“Was it the cutting? There are other patients to see to; attending to them will help you forget this.”
“No, it’s not me. It’s not the cutting. I have to see someone urgently, at Widow Baker’s.”
Wheatsheafen said nothing at first. “Come back as soon as you can, Rebecca. You know how much you are needed here.” He handed her the towel. “I appreciate your work. Most good women only want to look after their own kin, or attend to babies and children. Few and far are the kind souls who really care for others.”
Rebecca put down the towel and turned toward the door. Opening it, she stopped and drew back. Striding toward the long hospital hall from the outer gatehouse were two men. One of them was Captain Parkinson.
“Rebecca, is everything all right?” asked Wheatsheafen.
“Those men,” she said. She turned to him and spoke urgently. “I need to get back to the village, Mr. Wheatsheafen. I need your help. Please. Those men out there are looking for me.”
“You have a past that is not yet past. I thought you were too good to be true.”
“No, believe me-I am going to come back here. I mean to stay and help with the hospital. But the man who is waiting for me-it is complicated. I need to talk to him. I cannot begin to tell you how serious this is. I must hide…”
“There is a path around the walls,” said Wheatsheafen, “from the Watergate.”
“I’ll show her the way,” said Robert. “There’s a door that leads out of the back of this building; the path will take us to the churchyard. From there it is easy to reach the gate.”
“Thank you. Quickly, I must go now,” she said.
“When will you be back?” asked Wheatsheafen.
“Later today, I hope.”
“Good luck. I look forward to your return. Your past is mysterious-I am intrigued.”
71
Rebecca was nervous as she followed Robert through the churchyard. She knew that at any moment she could be called back by Parkinson. What then? Robert was from the castle garrison, a royal soldier; he could not disobey Captain Parkinson. But no one did call her. They passed the far side of the church and approached the gate facing the water. No one stopped them as they went out that way and walked between the old walls and the beach, eventually finding the path that led into the village.
Widow Baker lived in a cottage on a bend in the lane leading back to Fareham. She also assisted in the naval hospital in the castle, where Rebecca had been helping for the last week. Hers was the only house outside the walls Rebecca had visited; it was more in hope than in confidence that she had directed Clarenceux there. Hence she felt doubly nervous as she approached. She bade Robert to return to the castle when she was within sight of the cottage.
It was not a pretty building. The thatch needed attention and there was a shirt hanging from an open upstairs window. The door was locked, which suggested Widow Baker was out. Rebecca knocked with her knuckles; there was no answer. She walked around the side of the house across the dusty yard, toward a hen house and a partly collapsed, ivy-covered cart house at the rear.
Clarenceux saw her approaching and stepped out slightly from where he was hiding, behind the cart house. He looked awful. His hair and beard were filthy, his shoulder covered in blood, his forehead cut, his clothes torn, and his legs covered in mud. He was clutching his side, where his ribs were causing him pain. His clothes were all wet and he was shivering. His hands were covered in dried blood. Everything about him was changed from the proud herald she had known in London. Only the intense dark eyes were the same.
He said nothing. He looked at her dowdy clothes, her blood-flecked smock and gown, her coif and plain leather shoes. She had always had an air of tragic beauty about her, a terrible sadness that made the expression in her brown eyes seem all the more moving; but now that sadness seemed also to speak about other people’s suffering.
“You are wet,” she said at last.
He swallowed and felt the tears well up in his eyes. “I had to swim the river. I was lucky-Carew killed all Parkinson’s men and destroyed his boats at Calshot, so he had to-”
“Carew? Who is he?”
Clarenceux was about to explain but suddenly the recent past did not seem important. Looking into her eyes he saw the same affection, the same loveliness he had always seen in her. He longed to hold her but he knew he looked and smelled disgusting. And under it all there was the knowledge that she had betrayed him.
“I need to know what happened-about the document,” he said hoarsely. “I need to know why you agreed to take it.”
Rebecca looked away. “I wish there was somewhere we could go to talk.”
“Tell me here. Now, right now.” There was more force in his voice than he intended.
She looked back at him. “Very well. My life has been hell ever since last December. First my husband died. You remember that? They tortured him to death. Then there was that sheer panic as you and I struggled to stay alive. And then, when all was well again for me, they started to use me…”
“Who?”
“The Knights of the Round Table and Mrs. Barker. By God’s love, was I mistaken about her. I was so grateful for her care and attention when Henry died, but all the time she was just trying to get close to me, to get the document from me. After I told her you had it, she changed. She became more insistent. She would send a man for me and entertain me with rich food and give me money, and always she would slip in questions about you and your family. She wanted to know whether we had met, whether we had been intimate, whether I had seen the document in your house. She asked where you kept your books, how often you entertained friends and guests, and how often you went down to the country. When I stopped going to see her, in March, she sent two men to demand I come to her. When I refused, they hauled me there. You can guess the rest.”
“No, no, I can’t. Tell me.”
