James Forrester - The Roots of Betrayal

“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.

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.

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.”