The Roots of Betrayal by James Forrester

Author:James Forrester [Forrester, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.
Published: 2013-03-31T13:00:00+00:00

52

Walsingham pushed the plate of sweetmeats across the table toward John Richards. They were in the writing chamber of his house near the Tower. Walsingham was seated. “What do you know about Raw Carew?”

Richards took a sweetmeat, standing before the table. He shrugged. “The same as most people, I suppose. He’s a bastard by birth, the son of George Carew, who went down on the Mary Rose, and a Calais prostitute. He earned the name Raw when he was about fifteen, after he had a fight with another boy aboard the vessel on which they were sailing. The captain set the two of them ashore on a rock for a few days. Carew killed and ate his adversary. He turned to piracy after the fall of Calais. Over the last six years he has taken ship after ship and roamed between Africa and the New World. They say you can never catch him unawares—he is the Robin Hood of the High Seas to some people, a menace to others.”

Walsingham held up his hand. “That is common knowledge—but do you know anything practical about him, such as where his home port is, or whether he has a wife?”

“With respect, Mr. Walsingham, I would suggest that that is the wrong way to think of such a man. He has seduced or raped a great many women, so the idea of him coming home to a wife is an unreal one. As for a home port, I suspect he takes shelter wherever he can.”

Walsingham looked at Richards. “So you do not know anything about him either. It is astonishing. Everyone knows stories, stories, stories. No one knows anything of any real use about the man. He is indeed like Robin Hood: not just a hero and a villain, but a mystery too. If I did not have to concern myself with his actual deeds, I would wonder whether he really existed or was simply a product of the imagination of the poor. Can you tell me what he looks like?”

Richards shook his head. “I imagine him to have brown hair and a long beard, with a broad forehead, and to be taller than everyone else in his crew. Otherwise I have no idea. I cannot remember anyone ever describing him to me.”

“Much as I thought.” Walsingham stood up and started to walk around the room. He stopped at a window. “People invent an image of the man because they need to see him in their mind’s eye when they tell stories about him. God forgive me for making a profane comparison but it is like people saying they know what Jesus looked like, even though none of us have seen Him. We talk about Him, artists paint Him, theologians expound on His acts—and over the years, we have drawn up a picture of Him that we adapt, trim, cut, and shade. So now we all dance happily around His image in our minds. That figure is instantly recognizable, for it fits our collective idea of the calm, strong-minded Son of God.

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