Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  Below the castle’s west wall lay a cluster of small streets. People were about, but Marbeck paid them little attention. With a casual air, he strolled the narrow ways until he found what he was looking for. It was a large corner house, somewhat rickety, with an upper storey that looked out over the sea lanes as well as the road to London – just the sort of place Gifford would pick. Having learned from a passer-by that this was indeed the house he sought, he went to the door and knocked. Soon it opened a few inches and a face peered out, framed by a linen hood.

  ‘Mother Sewell?’ Marbeck enquired.

  ‘Nay, sir – she’s busy.’ The maid held on to the door tightly. ‘If you’re wanting a room, they’re all took. Try the Swan, over by St James’s.’

  ‘I seek a friend,’ Marbeck said. ‘I believe he lodges here.’

  The girl shook her head, and the conversation would have ended had he not remembered the cover name Gifford used.

  ‘His name’s Porter – Edward Porter. Is he within?’

  ‘Master Porter’s abed, sir,’ the maid answered, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘If you care to leave a message, I’ll tell him when he rises.’

  She looked embarrassed – and at once Marbeck knew why.

  ‘Tell him John Sands is here,’ he said, and pushed the door inwards, forcing her to step back. Flustered, she stood aside while he entered a hallway with stale rushes underfoot.

  ‘It’s best that I wait here, isn’t it?’ he added, with eyebrows raised. ‘I wouldn’t want to blunder into his chamber and upset whoever else might be there.’

  The maid was a spindle-thin girl of fourteen or fifteen. With an up-and-down glance at him, she grabbed her skirts and hurried to the stairs. There wasn’t long to wait; voices were heard, floorboards creaked, then someone padded to the stairhead and looked down.

  ‘By the Christ, what foul wind swept you here?’

  Unhurriedly, Marbeck glanced up. ‘The same one that brought you, I expect.’

  As their eyes met, he felt both pleasure and irritation: the mixture Joseph Gifford often aroused in him. Already the man’s brow had creased into a familiar expression, one of pained amusement. ‘You’d better come up,’ he said.

  Marbeck climbed the stairs. As he reached the landing, he saw a door closing and heard female voices beyond it. One was the maid’s; the other, he guessed, belonged to Mother Sewell, who had just made herself scarce. With a thin smile, he followed his fellow intelligencer through another door into a cluttered chamber, where one glance at the rumpled bed was enough.

  ‘Does the hostess charge you extra for body services?’ he enquired, closing the door behind him.

  Gifford was at the window, pulling curtains back. As sunlight flooded in, he turned, a grin in place. ‘You know I never pay for it, Marbeck,’ he said. ‘She’s a widow – past forty years, but firm of flesh; not too old for barley-brake.’

  He was a handsome man – one of those with a high forehead, his blonde hair worn long at the sides. He was barefoot and had thrown a morning-gown over his nightshirt.

  ‘Will you take some Rhenish, while I dress myself?’ He gestured to a small table where a jug and cups stood.

  ‘I won’t,’ Marbeck said. ‘A clear head’s best for discourse.’

  Gifford paused, then moved to the bed and sat down facing him. ‘Why have you come down here?’ he asked warily. ‘To rake over the Antwerp business?’

  When Marbeck made no answer, he let out a sigh. ‘Have you not spoken with others?’ he demanded. ‘I knew nothing of that house being watched – I’ll swear to it. My warrant was to stay in Flushing, watch vessels coming and going – as I do here. There’s a flow of illicit books, papist tracts and the like. I’ve orders to break it, come what may—’

  ‘What about Moore?’ Marbeck broke in sharply.

  The other looked away. ‘Regrettable,’ he murmured. ‘And yes, I know it could have been you in Spanish hands – as it might have been me, on other occasions. Such risks we all take, Marbeck.’

  ‘I’m John Sands, just now,’ Marbeck said gently.

  ‘But of course you are,’ Gifford retorted. ‘Shifting Sands, someone called you – did you know that? Always on the move.’ He put on a wry look. ‘Just what is it that’s chasing you now?’

  ‘There was a physician, called himself Gomez,’ Marbeck said. ‘He was racked in the Marshalsea. Before he died, he spilled a tale – about Mulberry.’

  The grin left Gifford’s features, and a knowing expression appeared. ‘So that’s why you’re in Dover,’ he said finally. ‘To do a little fishing.’

  The two eyed each other . . . and, for Marbeck, a dozen years suddenly fell away. A memory sprang up: two youths in black gowns rolling out of a Cambridge tavern, stumbling along a lane towards the river. Then shouts from behind, running feet – and in an instant they were set upon by half a dozen town bullies. There, beside the Cam, the fight had raged: fists flailing, blood welling, cries and curses loud in the night air, until at last the assailants backed off, surprised by the resistance they had met. Two of their number lay on the grass; another knelt, hugging his ribs . . . while Martin Marbeck and Joseph Gifford, students of St John’s, stood blooded and breathless, but unbeaten. A day to remember, they said later; they’d vowed to keep its memory . . .

  ‘Fishing?’ Marbeck drew breath. ‘Well, why not?’

