The Roots of Betrayal

by James Forrester

  Devenish directed him to go down. Below, on the orlop deck, Clarenceux could hardly see a thing. There were no windows, only two small hanging lanterns that between them gave off very little light. As his eyes adjusted, he saw barrels and crates down here, and baskets, chests, discarded clothes, and a few straw mattresses. There was a rack of muskets and about twenty large crates of cannonballs. As Devenish led him forward again to another hatch, he saw the piles of spare canvas and rope. Devenish lifted the hatch to the hold and held it open. He gestured for Clarenceux to descend. The opening of cold blackness looked ominous. There was no ladder. Devenish saw Clarenceux’s hesitation, grabbed his shoulder, and pushed him down. He then closed the hatch and bolted it.

  The hold was damp. It smelled of seawater. Every creak of the ship sounded loud in the darkness. Like the decks above, it was not quite high enough for Clarenceux to stand. The curved bottom of the boat was covered with a sort of wet gravel as ballast. He groped his way along to what he reckoned was the rear of the ship and came up against a brick wall. This was slightly warm; it housed the ovens in the inaccessible rear part of the hold. He sank down with his back against the brick, and felt the frustration and desperation welling up inside him.

  The ship gently swayed from side to side and forward and back; this movement, made greater by the darkness and the lack of other sensation, soon gave rise to a nauseous feeling that overtook his self-pity. He could hear the faint sound of the water and shouts from the decks above, and the scurrying of rats nearby. Occasionally one brushed against his ankle or his sleeve and he would recoil, hating the things, kicking at them as filth and sin made animate.

  He shivered, holding his legs beneath his chin for warmth. But after a moment, the movement of the ship made him feel ill, and he had to move. He retched. Nothing came up. He was famished, miserable, and tearful. The only way he could make sense of his situation was through God’s will. The wheel of fortune that had lifted him up to a position of great happiness had turned, and he was now at the low point, because God wished to punish him for his pride. What other sins were there? He could think of none he had committed—none but his affectionate thoughts for Rebecca Machyn, the uncommitted sin in his heart. But how could his resistance to that temptation merit such a treatment as this? In what way had his sins deserved being repeatedly beaten and interrogated, starved and forced into the dank hold of a ship?

  51

  Monday, May 15

  Clarenceux had bad dreams in the twelve hours he was in the hold. He dreamed that he was trapped below decks as the ship started sinking. Wet ballast was tumbling around him and he had no way of understanding which way was up, let alone the way out. There was only a sinking blackness, and he had no knowledge of how deep he was beneath the surface until the wall burst in and unseen water swallowed his drowned frame.

  The first he knew of the new day was when he heard sounds on the floorboards of the orlop deck directly above his head. The bolt was shot and the hatch opened. Lantern light flooded in. A bearded face looked down at him. Clarenceux saw several rats scurrying away across the ballast as he got to his feet. His legs were cold, his befouled clothes sodden. He reached up and put his hand on the hatch opening; the bearded man grabbed his arm and pulled him up with as much care as if he were a sack of oats. “Up,” he said, nodding at the ladder to the main deck. “Captain Carew wants to see you.”

  Clarenceux ached. He felt dizzy with hunger. But he could see light coming from the main deck and light seemed precious at that moment. It also meant clean air, and that was even more important. Only now he was out of the hold did he fully realize how oppressive it had been. He breathed deeply. Even the fetid air here on the orlop deck was better than down there.

  It was daylight, about two hours after dawn. Clarenceux stepped gratefully and yet warily onto the deck. Gulls were calling above the ship and the coast was a mile away. The open sea. A number of men were in the rigging: all five square sails were full, the lateen sail also, and the ship was probably sailing at her maximum speed. He felt the wind in his hair. The brightness of the light almost burnt his eyes, a painful yet welcome glare. The sea air was purifying.

