The Roots of Betrayal c-2

by James Forrester

  Clarenceux struggled to his feet, holding on to the gatehouse battlements, and stepped along the edge of the roof, looking for a way down. The light of the moon revealed only a trapdoor-but he saw Parkinson’s curl of rope around the stonework, hanging down above the gate. He limped over to it and tried its strength.

  Inside the gatehouse, Parkinson was running up the stairs to the first-floor chamber. He reached the door as Clarenceux let himself down between the battlements, clutching the rope. Clarenceux’s left hand hurt as if the Devil’s claws were in it; his pierced right one was not much better, but he gritted his teeth and held on. Down he went, hand over hand, cursing and feeling a trickle of blood over his left wrist. He heard Parkinson’s feet running across the floor of the guard chamber. He kicked away from the wall and tried to descend faster, but the panic made him lose his grip and he started to fall. He tried to slow himself but the rope tore through his hands. The agony was too much; he let go and crashed the last ten feet to the drawbridge.

  Looking up, he could see Parkinson reaching for the rope. He struggled to his feet and limped as fast as he could away from the fort. Moonlight shimmered off the sea on both sides. He heard Parkinson land on the drawbridge and start running. The man was closing on him. As Clarenceux passed the cottages, Parkinson was just ten or twelve paces behind him. Veering off the path, he made for the jetty, where Carew had broken the boats, and ran into the sea, stumbling on the wet shingle through the shallows, until he was waist deep in the water. Then he started to swim. His ribs hurt with the effort but he pushed himself on, not stopping, fearing Parkinson’s sword. He did not slow down nor turn until he had swum about eighty yards; then he pulled a few more strokes, listened, and looked back.

  In the moonlight he could see the dark figure of Captain Parkinson still standing on the shore.

  69

  Sunday, May 21

  Clarenceux swam across to the west bank of Southampton Water, finding his way by the shapes of the hills against the night sky. He hoped to find the place where Carew had left him the day before. He crawled out of the water, shaking with cold, and sat looking at the dark estuary, listening to the gentle waves. There was no sign of the boat; he was too tired to go looking for it. All he could do was listen to the waves and shiver. In that state he remained for about an hour before he moved to a clump of trees, lay down beneath some bushes, and rested. Later he slept.

  The moment he awoke he was in a panic. It was daylight. Parkinson would be looking for him. Apart from the waves and the breeze in the trees above him, there was no sound. He cursed himself for not finding the boat before dawn. He had to get to Portchester discreetly and as quickly as possible.

  It took him half an hour to find Carew’s boat. There were no oars, which presented him with a problem as he had very little experience of sailing. Also, the tide was halfway out. But having hauled it down to the water, he attempted to use the rear sail. After a few minutes he managed to catch enough wind to move in more or less the right direction. In combination with the rudder he sailed eastward, aided by the wind coming up the Channel.

  He reckoned the time was about seven o’clock. There were already some larger ships coming into Southampton Water and others departing. Several large waves smacked against the side of the boat, splashing him and chilling him again. With every moment of the crossing, he prayed that he would reach the far side of the estuary before Parkinson’s men saw him.

  An hour later he landed. With the tide completely out, he drew the vessel up onto the shingle beach and started to walk inland. He knew from itineraries he had consulted during his travels as a herald that Portchester was a little way to the east, in the middle of Portsmouth harbor. Every step that took him further away from Southampton Water seemed a blessing; every step took him nearer to Portchester, to Rebecca and to the answer to where the document had gone.

  The land here was relatively flat, but many trees and bushes blocked his view. He found a lane and started to follow it. A couple of farmhands leading a bull confirmed that he was heading the right way. “Go on here until you come to the Fareham Road,” said one of them, “then turn left. The bridge at Fareham is what you need. It’s about an hour on foot. And the best part of an hour after that to the castle.”

