The Roots of Betrayal c-2

by James Forrester

  Carew walked over to him and pushed him with his foot on to his back. “Are you still alive?”

  Clarenceux opened his eyes but said nothing.

  “Do you want to go back in the water?”

  Still he said nothing. He had withdrawn inside himself to the place of quiet, the refuge that he had discovered when he had been at Mrs. Barker’s house. He offered no resistance to Skinner and Kahlu when they lifted him to his feet and dragged him to the ladder that led down from the top of the sterncastle to the upper deck, and from there down to the main deck, and through to the captain’s cabin. There they made him sit on the same seat as Gray had sat on, facing the same table. They untied the ropes binding his hands and made him place both of them on the table, palms down.

  Five minutes later, Carew came down. He saw Clarenceux sitting there, motionless. He looked at his dark hair matted with salt and seaweed and his bearded face. There were some small cuts and a gash above his eye where a piece of driftwood had struck him. Water still dripped from his clothes, a large puddle had appeared on the floor.

  “Where is Denisot?” Carew demanded.

  Clarenceux remained silent.

  “The woman who said you would never forgive her, she had her transport paid for by Denisot. He paid one hundred and fifty pounds in gold. Why would he do that? I saw that woman; she did not look as if she was worth so much. It is my belief that you were the one who paid Denisot. You were the one who gave him his pseudonym.”

  Clarenceux moved his head a fraction. “What pseudonym?”

  “Percy Roy.”

  From the depths of his numbness, Clarenceux stirred. He looked at Carew through eyes that felt puffy. “I don’t know about Denisot but I can tell you who Percy Roy is.”

  “Go on then. Who is he?”

  “Not ‘he’ but ‘they,’” said Clarenceux, now staring at his hands. “Sir Percival, Sir Reynold, Sir Owain, and Sir Yvain. They are the four surviving Knights of the Round Table-a secret society founded to look after a document of great importance.”

  “And where do I find these knights?” scoffed Carew. “Camelot? Avalon? Lyonesse? Perhaps they are sleeping in-”

  “London,” said Clarenceux. “They were the ones who…” Then he remembered. They too would be prisoners now.

  Carew gestured to Luke, who was by the door. Skinner was also there, and Kahlu too. Kahlu unfolded his arms.

  “Whereabouts in London?”

  “They were arrested. They are Catholic agents-they must have persuaded Rebecca Machyn to steal the document from me and then paid for her passage, after which she betrayed them.”

  Carew stood with one foot on the lid of the chest. “It is very convenient for you to say that all of the men to whom I need to speak are in prison. Too convenient. Start telling the truth or you will go back in the hold and I will put you in the sea after dark.”

  “Do your damnedest, Carew. Just do it,” said Clarenceux impatiently. “You will not listen to what I say. You will not believe me, so do your damnedest.”

  Carew signaled to Kahlu. To Clarenceux he said, “I think my friend has something to say to you.”

  Clarenceux hardly stirred as Kahlu put a hand gently on his arm and leaned forward as if to say something. Clarenceux looked up and saw Kahlu’s mouth was open. Inside, his teeth were black and rotten; several of them had disappeared altogether. But what astonished Clarenceux was the lack of a tongue. Here was just the stub at the back of his mouth and a deep scar across the bottom of his jaw. One side was also cut and scarred. Then the man shut his mouth and smiled.

  Clarenceux heard the thud of the knife at the same instant as he felt the point pierce his hand. He screamed in an agony that surged and surged, redoubling its strength with every instant until it forced even more screams out of him. Instinctively he recoiled and tried to draw his hand away, and in so doing ripped the flesh more and screamed more, yelling from the pit of his sea water-filled stomach.

  “You said it, Mr. Clarenceux. To do my damnedest. That was unwise. Deeply unwise.”

  Clarenceux wanted to answer back but the pain of the knife through his skin forced him only to scream. His breath came in shuddering gasps, and he shivered suddenly before the pain surged again and overwhelmed him, forcing him to scream again. He had been wrong to speak so loosely to the pirate captain. He had been wrong in everything. The moth-like angel that had sheltered him from pain at Mrs. Barker’s had been stabbed. Its legs had curled and its wings were fluttering lifelessly in the breeze. There was no shelter now. No shelter anywhere. He glared through tear-filled eyes at Carew and knew what he had to do.

