James Forrester - The Roots of Betrayal

Rebecca turned back to Clarenceux and spoke in a quiet voice. “Where will you go? Are there no heraldic gentlemen in these parts you could call on?”

“None that I know personally. I have never undertaken a visitation of Hampshire. I have passed through here a few times over the years, when sailing abroad or traveling to the West Country. But that is all. Besides, I have to go back to London. To see Cecil.”

He flinched as she washed the cut on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said, dabbing at the blood.

“No matter,” he replied. “First, I am going to Southampton. I have to pass on the news about Raw Carew to the women he left behind there, in the Two Swans.”

“Did you say you are going to Southampton?” asked Widow Baker, returning across the room. “You should catch the carter, Roger. He’s my son-in-law. He’ll take you.”

“There’s your carriage,” said Rebecca. “Who are these women at the Two Swans?”

“Prostitutes.”

“Really? That is not like you.”

Clarenceux went a little red. “They are sisters called Amy and Ursula and a woman called Alice. All were friends of Raw Carew’s. I promised I would pass on his farewell message to them. Alice he had known for years. Amy was his sweetheart. Although so was Ursula, I gather. His personal life seems to have been a little confused. They both held him in a special regard.”

“Lucky man.”

Clarenceux thought about this. He was at first inclined to agree; but then he thought of the long days and nights at sea, the poor food, the fear, the alienation, and the not being accepted anywhere. Then he thought of the man limping off into the sea, still bleeding from his guts. “No. Everything he had, he had to fight for. And the women weren’t his, as such, like wives. In fact, he had to share them with any man who paid-and many men did. Including John Prouze, the man who took you to Calshot.”

“Ah- that Amy. Now I remember. The men at the fort mentioned her. They suggested I be taken to the Two Swans ‘for safekeeping, like Amy.’ Is she pretty?”

“Yes. But probably not for long. Her sister Ursula has a large scar across her face. Sooner or later it will happen to Amy too.”

“Sooner or later it happens to all of us. It doesn’t always show though.”

Clarenceux looked at her. “You are not the only one who feels it, you know. I carry scars too-some because of you, some because of what you have suffered, and some because of what my wife has suffered on account of me.”

“Scars that can be concealed are easily overlooked.”

Clarenceux stayed only an hour and a half longer at Widow Baker’s house. While he was still in the bath, Rebecca shaved off his beard to make him less noticeable in the streets. Afterward he waited in a towel while both women worked on drying his clothes with hot stones. While he dressed, Widow Baker heated some pottage that she had cooked the previous evening, adding a small portion of mutton that she had put by for her Sunday dinner, and shared it with them. Then she led Clarenceux and Rebecca through the back paths to the carter’s house, avoiding the lanes as far as possible. The carter agreed to take Clarenceux into town and lent him a hat and cloak for the journey. In the yard, standing beside the cart, Clarenceux gave his thanks to the old lady and then turned to Rebecca.

“I don’t know how to say good-bye to you,” he said.

“You don’t have to. Maybe when people part for the last time it is better that they do not say anything.”

“Especially if they love each other.”

“Yes, especially,” she said. A tear ran down the side of her face.

“My dear, you shouldn’t be letting him go, if he feels so tenderly about you,” the Widow Baker said kindly. “It’s a marked rare thing in a man. And he doesn’t look so bad when he’s cleaned up.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Margaret,” said Clarenceux, wiping away his own tears. “Look after her. I find it very hard to leave her. She once told me it was best for both of us if we never met again. And now I know it, in my mind.” He stepped forward, put his arms around Rebecca, and kissed her on the lips. “Not good-bye but thank you,” he said as their lips parted.

“Be brave, be careful,” she replied in a whisper.

He climbed onto the cart and turned, waving once. He could not smile; it hurt too much. Instead he faced forward, along the lane. He did not look back again. He wanted to preserve the thought that he could turn around and look at her just once more for as long as he could, even after the cart had passed out of sight of the village.

Clarenceux was in a melancholy state when he arrived in Southampton. He walked through the alleys to the Two Swans trying not to think of Rebecca. He tried to think of Carew instead, and of what he was going to say to Sir William Cecil, but his thoughts inevitably swung back to her. There was a pain in his chest at the thought that he would never see her again.

When he walked into the Two Swans there was the familiar smell of old wine and woodsmoke in the air. Four men were discussing their business at one table, two merchants were sitting at another. Clarenceux recognized no one except Marie Gervys, serving a plate of cold beef and bread to the merchants. At first she didn’t recognize him but looked at his clothes, realizing they had belonged to her husband.

“It’s William Harley, the Clarenceux herald.”

“Ah.” Marie gestured to his face. “The beard.”

“Yes, I cut it off. Tell me, is either Amy or Ursula here? I have news for them.”

Marie beckoned Clarenceux closer. “Amy has gone with a man who owns a skiff she borrowed. Really she is looking for Carew, though. Ursula has paying company.”

For a moment the incongruity of Ursula’s position hit Clarenceux. No doubt she had to be all smiles and soft and loving, despite the fear of what might have happened at Calshot. “Where is Alice?”

“In the hall at the back. Go through the door over there,” she said, pointing.

Clarenceux thanked her and went over to the door.

Alice was kneeling beside a large tub of hot water, singing a tune as she washed sheets. Steam rose into the air. She hauled out a length of material and started rubbing it on the scrubbing board. Clarenceux could smell the potash of the soap. He watched her for a few moments, her upper arms wobbling as she scrubbed, her ample breasts bouncing with the movement of her body. There was a child near her, Amy’s son, dressed in a linen smock, playing in the dirt of the floor with a stick.

Clarenceux coughed. Alice turned around.

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Clarenceux,” she said amiably. Then she stopped and let the sheet slip into the water. “Where is he?”

Clarenceux walked closer and crouched down beside her. “I have to say, it does not look good. He asked me to say good-bye to you, and to Ursula and Amy.”

“What happened?” She remained kneeling, her hands now on the edge of the tub.

“He came to my rescue at Calshot. He freed me from the room where I was held and then helped me escape. But he was badly wounded. He is probably still out at sea, or at best lying wounded on a beach somewhere.”

Clarenceux stood up and walked across the hall to where there were two small benches side by side. The child laughed, playing with his stick, smiling up at Alice. Clarenceux picked both benches up and carried them back to the tub. He placed one down for Alice and sat on the other himself. He began to tell her everything, from the moment that Carew had set him down on the beach away from the jetty. He told her about his meeting with Parkinson and about being imprisoned. He talked about listening to Carew as, one by one, he picked off the soldiers, and about their desperate bid for freedom.