The Roots of Betrayal

by James Forrester

  “What is he doing?” asked Turner.

  The three men stood there with their torches, listening to the sounds. In the magazine Clarenceux had found the remains of a broken barrel and was smashing at the lock with one of the staves. On the far side of Widow Reid’s cottage, Carew was smashing the bottoms of the boats moored there.

  Eventually, Parkinson realized what was happening. “He’s scuttling the boats.”

  “Why?” asked Knight.

  “To cut us off—or perhaps to draw us out of the fort.”

  “Why would he want to do that?” asked Turner.

  The torchlight was bright against Parkinson’s bloody face as he listened and thought. “He expects us to send for help from Southampton Castle. Without the boats we cannot. At least, not safely. If we send a man alone by land, Carew will ambush and kill him. And then the next man.”

  “This is going to go on all night.” Turner sounded ready to give in.

  “The three of us could take him by land,” said Knight.

  Parkinson said nothing to either of them.

  “In the name of sweet Jesus Christ,” murmured Turner. “This is a one-man siege.”

  “At least we know now where he is,” said Knight.

  Still Parkinson said nothing.

  The knocks coming from the spit were slow now. About ten seconds passed between each heavy thud on the wood. Those in the basement were much lighter and more frantic, made with a smaller piece of wood.

  “What do you think, Captain?” said Knight.

  “Clarenceux cannot break out. As for Carew—he has lost a lot of blood. He is tired so he wants us to go out there.”

  Turner shut his eyes and, still holding his torch and sword, turned and discreetly made the sign of the cross.

  “Do we…shall we all go together?” asked Knight.

  Parkinson looked macabre in the torchlight, with the thick flap of skin hanging from his pockmarked cheek and blood all over his face. “If he was dying, he wouldn’t be trying to scuttle the boats. Knight, you will guard the gate. Turner, you will go to him with a torch and start talking—ask him what he wants, anything. Use your experience—negotiate a truce. You distract him and I will creep close in the darkness. He’s got nowhere to hide.”

  Parkinson ducked and made his way down the stairs, followed by Turner and Knight. He stepped over Serres’s body and continued down to the door leading to the magazine. He paused, listening to the knocking sound from within. He felt the key on his belt and jingled it. The knocking stopped.

  “Carew?” Clarenceux said from within.

  “Carew’s mortally wounded. Stop knocking—or we’ll come in there and silence you ourselves,” replied Parkinson.

  Clarenceux said nothing.

  Parkinson strode out of the tower and through to the gatehouse passage. There he gestured to Turner to go ahead. Turner reluctantly went out onto the drawbridge. Parkinson and Knight followed him. “You wait here,” Parkinson said to Knight in a low voice. He handed him his torch. “Turner, you go ahead. I will follow.”

  Turner started to walk out into the night. Parkinson waited fifteen seconds and set off into the darkness, keeping low, veering to one side. He watched Turner make his way slowly toward where the boats were pulled up. Despite being fifty feet away, he could still hear Turner’s footsteps over the waves; the cascading shingle made a lot of noise. He tried to time his own feet to coincide with Turner’s.

  It was only a hundred yards across to the jetty. Between them there were the two cottages. Parkinson waited until Turner was near the buildings and then, stooping, he hurried across to take cover behind them, creeping around the back wall to watch as the man approached the boats. He saw the torchlight and Turner’s face in the glow. Two upturned boats lay on the shore; another was half sunk in the water beside the jetty.

  Carew was not there.

  Turner stopped and turned. He stood on the jetty, listening to the crashing of the waves. In the shadows, Parkinson realized he had not heard the knocking sound since Turner had left the fort.

  After a couple of minutes more, Parkinson stepped forward from his cover by the cottages, near enough so Turner could hear him but not so near he was illuminated in the torchlight. “There are only three boats here. There were four. He’s on the water. Can you see him?”

  Turner lifted his torch high and looked around, across the dark water, chilled by the wind, and the thought of Carew out on the sea somewhere, watching them. “No, I cannot see anything except waves.”

