Alice sighed. “I feel very sad. When all is said and done, he was my oldest friend and the man who did more to help me than any other man I ever met in my life. He gave me shelter, he gave me purpose and friends, he gave me money, and he protected me. I know he killed people, stole, blackmailed, murdered, seduced—I know all that. But he loved, cherished, protected, helped, and gave hope too. When we sailed with him, we knew who we were and that we were in the hands of a good commander. I am going to miss him terribly.”
“I am sorry,” said Clarenceux. “But he did think of the three of you when he knew he was facing death. And who knows? He may still be alive, on a beach somewhere, recovering his strength. Maybe in a few days he will walk through the door of this inn.”
Alice dried her hands on a towel at her side and stood up, steadying her large frame on the edge of the tub. “You don’t believe that, Mr. Clarenceux, and you saw him last. Your coming here has been a brave thing. If I thought for one moment you had betrayed him, I would have torn you to pieces with my bare hands. But you would not have come here to tell me of his loss unless you felt that you had to. I know it is your conscience that moves you.”
Clarenceux leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands together. “In that case, if you trust me, I need your help. Raw made me promise something else too. To help the other prisoners—Skinner, Francis, Stars, and the other men that Sir Peter Carew is taking to London. Sir Peter sailed three days ago; maybe they are already there. Maybe Sir Peter is sailing up the Thames with one man hanging dead from each of the yards of his ship—I don’t know. But yesterday, as we sailed to Calshot, Carew said the wind would be holding him up. If I can borrow a horse strong and swift enough, I could get to see Sir William Cecil and ask him to pardon the men.”
“Why would Sir William Cecil agree to pardon our friends—even though they be your friends and you a gentleman? He thinks they are pirates.”
“Because I will go to him and tell him that I know what he has done. I will tell him what he is guilty of. I will show him that his immortal soul is in danger.”
Alice looked down at him. Putting two fingers under his chin she lifted his face, making him rise to his feet. “You are going to have to do better than that. Sir William Cecil is a man of power. You understand power, don’t you? It is a sort of religion. It demands total obedience. It requires men to make the ultimate sacrifice. It makes a man think differently about his soul—and gives him the authority to kill. I doubt Sir William Cecil will take kindly to your request.”
“But we have to do something!” Clarenceux exclaimed.
“Indeed, we do. I will find you a horse, and you will set off as soon as you can. But damn it, Clarenceux, when you go to see Cecil, make sure you have something stronger on him than telling him to his face what he has done. He already knows that—and if he feels guilty about it, the easiest way to stop you reminding him is to add one more name to the list of those to be hanged.”
“You will find me a horse?”
“You are talking to Alice Prudhomme,” she said, pinching his jowl between her thumb and forefinger. “And I can make anything happen. If I wanted you to do something, believe me, sooner or later you would do it.”
Clarenceux tried to smile.
She looked at him and suddenly laughed. “You don’t like subtlety, do you, Mr. Clarenceux? You’re afraid of it. Think it smacks too much of deceit. Take some advice from a woman, if you can. When you go to see Cecil, be subtle. Not deceitful—subtle.”
Clarenceux nodded. “If Carew comes back here, I want to know. If he does, will you send me word?”
“You know that he does not write any more than I do. It was his mother’s greatest wish that he should learn, and also of the women who looked after him after she died, but, you know…”
“You knew him back then, didn’t you?”
“What—in Calais? Of course. I’ve known him all my life. I worked in the same whorehouse. Too fat to do the fucking, they said; I got to do the laundry.”
“Why was he so keen to destroy Denisot? I mean, he told me it was because Denisot betrayed Calais, but there was more to his hatred than that. He also said it was because of religion—but Carew did not really care about anyone’s religion.”
Alice heard Ralph splashing his stick in her tub of soapy water. A moment later she saw him trying to tip himself forward into the tub. She went and picked him up, kissed him, and set him down further away from the water. She then came back to Clarenceux.
