The Roots of Betrayal c-2

by James Forrester

  “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.”

  Carew 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 hav
e 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.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The sea. Out of the embrasure, I am going to drop down into the yard and cross to the outer wall. Then I am going to climb through one of the embrasures there and lower myself into the moat. It’s close to the sea-he cannot follow me there. I still have strength in my arms; I can still swim.”

  Both men listened for sounds of Parkinson in the darkness.

  “You take the sword,” said Clarenceux eventually. “You’d better go.”

  Carew lifted the rope and grappling iron. Clarenceux heard it scrape on the floor. “I can’t swim with this rope,” he said. “I’ll leave it hanging from the outer wall.”

  Clarenceux heard the silence now. Not the silence of them not speaking but the greater silence that surrounded the fort and consumed them entirely-containing all that they were not saying. They were going to face a killer in the darkness. He himself was going to do so unarmed. And Carew, this man who was a hero to many but, as Clarenceux now realized, was like a lost boy wherever he was in the world-was going out to throw his wounded body into the sea.

  “Clarenceux,” whispered Carew, gritting his teeth. “Promise me you’ll save the others.”

  “I will try.”

  “Don’t let any of them die at Wapping.” Carew exhaled slowly with the pain. “You always seem to do what you set out to, even if you make some damned-fool mistakes along the way. I trust you.” He spat again, and breathed heavily with the pain. “What is my family’s motto?”

  “J’espère bien. I hope for good.”

  “Does your family have a motto?” asked Carew.

  “No. But I am thinking of adopting one. ‘In all our struggles, the last word is hope.’”

  Carew reached out and put his hand on Clarenceux’s shoulder. “You have ‘hope’ too, like the Carews. We may be different sorts of men, and we may believe different things and be on different sides of the law, but in that one thing-hope-we are brothers. And that is the most important thing.” He paused. “Say good-bye to Amy and Ursula for me, and Alice.”

  Clarenceux felt Carew’s hand move from his shoulder, then he heard him start up the stairs, dragging his feet. His progress seemed very slow. If Parkinson found him, he would not be able to run. Nor could he easily defend himself. He would not be able to do anything, in fact, but warn Clarenceux with his death.

  It seemed that Carew was climbing the stairs for a very long time. In the darkness each step seemed to take a minute as he dragged his failing body toward its final destination, the sea. Clarenceux felt as if he should be helping him, but that would have defeated the whole plan. He could only wait and listen. Eventually the sound diminished so that there was hardly any noise at all. He could just hear Carew walking unsteadily across the first floor, stumbling against something in the middle of the room. Then there was silence.

  Minutes passed. Clarenceux started to wonder when he should move. What if Carew has been killed noiselessly? Parkinson will come looking for me. He could hear nothing of Carew now, only the vaguest whistling of the wind through the tower. Had he heard that before? Or did it mean there was now a set of shutters open where before they had been closed? All he knew was that Carew had not shouted or clashed swords with Parkinson. That meant Parkinson was probably waiting outside this door, or in the gatehouse.

  Clarenceux counted slowly until he reached one hundred and then started to move in the direction of the stairs. He touched the cold stone of the wall, balancing himself. Without a sword he felt vulnerable. He went up another step, placing his leather sole gently on the stone and increasing the weight, so his footfall was silent. Another step, still touching the wall, listening as he moved. Three minutes later he reached the turn in the stairs and went to take the last step into the first-floor room.

  It was colder here. The fire had gone out, the window on the far side of the room was just visible, the darkness of the sky being the tiniest shade lighter than that of the room. Clarenceux paused. Carew must have left the window open. He stepped forward with more confidence.

  Beside the window, Captain Parkinson waited.

  Parkinson had heard Carew drop down from the tower and had watched the outline of the man as he limped into the sea. He knew it was Carew; Clarenceux was taller. He had let Carew go-Clarenceux was the important one. Parkinson had climbed into the tower the same way that Carew had climbed out. If Clarenceux followed, he would walk straight into him.

  Clarenceux could hear the wind in the casement and the waves beyond the outer wall. As Parkinson held his sword ready, unable to see his prey but listening to him, Clarenceux took another step closer. He hesitated, barely five feet away in the darkness.

  That hesitation was seconds long. Teetering on the very edge of stabbing him, Parkinson shifted his weight. His shoe made a tiny scraping noise on the stone floor. It was enough. Clarenceux realized he was not alone.

  Suddenly, Parkinson lunged-and missed. Clarenceux heard the man move and heard the swish of the sword moving through the air as Parkinson sought him.

