He wore a look of distaste; the name of the Queen’s most enthusiastic interrogator (nobody used the word torturer) was enough to dampen any man’s spirits. Marbeck looked around for his shoes. As he sat on the bed to put them on, he found the messenger’s eyes upon him.
‘I heard about Moore – a bad business,’ Prout said stiffly. Receiving no reply, he added: ‘I’ve heard other things too, of late.’ He was in full Puritan humour; Marbeck waited for the sermon.
‘Your name’s been linked to someone of substance – a married lady, whose husband is serving the Crown in Holland,’ the messenger went on. ‘Master Secretary dislikes scandal. It’s . . .’
‘Bad for business?’ Marbeck eyed him. ‘And do you know what I think, Prout?’
The other indicated that he didn’t.
‘I think you’ve become a tedious man. A decade ago you risked your life for Lord Burleigh – as many of us did. Now his son treats you like a lackey, and you’re content to let him.’
Prout’s expression hardened. ‘And it looks as if he’s treating you in the same manner.’
Having fastened one shoe, Marbeck turned his attention to the other. ‘But, unlike you, I don’t care a fig for gossip,’ he said. ‘I take my pleasures where and when I can. You haven’t forgotten how it is, I think?’
‘Nay . . . I haven’t forgotten,’ Prout said, after a moment.
‘That’s well.’ Marbeck stood up and met his eye. ‘Stuffy in here, isn’t it? I believe I’ll take the morning air, before I make my way to Southwark. Will you join me, or do you have further business elsewhere?’
‘I don’t,’ came the reply. ‘Yet I’ll not walk with you, Marbeck. I fear you may outpace a man of my years. Though I’ll offer another word of advice, which you may heed or not: I’d take care which way you step, if I were you.’
‘I’m always careful, Prout,’ Marbeck said.
He saw the messenger out, waiting until his footfalls faded on the stairs. Then he moved to the bed, reached under it and drew out his basket-hilt sword in its scabbard. As he buckled it on, a feeling stole over him: one of anticipation. At least this time of inaction was over, even if, for the moment, his role seemed to have been reduced to one of despatch carrier.
But an hour or so later, when he had crossed London Bridge and arrived at the gates of the Marshalsea prison, the matter took on a different aspect.
Having been passed through various doors, he was finally admitted to a square chamber, where a short, squat figure in a leather jerkin stood. The room was dank and windowless, and hung with irons whose purpose Marbeck knew well enough. Noises assailed him through the walls, as he stayed by the open door; the prison reek almost made his stomach turn.
‘Master Sangers,’ he said, and the man rotated his body towards him. ‘I’m John Sands, sent by order of the Crown. Do you have information for me?’
The inquisitor squinted at him, an unpleasant grin appearing above his unkempt beard. ‘That I do, friend,’ he replied. ‘It cost me a day’s and a night’s labour to get it, but I won through in the end. Then, I always do. I’ve uncovered a matter of grave import – worth a reward, I’d say. Mayhap you’ll tell Master Secretary that when you see him.’
He waited, but Marbeck merely eyed the man.
‘Aye – a grave business,’ Sangers repeated, his grin fading. ‘The subject’s a Portugee: a physician – but I knew he was something more. Now he’s made full confession.’
‘Then I’ll hear it, too – from him,’ Marbeck said.
The other shook his head. ‘That won’t do. He’s spent – you’ll get naught out of him.’
‘Nevertheless, I would speak with him.’
‘But he’s my prisoner, and I say not.’ Sangers tensed like a wrestler, his shoulders swelling. ‘There’s only one piece of intelligence that matters in any case,’ he went on. ‘Everything else he spewed was chaff. Now, will you hear it from me or not?’
‘If the intelligence is important, Master Secretary may want to question the man himself,’ Marbeck persisted. ‘And if he’s near death as you say, you’d best make an effort to keep him alive until then – or it might be said you hadn’t done your work properly.’
At that Sangers’s cheeks puffed up like a bladder. He was fuming, but he sensed the other man’s authority. He wet his lips and glared.
Suddenly, Marbeck understood. ‘The poor wretch is already dead, isn’t he?’
The inquisitor said nothing.
‘Very well.’ Marbeck sighed. ‘You’d best tell me what you learned from this unfortunate physician, before he expired. And, for your sake, I hope it was worth the trouble.’
