The Roots of Betrayal c-2

by James Forrester

  Clarenceux stepped forward beneath the teeth of the portcullis. “Are you John Prouze?”

  “My name is Christopher Serres. Prouze is upstairs. I thought you wanted to see Parkinson?”

  “The person I most want to find is Rebecca Machyn.”

  “Then you need to speak to Captain Parkinson.” Still not making eye contact, the man gestured with his right arm for Clarenceux to stand aside while he shut the gate. He locked it and drew across the drawbar, sealing them off from the outside world. Without another word he led the way out through the gatehouse and across the narrow yard, opening a small door in the central tower. Clarenceux followed him inside.

  The wind whistled through the windows and apertures of the building, the notes rising and falling. By the light of a small window he could see Serres ascending the steps. He followed him, his left hand on the stone. He could hear men’s voices from upstairs; two of them laughed. There was a doorway on his right, apparently leading down. That will be the magazine, he thought as he went past. The steps turned again and opened into a large guard room on the first floor. It was spacious but not very light. All but three of the low windows were shuttered, there being no glass. Several mattresses and blankets lay on the floor. A pewter flagon lay on its side just inside the doorway. Three men were playing cards at a table by a fireplace on the right-hand side of the room. Their conversation ceased as they heard footsteps. When Clarenceux glanced in, two looked back at him silently. Another deliberately did not turn but instead tended to the fire. None of them spoke.

  “Up,” commanded Serres.

  Clarenceux continued to climb the stone steps. On the second floor the doorway opened to reveal several rooms partitioned off behind a screen. He could see a fire glowing in a hearth in a wall on the far side. Directly opposite was a cannon aiming out to sea, the shutters of its embrasure open. A second gun was in an aperture to the right, beside a partitioned area. There was an earthenware jug on the table and three mazers.

  “Keep going.”

  Clarenceux turned and went up the final flight of stone steps. He could see daylight at the top. It seemed bright after the semidarkness of the first- and second-floor rooms, where most of the shutters had been closed. He blinked as he walked out on to the windswept roof.

  “He’s here!” shouted Serres.

  Clarenceux looked across the roof. There were five cannon, one facing toward Southampton Water, one to the mouth of the estuary, and the other three pointing out to sea. A tall man dressed in black stood by one of the sea-facing guns. He did not turn around. Serres went back to the door to the staircase and stood guard.

  Clarenceux walked part of the way across the roof, his hair pulled by the wind. “Captain Parkinson?” he called. Still the figure did not turn.

  Clarenceux had no doubt that the captain had heard him. He looked at the back of his head and studied the brown curls, the thick neck. The man exuded power.

  “What finally brought you here?” Captain Parkinson spoke quietly. The wind coming from the southeast carried every syllable.

  Clarenceux had been expecting an ordinary soldier stuck in a boring routine, with all the frustrations and opportunities for personal advancement that a remote command offered. Someone corrupt enough to accept the Catholics’ silver. But this man who still had his back to him was no ordinary soldier. He was very clearly his own man. There was a reason that he had been singled out as the guardian of Rebecca Machyn. Far from being alienated by this position, captain of a windswept fort, Parkinson seemed at home, staring out to sea-as if the waves too were part of his command.

  Clarenceux understood now why Carew was not here. He was afraid of Captain Parkinson.

  And then the captain turned around.

  Clarenceux felt the horror creep over him as if it was a chill air touching his skin. There was authority in that brow, a handsome structure to the face marked by the sneer of cold command. But the skin was scarred-three quarters of his face was covered with the marks where smallpox pustules had scabbed and discolored the skin. In that instant, Clarenceux saw the tragedy and the monstrosity of Parkinson’s life. With scars like that, men would see that he had been blighted by God, struck with a disease that killed thousands. But Parkinson had survived-he had triumphed even over the deadly ailment.

  “I asked you a question,” Parkinson repeated. “What brought you here?”

