James Forrester - The Roots of Betrayal

“One hundred and fifty pounds in one hour. And another fifty on my return.”

Denisot lifted his cup. “Let’s drink to the wind being in your favor.”

Clarenceux hung his hat and cloak on a hook and walked wearily up the stairs from his front door to his hall. Awdrey was there to greet him.

“How does the idea of becoming her majesty’s ambassador to the Low Countries appeal to you?” she asked with a smile. “To take up a post in Antwerp in six weeks, to be exact?”

“Ambassador?” Clarenceux was astonished. Heralds were gentlemen but few gentlemen were of sufficient social rank to aspire to be diplomatic representatives. The nearest he had ever come to such a position was declaring war against France in Rheims, on behalf of Queen Mary. That was different. That was a matter of arms and war; it was natural it should fall to a herald. Negotiating with the Catholic Spanish rulers of the Protestant Low Countries was quite another thing.

Awdrey pushed her long golden hair back behind her ear. “I spoke with Lady Cecil today, at Cecil House. She told me that Sir William needs someone to sort out a dispute between the English Merchant Adventurers and the Company of Antwerp. The Spanish are preventing the English from trading, and the Dutch are similarly frustrated because they cannot get hold of the raw materials they need from England. Sir William needs someone who is experienced in international protocol, of a logical mind, loyal, and of sufficient rank to tell the merchants what they must do. Lady Cecil suggested you. Sir William thinks you would be ideal. He told me himself.”

Clarenceux walked into the hall and called for Thomas to bring him some wine. Awdrey’s excitement indicated that she expected to travel to Antwerp too. That was understandable: the commodities passing through the Low Countries these days made it a center of fashionable interest and conversation. But it would entail their elder daughter Annie having to have a personal tutor. Clarenceux himself would have to give up being a herald. He had only recently agreed with Garter King of Arms that Devon would be the subject of his next visitation. He would lose his position, and thus he would lose much of his income. No longer would he be able to ride off down to Chislehurst to see a friend when he chose to; nor would he be able to return to England at all until recalled by Sir William. If he was successful, who knows where he might be sent next. However, if he was not reappointed, he would lose his principal income. He were not like most ambassadors-able to retire to a country estate if all went wrong.

Clarenceux took a goblet from Thomas and sat on a form, leaning forward. He scratched his beard. The truth was he did not want to be a diplomatic representative-not if it came at the cost of everything he had achieved and enjoyed. But how could he refuse and not incur Cecil’s displeasure? He sat there mulling over the problem in silence for some minutes.

“I know you will curse me for this, but the answer is no.”

Awdrey looked at him through disbelieving eyes. “How can you be so dismissive? This is a wonderful opportunity!”

“To do what? Disrupt our family and way of life? To put an end to my work?”

“Your work as a herald is…Well, it is less important. Someone else can do it. This is national and prestigious; it benefits the whole commonwealth.”

“My work as a herald is both national and prestigious,” he replied firmly. “And not just anyone can do it. I do it well, better than anyone else. Just because you can’t even describe our own coat of arms does not mean such things have no value.”

“Your heraldry pays little, William. And it is demeaning to both of us. You could be so much more. You are fit, you are clever, and you are brave. You could be properly influential-not having to scrape around for whatever operations Sir William deigns to give you, or Robert Dudley, not that he gives you anything.”

“Is that what this is about? You want me to be more influential and rich and unhappy because it would boost your pride and help you win the respect of well-connected friends like Lady Cecil? Well then, I have all the more reason to refuse.”

Awdrey turned and faced the fireplace. “So, is that it? We are not going to Antwerp because you take more enjoyment and pride in drawing shields?”

Clarenceux got up. “I am going up to my study. To work.”

He opened the door in the corner and walked briskly up the stairs. He opened his study door equally abruptly and cursed as he sat down at his writing table. How had it happened? One moment, not so long ago, he had been very happy. Now it seemed that, without having done anything wrong, he was balanced on the blade of a knife, feeling the pain.

He sat back, growing calmer, and made himself think about the situation from Awdrey’s position. It was true; he did hold back from high office-for the same reason that he did not want to do anything with the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement: he wanted those around him to be safe and secure. His very possession of the document worked at his mind in such a way as to make him a little on edge, all the time, and Awdrey had to bear the brunt of his bad moods.

But would he be any happier if he did seek a position of influence? Would he actually get one suited to his abilities? Would he be any happier if he had more money and more responsibilities-would Awdrey? Perhaps he would take the position in Antwerp only to find that Awdrey hated being there. Few people would speak English and she knew no foreign languages. Perhaps her youthful enthusiasm for being elsewhere would diminish all too soon. But there would be nothing left in England for them to return to.

Then there was that other problem. Clarenceux’s faith in the Holy Catholic Church of Rome had become impossible for him to profess publicly. Perhaps that was what Sir William wanted? The proposal was a test of his religion. In sending him to Antwerp, the Cecils had a hidden agenda: to force him and Awdrey to accept the Protestant way.

Clarenceux left his study and went down into the hall. He called for Awdrey: no answer came. He walked to the other staircase and out onto the landing. One flight led down to the service rooms at the back of the house: the buttery, kitchens, and stores. The other led up to the sleeping chambers. He went up.

Awdrey was lying on their bed, facedown.

“That offer is not what it seems,” he said.

Awdrey did not reply. Mildred started crying in the next room. They both listened as Joan, Awdrey’s maid, comforted the infant.

“If I accept Sir William’s offer, our religion will be under examination. Men will watch us in church, to see if we abide by the Protestant rites or those of the old religion.”

“But Catholics and Protestants live side by side in Antwerp.”

“We will not be able to. As her majesty’s representatives, we will be expected to observe the rites authorized by her government. Exclusively.”

Awdrey remained quiet.

“Few people speak English in Antwerp,” he added. “Very few.”

“I was happy for you,” she replied, looking up. “Did that deserve such a flat rebuttal? To want you to be more important than you are? To be recognized as a leader?”

“No, it did not. I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you.”

She smiled weakly, tears in her eyes. “You never do. But you are so forceful when you are passionate about something. It does not take much for you to frighten me.” She moved across the bed, allowing him to sit beside her. “I can see the religious problem. But I still wish we could go there.”

“Perhaps we will, one day.”

Rogation Sunday, May 7