James Forrester: The Roots of Betrayal

She sat down on one of the chests. “I am going away.”

“Forever?”

“Probably. I don’t expect we shall meet again. In fact, I hope we do not.”

Clarenceux felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. “Why? What have I said or done? Have I neglected you? Is that the reason?”

Her eyes were sad. “It is nothing you have said or done. I can hardly say you have neglected me. I have no claim on a married gentleman like you. No, I have been glad of your attention. But we are both laboring under a great weight. You seem to be able to deal with it better than I.”

“I do not understand. Do you mean we are under scrutiny in our personal lives? Or because of the document-the marriage agreement?”

Rebecca sighed. “Both. The document mostly. Other people know about it. The surviving Knights of the Round Table know, including my brother Robert. They all expect you to do something, Mr. Clarenceux. And in some ways, so do I. I am too vulnerable to continue living like this.”

“I am the one who guards the document. I am far more vulnerable than you.”

“But you are an important and well-connected man. There are people to whom you can turn for protection. I have no one. And when powerful people come into my house and ask me when you are going to proclaim the queen illegitimate, I have no answer. I wish I did. They talk to me so much; they tell me that allowing you to keep the document was a mistake. They talk of stealing it.”

“What are you trying to say? That I should start some sort of rebellion, with no coherent plan or support, just to please a few disaffected supporters of the old religion? If they are so keen to foment change, let them say so openly. Let them risk their lives, and the lives of their families. I have too much to lose. And so have you.”

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, keep your peace, Mr. Clarenceux. I do not want to hear another word. You are condemning me for the way I feel, for being weak as well as poor and useless.”

He shook his head, unmoved. “You told me once you did not want to start a revolution; you just wanted to be safe in your own home. But now, that is not enough. You want a revolution and you want to be safe-you cannot have it both ways.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” she yelled. “Go on, stab me some more. It seems you find it quite to your liking. And I, who took so many blows for you just six months ago, who went through all that in the hope that we would be safe…”

She started crying. Clarenceux instinctively wanted to comfort her but in her present mood he dared not touch her. He looked at her sitting on the chest, sobbing, and felt at a loss. He so wanted to make her smile again.

“Go. Go away-out of my house,” said Rebecca. She glared at him through her tears. “Please, leave now.”

Clarenceux looked at her and she held his gaze. He could see that she still held a love for him, but he could also see the strength of her conviction. She was doing this in spite of her feelings.

“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.

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?”