  Carew was on top of the sterncastle with his hand on the whipstaff, shifting his attention between the direction in which he was steering the ship and the angle of the lateen sail above. He called out over the noise of the birds and the surf, “Are you going to tell me yet where Denisot is?”

  “I do not know, as I told you.”

  Carew said nothing for a moment. Then he addressed the men around him. “Tie him up. We’ll put him over the side and drag him around for an hour or so.”

  Clarenceux looked at the faces. “How can I get through to you? I have never even heard of this Denisot!”

  “Maybe, maybe not. You’ll be happier to talk after a good soaking, either way.”

  Luke Treleaven and James Miller—the bearded man who had brought Clarenceux up from the hold—then bound Clarenceux’s hands and tied him to the end of a long rope. They directed him to the back of the sterncastle, more than thirty feet above the sea. Clarenceux looked at the water so far below in fear. They thought nothing of pushing him off. He fell, smacked against the water, went under, and came up gasping for air, finding it difficult to swim with his hands tied. Soon he was being pulled through the water by the fast-moving ship. The sunlight glistened in the crests of the white water as the waves went over his head. He had to catch his gulps of air when he could, hoping that when he was breathing the waves would not fill his mouth. Many times he took in a large gulp of salt water and had to swallow it, so that soon his empty stomach was full of salt water and he was retching at the same time as he was trying to inhale. Only after about a quarter of an hour did he realize that he would find it easier if he was on his back. Even then, one mouthful of air in ten was accompanied by a wave crashing over his face and mouth.

  After what seemed like a very long hour, the ship started to turn. Several faces appeared above him, looking down over the wooden railing at the back of the sterncastle. Clarenceux spat out some water. Carew was not going anywhere but only sailing as fast as he could, drawing him through the water. The rope went tight and the men above started to haul him in, pulling him up by his hands. He could do nothing but allow them to hoist him up the outside of the vessel. They dragged him over the edge of the boat, bruising his ribs. He coughed and lay his head on the deck.

  Carew walked over to him and pushed him with his foot on to his back. “Are you still alive?”

  Clarenceux opened his eyes but said nothing.

  “Do you want to go back in the water?”

  Still he said nothing. He had withdrawn inside himself to the place of quiet, the refuge that he had discovered when he had been at Mrs. Barker’s house. He offered no resistance to Skinner and Kahlu when they lifted him to his feet and dragged him to the ladder that led down from the top of the sterncastle to the upper deck, and from there down to the main deck, and through to the captain’s cabin. There they made him sit on the same seat as Gray had sat on, facing the same table. They untied the ropes binding his hands and made him place both of them on the table, palms down.

  Five minutes later, Carew came down. He saw Clarenceux sitting there, motionless. He looked at his dark hair matted with salt and seaweed and his bearded face. There were some small cuts and a gash above his eye where a piece of driftwood had struck him. Water still dripped from his clothes, a large puddle had appeared on the floor.

  “Where is Denisot?” Carew demanded.

  Clarenceux remained silent.

  “The woman who said you would never forgive her, she had her transport paid for by Denisot. He paid one hundred and fifty pounds in gold. Why would he do that? I saw that woman; she did not look as if she was worth so much. It is my belief that you were the one who paid Denisot. You were the one who gave him his pseudonym.”

  Clarenceux moved his head a frac
tion. “What pseudonym?”

  “Percy Roy.”

  From the depths of his numbness, Clarenceux stirred. He looked at Carew through eyes that felt puffy. “I don’t know about Denisot but I can tell you who Percy Roy is.”

  “Go on then. Who is he?”

  “Not ‘he’ but ‘they,’” said Clarenceux, now staring at his hands. “Sir Percival, Sir Reynold, Sir Owain, and Sir Yvain. They are the four surviving Knights of the Round Table—a secret society founded to look after a document of great importance.”

  “And where do I find these knights?” scoffed Carew. “Camelot? Avalon? Lyonesse? Perhaps they are sleeping in—”

  “London,” said Clarenceux. “They were the ones who…” Then he remembered. They too would be prisoners now.

