‘Well, did you?’
‘I’ve said I did not.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘I’m certain.’
The man’s anger had subsided; instead, he looked alarmed. But, then, Marbeck had seen performances just as convincing in people who had lied to him with their every breath. Abruptly, he changed tack again.
‘The drab,’ he said. ‘Can you trust her?’
The other gave a start, then gripped the handle of his mug until the knuckles showed white. Marbeck gazed into his eyes and waited.
‘Anne is my wife,’ Saxby said softly.
‘But I ask again: can you trust her?’
A pause, then: ‘She nursed me back from near-death, after I was shipped home. It was months before I could walk, by which time every last farthing we had was gone. She could have left me at any time – none would have blamed her. Yes, I trust her – with my life.’
‘So that’s why you turned intelligencer,’ Marbeck observed. ‘A matter of money, was it?’
There was a moment, but now Saxby understood. ‘By the Christ,’ he muttered. ‘You’re here to rack me. You think I’m a turncoat!’
‘Well, I admit you seem an unlikely sort for what our Spanish foes call un espia,’ Marbeck said mildly. ‘You can hardly travel far, can you? What kind of service do you perform?’
Deliberately, Saxby lifted his mug and took a long drink, then put it down. ‘If you’re such a clever one, why not guess?’ he said finally.
‘How about prison louse?’ Marbeck suggested. ‘The sort that befriends papists in the Marshalsea, say, then draws out their secrets so they condemn themselves? A dirty task, but some are willing enough to do it. Or desperate enough.’
Saxby said nothing. Then he twitched, but it was a spasm of pain that had caused it. He leaned sideways, pressing a hand to his leg.
‘And you,’ the ex-soldier said with sudden weariness, ‘in what way do you serve? For it looks to me as if you’re playing a similar game yourself.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Marbeck allowed. A moment passed, in which their eyes locked, but to Saxby’s surprise his questioner sat back and relaxed.
‘I ask your pardon once again, cannoneer,’ he said in a different tone. ‘I have other business, and I must leave you. This is for the reckoning.’ He produced a coin and laid it down beside his mug. But Saxby didn’t even notice.
‘You sweet-voiced Judas,’ he breathed.
Without looking at him, Marbeck got up and went out.
He walked steadily, a hand on his sword hilt, not towards the city, but westward by narrow ways until he reached Turnmill Brook. There at last he stopped, gazing across the turgid stream towards the fine manor house that stood beyond, in its walled garden: Ely Place – named for the Bishop who built it. Behind him came the din from packed streets, stretching down to West Smithfield. But ahead all was tranquillity and elegance: fruit trees poking above the wall, a wisp of smoke rising from a kitchen chimney. Just then, to Marbeck, the contrasts of London seldom seemed as stark as they did here.
He breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. At times like these he had no difficulty focussing his mind on what he did, and why he did it. Though there were occasions . . . He frowned. Had his questioning of Thomas Saxby been one of them? If so, why? Because the man had suffered?
Impatiently, he turned away. Was it sympathy that moved him? What, then, of Giles Moore, facing torture in a Spanish prison? What of others who had given so much, even their lives, in furtherance of what all knew was merely warfare by other means?
He glanced back, at the smoke that curled from the chimney of Ely Place. For a moment it reminded him of another fine manor house, a long way from here: one where he had not been in years. Then, forcing the memory aside, he began to walk briskly, back towards the city.
Thomas Saxby, he decided, would be a most unlikely double agent; so now he must visit a certain fencing master in Gracious Street and sound him out instead.
THREE
Giacomo Ottone was a surprise. Marbeck had expected a bombastic swordsman, with a pointed beard and a swagger. Instead, he found a slim, clean-shaven man with oiled hair tied back and, alarmingly, a hand that shook, almost as if he were palsied.
‘You are new here, signor. How may I serve you?’
The fencing master regarded him somewhat warily, Marbeck thought. They were in a bare room with benches around the walls, hung with enough swords to arm a small regiment. Ottone wore a loose shirt and breeches, and a mail glove on his right hand.
‘I came on recommendation,’ Marbeck said. ‘From a friend – Roger Daunt. I think you know him?’
To his surprise the other gave a start. He looked quickly towards the far end of the hall, where several young men were practising their swordsmanship.