“He hated religion, hated it because of what happened in Calais. Denisot was a fervent believer in the old religion, a Catholic among Catholics. No doubt that was why Mary appointed him to survey the walls and defenses of the town. He did so, in great detail. But while he was making his survey, something happened. It was in the whorehouse—not that I saw it. I was washing sheets at the time. Denisot had an argument with a Huguenot gentleman customer who denied the primacy of the pope and a number of other things that provoked Denisot. There was a fight. The women, who knew and liked the Protestant gentleman, threw Denisot out in a state of partial undress. He left angrily, accusing them of favoring Protestants. A few days later he had handed a copy of his survey of the town to the duke of Guise, by which the duke learned all the weak points of the town. The town fell easily as a result. What should have been a measure to preserve Calais ended up with the town falling to the French. The young men had to leave—and so did most of the women. Raw and I lost all our friends, our protectors, and our home. Raw also lost all the women who had looked after him after his mother had died and who had tried to help him with his lessons. Denisot led the French troops to the whorehouse and told them to set it alight. The house was old and made of wood. The walls were covered with painted cloths and every bench and bed had cushions on it. The place went up so fast it almost exploded. Only two women escaped. Raw returned to see it on fire. In his dreams, he said, he still heard their screams; they were like the waves of a sea on which his life floated. And when he felt like crying he did not shed tears but the blood of his enemies.”
“I remember him saying that about tears.” Clarenceux turned to the boy, once more splashing his stick in the water. “I see now. I could not have turned the other cheek either, even though Christ would have wanted me to.”
“We are all human, Mr. Clarenceux. Whatever the Bible says about forgiveness.”
Clarenceux put his arm around her shoulder: “Find me a horse, Alice Prudhomme—the fastest one you can.”
75
Wednesday, May 24
Francis Walsingham watched as Sir William Cecil sat down at the table in his study and signed a paper, which he thrust into the hand of the nearest clerk. “See to it that he receives it today. Is there anything else pressing, may I ask?” Neither of the clerks accompanying him said a word. Cecil clapped his hands once and rubbed them together. “Good. If you will all now leave me in peace, I would like to attend to some business of my own.”
He watched them leave, then picked up the sealed letter that had been delivered to him twenty minutes earlier. “There it is,” he said, tossing it across the table. Walsingham walked over, picked it up, and inspected it. One side was marked: Sir William Cecil, her majesty’s Secretary. On the other side it bore Clarenceux’s seal, in red wax.
“He is back in London then,” said Walsingham.
“That’s not the point. Read it.”
Walsingham picked up the paper, unfolded it, and began to read.
Right worshipful friend and kinsman, I respectfully recommend myself to you and to the majesty to whom you and I both owe allegiance. I will not deceive you; I have been much vexed and threatened lately by the manner in which I have been treated by certain men who deem themselves loyal servants of the Crown. First, a document was stolen from my house which, apart from its intrinsic historical value, cast the legitimacy of her majesty the queen in a new light. Second, unle
ss that document has now been presented to her majesty, I can only suppose that the perpetrator is harboring it for treasonable—as opposed to historical—purposes. Third, despite being a herald and a member of her majesty’s household, I was detained without trial contrary to the terms of Magna Carta by two royal servants, namely yourself and Mr. Walsingham. Fourth, letters were issued in your name to Sir Peter Carew to destroy a royal ship on which I was known to be sailing, the Davy, in order to inhibit my investigation of the theft of the said historical document. Fifth, every crew member of that vessel who was not killed was incarcerated by Sir Peter Carew—even though each had undertaken to help me in my quest for the document. Sixth, you know well that the widow of Henry Machyn of London, merchant tailor, was detained recently, contrary to the terms of Magna Carta without trial at Calshot Fort in the county of Southampton, which lies under the command of a royal officer, Captain Parkinson, who received his orders to detain the woman directly from you. As Widow Machyn had undertaken to steal the document in question, there will be a public infamy that her detention is a consequence of your desire to obtain the document for your own ends and, unless it has been presented to her majesty, this calls into question the integrity of your loyalty to the Crown.