  Clarenceux thanked them and started walking briskly along the lane. What was he going to say to Rebecca? Up until now he had thought it would be easy. There would be a confrontation and he would demand that she return the document she had stolen from him. As he walked through the trees overlooking the estuary, he knew things were not that simple. Carew had said Parkinson’s men had abused her. It was not the first time it had happened. Many men saw widows as outside the usual order of things. Such women had no father or husband to guard them, no protector to claim that family honor had been impugned. If such women were attacked away from home, they had very few defenses. He felt for her-but that was not why things had changed. He now understood that she had not stolen the document willingly: the Knights had made her do it. She had been trapped by Sir William Cecil, who had sent word ahead to Captain Parkinson to send a man to receive her. She had not just been maltreated at Calshot; at every step of the way she had been manipulated-by the Knights and by Cecil too. No doubt Cecil had made her give up the document. There could be no confrontation. The best he could hope for was to find out who had taken it from her.

  He stopped beneath some beech trees and began to reflect. He himself had told Parkinson that he had come to find Rebecca Machyn. Parkinson knew Rebecca was at Portchester-Carew had heard him say so. Parkinson knew where he was going.

  He started to run. What if Parkinson has sent men on ahead? He is captain of Southampton as well as Calshot-does he have command of Portchester too? No, that is presumably the person in charge of the hospital, in the absence of whichever nobleman has the income for the official title of constable of the castle. Who is that? Sir Henry Radcliffe, brother of the earl of Sussex. But he is in Ireland. His deputy is not in a position to resist Parkinson.

  Clarenceux came to the Fareham Road, panting, his chest bursting with pain, especially around his bruised ribs, desperate to stop. But he did not let himself; the farmhands had said it would be an hour to the bridge and an hour beyond that. He turned left, around some trees. If Parkinson sent men at dawn, they would be there by now. If so, there is no point in running. But maybe Parkinson has not been so quick; he does not know that I know where Rebecca is.

  He looked for a turning westward, to the harbor. Soon he found one, leading past a couple of old farmhouses. At the second farmhouse a dog barked and ran at him, attempting halfheartedly to bite at his heels. He did not slow down but went straight on, east. He would not go all the way to Fareham Bridge; he would swim the river.

  He reached the trees above the beach on the edge of Portsmouth harbor and stepped down to the water. He could see the castle on his left, on the promontory jutting out into the harbor, about three miles away. Within those massive Roman walls was the medieval castle, which he had visited once, with its tall square keep and royal palace. In the outer bailey was the priory church and the buildings now used as a hospital. Three miles to the southeast he could see the narrow mouth of the estuary, where Portsmouth and its naval dockyard were situated. He could just see the church and houses along the foreshore, in between the ships scattered about the huge natural harbor.

  Taking a deep breath, Clarenceux started running along the fishermen’s path at the top of the beach, which wove between the trees and bushes. He could see the mouth of the river now, and the trees on the far side. Ahead was a long overgrown inlet, its banks muddy with the low tide. He did not hesitate but splashed through, swimming for a few strokes when the water came up to his chest, and then running on. He was heading for a point he could see directly ahead. There was a small wooden jetty there, with a rowing boat. For a moment he thought it meant an easy crossing. Then he saw that, once again, there were no oars. He walked to the end of the jetty and jumped into the shallow wat
er and started to wade toward the deeper flow. Low tide meant that the river was only four hundred yards wide. Portchester Castle was within three miles.

  70

  Rebecca Machyn watched Mr. Wheatsheafen, the surgeon, as he drew the specially sharpened small knife from his set of tools. He was a kindly man, a little too portly to be able to move around the confined space with ease. She knelt by the wounded sailor’s bed and set the bowl beneath his elbow, pulling away a loose piece of straw that was poking through the old mattress. The patient’s shirtsleeve had already been rolled up and pinned so it would not be made dirty by the bleeding. His inner arm was punctuated with the scars of earlier cuts. He was about twenty years of age and bearded. His head was in a bandage.

  “You’ve been bled a good few times before, William,” said Mr. Wheatsheafen.

  “Those were precautionary,” the sailor replied, blinking. His eyes were bloodshot. “My father used to say that to be bled once a moon was the best way to be sure of a long life.”

