James Forrester - The Roots of Betrayal

He walked across wide Gracechurch Street and stepped over a pile of dung. Refusing to wait for a stream of carts to pass, he dodged between two of them and walked on swiftly past St. Benet’s until he could see St. Dionis Backchurch on his left. Here the city shrank in scale. There were tiny alleys barely wide enough to walk along two abreast and places where houses’ first-floor jetties were so low you could bash your head if you were not careful. There were paths so intertwined and twisting that you could easily get lost, especially when the London fog descended. Old sites had been divided at every rebuilding, each old messuage turned into three or four merchants’ houses. Half of those had been turned into single-room tenements, so that a merchants’ house of six chambers might now be home to twenty people. The other half had been pulled down and were ugly one- and two-story cheap wooden tenements put up by unscrupulous merchant landlords, who did not care that their tenants lived in close proximity to a communal cesspit and had to walk all the way to the conduit at the corner of Gracechurch Street and Cheapside to fetch a bucket of water.

In these gloomy alleys-more like paths through a forest than streets in a city-the wardens and parish officers did not walk alone but only in twos and threes. The fetid mud stank of feces and urine, and the water dripping from the overhanging eaves gave the whole area a dismal feeling. The smoke from the wood of the cooking fires was a blessing; it was the only wholesome thing about the place. Clarenceux worked his way through the maze of houses by the occasional patch of sunlight on the lanes and the church towers and spires. He knew if he continued walking north from the parish church he would come to a narrow alley on his left that split into two, one side wider than the other. The wider one had a two-story building on the right with scallop shells above the door.

Five minutes later, there it was. The piece of carved wood covering the lintel was coming away and hanging down slightly, and there was no doorframe. But the four irregularly spaced scallop shells, nailed above the door and green with age, were clear enough.

Clarenceux drew his knife and hammered on the door. It opened: a woman in her late twenties with her hair tied up in a dirty white scarf answered. She looked shocked to see Clarenceux. The door swung open into a dimly lit living space with a stone fireplace and old baskets hanging from the ceiling. A small cooking fire was on the hearth, with a chafing dish set into the ashes on one side and a small cauldron suspended above the flames. Nicholas Hill was standing beside the stairs, unshaven, his belly proud before him, his jerkin loose over his shirt. He was dressed in the same fawn doublet he had been wearing when Clarenceux had first met him last December.

Clarenceux walked straight in. “Did you think the Knights of the Round Table could just take that document and that I would do nothing about it?” he demanded. “Well-did you?” Without thinking or pausing to check his rage, Clarenceux found himself aiming a fist straight at Hill’s jaw. Hill, however, saw the punch coming, and stepped to one side, leaving Clarenceux to lurch off-balance.

“You should not have come here, Clarenceux. You should have proclaimed that marriage agreement while you had the chance.”

“I was charged to look after that document with my life.”

“Then you value your life more highly than the True Faith,” said Hill. “And that is bad. But not as bad as the fact that you betrayed us.”

“I did not betray you. I saved you from Walsingham. You would still be in his prison if-”

“You led Walsingham’s men to our doors! You stood by and waited for us all to be arrested. For what? So you could keep that document as if it’s an heirloom, a grant of arms or some historical treasure. Shame on you, Clarenceux, shame on you! You did not act as Henry Machyn told you to. You withheld us from our purpose.”

Clarenceux glared at Hill. “Where is Rebecca Machyn? Where is the marriage agreement?”

Hill leaned forward, as if taunting Clarenceux. “My…lips…are…sealed.”

Clarenceux lashed out again. This time he was faster than Hill and his fist connected with the man’s nose. Hill staggered backward, turned, and reached for a sword that hung on the wall. He swept around with it, drawing it from its scabbard, and moved to stab Clarenceux, but as he came forward, Clarenceux leaped aside and drew his own blade.

Hill’s terrified wife let out a scream.

Clarenceux shouted, “How is it that your father has died and you are still here in this slum? Did he write you out of his will-for being a fool?”

“How dare you speak of my father!”

“He had more sense than you. He advised you to give up the document.” As he spoke, Hill thrust. Clarenceux easily parried the blow. “To whom did he leave his house in St. Mary Woolnoth? Not to you, clearly. Is that what disturbs you?”

Hill’s wife moved to the stairs. “Stop it, Nicholas,” she cried. “You can’t kill him. He’s a gentleman. They’ll hang you if they catch you.”

“They won’t. No one knows he is here. No one is waiting for him-he acts alone. At least he does now, since Rebecca Machyn chose to side with us.”

Clarenceux knew how to use a weapon better than Hill. He had been trained. He could play with the man. He swept the blade across Hill’s line of vision, then darted forward and cut him in the shoulder, drawing blood. He then drew the point back across Hill’s face as the latter winced with the pain, moving forward and catching the wrist of the man’s sword hand. “Drop it!” he commanded, holding the point of his sword at Hill’s throat. “Drop it or I’ll fight you in earnest.”

Hill stopped. But he did not drop the sword.

“When did your father die?” Clarenceux demanded. “Was it in February?”

“He did not leave me his house because it was not his,” Hill said. “He rented it. It was his way out of these alleys. I always hoped that religious change would be mine.”

Clarenceux reached forward and took the sword from Hill’s hand. He gave it to the man’s wife, not taking his eyes off him. “Put it away somewhere safe until I have gone. I do not want to harm your husband but he is dangerous. I would sooner run him through than have him do the same to me.”

Hill’s wife took the blade and ran upstairs, the wooden soles of her shoes sounding loud on the steps.

“Does she know what this is about?” Clarenceux asked.

Hill nodded.

“And your children?”

“What children?”

Clarenceux paused. “None of you have children. You do not, nor does James Emery, nor Rebecca Machyn-all three of hers died. Henry Machyn’s only son has turned into a drunkard and Robert Lowe has no children. Maybe if you had children you would be more mindful of the future and the necessity of protecting your offspring, not feeding them to religious fires.”

Hill looked like an animal about to pounce. Clarenceux kept his distance, taking no chances. “Now tell me-when did your father die?” he repeated.

“February the sixteenth.”

“So who is Sir Percival?”

“I do not know.”

“Yes, you do. Mr. Emery told me four of you are left. None of you would trust William Draper. Lancelot Heath’s whereabouts are unknown. Daniel Gyttens and your father are both dead. That leaves Lowe, Emery, yourself, and Sir Percival. Who is he?” Clarenceux looked Hill in the eye and lifted his sword to his throat, holding the point about two inches away. “I know Sir Percival brings and sends messages to and from Lady Percy. But who is he?”

“I will not tell.”

Clarenceux darted upward with the blade and slashed Hill’s cheek, surprised at how easily the sharp point sliced into his skin. Blood rushed to the surface and ran down his chin.