In the hope that I can yet ascertain the further truths connected with this matter, and identify the true protagonists, and thereby clear your name of the terrible slander that will pertain to it should these six facts become more widely known and notorious, I desire that you come to my house at precisely four of the clock this twenty-fourth day of May. Come alone, and you will be met kindly, in friendship and reconciliation.
Your obedient and willing servant,
Clarenceux
“Arrest him,” said Walsingham, replacing the paper on the table. “Hang him. Wash your hands of him. You know where to find him.”
Cecil rose to his feet. “Yes, well, Francis, you will forgive me if I do not follow your advice. I will go alone.”
Walsingham frowned. “I am sorry, I do not understand.”
Cecil picked up the letter. “Do you believe a man of Clarenceux’s intelligence is simply going to allow himself to be arrested—after both you and I have failed to keep him under lock and key? Do you think he trusts me? Can’t you see the message in this letter?”
“It’s too vague to be a real threat.” Walsingham shrugged. “If you do not do as he asks, what will he do? Come and find you?”
“Damn you, he will send this same letter to Robert Dudley.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“Francis, open your eyes! He has spelled Dudley’s name out in this letter.” Cecil picked it up and held it out, shaking it, in front of Walsingham. He stabbed the page with his forefinger. “Look, there—where those words are underlined. Why did he do that? See that word, which is underlined, beginning with ‘d’? Then the next one that is underlined, beginning with a ‘u.’ And so on. Do you think it is an accident that he has named both Dudley and the people who can testify to the truth of his story?”
“We will go together. Take guards—surround the house. He will not be able to get away.”
Cecil carefully put his hands flat on the table. “Clarenceux is not the danger. It is the information he carries that is dangerous—and he knows it. If I arrest him, it will confirm the truth of all this. I do not doubt that a copy of this letter will go to Dudley straight away. Clarenceux won’t be the one who sends it.”
“So what do we do?”
“I will go, as he requests, alone. He will be watching me—but so will you. Have just three or four men around his house, in sight of one another. If he tries to abduct me, or hold me to ransom, you will move in with my own guard, who will stand outside, and half a dozen other men-at-arms whom you will conceal nearby. Go and requisition an appropriate house now.”
76
That afternoon, at eight minutes to four, Sir William Cecil’s burgundy fur-lined cloak was laid across his shoulders by a groom of his chamber and he walked across the yard of Cecil House. He did not call for his horse; instead, six men in his livery followed him down the Strand and into Fleet Street, two of them armed with loaded muskets. The weather felt close, with a cold breeze, as if a storm was about to break.
Cecil carried no sword but listened to the jangling belt-harnesses of the men behind him. Approaching Clarenceux’s house, he glanced at the front. The shutters on the ground floor were closed, as always. Those on the first floor were open, however. So too were those on the second floor. He turned to the men behind him. “Three of you, go to the back of the house and guard the rear exit. No one goes in or comes out except those men under the command of Mr. Walsingham. The other three, stay here. The same applies to this entrance.”
Cecil knocked hard on the door with his gloved hand. He waited. No answer came. He knocked again and noticed the door move a little. When it became apparent that no one was answering, he tried turning the handle. It was unlocked. He pushed it open and went inside.
The mustiness of an empty house greeted him. “Mr. Harley? William?” There was a slight echo along the dark passageway beside the staircase. Dust had fallen on the stairs but it had recently been disturbed in the center. He began to climb, the wooden boards creaking beneath his feet. “William?” he called again from the landing, looking through the door into the hall.
He went in. Everything seemed to be in its place, from the elm table by the window to the carpets covering the two chests at the opposite end of the room. The four pictures on the white plaster looked at him accusingly from their gilt frames.