  “Where are you?” Parkinson shouted, stepping toward Clarenceux and slashing with the sword. It caught Clarenceux’s right arm, cut the cloth and the skin. Parkinson advanced, cutting again, catching Clarenceux-this time on the shoulder. He followed it up with an attempted thrust into his body. Clarenceux threw himself back across the room, toward the doorway, desperately feeling for the opening. Knowing the layout of the room better, Parkinson reached the doorway first, blocking Clarenceux’s way. Frantic now, Clarenceux tried to push past him, getting in too close for Parkinson to use his sword. Parkinson grabbed Clarenceux around the neck and tried to stab him, but the herald seized his wrist, preventing him. Parkinson then attempted to wrestle him to the ground. Clarenceux elbowed him painfully in the gut, but still Parkinson did not let go. Reaching for the man’s face, Clarenceux felt the bandage and tore it away as Parkinson yelled and tried again to throw him to the ground. Both men fell heavily on the stone floor and Parkinson’s arm gave way. Clarenceux rolled quickly to one side, knowing the captain’s sword arm was now free. He heard the blade strike stone and grabbed at the hilt; finding Parkinson’s wrists, he tried to shake the sword from his grasp but the man was too strong.

  Clarenceux knew he had only an instant to get away. Scrambling to his feet, he heard the clang of Parkinson’s sword on the stone behind him as he pushed himself up the stairs, hoping to get up to the next room. Each man climbed as fast as he could, Parkinson falling a few feet behind as he struck out with the sword. Clarenceux stumbled on the body of Christopher Serres, allowing Parkinson to close on him; he felt a sharp cut as Parkinson’s sword struck the back of his thigh. However, he forced himself on and up in the darkness-and then realized that he had trapped himself. There was no escape from the roof-none except leaping down from there to the gatehouse.

  Clarenceux rushed out of the stairway. Making the sign of the cross on his heart, he stepped up onto the parapet beside the entrance and readied himself to jump. He recalled the twelve-foot gap down to the top of the gatehouse, and his heart failed him. He could not make the jump.

  Stepping down from the pa
rapet, he ran to hide beside one of the cannon. Parkinson did not immediately follow. Instead he waited at the top of the stairs, fumbling with something on his belt, before walking out slowly across the roof. He found the dead body that lay in the lee of the battlements and nudged it with his foot, holding his sword ready. He moved between the guns, tapping with his sword in the crevices and shadows.

  Clarenceux looked up; the clouds were thinning, the silver half-moon was about to appear. The light would reveal him. He had to reach the stairs.

  He felt a few pieces of gravel beneath his knees and threw them across to his left. Parkinson heard the noise and turned in that direction. The clouds began to part.

  Parkinson was just a few feet to one side of his path but Clarenceux could wait no longer. Rising to his feet, he sprang forward, running straight across the roof. Wrong footed, Parkinson tried to sweep his sword around but was too slow. Clarenceux reached the stairs and found out that the door there was now closed. To his horror, it was also locked.

  Parkinson could see Clarenceux clearly in the half-moonlight. He walked slowly toward him, raising his sword. Clarenceux tugged at the door again but his struggles were useless. Parkinson was ten feet away, eight, six. With a glance to his right, the herald once again saw the jump that he had not dared to make, its stomach-churning drop. But this time he could see the edge of the gatehouse wall in the moonlight. He made a decision, stepped onto the parapet, and hurled himself with all the force he could muster across the dark space.

  It seemed he was a long time in the air, falling. Time crystallized. Each instant seemed to last for several seconds, and in each of those seconds, he felt the air rushing past him and heard the sounds of the night. Yet he did not have the time to think-only to feel. He did not even have the presence of mind to lift his legs or prepare to land. When he crashed heavily on the lead of the gatehouse roof, all the instants compressed themselves suddenly once more. His right knee hurt, his left shin, the ribs on his left side, his left shoulder, and his still-bleeding left hand, which had instinctively been protecting his head. He lay still, aware that he was not breathing. Then the desire for air came upon him overwhelmingly. Yet he could not breathe. He was suffocating, it seemed, unable to open his lungs. He reached out and steadied himself on all fours, finally drawing a sweet full breath. In that position, gasping still, he felt the various pains in his body begin to prioritize themselves, his left hand and ribs most of all. He could feel the wind on his face and hear the sound of the waves…and then the scrape of a drawbar being pulled across down below. Parkinson was coming after him.