Rebecca sighed and spoke with her eyes closed. “Mrs. Barker and the three men who were always there demanded that I steal the document from you. At first they asked kindly, then they tried to bribe me. They offered me two hundred pounds for it, then two hundred and fifty, then three hundred…”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“Because they said if I told you, they would have to resort to a different strategy. They were going to take your wife and daughters and threaten to drown them in front of you unless you gave them what they wanted. And no doubt they would have used me similarly. They knew I loved you and that you were fond of me. They knew that.”
The words she had just spoken, so long whispered in Clarenceux’s mind, words of love, touched his heart.
Rebecca raised her hands in desperation. “What could I do? Eventually I had to give them something, so I said I would help. They told me they had a plan. On a certain day, my brother was to help me break into your house-blacksmiths are good at these things. The other Knights were to come with us too, and some of their helpers, to distract you or to overpower you and anyone else who might be in the house. The next morning, Robert and I would be taken by ship to the north. We were to be lodged at a place that had been arranged, and then we were to go on into Scotland by road, when it was safe, to meet the Queen of Scots and give her the document in person. The day set for the theft was a Saturday, in the afternoon. But that morning my brother came to me and told me to go with him immediately, and to bring nothing but the clothes I was standing up in. He led me to the docks, where we boarded a boat, the Davy, which took us to Southampton.”
Clarenceux was dumbfounded. “You did not steal the document?”
Rebecca looked at him, puzzled. “It was taken? I did not know.”
“I thought that you would be able to tell me who had taken it from you.”
“Surely it was Mrs. Barker and the Knights?”
“No. They interrogated me, wanting to know where it had gone and where you…” He raised his hands slowly. “O, Lord Almighty-it was Cecil.” Clarenceux struck his forehead. “Cecil gave the instructions fo
r you to be brought to Calshot. He preempted the theft by removing you and took the document himself. Such duplicity…What happened to your brother?”
“He abandoned me. A man called Prouze was sent to collect us from the port. There was a delay. When we arrived at Calshot, Captain Parkinson was not there. After one day of waiting, my brother said he was only supposed to accompany me as far as the fort…” She stopped and put her hand to her mouth, nauseated by the memory. “They were just flirtatious at first, and I played along. Then one evening they got drunk.” She swallowed, choking back her memory. “How could he leave me there? How could anyone regard their kin so coldly and be so selfish?” Then she wiped her eyes and said wearily, “Now, you must tell me: why have you come here?”
“When I set out to find you, it was because I believed you had stolen the document on behalf of Mrs. Barker. Then I thought you had stolen it in league with Nicholas Denisot. Now I realize that Cecil used you to mislead both me and the Knights. This journey…” Clarenceux shut his eyes, thinking back. He remembered being tied to the rope and dragged from the Davy, Kahlu plunging the knife through his hand, firing the cannon at the boatload of boarders, attacking Sir Peter Carew’s ship, being locked in the magazine at Calshot Fort, and fighting Parkinson in the darkness before making that jump onto the gatehouse roof. “This journey, which has been the worst experience of my life, has all been in vain-except for one thing. I have seen you again, and you are alive.”
“That is nothing; it is unimportant.”
A tear ran down his cheeks into his beard. Then another. “No, it is not unimportant. For if you had just disappeared, I would never have been happy. I would never have forgotten you, but always would have worried about you, not knowing what had happened.”
Rebecca looked at his clothes. “You need to wash and dress in something else before you go anywhere. And those wounds need attention.”
“I have no clothes-these are borrowed. I am a hundred miles from home, sodden, covered in mud, without a penny, let alone enough to sustain me. If the wound in my shoulder goes bad and kills me, it will probably be the best thing that has happened since…” He wiped his face on his sleeve. “I’ve reached the end, Rebecca. I can’t think or act anymore.”
“William, this is not like you,” she said, dismayed. “You are always so strong, so purposeful. I have never before heard you admit defeat. True, you have made yourself a powerful enemy in Sir William Cecil-I always thought you should not have trusted him as much as you did-but you are still standing. You are still alive. So am I. Where are Awdrey and your daughters? Are they safe?”
Clarenceux shrugged. “I do not know. They went down to Julius’s house. Since then I have heard nothing.”
“You have lost no one. You have some cuts, that is all. Some dents to your pride. I myself have been treated shamefully and unkindly. I have been made to feel like a whore-worse, for a whore is at least paid. A whore can at least say no. I have been stripped of my dignity, my home-everything. Yet I am not beaten. I have not ‘reached the end,’ as you put it. In fact, I have found something in this last week that is good and true. I have found that I can be useful to some people, and valued. After months of doubt and shame, I have at last found a place where I can make a kind gesture and it is appreciated. And I can do an unpleasant task and be respected for it, not scorned or insulted for lowering myself. I have rediscovered what it is to be a woman in a world ruled by men. I can help and heal and caress and encourage-and all these things touch men’s and women’s hearts equally. I may only have been here a few days, and I might have had to go through hell to get here, but I have glimpsed the path I will take from now on.”
Clarenceux listened. Tears of shame came to his eyes. Tears of shame for the way he had presumed he knew her and what she wanted. Tears of shame because he had thought of her only in terms of his own desire for her womanliness, even though he could never offer her more than friendship. If he had thought of her in any other way, it was that she had betrayed him. He had never properly understood the trauma of the months since her husband had died. Now he was glad for her. Mingled among those tears of shame and regret were tears of another kind. Not of joy but of satisfaction, the sort that is not a momentary ecstasy but the result of completeness and harmony.