  Clarenceux was totally disarmed. He could not think; he was incapable of being evasive. All he could say was the one thing he wanted to know. “Rebecca Machyn,” he said. “You have heard of her, of the Catholic Treasure. Your man John Prouze escorted her from the boat in which she arrived a few days ago. We need to know where he took her and her brother, Robert Lowe. The other man we need to track down is the one who paid for and arranged their passage-Nicholas Denisot, a traitor to her majesty and the State.”

  “You say ‘we.’ That is you and who else?”

  Clarenceux knew he could not lie. He could not say “Cecil.” He saw matters too clearly to be anything other than honest. Cecil had shown him the letter with the words “Catholic Treasure.” Cecil had been the one who had known that the document was in Clarenceux’s keeping. Cecil had known about Rebecca. Cecil’s name had been on the instructions to sink Carew’s ship. All the royal dispatches to Captain Parkinson would have passed by Sir William Cecil.

  “You and who else?” Parkinson repeated.

  Clarenceux swallowed. “Until coming here I did believe, in all good faith, that I was acting on behalf of Sir William Cecil.”

  Parkinson walked slowly toward Clarenceux. His movements were elegant, cat-like; his attention intense. “Now what do you believe?”

  Clarenceux looked out to the sea as if something might come to his aid. “In God Almighty,” he whispered.

  “You have blundered, herald. Like the dumb animal that stands patiently in line while the beasts ahead of it are slaughtered. You insult me with your presence. You insult Sir William too. Did you think you could fob me off with some idle conversation about coats of arms and deeds of valorous men? He wrote to tell me that you might try. He told me that you were clever, that I was to be wary of you. What manner of traitor walks up to a loyal castellan and asks for-”

  “I am no traitor,” interrupted Clarenceux, recovering some of his self-confidence. “I am an officer of her majesty, Queen Elizabeth. I am Clarenceux King of Arms.”

  “I have nothing to say to you. You are under arrest, in the name of her majesty. You will not leave this building. I will write to Sir William inquiring as to your fate.”

  Clarenceux turned suddenly, wondering if he had time to flee, but Serres was standing immediately behind him. Serres searched him from the ground up-he soon found the dagger that Ursula had given him, strapped beneath Clarenceux’s shirt. When he had finished, he nodded to Captain Parkinson.

  “Tell me what happened to her,” asked Clarenceux. “Is she alive or dead?”

  “Go downstairs.”

  Serres turned and walked to the door, holding Clarenceux’s knife and dagger. He held it open, waiting. Clarenceux heard Parkinson following. He started to move. As he neared the edge, he looked over the parapet toward the gatehouse; it was a leap of eleven or twelve feet. The parapet of the gatehouse was nearly ten feet lower than the tower, so it might be possible. But he quailed at such a risk. If he missed, there was a thirty-foot drop. Onto the flagstones.

  “Move,” ordered Parkinson.

  Clarenceux realized the captain had guessed his thoughts. He went down the stairs to the second floor. The guard showed him in, directing him to the table. Captain Parkinson followed, picking up the mazers and jug and setting them on the floor. “Sit down.” Clarenceux sat on the bench and placed his hands on the table. “Are you going to stab me in the hand?”

  Parkinson glanced at Clarenceux’s wound. “That depends.” He gestured for Serres to close the door. “Sir William Cecil wanted that woman to disappear completely. He did not want anyone to find her, least
of all you. I want to know what brought you here. Who told you?”

  Clarenceux looked down. He was being forced to betray someone. No, he was being asked to; he did not need to say a word. If he spoke the truth, he would incriminate Carew and endanger the women at the Two Swans. If he did not speak, he would no doubt suffer himself.

  Parkinson walked behind him, his footsteps sounding on the stone. “Tell me. I am not known for my patience.” The wind was howling a low note through the window where the cannon pointed out to sea. The fire in the cubicle behind him crackled.

  “Damn you!” shouted Parkinson, slamming his palms simultaneously on the table. “Speak-or I will begin by slicing off your ears.”

  Clarenceux closed his eyes and remembered the attic in Mrs. Barker’s house. He remembered the moth. He remembered the image of the moth curled and dead when Kahlu struck his hand with the knife.

  “This is your last chance.”