“William?”
Cecil began to look around the hall. Only when he came close to the elm table did he realize that it was not in its usual place. It had been drawn forward, nearer to the middle of the room. On it was a book: the Old Testament in Latin. There was a piece of paper tucked inside. He opened the volume. The piece of paper marked the pages of the Book of Job, chapter seven. Verses 11 and 12 were underlined: quampropter et ego non parcam ori meo loquar in tribulatione spiritus mei confabulabor cum amaritudine animae meae. Numquid mare sum ego aut cetus quia circumdedisti me carcere? Cecil knew these lines: “Therefore I will not stop my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul. Am I a sea or a whale that you surround me in prison?”
He picked up the paper. It was sealed with Clarenceux’s seal. He knew he would see his own name written on the front even before his eyes actually recognized the words. He broke open the seal and read Clarenceux’s message.
Right worshipful friend and kinsman, if you do genuinely desire that we be reconciled, and that all threats between us be as words in the wind, go to London Bridge and find the jeweler who goes by the name of Robert Rokeby this same afternoon, before six of the clock. His shop is near the center of the bridge. Follow his instructions and you will find me. Come alone, and you will be met kindly, in friendship.
Cecil abruptly turned and walked out of the hall, running down the stairs to the front door. “Call the others,” he snapped to the guards. “We are going to London Bridge.”
Cecil did not speak all the way. Walking fast, with the guards following him, he pushed past merchants and tradesmen without a thought, thinking of how he was going to deal with Clarenceux. Turning down alleys, he did not care for the state of his shoes as he splashed through the mud. He strode past the wardens on London Bridge, to a point about one third of the way across. There were several jewelers’ shops here. “Find Rokeby,” Cecil said to the guards with him. “His shop is somewhere near the middle.”
Cecil hated being the subject of attention from the passersby. Those who knew who he was simply gawped at him standing in the middle of the street in public. Those who did not wondered who he was. Cecil felt their eyes pry into him and wished one of his men would find the shop quickly. He looked up at the houses overlooking the bridge; there were even two female servants l
ooking out of an upstairs window at him. He turned around and pretended not to notice. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance. It would start to rain soon.
“Sir William,” said one of the guards, “Rokeby’s shop is that one, with the shutters closed.”
Cecil walked to the door. It was oak, old, and ill fitting, but locked securely. An external padlock fitting was not in use. “Damn it, search the place. If Clarenceux is in there, bring him out.”
Two guards stepped up to the door. One knocked hard with a knife hilt. There was a pause, which irritated Cecil even more. These houses on the bridge were small—fourteen feet in total length—so even if Rokeby had been upstairs, he should have been there promptly. Cecil gestured to the guard who had spoken to him. “Call his name.”
“Rokeby!” the guard called.
The door opened.
“Are you Robert Rokeby?” demanded Cecil, stepping forward.
Rokeby was a short, gray-eyed man of about sixty, clean shaven, with a narrow face and almost bald head. “I am. And you must be Sir William Cecil. Godspeed to you, Sir William.”
“Where is Clarenceux?”
“You will have to come in if you want to—”
“By God’s blood, man, tell me. I have lost my patience and you will lose your life if I have to play any more games. Tell me, here and now!”
The man was terrified. “I cannot, Sir William. Mr. Clarenceux told me I had to show you.”
“Then damn well show me. Show all of us.”
Rokeby pushed his door as far open as it would go and Cecil gestured for his men to follow him in. “No, no, you cannot all come in,” spluttered the jeweler. “If I am to show you, I must lift the trapdoor.”
Cecil was standing in a tiny shop, barely six feet deep by seven feet wide, made smaller by the cupboards fastened against the walls and the workbench. There was only room for four men to stand in there, besides Rokeby. The jeweler himself was standing in a narrow doorway that led to a back room. “What trapdoor?” Cecil asked.
The Roots of Betrayal Page 34