  Gritting his teeth and snarling at his own pain, he seized the hilt of the dagger in his left hand and tried to withdraw it. It did not move. Skinner laughed, watching him. Clarenceux, with bared teeth, yelled and yelled, at him and at the knife. Skinner laughed more. Clarenceux screamed louder now, again and again. The knife did not move. But the sight of his blood seeping over his hand and over the table forced him to a pitch of fury that he had never known before. “God damn you all!” he shouted as he started to work the blade forward and backward through his own hand to loosen it, giving voice to his pain with every slight movement. “God damn you, God damn you!” he bawled as the blood spilled out of the wound. Suddenly the knife became loose in his left hand and finally, with a triumphant roar of victory made louder by the pain, he yanked the knife out of the wood and out of his hand, stood up, and held it in front of Skinner’s eyes.

  No one was laughing now. They could all see the fury burning in Clarenceux. He was armed and ready to kill. Luke and Skinner had already drawn the daggers at their belts and backed away. Kahlu had reached for his in a moment of apprehension and found it absent-his own blade was coming at that moment right toward him as Clarenceux clambered across the table, bellowing, “God damn you!” Then he lashed out, cutting Luke across the arm and only then, after he turned back, was Kahlu able to grab his right arm. He could not hold it; the strength of madness in Clarenceux had taken hold. He was in the grip of his fury, slashing at whatever came within reach.

  “Hold fast!” yelled a deep voice from the doorway. A moment later there was an ear-shattering report of a pistol being fired. “Do not move. The next bullet is aimed at your heart.”

  But Clarenceux had gone beyond all such caution, beyond all but animal reasoning. He only wanted now to destroy, to give himself in a final act of destruction against his enemies. He threw the knife at Hugh Dean in the doorway, catching him in the arm, and hurled himself at Kahlu, punching him on the underside of the jaw with his left hand. Even though he was exhausted, even though he was in pain and bloody, the blow still had enough force to bang Kahlu’s head backward against the cabin roof. It was not enough to do more than stun the big man. It did nothing to save Clarenceux from Skinner and Luke jumping on him, grabbing his sleeve and his collar, and smashing his head down on the blood-covered table, three times.

  Everyone was gasping now-except Carew. “Have you finished?” he asked, looking at Clarenceux. He turned to Hugh Dean, whose shirt was red with blood, then looked back to Clarenceux. “Skinner, Luke, leave him be.” The two men let go. Clarenceux did not move, remaining head down across the table.

  “Do your damnedest, Carew,” repeated Clarenceux, defiantly.

  “You’ve made your point, herald. Luke, get this man something to eat and drink. Skinner, find him something to wash that wound with. Kahlu, sit down. Mr. Clarenceux, let’s start talking.”

  Clarenceux looked at his hand. Blood was everywhere-smeared up his arm, across his fingers, dripping from the wound. There was a flap of skin hanging down.

  “Sit down, Mr. Clarenceux.” Carew moved the chair nearer. “I have never seen anyone else do that-draw out the knife. I have seen some try. It is difficult, I know.”

  “How would you know?” muttered Clarenceux, taking the chair and moving it away from the table before sitting down in it, feeling the pain throb through his whole arm, not just hi
s hand. When he looked up, Carew had his right hand raised, showing him the palm. There was a red weal of a scar through the center.

  “Who did it to you?”

  “A man called James Parkinson, the captain of Southampton Castle and Calshot Fort.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No. He is still there at Southampton, still controlling the ships that sail past Calshot.”

  Skinner appeared with a pail of cold water and a cloth. He placed it near Clarenceux and left the cabin. Clarenceux glanced at Carew and Kahlu, then reached down, took the cloth, soaked it, and started to wash his wound, flinching at every touch with the sting of the salt water.