  “Carew,” said Clarenceux, looking up at Parkinson. “Raw Carew.” He held up his hand, showing the palm to Parkinson. “You can believe this, since you did the same to him. Rebecca Machyn gave my name to the captain of the boat she traveled on. The captain gave it to Carew. Carew came looking for me in London.”

  “Are you telling me you are here because of him? What did he want with you?”

  Clarenceux breathed deeply. “He thought that I could lead him to Nicholas Denisot. He offered to take me to Rebecca Machyn if I would lead him to Denisot.”

  “And did you?”

  Clarenceux looked down at the table, trying to keep calm. He had discovered the limits of Parkinson’s knowledge. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the agreement was that he should lead me to Widow Machyn first. Only when I had seen her and discovered why she had betrayed me-only then was I going to lead him to Denisot.”

  Parkinson bent down and lifted the jug, swirling around the liquid. He raised it to his lips and drank, looking at Clarenceux. “Do you want some? It’s not good,” he said, offering the jug.

  Clarenceux hesitated, then decided it was a sign of peace. He took it, drank a mouthful of the old wine, and handed it back.

  “Where is Denisot now?” Parkinson demanded.

  Clarenceux was about to answer that he did not know. But at that instant he realized that that was not true. If Denisot paid for Rebecca to be taken to Southampton, and if Cecil had sent the instructions ahead to Captain Parkinson, then Denisot was taking orders from Cecil.

  “In London,” he said. “He works for Sir William.”

  Immediately he said the name, Clarenceux regretted it. He watched Parkinson take another draught of wine, set the flagon back on the floor, and walk toward the sea-facing cannon.

  “You were going to barter information concerning one of Sir William’s men in order to find Widow Machyn?”

  “What makes you think I was going to tell Carew?”

  Parkinson turned and studied him. “You aren’t the double-crossing type. Also, Carew would cut you to ribbons rather than let you make a fool of him. Were you with him in the skirmish with Sir Peter Carew?”

  Clarenceux said nothing.

  “And Sir Peter let you go?”

  “He interrogated me and found that I was on board Carew’s ship unwillingly.”

  Parkinson bent down and picked up the wine jug. He took a step nearer Clarenceux, who held up a hand as if to say he was not in need of more wine. But then Clarenceux saw the momentum of his arm as Parkinson swung the earthenware jug as hard as he could against his head. It smashed against his temple, sending him sprawling on the floor, reeling, spattered in wine. “Don’t you lie! Don’t you dare lie!” shouted Parkinson. “You told me you had made a deal with Carew-so don’t tell me that you were on board that ship unwillingly. And if you misled Sir Peter in that way to save your skin, you deserve worse than whatever fate Sir William has in mind for you.”

  Clarenceux tried to get up. He was dizzy, unable even to support his weight on his arms. He fell back to the stone, gasping. The smell of the wine and the dizziness together made his stomach lurch and heave. He vomited where he lay on the stone.

  Parkinson curled his lip in disgust and stepped over him. As he left the room he said to Serres, “Take this deceiving, lying, vomiting rat down to the magazine. Clear up the floor when you have done it. And bring me some paper-I am going to write to Sir William.”

  66

  It was dusk. On the roof of the tower Paul Coad felt the rain begin to fall. He raised his cloak above his head to ward off the worst of it, but a moment later it began to pelt down. He ducked into the doorway and descended the stairs. The smell of vomit rose to greet him-still lingering even though it had been mopped up several hours ago. He cursed. It should have been John Prouze’s turn to be on the roof this evening, not his. Prouze had been sent off by the captain with an urgent message for Sir William Cecil, telling him that Clarenceux had arrived and was now locked in the magazine.

  Coad listened to the rain and heard its force weakening. Not wanting to be shouted at by the captain, he made his way back up the stairs to shelter just inside the doorway.

