James Forrester: The Roots of Betrayal

Carew turned back to Gray. “Where is the treasure?”

Gray remained motionless, in too much pain to react. His jaw started to move before any sound came out. “I…I do not know…I have not…heard of-”

“You must know! Why are you here? Who sent you?”

“I brought the woman-and the man.”

“What woman? What man?”

“Rebecca Machyn was her name. The man was Robert-Robert Lowe, I think. I…I was paid…to bring them to Southampton.”

“How much?”

“Two h-h-hundred…pounds,” stuttered Gray, shivering. “One hundred and fifty…in advance. It is under the bed.”

Carew looked at Kahlu and glanced through the door. Hugh Dean was still guarding the crew.

Kahlu went to the bed, reached beneath it, and pulled out a second small chest. He opened it, showing the contents to Carew. The bottom was covered with gold coins.

Carew grabbed the captain’s hair and gestured to his broken left hand. “Skinner!”

A moment later, although the captain lifted his arm and tried to clench his broken hand, his fingers barely moved. Skinner Simpkins placed it flat on the table and drove his dagger through it with a thud, causing a trickle of blood to run quickly across the wood. Gray screamed again. Another scream lifted his body from the seat and tore his hands further. As the first screams subsided, more surged in him. Carew waited, still holding the man’s hair. When Gray’s cries had turned to sobbing and gasping, Carew started to pull the man’s head back, drawing the knives’ blades into the flesh of his hands.

“No one is running to your aid,” he said, looking at the door. “None of your crew. Perhaps it is because you are a bad captain? Perhaps because you keep your door locked, like a coward, when intruders board your ship? Perhaps because you abduct defenseless girls? What were you going to do with her? Take her home so she could inform the authorities what you did-or throw her overboard in the middle of the Channel? I know your sort.” He let go of the man’s hair.

Gray, with his bloody hands splayed out in front of him, lurched forward. He put his head on the table, trembling with shock.

“Where is the treasure?” said Carew.

“I do not know,” sobbed Gray. “I do not know what…you are talking about.”

“What was your mission?”

“To deliver…the man and the woman.”

“Who paid you?”

“A man called Percy-Percy Roy.”

“When? Where?”

“In London.”

“Who is Percy Roy?” When the captain hesitated, Carew grabbed his hair once more and pulled it back. Gray screamed as the blades cut his hands again. “Speak!”

“His real name…is Denisot. He did not tell me, but I know-from the old days. It is Nicholas Denisot.”

Carew let go of the man’s hair. For a long time he was quiet, staring at oblivion through the wainscoting of the cabin. Then his eyes focused on something inside his mind. “Where is Denisot?”

“London.”

“Where in London?” he demanded, regaining his urgency, as if he was now the one feeling the pain. “ Where in London? ”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.”

Carew drew the knife from his belt and held it before the man’s eyes, then placed it against his throat. “Tell me. Now! ”

“I cannot,” cried Gray, with tears in his eyes. “I cannot say, for I do not know. All I know is that Denisot…he came to me in a tavern by London Port saying that he wanted me to take a man and a woman to Southampton, that same day, to be delivered as soon as possible. I asked who was employing me and for how much…He said, ‘Percy Roy,’ and an hour later he gave me one hundred and fifty pounds in gold-with a promise of another fifty on my return. But it was Denisot…That is all-all I can tell you.”

“Where is he living?”

“For God’s sake, I do not know. I do not know.” The captain started sobbing uncontrollably.

Carew seemed hardened by the news. “Tell me! Tell me how you know the names of the man and the woman. Why were they going to Southampton? I need to know everything.”

“I do not know them-only that they mentioned another man…”

“Who? Tell me!”

“The woman-I overheard her. She said that Mr. Clarenceux…that Mr. Clarenceux would never forgive them.”

“Forgive them for what?” Carew struck the captain on the side of the face.

“I don’t know! I have told you everything-I swear it.”

“Who is Clarenceux?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” The man collapsed in sobs, his head falling forward.

Carew noticed Kahlu gesticulating. The black man held his left arm out in front of his breast and with his right drew the outline of a shield.

“A herald,” said Skinner. “They often have foreign names.”

Kahlu pointed to Skinner and nodded.

“It looks as though we have found a treasure-albeit not the one we were looking for,” Carew said. “I would value Denisot’s head more than any amount of gold and silver.” He glanced at the girl and bit his lip, thinking, before turning back to Gray.

“First, let’s take this devil up on deck, cut his throat, and throw him overboard. Then we will escort this girl back to her mother-it is what our law requires. Is Alice here?”

Kahlu shook his head.

“She’s ashore still,” added John Devenish in a deep voice. “At the Swans.”

“Bring her aboard. Bring everyone aboard. This is our new ship. Those out there we will deal with in the normal way-the usual terms. Then we will hold the election. If elected, I will go after Denisot, sailing to London. If I can’t find him, I will find this Clarenceux and I will make him tell me where Denisot is-if I have to cut him open to get the information out of him.”

Twelve days earlier

Saturday, April 29, 1564

William Harley, officially known by his heraldic title of Clarenceux King of Arms, was naked. He was lying in his bed in his house in the parish of St. Bride, just outside the city walls of London. Leaning up on one arm, he ran his fingers down the skin of his wife’s back, golden in the candlelight. He drew them back again, slowly, up to her shoulders, moving her blond hair aside so he could see her more fully. She is so precious, so beautiful , he thought. My Saxon Princess. My Aethelfritha, my Etheldreda, my Awdrey.

He withdrew his hand as the candle in the alcove above him spluttered. He looked at the curve of the side of her breast, pressed into the bed. The feeling of their union was still with him. The ecstasy had not just been one thrill; it had been many simultaneous pleasures-all of which had merged into one euphoria that had overwhelmed him, leaving him aglow.

She turned her head and smiled up at him again, lovingly. She was twenty-five years of age now. He felt lucky and grateful. Not only for the pleasure but also for the knowledge of just how great his pleasure could be. He leaned over and kissed her.

The candle in the alcove above the bed went out.

He lay down and let his thoughts drift in the darkness. Six months ago he had almost destroyed his own happiness, disconcerted and attracted by another woman. Rebecca Machyn. He shuddered as he remembered how he and Rebecca had been pursued, terrified together. She had seen him at his lowest, and he her. They had supported each other and, in a way, he had fallen in love with her. But he had never had doubts about his loyalty to his wife. That was what troubled him. Two women and two forms of love. It was not something that most God-fearing men and women ever spoke about.

What did he feel for Rebecca now? In the darkness, he sought his true feelings. There was a part of him that still loved her. His feelings for his wife were an inward thing: a matter of the heart. He loved Awdrey because of what he knew about her and what they had built together, what they shared. His affection for Rebecca Machyn was the opposite: an outward thing. She showed him what he did not know, the doubts, the wonder, and the fear that he knew existed in the world.