  ‘So, is this Master Secretary’s bidding you do? Nay . . .’ Eyes narrowing, Gifford shook his head. ‘This is some whim of your own, I wager. And who – or what – is Mulberry?’

  For answer, Marbeck wandered to the window and looked out. ‘You’ve a fine view of the Channel,’ he observed. ‘How far is it across to Dunkirk, would you say? Forty miles? Forty-five?’

  Gifford watched him.

  ‘Forty or forty-five – what does it matter?’ Marbeck went on. ‘That’s how close the Spaniards are: but a few hours’ sail, with a favourable wind.’ He turned round abruptly. ‘Who do you think betrayed us? One of the English renegades? Or some merchant perhaps, happily doing business with both sides? Which reminds me: I hear you’ve a Spanish whore in Flushing – is that true?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Was it she you lay with, when Moore and I were trapped like rats in that house in Antwerp?’

  Again nothing.

  ‘They work differently from us – the Spanish, I mean.’ Marbeck’s tone was conversational. ‘The French, too. Catherine de Medici had some pretty female agents in her service, I believe. Men like us must be careful whom we bed.’

  ‘And careful whom we accuse, too.’ Gifford spoke low, and his face was taut. ‘I thought you knew me better, Marbeck.’

  ‘I thought I knew Tom Standish, too,’ Marbeck replied. ‘Remember him? Yet there he is, over in Rouen: a papist down to his soles, they say, spitting fire at his own countrymen any chance he gets.’

  In an instant Gifford was on his feet. ‘If you mean to name me a traitor too, then do so!’ he snapped. ‘Though in God’s name, I can’t think why you would.’

  ‘No?’ Marbeck’s voice was harsh too. ‘Then why take a Spanish drab to bed, when there are Dutch aplenty?’

  Angrily, the two faced each other. Outside, footsteps descended the stairs; Mother Sewell was now dressed, Marbeck surmised. Then he frowned slightly. A look had come over Gifford’s face that he knew well enough.

  ‘You haven’t seen her, Marbeck,’ he said with a sigh. ‘If you had, you wouldn’t need to ask.’

  He lowered his gaze and indicated a stool. ‘Now that we’ve done with the pleasantries, will you sit while I attire myself? Then I think we should get some air, don’t you?’

  It was a long day, but by evening matters had been settled. Marbeck would send a despatch to Sir Robert Cecil and await his reply. Because for the present, he knew, his investigation had stalled.

  He had taken a room at an inn Gifford had named: the Greyhound in Biggin Street, close to the harbour. There he penned his report to the spymaster, using a cipher
and signing it with his number, twelve. There was a post-horse service to London, for servants of the State; a rider was leaving at first light. Having delivered the sealed letter, he took his first proper rest in two days, awaking next morning to the harsh cries of seagulls.

  Restlessly, he got up and went to the window. Gazing out over the bustling little town, he began to think. He would not seek out Gifford; the two had agreed it was best they weren’t seen together again. But their stroll by the harbour, which turned into a longer walk along the sea strand, had revealed troubling news. It seemed that in Dover there were more rumours of a planned landing by the Spanish: not from Spain, but from their territories in the Low Countries.

  ‘My orders were to watch incoming ships, for one who’s posing as a merchant,’ Gifford had told him. ‘He’s the one likely bringing in the literature. Him I could deal with – but what must I do if an entire fleet appears in the Channel?’

  They had talked through the morning, and as always Marbeck’s anger with the man had abated. Gifford had his own troubles; and in the end the intelligencers had pooled what knowledge they had, even sharing a jest about Sir Robert Cecil. But after they parted Marbeck found himself in sober mood. His journey here, he knew, had been on a whim. He was no closer to finding out who Mulberry was, and the trail was cold.

  He threw the window open, letting in a gust of sea air, and began to dress. The prospect of kicking his heels in another inn was not to his liking; he had done it often, and frequently to little purpose. He thought of his meeting with Cecil, and about the quandary the spymaster faced. If Mulberry had indeed been feeding him false reports of enemy plans, which ones could be believed? Would the Spanish really come again – and, if so, from where? The south coast of England was long, and landing places were many. Here at the very tip of his country, with the sea stretching to the horizon, Marbeck felt its vulnerability. That feeling wouldn’t go away, he knew; not until he had uncovered something of use.

  But that day brought a surprise – and a change to his plans. It came with a knocking in the afternoon, as he lay on the bed dozing. He went to the door, to find not a maidservant but an ostler in dirty fustian.

  ‘Your pardon, Master Sands.’ The man touched his cap. ‘Only a messenger just came into the yard – ridden hard and fast, by the look of him. He said you should have this at once.’

  He held out a sealed paper. With murmured thanks, Marbeck took it and closed the door. Going to the window, he broke the seal, unfolded it . . . and blinked.

  Brittany?

  He mouthed the word, as he read the short missive to its end. He knew his report couldn’t have got to Cecil so quickly, let alone brought such a prompt reply, but when he looked at the date he understood: Prout, of course.