  “Look again, carefully. He cannot be far.”

  A yell came from behind them, back at the fort. Swords clashed.

  Parkinson swore, drew his own blade, and started to run. His feet crunched on the shingle. Knight had dropped his torch on the drawbridge; by its light, Parkinson saw Carew lunge forward and stab him, then whip back his blade and slash him across the face before stabbing him a second time, sending him falling from the drawbridge into the moat with a splash. Carew looked toward Parkinson and the sounds of footsteps on the shingle. Calmly he reached up with his sword and cut the ropes for lifting the drawbridge, so Parkinson could not climb up onto the projecting beams. Then he went inside the castle, shutting the gate behind him and pulling the drawbar across.

  Parkinson ran on to the drawbridge. “Open this door. I am the queen’s Keeper. I have the right to enter freely.” He stood fuming, as the clouds parted and the half-moon shone briefly on the scene. Turner also arrived and his torch cast Parkinson’s shadow on the gate.

  Suddenly there was a rattle of chains above them as the portcullis came down. Parkinson only just stepped back in time to avoid being skewered on its teeth.

  “Damn you!” he hissed.

  Carew watched them from the upper window of the gatehouse, clutching his wound. He was having difficulty moving now. He had rowed as fast as he could from the jetty at the moment he had seen the torches in the gatehouse, and the effort had caused his wound to bleed more. Running as fast as his leg would allow him across the shingle had made him dizzy for a moment before he attacked the guard on the drawbridge, and he had felt dizzy again after forcing himself up the gatehouse stairs. He watched now in the sincere hope that Parkinson and Turner would abandon the fort. He saw their torches move across the beach. A few minutes later they found the small boat, as he had intended; Turner even waded out and hauled it up onto the shingle. But neither man got in. They spent a long time simply talking, too far away for him to hear what they had to say. Eventually Turner passed the torch to Parkinson and got into the boat by himself. Parkinson stomped off over the shingle to the cottages. Turner vanished into the night.

  Carew leaned back in the darkness. He felt weak and sick. He did not want to get up, but he knew he had to. He still had not seen any keys, although he had no doubt where they were—hanging from Parkinson’s belt. He rose to his knees and then, holding the wall, struggled to his feet and went down the stairs to the gatehouse passageway. He listened. He felt cold. John Prouze was sent away with a message. Parkinson is in or near the cottages and one man has just left in the boat. That’s three. One dead man in the moat, four; another on the roof, five. One dead man on the stairs, six; another on the second floor, seven. One man more—one man would make it eight. The fugitive—where did he go?

  Carew stopped in the darkness, gasping with the pain. He felt his way across the yard to the tower, but with a hand against the wall he stopped. He could not do this. He felt his wound. His clothes were wet with yet more blood; he was slowly bleeding to death. Kneeling down, Carew rested his head against the flagstones. He could hear the sea in the distance, beyond the walls of the fort. The sea. The one thing that has never deserted me; it has always helped me. I have been listening to it most of my life. It seemed that it was a good way to die, listening to the waves. But that thought was followed by another, like waves of thought rolling in, break
ing on the shore of his mind. There was no good way to die, not for Raw Carew. Death was the end of everything—and he had not finished what he intended to do. Struggling to his feet, he took a deep breath then continued to cross the yard.

  Captain Parkinson closed the door to Widow Reid’s cottage and walked back across the shingles to the fort. He had a large coil of rope over one arm made up from several shorter pieces. Widow Reid herself had been shocked at his appearance and had bandaged his face. She watched him in silence as he knotted the ropes together in the glow of her rushlight.

  The clouds broke again for an instant, illuminating the fort with silver light. Then they drifted over the half-moon. Parkinson stood looking up at the gatehouse shadow, estimating the height. He tied a noose in the rope and threw it toward the crenellations. It fell back heavily onto the drawbridge. He felt for the noose and got ready to throw again. If it took all night, he would do it.

  Carew placed his hand on the tower wall and started to climb the steps to the magazine.