  Wheatsheafen smiled. “Yes, well, we’re not living in the dark ages now. I don’t believe in bleeding unless it’s necessary. Are you ready, Nurse Machyn?”

  Rebecca nodded. William tensed his muscles and looked at the roof beams. His toes squirmed as the surgeon carefully felt for the basilic vein and pressed deeply, cutting through the skin. Blood seeped rapidly into the cut and then began to flow steadily into the bowl Rebecca held.

  “How was his urine this morning?” asked Wheatsheafen as he watched the blood. He dabbed a finger in the bowl, raised it to his lips, and tasted it.

  “Still cloudy and brown, but not as brown as yesterday,” Rebecca replied.

  “And the smell?”

  Rebecca hesitated. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wheatsheafen. I do not know how to describe it. I’ve kept the flask, as you suggested. I will get it for you after this.”

  “Good. Yes, I will have a sniff. Now, just a minute more and then this sacrificial lamb will have shed quite enough blood to improve his health.” He looked at the patient. “Get those humors back in balance, eh, William? Calm those turbulent brown waters of yours.” Wheatsheafen lowered his voice and bent closer to Rebecca’s ear. “Have you looked at that dressing on Brownjohn’s leg this morning?”

  Rebecca did not look away from the bleeding. “I know it is unhealthy to move a dressing unnecessarily. So I left it as it was.”

  Wheatsheafen nodded. “I agree. And I understand. I would not want to move it either. But you know what we are likely to see?”

  “I fear so, Mr. Wheatsheafen.”

  “You’re a good woman, Nurse Machyn.”

  “Indeed she is,” said William, looking at her as she staunched the flow and wound the bandage around his arm. “There is something about a pair of brown eyes that makes being bled much sweeter.”

  “Quite,” replied Wheatsheafen. “The medicine of beauty is a wonderful thing. I hope you can stay here, Nurse Machyn. Or may we call you Rebecca?”

  “You may call me Rebecca, if you wish,” she said, getting to her feet. “As for staying…I have no pressing commitments elsewhere. If you need me here for another week or another month, then let us see. I never meant to come here but, now I have employment, I feel more at home than I have done since my husband died.”

  “There you go, William,” said Wheatsheafen. “Your prayers are answered. You are bound to be cured of that blessed head wound of yours, with both Rebecca’s loving care and my surgical knife.” Then to Rebecca he said, “Come, we must attend to Brownjohn.”

  Rebecca followed Mr. Wheatsheafen along the hall, past the hearth and five other beds to where a young man of seventeen lay. He was lying on his side, shivering with fever; his chin covered in stubble, his dark hair a mess, his brow covered in sweat.

  Mr. Wheatsheafen gestured to Rebecca to remove the bandage that covered his right leg. “How are you feeling, John?” he asked.

  John did not stir or look up. “Chilled as a reptile, hot as a fire. More in pain than the dead. More dead than in pain.”

  Rebecca started cutting the bandage with a pair of scissors. The smell of the necrotic flesh was nauseating: Wheatsheafen watched her out of a corner of one eye. She gagged with the smell but continued cutting. Slowly the bandage came away to reveal a horrifying sight. The flesh of the young man’s lower leg had rotted away on the outer side, leaving a greenish-yellow mess around the bone. Lower, the blackness of gangrene had consumed the foot. The two smaller toes were shriveled and blackened, and looked like those of a long-buried corpse; the larger ones simply were not there. Flesh, bones, tissue-everything had rotted away, leaving a suppurating indent of green slime in that part of the blackened foot.

  Rebecca closed her eyes, struggling with the smell and the urge to be sick.

  “I’ve seen worse,” said Wheatsheafen brightly, looking hard at the area of the lost toes and the rotten leg. “But that is too far gone to use either leeches or maggots. It seems to me best, John, if we take you through to the fire in the clerks’ hall. You’d like some mutton, wouldn’t you? And some chicken broth. Rebecca, would you go and fetch Robert and Christopher from the castle, to help carry John? And fetch two quarts of sack from the store for our young friend, to ease his pain.”