‘Then hear this!’ Sangers snapped. Turning aside, he spat heavily. ‘What I learned, from yon whoreson papist, is that Master Secretary has an intelligencer in his service who’s playing a double game: a cove called Morera, who’s been feeding him false information. One who claims to spy for our Queen, yet takes his true orders from the Spanish. So go you, Sands – or whatever your name is – and tell your master that. And if I were in your place, I’d think twice before coming here again saying I’m not up to my work! Now, is that plain enough for you?’
TWO
‘The physician called himself Gomez,’ Sir Robert Cecil said. ‘But to his masters at the Escorial he was Salvador Diaz. His house has been searched, and it appears he was indeed in the pay of the Spanish. Though whatever else he might have told us, it’s now too late.’
The spymaster stood beside a table spread with papers, in his private chamber at Burleigh House in the Strand. Marbeck stood nearby, towering a foot above him.
‘Yet Sangers is thorough, if nothing else,’ Cecil went on. ‘And I’ll believe Gomez’s testimony, since he gave it in return for being allowed to make his peace with God – his last confession. Though he’s given us only a code name: Morera. In Spanish it means “Mulberry”.’
‘So – one of our intelligencers is a double-dealer,’ Marbeck said, though without surprise; after all, the Crown too used such people when necessary.
‘Let’s assume so,’ Master Secretary replied. ‘And whoever he is, we must flush him out – and quickly.’
It was unlike Cecil to state the obvious, Marbeck thought. But he sensed the man was rattled. ‘In which case, sir,’ he ventured, ‘do you have—’
‘Suspicions?’ Cecil broke in. ‘Suddenly, I find I have several. And, worse, I’m forced to the conclusion that every report – every scrap of intelligence that has crossed my desk of late – might be false. The outcome could be disastrous . . . A storm has broken about our heads.’
‘What will you do?’ Marbeck enquired. ‘Examine those who have entered your service in recent times? Men who’ve shown signs of discontent, or—’
‘Or merely of loyalty.’ The Secretary threw him a bleak look. ‘I don’t mean you, Marbeck,’ he added. ‘You may be a coxcomb at times, but my father trusted you – as do I.’
He looked away, and in the silence Marbeck thought briefly of Lord Burleigh, the Queen’s beloved and most trusted minister. In the two years since his death she had aged ten, it was said. But Marbeck had no doubts about the abilities of his crippled son: a man who saw and heard everything. It was said he’d even had a spy in the house when his father lay dying, to eavesdrop on those who came to pay their respects.
‘Tell me plainly –’ Master Secretary’s voice broke Marbeck’s thoughts – ‘do people still call me the Toad? I’ve seen what’s chalked on walls, about the city.’
‘Some do, sir,’ Marbeck answered, straight-faced. ‘Though I suspect they’re of the Earl of Essex’s party.’ He would not have admitted to knowing the Queen’s nickname for his master: Elf; let alone the more sinister one he had earned: that of Roberto il Diavolo.
Cecil allowed himself a trace of a smile. He picked up a paper, glanced at it and tossed it back on to the table. ‘Just now, the Earl of Essex isn’t uppermost in my thoughts,’ he said. ‘A mountain of work lies ahead. My clerks and I will
have to sift through everything – cross-referencing, double-checking . . .’ He paused. ‘Several recent despatches concern but one thing; a business that weighs heavily on me. I think you know what I speak of: the new ships the Spanish are constructing at Lisbon.’
‘And at Corunna, or so I’ve heard,’ Marbeck put in.
‘Assuming such reports can now be believed,’ Cecil said dryly. ‘Though my man in Lisbon I’ve always found reliable.’
Marbeck considered. ‘Do you truly think King Philip would repeat the follies of his late father? Send another Armada against us?’
‘Why would he not?’
‘Because, from what I’ve heard, Spain’s almost bankrupt – not to mention racked with plague,’ Marbeck replied. ‘They say the new king has no stomach for the war. He’s a pious young man, who spends half his time at prayer.’
‘Indeed – leaving things to his favourite, the Duke of Lerma,’ Master Secretary said. ‘Who, like most of the Hotspurs of Spain, has unresolved business with us. Do you follow me?’
