  “Five, with the wind coming up the Channel. How much?”

  “Two hundred pounds. In gold. As long as you get them there within four days. Five at the most.”

  Gray stopped chewing. He stared at Denisot. “Why such a sum?”

  “Two hundred is the maximum I am authorized to offer, no more. I could bargain with you but that would be a waste of time. The Catholic Treasure is a precious cargo. And you are to ask no questions of either the man or the woman. Nor are any of your men.”

  Gray was still unsure. “Who is my employer?”

  “If anyone asks you, you are to say ‘Percy Roy.’ That is all you need to know.”

  Gray lifted his mazer of wine and took a draught. He turned the silver-mounted wooden cup between his fingers. “I cannot guarantee the weather. And as this is not ordinary business, I will want more than half in advance.”

  Denisot looked around and caught the taverner’s attention. “More wine and another cup.” He turned back to face Gray. “You are quite right. This is not ordinary business. If you guarantee you can set sail today, I will arrange delivery of one hundred and fifty in advance. A message has already gone ahead to Southampton for a local agent called James Parkinson, the captain of Calshot Fort, to look out for the Catholic Treasure on the tenth. You should fly three St. George’s flags from the main mast as you come into the harbor and send the passengers ashore in a rowing boat. Captain Parkinson will confirm their safe arrival by a letter, and he will direct you to where in London you are to go to pick up the last fifty pounds. One word of warning, though: if you disappear with the passengers, it will not be in a court that my employer seeks redress.”

  The taverner placed the wine and cup in front of Denisot. Gray set his own cup firmly on the table and looked up. “Why me?”

  Denisot shrugged and poured his wine. “Because I value what you did for me all those years ago. I am glad I can put this business your way. Also, I need a captain I can trust.”

  “Does your employer know who you really are?”

  “I need a decision from you. Two hundred pounds-or would you like me to make inquiries elsewhere?”

  “One hundred and fifty pounds in one hour. And another fifty on my return.”

  Denisot lifted his cup. “Let’s drink to the wind being in your favor.”

  9

  Clarenceux hung his hat and cloak on a hook and walked wearily up the stairs from his front door to his hall. Awdrey was there to greet him.

  “How does the idea of becoming her majesty’s ambassador to the Low Countries appeal to you?” she asked with a smile. “To take up a post in Antwerp in six weeks, to be exact?”

  “Ambassador?” Clarenceux was astonished. Heralds were gentlemen but few gentlemen were of sufficient social rank to aspire to be diplomatic representatives. The nearest he had ever come to such a position was declaring war against France in Rheims, on behalf of Queen Mary. That was different. That was a matter of arms and war; it was natural it should fall to a herald. Negotiating with the Catholic Spanish rulers of the Protestant Low Countries was quite another thing.

  Awdrey pushed her long golden hair back behind her ear. “I spoke with Lady Cecil today, at Cecil House. She told me that Sir William needs someone to sort out a dispute between the English Merchant Adventurers and the Company of Antwerp. The Spanish are preventing the English from trading, and the Dutch are similarly frustrated because they cannot get hold of the raw materials they need from England. Sir William needs someone who is experienced in international protocol, of a logical mind, loyal, and of sufficient rank to tell the merchants what they must do. Lady Cecil suggested you. Sir William thinks you would be ideal. He told me himself.”

  Clarenceux walked into the hall and called for Thomas to bring him some wine. Awdrey’s excitement indicated that she expected to travel to Antwerp too. That was understandable: the commodities passing through the Low Countries these days made it a center of fashionable interest and conversation. But it would entail their elder daughter Annie having to have a personal tutor. Clarenceux himself would have to give up being a herald. He had only recently agreed with Garter King of Arms that Devon would be the subject of his next visitation. He would lose his position, and thus he would lose much of his income. No longer would he be able to ride off down to Chislehurst to see a friend when he chose to; nor would he be able to return to England at all until recalled by Sir William. If he was successful, who knows where he might be sent next. However, if he was not reappointed, he would lose his principal income. He were not like most ambassadors-able to retire to a country estate if all went wrong.

  Clarenceux took a goblet from Thomas and sat on a form, leaning forward. He scratched his beard. The truth was he did not want to be a diplomatic representative-not if it came at the cost of everything he had achieved and enjoyed. But how could he refuse and not incur Cecil’s displeasure? He sat there mulling over the problem in silence for some minutes.

  “I know you will curse me for this, but the answer is no.”

  Awdrey looked at him through disbelieving eyes. “How can you be so dismissive? This is a wonderful opportunity!”