‘I cannot talk with you now,’ he said, speaking low. ‘You should come later, after dark . . .’
‘I don’t have the time for that,’ Marbeck told him. His eyes strayed to the walls, and, placing a hand on his own sword hilt, he said: ‘Why don’t we talk while we fence? I could do with a little practice.’
Ottone frowned. ‘Well . . . if you wish.’
He gestured to the centre of the room, where a circle was marked out on the floor. As Marbeck unbuttoned his doublet, the other went to a rack and selected a light rapier. He took it down, hefted it, threw it up and caught it in his mailed hand. Then he walked back to the circle. Having laid aside his outer clothes, scabbard and dagger, Marbeck approached him and showed his own rapier. Their eyes met briefly, before the Italian lowered his gaze. He was clearly nervous; Marbeck wondered why.
‘Your blade is unbated, signor.’ Ottone indicated the point of his sword. ‘And I am not padded . . . you must take care. Or our conversation may be short, eh?’
He gave a quick smile, which Marbeck returned. ‘I’m noted for my care, Master Ottone,’ he said. ‘As I am for—’ Then he broke off. With lightning speed, the other man had lunged, so that his rapier struck Marbeck’s chest. If its point had not been fitted with a small cork, the blow could have been fatal. Marbeck breathed in, eying his opponent.
‘Your stoccata is impressive, master,’ he said. ‘As fast as I’ve seen anywhere.’ Then he too made a thrust, though not as quickly. As he expected, it was parried expertly.
‘I cannot say the same for yours, signor,’ Ottone said. ‘Perhaps you will show me your punta, and your pararla. I would like to know the measure of the man I face.’
There was a moment as each regarded the other. But Marbeck nodded and executed a few simple moves. The fencing master watched with a keen eye. Suddenly, his sword hand shook. Marbeck feigned not to notice.
‘Basta – enough.’ Ottone lowered his rapier. ‘You fence well. Who was your teacher?’
Marbeck gave a shrug, but made no answer. Aware that he was being observed, even judged, the other returned his gaze.
‘What is it you want of me?’ he said then, with a glance across the room. The young men were talking among themselves, paying no attention to what went on elsewhere.
‘I heard you were in France, a while back,’ Marbeck said. ‘Whereabouts, precisely?’
‘In Paris,’ Ottone replied. Suddenly, he went into a crouch, levelling his blade. ‘Come, we must fence. Say what you came to say. Is there a message?’
Marbeck bent his knees and raised his own weapon. The two men circled each other, trying a few thrusts, though at every turn the Italian seemed to read Marbeck’s move before he had even made it. But it was well, he thought: sharp as his wits were, just now he needed them to be even sharper.
‘The man Gomez,’ he said suddenly. ‘He’s been taken, put to torture. He’s spilled everything.’
Ottone gave a jump – or so Marbeck thought. But the fellow’s reactions were so jerky, he could not be certain. What was certain was that the next second he found the other’s blunted rapier pressed against his shoulder.
‘Who is Gomez?’
As
fast as he had lunged, the fencing master drew back, his dark eyes fiercely alert. So Marbeck took a breath and told him, or as much as he had told Thomas Saxby. While he spoke, he made several thrusts, allowing each to be warded off. Then, judging his moment, he made a rapid crosswise sweep from left to right which caught the other off guard. To his own surprise, Ottone found his opponent’s sword only an inch from his throat, where it stayed.
‘Well . . . your mandritta is better than your stoccata, signor,’ he breathed. His eyes flicked from the weapon’s point back to Marbeck. ‘If you meant to scare me, you have succeeded.’
After a moment Marbeck lowered his rapier. But he kept his eyes on the other man’s face, until he flinched. Again his hand shook, and this time Marbeck made a point of noticing.
‘I can see that,’ he said.
‘I ask again,’ Ottone said sharply, his blade trembling. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to know what you know of Gomez.’
‘Since I never heard this name, I don’t know anything of him,’ came the snapped reply. ‘And you seem to think ill of me, signor. To insult me would be most unwise.’
‘I imagine it would,’ Marbeck allowed. ‘Though I’m curious to know what happened to you in France. No insult intended, master, but you strike me as a frightened man. Why so?’