Rebecca stepped forward and wiped his face with the sleeve of her dress. He took her hand and pressed it to his bearded cheek. “I am sorry for the pain I caused you,” he said. “I am sorry for suspecting you betrayed me. I am sorry that in trying to protect me you have suffered. I am glad for you now, that you have found your path. I am glad.” He kissed her hand.
Rebecca looked at the wound in his right hand and the blood caked on his doublet. She reached down for his left hand and looked at that, inspecting the fresh cuts, the missing fingernails. “When Parkinson has gone, I will take you to the hospital and-”
Clarenceux withdrew his hand. “Parkinson is here? He will be looking for you too.”
“Only because of you. Sir William Cecil ordered him to keep me safely. I will not be in danger when you have gone.”
At that moment, Rebecca turned; an old woman with a clean white headscarf was walking slowly along the side of the house into the yard, her expression apprehensive. When she saw them, she relaxed and walked toward them. “Oh, Rebecca, Mr. Wheatsheafen told me you had come to meet someone at my cottage, and that I should leave off the washing of sheets and make sure all is well.”
Rebecca nodded. “Thank you, Margaret. This is Mr. William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms.” She turned to him. “Although his appearance is somewhat less refined than usual, he is a good man and has come a long way to see me on a matter of importance. I hope you do not mind us using the yard of your cottage for our conversation.”
“Of course I do not mind, Rebecca. Can I offer you and Mr. Harley some refreshment? Would Mr. Harley like to wash?”
Clarenceux nodded. “Some hot water would be most welcome,” he replied.
72
Captain Parkinson glared across the table at the lieutenant of Portchester Castle. “You assured me that you would keep a close watch on her. As Sir Henry Radcliffe’s representative, you should know better than to break your word or shirk your duties. Where is she now?”
The lieutenant was a man of about forty, his hair flecked with gray. He rose from his seat. “Captain, I have two things to say in reply. First, I am no man’s jailer-nor any woman’s either. You entrusted this woman to my safekeeping and I gave her work in the hospital. She was there this morning, and as far as I can see, she is still under my protection.”
“You let her go. You let her escape.”
The lieutenant continued, “The second thing I have to say is that, if you wish to speak to her, I suggest you wait until she returns. As Mr. Wheatsheafen has told you, she will not be gone long. He has every confidence she will be back.”
“She has gone to meet the man who killed four of my men at Calshot.”
“Really? You told me that that was the pirate, Raw Carew. This man, Clarenceux, seems to have killed no one.”
“Damn it, the two men were together-Clarenceux and Carew-last night. I stabbed Carew and he threw himself into the sea. Clarenceux was coming here to see the widow. So if she has suddenly disappeared off to meet someone, I have no doubt who it is.”
“Then why do you not simply follow Mr. Wheatsheafen’s advice and ride after them? Portsmouth is not far. You are wasting time talking to me. If you really do believe she is going back to London, go after her.”
Parkinson smashed his fist down on the table and shouted his reply. “Because I do not believe that fat surgeon.”
“Captain Parkinson, if you do not believe Mr. Wheatsheafen or anyone else under my authority, that is your problem. You have given me no reason to believe that my men are deceiving you, still less that they are deceiving me-and in any case, it is not against the law to tell a lie. Nor to conceal a truth. What is against the law is to accuse my men or Mr. Wheatsheafen
of dishonesty. That is defamation of character and is punishable in the church courts-as you would know, if you ever went to church. Now I must ask you to return to your post-at Calshot or Southampton. I have nothing more to say on the matter.”
Parkinson searched for some response. Nothing came to mind.
The lieutenant placed his hands on the table. “While you are here, I will offer you a word of advice. Sir Henry is aware of the way you manage things at Southampton. He has so far withheld from writing to Sir William Cecil on the matter, but your continued willfulness and extortion of the local population will not serve your reputation any favors.”
Parkinson marched from the room without another word.
73
Widow Baker wrung out Clarenceux’s shirt over the tub in which he was bathing as Rebecca washed around the cut in his arm and the stab wound near his shoulder. She carried the wet shirt across to the other side of the room. “I won’t put this one near the fire, or it will smell of smoke. I have a trick for drying shirts, my dear. A flat stone. Once the stone is hot, it dries the shirt quite quickly and flattens the creases too.”
Rebecca turned back to Clarenceux and spoke in a quiet voice. “Where will you go? Are there no heraldic gentlemen in these parts you could call on?”
“None that I know personally. I have never undertaken a visitation of Hampshire. I have passed through here a few times over the years, when sailing abroad or traveling to the West Country. But that is all. Besides, I have to go back to London. To see Cecil.”
He flinched as she washed the cut on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said, dabbing at the blood.
“No matter,” he replied. “First, I am going to Southampton. I have to pass on the news about Raw Carew to the women he left behind there, in the Two Swans.”
The Roots of Betrayal c-2 Page 32