  “To do what? Disrupt our family and way of life? To put an end to my work?”

  “Your work as a herald is…Well, it is less important. Someone else can do it. This is national and prestigious; it benefits the whole commonwealth.”

  “My work as a herald is b
oth national and prestigious,” he replied firmly. “And not just anyone can do it. I do it well, better than anyone else. Just because you can’t even describe our own coat of arms does not mean such things have no value.”

  “Your heraldry pays little, William. And it is demeaning to both of us. You could be so much more. You are fit, you are clever, and you are brave. You could be properly influential-not having to scrape around for whatever operations Sir William deigns to give you, or Robert Dudley, not that he gives you anything.”

  “Is that what this is about? You want me to be more influential and rich and unhappy because it would boost your pride and help you win the respect of well-connected friends like Lady Cecil? Well then, I have all the more reason to refuse.”

  Awdrey turned and faced the fireplace. “So, is that it? We are not going to Antwerp because you take more enjoyment and pride in drawing shields?”

  Clarenceux got up. “I am going up to my study. To work.”

  He opened the door in the corner and walked briskly up the stairs. He opened his study door equally abruptly and cursed as he sat down at his writing table. How had it happened? One moment, not so long ago, he had been very happy. Now it seemed that, without having done anything wrong, he was balanced on the blade of a knife, feeling the pain.

  He sat back, growing calmer, and made himself think about the situation from Awdrey’s position. It was true; he did hold back from high office-for the same reason that he did not want to do anything with the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement: he wanted those around him to be safe and secure. His very possession of the document worked at his mind in such a way as to make him a little on edge, all the time, and Awdrey had to bear the brunt of his bad moods.

  But would he be any happier if he did seek a position of influence? Would he actually get one suited to his abilities? Would he be any happier if he had more money and more responsibilities-would Awdrey? Perhaps he would take the position in Antwerp only to find that Awdrey hated being there. Few people would speak English and she knew no foreign languages. Perhaps her youthful enthusiasm for being elsewhere would diminish all too soon. But there would be nothing left in England for them to return to.

  Then there was that other problem. Clarenceux’s faith in the Holy Catholic Church of Rome had become impossible for him to profess publicly. Perhaps that was what Sir William wanted? The proposal was a test of his religion. In sending him to Antwerp, the Cecils had a hidden agenda: to force him and Awdrey to accept the Protestant way.

  Clarenceux left his study and went down into the hall. He called for Awdrey: no answer came. He walked to the other staircase and out onto the landing. One flight led down to the service rooms at the back of the house: the buttery, kitchens, and stores. The other led up to the sleeping chambers. He went up.

  Awdrey was lying on their bed, facedown.

  “That offer is not what it seems,” he said.

  Awdrey did not reply. Mildred started crying in the next room. They both listened as Joan, Awdrey’s maid, comforted the infant.

  “If I accept Sir William’s offer, our religion will be under examination. Men will watch us in church, to see if we abide by the Protestant rites or those of the old religion.”

  “But Catholics and Protestants live side by side in Antwerp.”

  “We will not be able to. As her majesty’s representatives, we will be expected to observe the rites authorized by her government. Exclusively.”

  Awdrey remained quiet.

  “Few people speak English in Antwerp,” he added. “Very few.”

  “I was happy for you,” she replied, looking up. “Did that deserve such a flat rebuttal? To want you to be more important than you are? To be recognized as a leader?”

  “No, it did not. I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you.”

  She smiled weakly, tears in her eyes. “You never do. But you are so forceful when you are passionate about something. It does not take much for you to frighten me.” She moved across the bed, allowing him to sit beside her. “I can see the religious problem. But I still wish we could go there.”

  “Perhaps we will, one day.”

  10

  Rogation Sunday, May 7

  Clarenceux was awake early with the sound of wind and rain. He slipped out of the bed and opened the shutters on his side of the chamber. There was no glass here; only the front windows of the house were glazed. The wind spat rain in his face. Dark clouds above the heavy downpour were moving rapidly across the sky. He left the shutters part closed to stop the rain entering.

  Awdrey blinked, sat up, and rubbed her eyes. She let her arms fall across the linen counterpane and watched as he poured water from the ewer into the basin to wash his face and hands.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Good morning.” He heard a child laughing in the next chamber. “That was a good night’s sleep.”

  “We needed it,” she replied. “You are often grumpy when you are tired.”

  “Thankfully I am married to the most understanding woman in the world.”

  He took off his shirt and threw it to one side. Lifting a fresh one from his clothes chest, he pulled it over his head, and took a pair of clean hosen. His velvet doublet was laid over a pole nearby. He buckled his shoes, tied his lace ruff, and went through to check on their daughters-just as a crack of thunder split the distant sky.