Ottone did not answer immediately. Unlike Saxby, if this man was angry, he knew how to control it. He crouched again and made a lunge which he permitted Marbeck to parry. Then in a low voice he said: ‘Such details are not important. I did my work, and I came back. What my commission was I would never tell. You know that.’
‘Very well.’ Marbeck lunged himself, keeping his blade well clear of the other’s body. Then, drawing back, he said: ‘Where are you from, master? Genoa, isn’t it?’
‘No . . . Livorno.’ Breathing steadily, Ottone made a thrust, which connected with his opponent’s abdomen. As he did so, he threw him a look, the meaning of which was clear: but for the existence of a tiny lump of cork, Marbeck would be mortally wounded.
‘And before you go further – si, I was born of the Roman faith,’ he added. ‘I never hide it. I’m recusanto, one who pays his fine every week instead of going to church. Is that where your mind moves?’
‘Do you know what Morera means?’ Marbeck asked him.
Ottone looked puzzled. But Marbeck waited, until at last the other said, ‘In Italian, it is La Mora.’ He pronounced it in an exaggerated manner. ‘Yes, signor, I know what it means.’
The two eyed each other again. Then Ottone glanced aside, and Marbeck followed his gaze. A silence had fallen at the other end of the room, where the young fencers were looking curiously at them both.
‘What is it?’ Immediately, the fencing master turned and strode swiftly across the boards. ‘You boys think Ottone has time to waste?’ he shouted. ‘Go on with your exercises – subito! To work!’
The youths needed no further prompting, but fell to their swordplay with gusto. Ottone stood over them, barking criticisms, but his anger was directed at Marbeck, and both of them knew it. The performance lasted minutes, before the master left his pupils and returned to the circle.
‘Your temper is short, sir,’ Marbeck said mildly.
‘Only on occasions, signor,’ came the rejoinder. ‘Now, have you further questions for me? About fruits, perhaps – or about Paris? What more can I tell you?’
‘Nothing more, for the present,’ Marbeck replied. ‘I believe I’ve learned all I need to.’ He inclined his head. ‘I thank you for the lesson, signor.’
He walked to the bench where he had left his belongings. There he sheathed his sword and busied himself putting on his doublet. After a moment the fencing master took a few steps towards him. His manner had changed.
‘I think I know you now,’ he said quietly.
Marbeck buckled on his sword belt, but said nothing.
‘I do not wish to fight you again,’ Ottone added.
‘No?’ Marbeck raised his eyebrows. ‘I think what you mean is it’s I who shouldn’t fight you again. For I might get hurt . . . if the stop should fall off your weapon, perhaps. I’m sure you’d be filled with remorse if that happened.’
The other gave a thin smile. ‘We understand each other, signor,’ he murmured.
‘I wouldn’t be too certain of that,’ Marbeck said.
At the door he looked back to see Ottone gazing at him, rapier still in his mailed hand. The fencing master raised the weapon in salute, then made him an ironic little bow before turning once again to berate his pupils.
Later that day, after mulling things over, Marbeck went looking for Nicholas Prout.
Having failed to find him in places he expected, he was about to go and take some supper when, on impulse, he decided to walk to Aldgate Street, to the church of St Andrew Undershaft. The bell was tolling, and among those gathering for evening service he found Cecil’s messenger in a sombre suit of grey. Prout saw him at the same moment and made as if to hurry into the church, but he wasn’t quick enough. Marbeck waylaid him by the door, and bent close.
‘A word with you, please.’
‘Not now – not here,’ Prout said with a frown. ‘I’ll come to the Dolphin as before.’
‘There’s no need: I want a location, nothing else. Give it me and I’ll be gone.’
‘Whose?’
‘Joseph Gifford’s.’
The messenger hesitated. ‘I like it not,’ he said after a moment. ‘There’s bad blood between you and he . . . I sense a settling of scores.’
‘Now, I thought you knew me better.’
‘Do I?’ The other met Marbeck’s eye. People moved past them into the church. Overhead, the bell still clanged.
‘To the devil with your punctilious ways, Prout,’ Marbeck said. It had been a long day, he was hungry and his temper was short. ‘I want to see him – it’s important.’
