The Roots of Betrayal (Clarenceux Trilogy)
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A Wild and Captivating Ride from Bestselling British Author James Forrester:
"A whale of a yarn...a winner for any reader who loves historical, action-packed novels."—Kirkus
Your Choice. Your Faith. Your Fate.
1564: Catholic herald William Harley, known as Clarenceux, guards a highly dangerous document. It's a manuscript he'd rather not have—destruction and death have followed in its wake. But things get much worse when the document is stolen, and he plunges into a nightmare of suspicion, deception, and conspiracy. As England teeters on the brink of a bloody conflict, Clarenceux knows the fate of the country and countless lives hang in the balance. The roots of betrayal are deep and shocking, and the herald's journey toward the truth entails not just the discovery of clues and signs, but also of himself.
In this brilliant new Elizabethan conspiracy from the internationally acclaimed author of Sacred Treason, faith and fear stir up a powerful story of loyalty, lies, and secrets.
"No one can create a sense of historical space as convincingly as [Forrester] does."—The Daily Telegraph
had to do, then went downstairs and out of the house. He walked quickly across the Fleet, stepping between the puddles, toward Ludgate. Normally the center of the street was a packed line of horse dung, trodden into the mud; now, after the heavy rain, it combined with the clay soil to give the street a rich, earthy smell. Cartwheels had churned up the surface. In such conditions anyone of quality would normally insist on riding or being carried in a chair, to preserve their clean clothes.
and his boots decrepit. On the few occasions when he moved from his post, he shuffled, dragging his feet. He too caught Prouze’s eye on more than one occasion. At the southern end of the promontory, sitting at the end of the quay, was a huge black man. Prouze presumed he must be the servant of a lord or a runaway slave who worked as a servant. There were several Negro men and women in the ports; most of the women were the parents of illegitimate half-colored babies, the results of their masters’
through his mind—a cascade of knights and horses, blazons, caparisons, breastplates, surcoats, castles, women in ermine-trimmed tunics, parchments, documents…But there was something in there, something Hooker had said about Carew and Idrone. “Why do you say ‘Ireland’ particularly?” asked Johnson. “Some treasures are made not of gold or silver,” replied Clarenceux, now remembering clearly. “Some are made of the skin of a dead sheep. Vellum can be more valuable than gold.” He leaned forward to
will suspect you of complicity in his escape. But the important thing from your point of view is that I am not betting with my money; I am betting with yours.” Sir Peter frowned. “Mine? What do you mean?” “You could sail your fleet out further into the Channel for a few days. Only those aboard your ships know that you found the Davy and sank her. Only those aboard this ship know that Raw Carew escaped. If you set me and the remainder of his men ashore quietly in Southampton, no one is going to
pointing at Clarenceux. “We had an agreement. I would bring you here to Southampton and help you find that damned woman and you would tell me where Denisot is. I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. You have not.” “You did not bring me to Southampton. Your natural father’s brother did—and not out of kindness, I might add. He had orders to take me to London—and to sink the Davy rather than let me go.” Carew took a moment to comprehend what Clarenceux had just said. He swung his legs around and