  He felt in the darkness for the edge of the doorframe, ran his fingers over the lock, and steadied himself. He swung the grappling iron against the door jamb, trying to lodge it between the door and the frame. He missed, the blunt iron point only denting the wood. He tried again.

  “Carew?” called Clarenceux. “Is that you?”

  “Hold on, herald,” gasped Carew. “We’re not safe yet. Is there anything in there you can use to open this door?”

  “Do you think I haven’t been trying?”

  Carew clenched his teeth, trying to forget the agony in his abdomen. “You owe me a favor as big as the one you offered my uncle. I hope you realize that.”

  Outside in the half-moonlight, Parkinson felt the rope catch on one of the gatehouse crenellations. He pulled it; it held firm. Placing a foot against the portcullis, he began to climb. In a few seconds he would be on the beam that supported the drawbridge mechanism. After that he had to haul himself up about fifteen feet to the window overlooking the gate. If he could just get in there, he would be in the fort—and able to stalk Carew just as Carew had stalked him earlier.

  Carew swung the grappling iron at the oak. Again he missed the mark. And a third time. He put the iron down, drew his eating knife, and jammed it into the gap between the door and its frame. Picking up the grappling iron again, he knocked the knife further into place, widening the gap. Placing the tip of one of the hooks of the grappling iron into the gap, he started to lever the door and the frame apart, forcing harder and harder on the frame. The grappling iron came out of the nook; the knife fell. Patiently Carew reinserted the knife and then the hook, and started to lever the two apart again.

  Parkinson pulled himself up higher, standing on the royal coat of arms above the gate. He put his right hand forward again and looked up; he was nearly at the window. Hauling himself up another couple of feet was not easy but he did it, placing his foot on the shuttered window. He kicked at the shutter; the catch held good. Holding the rope with one arm and steadying himself with both legs outstretched, he drew his sword and pushed it through the gap. The catch was hard to lift; it took him a couple of minutes, during which time he had to re-sheath his sword and change hands on the rope. But eventually he inserted the sword point in the right place, pulled the shutters open, and clambered through into the darkness of the gatehouse chamber.

  In the main tower, at the magazine, Carew was still pulling on the grappling iron. He had splintered the edge of the doorframe and broken the blade of his knife. He could feel the tension in the timber—but the door was solid. Still he heaved, even though he felt faint. Another effort was rewarded with a crack; the oak frame broke at the top and the piece of timber into which the bolt of the lock shot partly came away, hanging by a pair of nails. He moved the grappling iron in the darkness and pulled the frame apart, allowing the door to open.

  As he pulled out the last piece of timber, he heard a noise in the darkness behind him and froze. He knew the captain could not see him, for the passage was in total darkness, but Parkinson could hear him. He stood still, waiting for the man to approach. His hand moved slowly to the hilt of his sword, hearing the captain place his foot on the first of the five steps between Carew and the door. At the same time, beside him, he heard the door to the cell swinging open. With his eyes long-accustomed to the darkness, Clarenceux saw the vague outline of Parkinson in the passageway. Carew leaned over and took his sleeve, pulling him down, directing him to the ground, where the grappling iron was lying. He felt Clarenceux rise again to his feet and, slowly, he drew his sword. It rasped agonizingly as he took it from its sheath.