‘It always is, isn’t it?’ The messenger sighed. ‘I’ll give you known whereabouts, but in the morning I’ll be making report of it. No offence, I’m—’
‘You’re arming yourself,’ Marbeck finished. ‘God forbid that anyone should hold you to account if the man was found with his throat cut – or even with a black eye. Is that it?’
Prout bristled. ‘You’ll not use God’s name in that manner, Marbeck,’ he said. ‘Not here, at my church—’
‘Then tell me where to find Gifford, and I’ll be gone.’
A pause, then: ‘You’ll have a long walk ahead of you, I fear: he’s in Dover. Try Mother Sewell’s house, near the castle. Now – can I go to worship?’
Morning found Marbeck stepping out of the back door of the Dolphin Inn and walking to the stable. It was barely dawn, but the ostler was already up. When the door creaked open, he gazed in surprise at the man who entered, carrying a light pack.
‘Master Sands – d’you want me to fetch Cobb?’
‘I’ll do it, Zachary,’ Marbeck said. ‘Though if you’ll look out a bag of feed for him, one I can tie on my saddle, there’s a two-penny piece for you.’
Zachary peered through rheumy eyes. ‘You going far?’
‘Middlesex, on business.’
The old man shuffled away to do his bidding, while Marbeck went to the stalls. Soon he had loosed a fine roan horse and was leading it out. Cobb was of pure Iberian stock: strongly built and compact, with a thick mane and tail. At the prospect of exercise, he was quickly alert. As he tightened the girth, Marbeck spoke softly, rubbing the animal’s flanks. ‘Sixty miles to Dover, as the crow flies,’ he murmured. ‘What say we do it in a day and a night?’
The horse turned its head, which seemed a good enough answer. Marbeck was soon upon his back, walking him out into the chilly air. A short time later he was leaving Southwark, with the sun rising at his left. At his urging, his mount began to trot, then to canter. By mid-morning they were well on the Dover road, whereupon, with the open country about him, Marbeck at last began to think about how to proceed – and about wha
t had happened the day before, when he had begun the hunt for the traitor known as Mulberry.
He had dismissed Saxby already, and finally, after some rumination, he had dismissed Ottone, too. He wasn’t sure why, for it seemed clear the man was hiding something. But as one who might be a double-dealer, he fell short. Not because he lacked courage: he did not. What he did lack, Marbeck thought, was guile – or enough of it to mark him out as a traitor. So his instinct told him, and for now it must serve.
The man he was riding to see, however, lacked neither courage nor guile. He and Marbeck had known each other for years, and their rivalry was common knowledge. He knew, of course, that Gifford was not under suspicion. And despite what had happened in Flanders, he had no reason to think badly of the man . . . yet there were times when he did; perhaps because, with Gifford, his feelings went deeper.
It had come upon him yesterday, in the late afternoon: the need to disregard Sir Robert Cecil’s words, and to seek out the man who he believed had failed him. And once that urge had taken hold, nothing would stop him.
Now, as the hop-fields of Kent flew by, Marbeck gripped the rein and bent low along Cobb’s neck. ‘A day and a night,’ he repeated, while the horse’s mane whipped past him. ‘And you’ll have a warm stable to rest in, while I find our man Gifford. Then let’s see how the dice fall, shall we?’
FOUR
In the early morning Dover Castle lay ahead, its bulk dominating the sprawling town below.
For the past few miles Marbeck had tasted a salt breeze from the Channel; now it stretched before him, a sparkling sheet of grey-blue. He drew rein, peering at the distant horizon. On some days you could see the French coastline, it was said; but as usual all Marbeck saw was mist, and seabirds wheeling. He yawned and walked his tired mount on, along the last stretch of rutted road that had brought them by Rochester, Sittingbourne and Canterbury to the edge of England.
In the town he found stabling for Cobb, and, having seen to the horse’s comforts, made his way to the sea wall to stretch his legs. Dover was astir, with fishing boats setting out. Looking westwards to the harbour, he saw large ships moored, while on the far strand lay several hulks that spoke of past dangers: Spanish vessels left to rot, their beams like skeletal ribs. Drawing deeply on the sweet air, he turned from the water and went in search of breakfast. The inns were open, for Dover was used to travellers. He ate in the Woolsack, paid his reckoning and left. Near the castle, Prout had said; and that was where he would start looking for the house of Mother Sewell.
Marbeck and the Double Dealer Page 3