Marbeck followed only too well. In the last decade, the word Armada had acquired a near mystical power in England: enough to strike fear into every heart. It was twelve years since Francis Drake and the English seamen had seen off the huge Spanish fleet of Medina Sidonia, but since then no less than two others had been sent by the embittered King Philip II. Only luck and foul Channel weather had saved the English, it was said – which was why panic had broken out only a year ago, when rumours of yet another Armada, sent by the late king’s young successor, threw the country into turmoil. Rumour had sped in upon rumour: the Spanish had landed at Southampton – or was it the Isle of Wight? Trained bands were mustered, troops readied, chains strung across London streets . . . all to no purpose. The Invisible Armada, many now called it – a figment of someone’s fevered imagination. Yet the words had a hollow ring, and no one could be sure whether the next rumour might turn out to be true.
‘There’s little doubt that another fleet is being readied,’ Cecil said. ‘Though it appears small, compared with those of the past. Hence we must discern its true purpose – and with good intelligence we will. But in the meantime –’ he met Marbeck’s eye – ‘in the meantime, I need you to relieve me of my most immediate difficulty.’
‘You want me to find out who Mulberry is?’
‘I do. I’ll instruct Weeks to pay you an advance. Fifty crowns.’ He waited; the meeting was over. But Marbeck had another question.
‘Those suspicions you mentioned . . .’
‘Ah yes.’ The spymaster frowned. ‘There are two that come to mind just now. Men I’m unsure of, shall I say? Neither is known to you, I think. Their names are Saxby and Ottone – Prout will know where they may be found. I’ll leave the manner of approach to you – and now, if you’ll allow me, I need to do some thinking.’
That night, in his chamber at the Dolphin, Marbeck did some thinking of his own. He had no relish for the task that faced him: that of questioning two fellow intelligencers, either of whom might be a traitor.
He had been to Nicholas Prout and obtained the whereabouts of the men Cecil had named. One was Thomas Saxby, an ex-soldier who lived at Clerkenwell. The other was an Italian, Giacomo Ottone, who kept a fencing hall in Gracious Street. Both men would no doubt resent being objects of suspicion – wouldn’t Marbeck himself? And yet it was imperative the matter be resolved, and promptly. The spymaster had left him to his own devices – but then the man knew he would trust his instincts, and make do with whatever cards fell to him. With that thought, he went to his bed and slept soundly, rising to a clear day. The weather was fair, and he decided not to ride but to walk through Moorfields and make his way to Clerkenwell by Smithfield. So, having taken a light breakfast, he went to seek out Thomas Saxby.
The ex-soldier, he discovered, lived in poverty in a tumbledown tenement by St John’s. Ragged children fought and yelled in the narrow alley, where refuse had clogged the runnel to form a midden. Passers-by glanced at Marbeck, some men eying his good clothes and his sword, though he appeared not to notice. Arriving at the last house, he knocked. The door was opened by a blonde-haired woman in a faded frock, who flinched at sight of one who looked a gentleman.
‘Tom’s not here,’ she said at once. ‘I’ve not seen him for . . .’
Gently Marbeck took her arm. ‘He’s here, and he’ll see me,’ he said. ‘Don’t fret – I merely want to talk to him.’ Steering her aside, he entered the hovel, which was devoid of any sort of comfort. At once a figure raised itself from a low pallet, and a male voice called out harshly.
‘Come any closer, and I’ll fire this!’
Sitting up in the gloom was a heavily bearded man in a sweat-stained shirt, an old wheel-lock pistol in his hand. Marbeck glanced briefly at it.
‘Hadn’t you better prime it first?’
The other glared but kept the weapon levelled.
‘Master Saxby, is it?’ Marbeck went on. ‘Gunner Saxby?’
There was a rustle of skirts, and the woman brushed past him to stand beside the pallet. ‘Jesu,’ she breathed, ‘not another recruiter!’ And when Marbeck looked at her, she cried: ‘He’s done with fighting – are you blind, or what?’ Stooping, she threw aside the coverlet. Marbeck looked down, then raised his eyes.
‘I ask your pardon,’ he said.
‘Well you might!’ Fiercely, she faced him: a spirited woman, Marbeck saw, with an intelligence belied by her shabby appearance. He turned his gaze to meet the ex-soldier’s eye.
‘I’ll ask your pardon too, gunner,’ he said.