  Carew watched Clarenceux. “Men often tell lies but they rarely perform them-and never with passion. Men deceive with their words, not by their deeds. Not many men would risk their lives for the sake of a lie. In drawing out that dagger, you have made a persuasive case. What if Denisot, on behalf of these knights you mention, paid the late captain of this ship to take this man and this woman to Southampton and, in going along with them, she deceived you?”

  Clarenceux stopped swabbing his hand and looked at Carew. “Did you just say Southampton?”

  “I did.”

  “The Knights of the Round Table arranged that she should sail north,” he said, “to Scotland. They intended her to change ships at Sandwich.” He paused, feeling the pain in his hand, looking at the blood still seeping from the wound.

  Carew stood up and opened the chest. He removed a fine cotton kerchief and brought it across the room, holding it out on one finger. Clarenceux took the cloth and pressed it against the wound, saying, “Your enemy, Denisot, must have deceived the Knights of the Round Table. Really he was acting in conjunction with Rebecca Machyn.”

  At that moment, Luke entered the cabin with a wooden trencher piled with two large pieces of cut cold beef, a piece of cheese, and half a loaf of bread. He set it down on the table with a flagon of wine.

  Clarenceux looked at the food and drink. He reached forward with his good hand. “Was Denisot a Catholic?” he asked.

  Carew spat on the floor of the cabin. “The worst kind. He worked for the old queen, when she was dying. Rather than see Calais pass to a Protestant queen, he betrayed the town to the French.”

  “Then if you want to find Denisot, you must help me find Rebecca Machyn.” Clarenceux reached for the beef. Dry though it was, it made his mouth sing. It tasted so very rich, so sweet. He started to chew and turned to Carew. “She is the one who knows where Denisot is.”

  Carew lifted the flagon of wine from the table and took a draught, then handed it to Clarenceux. “Why not just let her go? It cannot be that important, this document.”

  “It is. With it she could start a war. An unnecessary war.”

  Carew shrugged. “Men fight. It is what we do. Sometimes we use swords, ships, and guns, and sometimes laws and money. I prefer ships and guns. More honest.”

  Clarenceux paused before drinking. “But do you understand what I am saying? If Rebecca Machyn and Denisot are working together, she is the way to find him.”

  “Then we will find her together. You know what she looks like, I know who escorted her from the dock. You can kill her or do what you want with her-but only after I have extracted the information I need.”

  Clarenceux looked again at his hand under the reddening cloth. It was still bleeding. It still hurt. He stuffed the remainder of the piece of beef in his mouth and reached again for the salt water and rough cloth. He gritted his teeth as he washed the wound again, looking at the fresh blood swelling out of it. “How is it I find myself abducted by the one person who can take me to her?”

  “She led me to you, in a way,” said Carew, breaking a piece from the loaf. He continued speaking as he chewed. “Your business about these Knights of the Round Table has nothing to do with me. I could not care less. All I want is Denisot.”

  “Why?”

  Carew swallowed. “Revenge.”

  “For what?”

  Carew held up a finger. “Now that is a long story, which I will tell you when…” He looked at the doorway where Hugh had returned, his arm in a bandage. “Mr. Clarenceux, may I present the quartermaster, my second-in-command, Hugh Dean. Hugh, I want you to forgive Mr. Clarenceux for drawing blood. He has suffered as much. A wound apiece, that’s fair.”

  Clarenceux did not think it fair, but nor did he wish to argue. He accepted Hugh’s hand with his left hand and shook it. Carew did not offer a hand. He seemed to assume that he was already forgiven. Clarenceux tried to ignore him and returned to the business of staunching the blood.

  “Come, Mr. Clarenceux,” Carew said suddenly. “I want you to meet the crew.”

  52

  Walsingham pushed the plate of sweetmeats across the table toward John Richards. They were in the writing chamber of his house near the Tower. Walsingham was seated. “What do you know about Raw Carew?”