  Carew gestured to Luke, who was by the door. Skinner was also there, and Kahlu too. Kahlu unfolded his arms.

  “Whereabouts in London?”

  “They were arrested. They are Catholic agents—they must have persuaded Rebecca Machyn to steal the document from me and then paid for her passage, after which she betrayed them.”

  Carew stood with one foot on the lid of the chest. “It is very convenient for you to say that all of the men to whom I need to speak are in prison. Too convenient. Start telling the truth or you will go back in the hold and I will put you in the sea after dark.”

  “Do your damnedest, Carew. Just do it,” said Clarenceux impatiently. “You will not listen to what I say. You will not believe me, so do your damnedest.”

  Carew signaled to Kahlu. To Clarenceux he said, “I think my friend has something to say to you.”

  Clarenceux hardly stirred as Kahlu put a hand gently on his arm and leaned forward as if to say something. Clarenceux looked up and saw Kahlu’s mouth was open. Inside, his teeth were black and rotten; several of them had disappeared altogether. But what astonished Clarenceux was the lack of a tongue. Here was just the stub at the back of his mouth and a deep scar across the bottom of his jaw. One side was also cut and scarred. Then the man shut his mouth and smiled.

  Clarenceux heard the thud of the knife at the same instant as he felt the point pierce his hand. He screamed in an agony that surged and surged, redoubling its strength with every instant until it forced even more screams out of him. Instinctively he recoiled and tried to draw his hand away, and in so doing ripped the flesh more and screamed more, yelling from the pit of his sea water–filled stomach.

  “You said it, Mr. Clarenceux. To do my damnedest. That was unwise. Deeply unwise.”

  Clarenceux wanted to answer back but the pain of the knife through his skin forced him only to scream. His breath came in shuddering gasps, and he shivered suddenly before the pain surged again and overwhelmed him, forcing him to scream again. He had been wrong to speak so loosely to the pirate captain. He had been wrong in everything. The moth-like angel that had sheltered him from pain at Mrs. Barker’s had been stabbed. Its legs had curled and its wings were fluttering lifelessly in the breeze. There was no shelter now. No shelter anywhere. He glared through tear-filled eyes at Carew and knew what he had to do.

  Gritting his teeth and snarling at his own pain, he seized the hilt of the dagger in his left hand and tried to withdraw it. It did not move. Skinner laughed, watching him. Clarenceux, with bared teeth, yelled and yelled, at him and at the knife. Skinner laughed more. Clarenceux screamed louder now, again and again. The knife did not move. But the sight of his blood seeping over his hand and over the table forced him to a pitch of fury that he had never known before. “God damn you all!” he shouted as he started to work the blade forward and backward through his own hand to loosen it, giving voice to his pain with every slight movement. “God damn you, God damn you!” he bawled as the blood spilled out of the wound. Suddenly the knife became loose in his left hand and finally, with a triumphant roar of victory made louder by the pain, he yanked the knife out of the wood and out of his hand, stood up, and held it in front of Skinner’s eyes.

  No one was laughing now. They could all see the fury burning in Clarenceux. He was armed and ready to kill. Luke and Skinner had already drawn the daggers at their belts and backed away. Kahlu had reached for his in a moment of apprehension and found it absent—his own blade was coming at that moment right toward him as Clarenceux clambered across the table, bellowing, “God damn you!” Then he lashed out, cutting Luke across the arm and only then, after he turned back, was Kahlu able to grab his right arm. He could not hold it; the strength of madness in Clarenceux had taken hold. He was in the grip of his fury, slashing at whatever came within reach.

  “Hold fast!” yelled a deep voice from the doorway. A moment later there was an ear-shattering report of a pistol being fired. “Do not move. The next bullet is aimed at your heart.”