  He gave her a knowing look. She understood. They were going to have to cut off the young man’s leg, and it would take three of them to hold him down after they had got him drunk and tied him to the chair. Few men could stay calm while a surgeon sawed through the bone. Still holding her breath and looking white as a sheet, she stood up and walked down the center of the hall past the beds, to the door, and out into the bright light.

  There was a girl waiting there, about ten years of age, with long brown hair and a slightly grubby mulberry dress. Rebecca recognized her as one of the villagers’ daughters. “Are you Widow Machyn?” the girl inquired.

  Rebecca was still feeling ill. She did not want to speak. She took a deep breath and looked at the girl. “I am. Why do you need to know?”

  “There’s a man come to see you,” she said nervously. “He said to tell you, if you be still at liberty, please to meet with him immediately.”

  Rebecca glanced across the rutted mud and grassy tufts of the outer bailey to the gatehouse. No one was rushing toward them; there seemed no immediate danger. Why say “if you be at liberty”? She began to walk toward the castle in the corner of the bailey. “Did he tell you his name?”

  “Clarion…Clarying-something like that.” The girl was walking beside her.

  Rebecca stopped. “Clarenceux?”

  “Yes, that’s the name,” the girl said, pleased with herself. Then she saw the look on Rebecca’s face. “Have I said something wrong?”

  For what seemed a long time, Rebecca did not move or say anything. Then she asked, “No, no…What color hair does this man have? Is he bearded? What is he wearing?”

  The girl looked back toward the gatehouse, as if she wanted to run away.

  “His hair is curled, black, and he has a beard the same color. He is a very tall man, and very dirty and wet, from the river.”

  “Oh my God.” Rebecca looked back at the long barracks building that served as the hospital hall, where she had just been. She could not leave now, whatever the problem. She knelt down beside the girl, holding her hand. “This is important. Take Mr. Clarenceux to Widow Baker’s house, as quickly as you can. If Widow Baker is there, tell her that I need to speak to Mr. Clarenceux and that she should look after him until I am free of my duties here. If she is not there, tell Mr. Clarenceux to conceal himself in the yard. I will come as soon as I can. Go now, quickly.”

  Rebecca was distracted throughout the operation on young Brownjohn. He had not reacted well to the news that he would lose his leg. Mr. Wheatsheafen had explained how the gangrene would kill him if the leg was not taken off. “It is a very simple choice,” he told him. “You can either live with one leg or die with two.”

  What followed was a half-hour of trauma. They forced Bro
wnjohn to drink too much wine, tying his body and leg to the seat and his gangrenous foot to a small trestle. They applied a tourniquet, gagging him, and then tying him tighter. Then there had been the waiting-the awful waiting-while the knives and saws were revealed and arranged. Mr. Wheatsheafen had made a deep incision, to slice through the good flesh, well above the knee. Blood had flowed. Brownjohn had bucked and struggled in his bonds while the two men held him with ropes and Rebecca pressed her face to his, trying to comfort him in the only way she knew. Then, when Wheatsheafen finally had sliced through the flesh, exposing the muscle, sinew, veins and fat, he picked up the saw. This terrified the young man even more than the slicing through his flesh. The men from the castle were hard pressed to hold him still and the sound of the blade grating through the bone was terrible; but they were strong and experienced. Rebecca put her hands over John’s eyes and kissed him, trying to soothe him while the sawing was in progress. When it was done, and the severed limb was lying in a bucket, she dressed the wound as Mr. Wheatsheafen directed, although her hands were trembling. Later, when Brownjohn was more at peace and drowsy, and the gag had been removed, she cleaned the sweat and grime from his brow.

  She turned away from Brownjohn and looked at Mr. Wheatsheafen, who was washing his hands in a bucket of water. She waited until he had finished, then washed her own hands. As she did so, and he dried his on a towel, she said to him, “I have to go now.”