  A mile away to the west, Raw Carew dragged the sloop out of the water, putting the weight on his good leg. He took the rope and grappling iron he had brought with him and sat down with a tablecloth he had taken from the inn. He glanced toward the fort in the fading light and cursed as he saw the rain come down. Sheltering beneath a tree, he started to bind the cloth around the grappling iron, ripping off thin strips and tying them on tightly. As he worked, he kept a regular check on the battlements; the guard was no longer to be seen. That was good news for him approaching the fort but bad news for when he was inside. According to Amy, there were seven gunners stationed there, plus the captain. He had seen one man leave; unless there were any occasional visitors, seven were left, including Parkinson. The grappling iron was ready. He tossed it onto a rock a few times; it did not clang. He slung the rope over his shoulder and started to limp through the wood.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting in the undergrowth at the edge of the spit, his wounded leg stretched out. He was watching the clouds to the west. From long experience he knew the light from the west would reflect off the water, even though there was no sunset. The waves would be silvered with the brightness of the sky. To someone at the fort, the spit itself would appear like a dark shadow between the two surfaces of light. He waited for another cloud to pass, so more light would reflect off the water. Crouching down on the lower inland side, so his silhouette would not show against the sea, he began to crawl the long distance toward the solid hulk of the fort, moving on his arms and knees, using his weak leg as best he could.

  Captain Parkinson was in the guard room on the first floor with most of his men. Some were seated like the captain; others were sitting on the floor. There were bowls around them. They were playing cards by the light of a tallow candle. All the shutters were closed except one.

  William Knight flung down the Queen of Clubs. A small cheer went up from the others. His amiable red-bearded face broke into a broad grin.

  “You’ve been hiding that up your sleeve,” declared Lewis Fletcher, a pale, thin young man. He threw down his cards and dropped two pennies into the pot in the middle of the floor.

  “Should have played dice,” declared Bill Turner, doing likewise. He was the oldest member of the garrison, in his fifties and gray haired.

  “No, not dice,” said Parkinson, tossing down his cards. “Cards at least have some skill, even if it is little more than memorizing a few numbers. Dice is nothing but luck.”

  “But luck is the will of the Lord,” said Christopher Serres.

  “And so is the luck of the cards,” replied Knight, lifting up his cards for Serres to see.

  “For that, you can take all these bowls to Widow Reid’s,” said Parkinson.

  “Tomorrow,” pleaded Knight, passing his cards to Serres.

  “Now,” insisted Parkinson. “On your way b
ack up, bring some more wine. And tell Kimpton he should bar the gatehouse when you come back through.”

  In the darkness of the magazine Clarenceux heard Serres and Knight go down the stairs. He heard one of them drop a bowl and curse and place the rest of his load on the floor. He listened to the conversation as they left the tower and went out across the yard, and noted the phrases “Paul on the roof” and “Widow Reid the washerwoman” and “Captain says bar the gate when we’re back.” As they passed out of hearing he caught the end of a sentence: “he sent John in the rain with a letter for Cecil.”

  Clarenceux sank down against the wall of his cell. He was disappointed with himself. Carew had been right; he had not thought deeply enough about Parkinson. No one knew where he was and the message to Cecil had already been dispatched. The stench of sulfurous gunpowder in the magazine was nauseating. The taste in his mouth was worse. He was hungry, not having eaten since that morning. And the only person who knew his whereabouts was Carew-a man who had recently turned his back on several men who had risked their lives for him. Perhaps worst of all, he now knew that Cecil was the architect behind all this-that Cecil was the one who had arranged for Rebecca’s escape from London by ship. Cecil had been playing games with him all along.

  What now, William? What now? At least he could be sure they would not bother him tonight. It must be dark by now and they could not enter here with a burning light for fear of sparks or dropping the candle. That meant he had the night to think.

  He understood now why Rebecca had been so anxious that last time he had seen her. She had already had discussions with Mrs. Barker and the Knights and they had persuaded her to steal the document for them. They had planned her journey away from London. Only someone else had got to her first: Cecil himself. Using Denisot to contact the captain of the Davy and Parkinson to arrange Rebecca’s reception in Southampton, he had effected a smooth escape for her. All Cecil had to do was to arrange for someone to collect the document from her, wherever she might be. It was a brilliant coup. It meant Cecil got the document and left the Knights and Mrs. Barker thinking Rebecca had betrayed them. And it left him, Clarenceux, thinking the same thing.