‘It’s cannoneer,’ the other man threw back. But he lowered the pistol, so that it rested beside his right leg. It had been amputated below the knee, the stump swathed in a cloth.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘A friend,’ Marbeck said, prompting a snort from the woman. ‘I’d like to speak with you – nothing more.’
‘About what?’
‘Business.’ He let his eyes rest on Saxby’s companion briefly, whereupon the man frowned.
‘Who sent you here?’ he asked. His tone had changed, but he remained suspicious.
‘Roger Daunt sent me,’ Marbeck replied, and, having used the code name, he waited. There was a moment before Saxby looked to his companion.
‘Help me up, Anne,’ he said. ‘Then you’d best leave us for a while.’ But when he turned back, Marbeck was shaking his head.
‘The Red Bull, at the top of St John’s Street. I’ll await you there.’ To Anne he said: ‘Those who’ve been wounded in service of the Queen deserve succour. Please – take this.’ Producing a silver crown, he held it out.
She stared, then took it without a word, whereupon Marbeck got himself outside. He wore a look which some would have interpreted as distaste, at the squalor in which one of apparent good breeding had found himself; others, however, might have seen it differently. But a short while later, when Thomas Saxby in his mouldy soldier’s jerkin entered the Red Bull tavern, he found Marbeck seated by a window, composed and seemingly in good spirits.
‘Sit with me,’ he said. ‘Are you hungry?’
Saxby, who had manoeuvred himself in with the aid of a crutch, shook his head. ‘I’ll have beer,’ he said as he eased himself down. ‘But if they’ll sop some toasted bread in it, that’d be welcome.’
Marbeck called the drawer and gave the order. It was early, and the tavern was almost empty. The mugs came soon, and both men drank in silence, until Saxby spoke first.
‘Do you have a task for me? I know you not, but you named Roger Daunt . . .’
‘So I did,’ Marbeck said.
He looked hard at him: at the drawn face, the hollowed cheeks. This man had paid a heavy price for his service with Elizabeth’s army. ‘Where did you lose your leg?’ he asked. ‘The Low Countries, or—’
‘Ulster,’ came the terse reply. ‘The bog of Europe . . . fit for naught but leeches.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ Marbeck gave him a grim smi
le. ‘Who did you serve under?’
Saxby pulled a lump of soggy bread from his mug and thrust it into his mouth. ‘Sir Arthur Chichester, at Carrickfergus,’ he said as he chewed. ‘He’s the best man they’ve got over there – which isn’t saying a great deal.’
‘I’ve heard that, too,’ Marbeck said. ‘It’s anger drives him . . . revenge, perhaps, for what the Irish did to his brother. Do you know about that?’
A frown creased Saxby’s brow. ‘Who doesn’t know? The devils cut off his head – played football with it, so they say.’ He swallowed and spat out an oath. ‘I hope they pay – every last one of them.’
‘Because they’ve rebelled against the Crown?’ Marbeck enquired in a casual tone. ‘Or because they’re papists, or—’
‘All of that – and this.’ The ex-soldier banged a hand down: not on the table, but on his ruined leg.
‘None would dispute with you,’ Marbeck said, after a moment. ‘And there’s no reward for men such as you when they get home, is there? Those who are fortunate enough to return, that is.’
‘Fortunate, you say?’ As Marbeck had intended, Saxby’s anger had risen. ‘And what would a man like you know,’ he growled, ‘who, by the looks of you, never saw a battle, nor lifted a hand save to wipe your arse?’
‘Tell me, do you know a man called Gomez?’ Marbeck asked.
Saxby blinked. ‘What?’
‘Physician, lived over the river at Lambeth. Portuguese – know him, do you? Or did you, I should say. He’s dead, poor fellow – died in prison, under torture.’
His words came quickly. The other stared at him, blank-faced. ‘No, I never heard of him,’ he said at last. ‘And in God’s name, what’s this about?’
In a fair imitation of a stage conspirator, Marbeck glanced round, then leaned forward. ‘He was working for the Spanish,’ he said. ‘That’s what it’s about, Saxby. Our masters are a little uneasy.’
He picked up his mug and took a pull. But Saxby merely continued to gaze at him. Finally, he drew a breath and said: ‘Why do you ask if I knew this man?’
Marbeck and the Double Dealer Page 2