  But Clarenceux had gone beyond all such caution, beyond all but animal reasoning. He only wanted now to destroy, to give himself in a final act of destruction against his enemies. He threw the knife at Hugh Dean in the doorway, catching him in the arm, and hurled himself at Kahlu, punching him on the underside of the jaw with his left hand. Even though he was exhausted, even though he was in pain and bloody, the blow still had enough force to bang Kahlu’s head backward against the cabin roof. It was not enough to do more than stun the big man. It did nothing to save Clarenceux from Skinner and Luke jumping on him, grabbing his sleeve and his collar, and smashing his head down on the blood-covered table, three times.

  Everyone was gasping now—except Carew. “Have you finished?” he asked, looking at Clarenceux. He turned to Hugh Dean, whose shirt was red with blood, then looked back to Clarenceux. “Skinner, Luke, leave him be.” The two men let go. Clarenceux did not move, remaining head down across the table.

  “Do your damnedest, Carew,” repeated Clarenceux, defiantly.

  “You’ve made your point, herald. Luke, get this man something to eat and drink. Skinner, find him something to wash that wound with. Kahlu, sit down. Mr. Clarenceux, let’s start talking.”

  Clarenceux looked at his hand. Blood was everywhere—smeared up his arm, across his fingers, dripping from the wound. There was a flap of skin hanging down.

  “Sit down, Mr. Clarenceux.” Carew moved the chair nearer. “I have never seen anyone else do that—draw out the knife. I have seen some try. It is difficult, I know.”

  “How would you know?” muttered Clarenceux, taking the chair and moving it away from the table before sitting down in it, feeling the pain throb through his whole arm, not just his hand. When he looked up, Carew had his right hand raised, showing him the palm. There was a red weal of a scar through the center.

  “Who did it to you?”

  “A man called James Parkinson, the captain of Southampton Castle and Calshot Fort.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No. He is still there at Southampton, still controlling the ships that sail past Calshot.”

  Skinner appeared with a pail of cold water and a cloth. He placed it near Clarenceux and left the cabin. Clarenceux glanced at Carew and Kahlu, then reached down, took the cloth, soaked it, and started to wash his wound, flinching at every touch with the sting of the salt water.

  Carew watched Clarenceux. “Men often tell lies but they rarely perform them—and never with passion. Men deceive with their words, not by their deeds. Not many men would risk their lives for the sake of a lie. In drawing out that dagger, you have made a persuasive case. What if Denisot, on behalf of these knights you mention, paid the late captain of this ship to take this man and this woman to Southampton and, in going along with them, she deceived you?”

  Clarenceux stopped swabbing his hand and looked at Carew. “Did you just say Southampton?”

  “I did.”

  “The Knights of the Round Table arranged that she should sail north,” he said, “to Scotland. They intended her to change ships at Sandwich.” He paused, feeling the pain in his hand, looking a
t the blood still seeping from the wound.

  Carew stood up and opened the chest. He removed a fine cotton kerchief and brought it across the room, holding it out on one finger. Clarenceux took the cloth and pressed it against the wound, saying, “Your enemy, Denisot, must have deceived the Knights of the Round Table. Really he was acting in conjunction with Rebecca Machyn.”

  At that moment, Luke entered the cabin with a wooden trencher piled with two large pieces of cut cold beef, a piece of cheese, and half a loaf of bread. He set it down on the table with a flagon of wine.

  Clarenceux looked at the food and drink. He reached forward with his good hand. “Was Denisot a Catholic?” he asked.

  Carew spat on the floor of the cabin. “The worst kind. He worked for the old queen, when she was dying. Rather than see Calais pass to a Protestant queen, he betrayed the town to the French.”

  “Then if you want to find Denisot, you must help me find Rebecca Machyn.” Clarenceux reached for the beef. Dry though it was, it made his mouth sing. It tasted so very rich, so sweet. He started to chew and turned to Carew. “She is the one who knows where Denisot is.”

  Carew lifted the flagon of wine from the table and took a draught, then handed it to Clarenceux. “Why not just let her go? It cannot be that important, this document.”