  Mildred was awake and sitting up in her cot, trying to climb out. Annie was out of bed, playing with two wooden dolls on the floor.

  “Good morning, sir,” Annie said when she saw him. “Was that thunder?”

  “Yes, Annie. It looks as though the Lord wishes that we get wet on our way to church. But go and see your mother.” He lifted Mildred from her cot and let her walk unsteadily through to the next chamber, holding his finger. He saw Annie climbing onto the bed, cuddling her mother as she lay there, listening to the rain. “Good girl, Millie, walk to your mother. That’s good.” A flash of lightning lit up the chamber for a moment. He counted to twelve before he heard the thunder. “Annie, come now, it is time we should be getting ready for church.”

  “Do we have to go?” Annie whined. “It is raining.”

  “Yes, we most certainly do have to go. It’s Rogation Sunday. And it is the Lord’s will that it rain today.”

  “What is Rog…Rogazing-that day you said?”

  “It is the day when we ask for God’s mercy and for Him to bless the corn in the fields and the animals in the pastures. And people who properly obey God’s laws do not eat but follow solemn processions led by priests in purple clothes. We ask that the good Lord sends rain, so our crops will grow well.”

  She looked up at him. “Will you wear purple clothes?”

  Clarenceux smiled. “No, Annie, I am not a priest.”

  Joan, the maidservant, came up the stairs from where she had been preparing the kitchen fire ready for the cook later. She made a small bow. “Godspeed, sir. How is it with you?”

  “Good day, Joan. All is well,” answered Clarenceux. “We are just getting ready.”

  A shutter banged in the wind on a house nearby. “Can we wear purple clothes?” Annie asked Awdrey.

  An hour later Clarenceux led his wife, two children, and maidservant in their traveling copes through the hard rain and wind to the nearby church of St. Bride, just off Fleet Street. As a parish church it was Protestant, but as it was their parish church, Clarenceux felt his family needed to make an appearance. He knew that those who did not-“recusants” as they were called-only drew attention to themselves. They were all dressed in their best clothes, even little Mildred. Thomas, the cook, and the stable boys stayed at the house. Someone had to. Thieves thanked God for church services.

  11

  In London the rain was a mere inconvenience. It meant that there would be mud in the streets tomorrow. Women who had hoped that they could have dried their laundry would be disappointed. Messengers knew they would have to ride a little slower. In the Channel, however, the weather meant ha
rdship and death. As it was a Sunday, most fishing vessels were neither at sea nor about to set out. But for a few ships, including the Davy, the weather spelled danger. The sea heaved in great waves that left boats bobbing like corks on the surface. The rain prevented sailors from seeing the rigging clearly-and if they fell from a height onto the deck, they could expect to break their backs or necks. If they fell into the sea, the chances of them ever grabbing hold of a rope were very slim. Most men and boys who fell overboard in a storm were not missed until after the danger had abated.

  Off the Kent coast, William Gray knew it was going to be tight. The timbers of the Davy groaned as he wiped the spray of a wave from his face and yelled at the boys and men in the rigging. But moment by moment, as he swayed with the deck and cursed the clouds, he saw that his change of direction was slowly bringing him nearer to safe harbor. The people he had to deliver to Southampton would be very sick, but that would be the limit of their problems. As soon as the storm abated, he would press on, hoping to reach Southampton on the tenth.

  One hundred and fifty miles southwest, things were very different for the Nightingale. A galleass built thirty years earlier, she was nearing the end of her useful life. She had been built in England, captured by the Scots, recaptured by the English in 1544 and converted into a galleon, then captured by the French in 1552, and finally seized by Raw Carew in the Bay of Biscay two years ago. Now her deck leaked, her hull was so patched as to render her barely seaworthy, and her hold was waist-deep in water. The eight cannon she carried were worth more than the rest of the boat. That was why Carew particularly wanted to bring her ashore in Southampton. It was one of the few ports where he could dock her and disembark the cannon without her majesty’s officers arresting him. The only problem was Captain James Parkinson, the constable of Southampton Castle and captain of Calshot Fort. He exercised a loose extortion business on the town, charging merchants’ ships a toll for passing Calshot into Southampton Water. That was the way of things in these parts. For Carew it was both a good thing and a bad one. It meant a vicious rule from an unpredictable brigand with royal protection, but this was the safest port for miles around. The next one he could call home was near-lawless Dartmouth. Only in these two places could he offload ordnance and find a purchaser who would ask no questions.