  Richards took a sweetmeat, standing before the table. He shrugged. “The same as most people, I suppose. He’s a bastard by birth, the son of George Carew, who went down on the Mary Rose, and a Calais prostitute. He earned the name Raw when he was about fifteen, after he had a fight with another boy aboard the vessel on which they were sailing. The captain set the two of them ashore on a rock for a few days. Carew killed and ate his adversary. He turned to piracy after the fall of Calais. Over the last six years he has taken ship after ship and roamed between Africa and the New World. They say you can never catch him unawares-he is the Robin Hood of the High Seas to some people, a menace to others.”

  Walsingham held up his hand. “That is common knowledge-but do you know anything practical about him, such as where his home port is, or whether he has a wife?”

  “With respect, Mr. Walsingham, I would suggest that that is the wrong way to think of such a man. He has seduced or raped a great many women, so the idea of him coming home to a wife is an unreal one. As for a home port, I suspect he takes shelter wherever he can.”

  Walsingham looked at Richards. “So you do not know anything about him either. It is astonishing. Everyone knows stories, stories, stories. No one knows anything of any real use about the man. He is indeed like Robin Hood: not just a hero and a villain, but a mystery too. If I did not have to concern myself with his actual deeds, I would wonder whether he really existed or was simply a product of the imagination of the poor. Can you tell me what he looks like?”

  Richards shook his head. “I imagine him to have brown hair and a long beard, with a broad forehead, and to be taller than everyone else in his crew. Otherwise I have no idea. I cannot remember anyone ever describing him to me.”

  “Much as I thought.” Walsingham stood up and started to walk around the room. He stopped at a window. “People invent an image of the man because they need to see him in their mind’s eye when they tell stories about him. God forgive me for making a profane comparison but it is like people saying they know what Jesus looked like, even though none of us have seen Him. We talk about Him, artists paint Him, theologians expound on His acts-and over the years, we have drawn up a picture of Him that we adapt, trim, cut, and shade. So now we all dance happily around His image in our minds. That figure is instantly recognizable, for it fits our collective idea of the calm, strong-minded Son of God.” He touched an inlaid box with his fingers. “We so happily deceive ourselves.” He turned to face Richards. “We have done the same thing with Carew. A bearded giant of a man, hurling himself from the rigging of one ship onto that of the next, cutting the stays of a ship’s mast while engaged in swordplay with Spaniards, Swedes, Frenchmen, or Englishmen, roaring a challenge to his crew to follow him. And yet I do not know anyone who has actually seen him. One thing I can tell you is that he is barely any taller than me.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I have two reports that he was in London yesterday. One in a small boat at Southwark, the other in Fleet Street, in the house of the traitor Clarenceux. Two of Cecil’s men stumbl
ed in on them and witnessed Clarenceux being abducted; they heard Clarenceux address Carew by name. I also have a report that he seized a ship four days ago at Southampton. A very good ship-the Davy-owned by a consortium of men, headed by the ex-keeper of her majesty’s ships. What was she doing in Southampton Water and not in the Port of London, where she was meant to be? If Carew has plucked Clarenceux out of the city, then heaven only knows where he will take him. We may have put the Knights of the Round Table into custody, but the real enemy-Clarenceux-is being held by pirates and I am at a loss to know what to do next.”

  “It is a very short time,” said Richards. “Even if Carew had the wind behind him all the way, and sailed all through the night, it would have taken him three days to reach London-it’s more than two hundred and twenty nautical miles. If he came all that way and went straight to find Clarenceux at his house in Fleet Street, he had prior knowledge of Clarenceux being there.”

  “It was no accidental meeting, that is clear.”

  “With due respect, Mr. Walsingham, you are not seeing my point. If Clarenceux were desperate for rescue, many Londoners who sympathize with his cause could have helped him. But the person who did must have alerted Carew before he took the ship from Southampton. Someone planned several days ago to take Clarenceux somewhere, probably Clarenceux himself, and he needs to be transported there by ship. Otherwise, why wait for Carew?”

  Walsingham lifted a hand, trying to continue Richard’s line of thinking. “You mean, you think Clarenceux and Carew are working together?”

  “Not if Carew abducted him, as you said. But the message must have been received by Carew four days ago, on the eleventh. And it must have been sent from someone in London a day or two before that, at the least. And you yourself said Clarenceux knew Carew’s name.”