  Parkinson took another step toward them, his sword at the ready. Clarenceux saw the blade. Hours spent wondering in the darkness what his fate might be had torn at his wits. He had felt frustrated, fearful, and humiliated. Now he could hold himself back no more. Seeing Parkinson advancing, he raised the three-pronged curved iron and, with a sudden shout that made both men jump, he stepped forward and brought it down hard. Parkinson sensed the movement and drew back; the grappling iron glanced off the side of his head and struck his elbow. Clarenceux launched himself forward again, seizing Parkinson’s sword hand with his left hand and raising the iron hook to hit him again. A second blow caught Parkinson’s head, dislodging his sword hand and drawing back the blade through Clarenceux’s grasp, cutting his thumb and finger. The sharp pain spurred Clarenceux on to an even more frenzied attack, swinging the hook down and bludgeoning Parkinson with a blunt edge on his temple. The force sent Parkinson reeling. He stepped backward, sweeping his sword behind him as he tried to regain his balance. But Clarenceux was already upon him, swinging the hook, gasping and snarling like a maddened beast. Carew tried to move forward with his sword but there was no room in the passage for him. Again Clarenceux wielded the grappling iron, smashing it against Parkinson’s sword hand, but Parkinson was not done yet. He lashed out with the blade, yelling at Clarenceux, “Traitor! Murderer!” and swiped his sword across Clarenceux’s face, drawing blood. Snarling, Clarenceux hefted the grappling iron and went for him. Parkinson stabbed in the darkness, missed Clarenceux, struck the wall with the point, and was disempowered for an instant. It was enough. He never saw the grappling iron coming toward his brow. When it connected he fell backward, stumbling and falling. Frantic to save himself, he scrambled away, allowing Clarenceux to throw his shoulder at the tower door and shut it, pulling across the drawbar.

  It took some moments for Clarenceux to get his breath back. He could hear Carew also breathing heavily in the darkness. “How badly wounded are you?”

  “It’s not important—it’s manageable,” Carew gasped. “Listen, I overheard one of the men say that the woman you are after—she is at Portchester Castle. There is a hospital there, where she is nursing. She was mistreated here by the garrison. Captain Parkinson sent her away.”

  “There’s some good in the man then.”

  Carew inhaled through his teeth, feeling the pain. “It wasn’t his will. He feared what Sir William Cecil would say, if he found out.”

  “We know too whom your enemy Denisot is working for. It must have been Cecil who gave him instructions to pay the captain of the Davy.”

  “I know. I realized that when you didn’t reappear.”

  “Is that why you came looking for me?”

  “More or less. As you once said, we’re fighting our own wars—but we’re allies.” Carew coughed and spat. “If you can get to Cecil and confront him with what he has done, maybe you can save Skinner, Stars, Francis, and the others.”

  “They’re a long way ahead. Sir Peter Carew left on the eighteenth; he will get to London in the next day or so.”

  “Not with an easterly wind, he won’t. If you ride hard, change horses, you could do it.”

  “I need to see Rebecca first. To find out what happened to the document. Cecil will not listen to me unless I do.”

  C
arew spat again, tasting blood. “Portchester is our next stop then.”

  “Do you think you can get there?”

  “No—but trying to is—better than staying here. I left the boat in some undergrowth near where I set you ashore.”

  Clarenceux put his hand on the door. “We have to go out there.”

  “Maybe.” Carew bent down and started gathering in the rope attached to his grappling iron.

  Clarenceux thought. There was no way off the roof. He had ruled out jumping across the gatehouse in daylight; to do so in darkness would be madness. He felt blood trickling down from his forehead, where Parkinson’s sword had grazed him. He wiped it away. “We have to go out of this door—we don’t have a choice.”

  “We’ve always got a choice,” muttered Carew. “There are always other options. Like in chess. Do you play chess, Mr. Clarenceux?”

  “Of course.”

  “Situations are like chess. There’s always a good move there somewhere. It’s just you can’t always see it.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “He could be outside that door, waiting for us. He could have climbed onto the plinth and pulled himself up into one of the embrasures and entered the tower by…by a first-floor window.” Carew paused, breathing with difficulty. “He might be creeping down the stairs at this moment. Or he might have reckoned we have to leave by the gatehouse, so we need to raise the portcullis…and he might be waiting for us there.”

  “There are two of us. He cannot attack both of us at once.”

  “He will—if we are in the same place. This is Captain Parkinson we are talking about. I think it is best if we go our separate ways.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going on ahead of you. Parkinson cannot get into this building through this door or through the basement.” He breathed in sharply, with a hiss, struggling with the pain. “He can only climb up…and enter through the first floor, so that is the way I am going out. If he is there, I will fight him, and from the noise you will know where he is. Then you can safely get out through this door to the gatehouse. You’ll need to go through the first-floor window as the portcullis is down. But if you hear nothing, then you will know it is safe to follow me.”