  He lowered the letter. Prout knew he’d gone to Dover – it wouldn’t take long to enquire at the inns for John Sands. In any case, the Greyhound was the one Gifford had used before he found more congenial lodgings. He sighed. His own despatch, in any case, was now superfluous. Here were new orders telling him to cease his present task and leave at once for France.

  He re-read the letter. It was coded, of course, as was his master’s name. Anyone else who happened to see the message would have noted references to goods being shipped, friends to be remembered and other everyday matters. But to Marbeck, Cecil’s meaning was clear: there was rumour of a build-up of Spanish troops in Brittany. Marbeck spoke French, hence he must go there and assess the situation. As for Mulberry . . .

  Mulberry wasn’t even mentioned; all at once, priorities had changed. A few days ago, he mused, a threat was perceived to be coming from the new fleet being assembled at Lisbon. Next, according to Gifford, an invasion might be launched from Holland . . . Was Brittany now the source?

  He moved to the bed and sank down upon it. So, he was bound for France – at least he would not be idle. He could sail from Dover, which was no doubt what Cecil expected him to do, then make his way along the French coast by barque from Calais. Or he might get himself to Portsmouth and cross to Dieppe. Either way, it meant leaving Cobb here in Dover. He would have to leave instructions for him to be exercised – and money, too. It was fortunate that he had a full purse . . .

  He sat on the bed, thinking rapidly: there was another way that was better. Small boats left from Dover, and skirted the south coast as far as Plymouth. From there he could take ship directly to Brittany; the crossing was longer, and there was the risk of meeting Channel pirates, but he liked the notion. He was unknown in Plymouth – but Edmund Trigg was there, or had been the last Marbeck had heard. He could lodge with him while he arranged passage.

  He folded Cecil’s message up tightly; he would dispose of it later. Briskly, he stood up, went to the window and threw it wide, letting in a blast of sea air.

  Plymouth it would be, then. And from the tone of the spymaster’s letter, it seemed there was no time to lose.

  FIVE

  Grey clouds scudded in over Plymouth, and as soon as Marbeck stepped ashore, three days after leaving Dover, he sensed an air of unease that seemed to permeate the very stones of the old walled city. Stiff, salt-stained and windswept, he stood on the busy harbour with the reek of tar and fish in his nostrils and looked about. Somewhere a bell was tolling – then he remembered it was Sunday. He was surveying the cluttered quayside, when a raggedly dressed boy appeared at his elbow.

  ‘Us’ll teck your baggage, sir . . . find ’ee a tavern, if you wish it. Say, a halfpenny?’

  ‘I seek a friend,’ Marbeck said after a moment. ‘Scholarly fellow, bald as an egg. Keeps a little shop hereabouts—’

  ‘Name of Trigg?’ the lad broke in. When Marbeck gave a nod, he put on a sad expression.

  ‘Lost his shop, Trigg did. Couldn’t make a fist of it . . . Heard he took a lodging over by St Andrew’s church.’ He brightened. ‘But I can take ’ee there, maister – for a penny?’

  Marbeck appeared to think about it. It may have been Sunday, but two or three vessels were being loaded. ‘Where are those ships bound for?’ he asked, pointing. ‘Ireland? Supplies for our troops is it, or reinforcements?’

  ‘Mayhap, sir,’ the boy answered. ‘There’s been a deal of toing and froing these past years. Soldiers billeted in town. They fight sometimes – folks are mighty sick of it.’

  There was movement nearby. More people from the Dover boat had disembarked, and now an official-looking figure approached them. Marbeck glanced at the harbour waif, who gave a nod.

  ‘That’s the mayor’s man,’ he said helpfully. ‘They always question travellers nowadays.’

  The church bell had ceased tolling. With a swift look at the distant spire, Marbeck asked. ‘Is that St Andrew’s?’

  ‘Aye, maister.’ The boy grinned. ‘Does you want to go and find your friend?’

  ‘I does,’ Marbeck said. ‘And if you want to earn that penny, you’d best step lively.’

  The other nodded eagerly. Soon the two of them had ducked into an alley, left the harbour and skirted the city’s south wall, to come by twists and turns to a narrow street near the church. There Marbeck paid off his guide, finding himself outside a tumbledown house, then in a passageway that smelled of mildew. Having taken the boy at his word, he walked to the end door and knocked.

  ‘By the Saints . . . Marbeck!’

  Edmund Trigg stood in the doorway of the dimly lit room. He was stooped, lowering his tall frame by several inches. His old gown, spattered with stains Marbeck didn’t care to speculate about, hung loosely on him. He looked like a man who hadn’t had a proper meal – or a wash – in weeks.

  ‘Trigg.’ Marbeck nodded a greeting. ‘Forgive the intrusion. I was going to beg a night’s lodging . . .’ He broke off, for at once the other grew animated.

  ‘Of course – pray you, come in! I get so few visitors.’

  The man’s eagerness was genuine. Excitedly, he drew Marbeck inside the untidy chamber and fussed about, clearing a stool for him to sit. The place stank of unwashed clothes a
nd bedding, and of mouldy paper. Books and documents lay scattered in corners, on a tiny table, on the floor. Eyebrows raised, Marbeck looked round.

  ‘I hear you’ve given up your shop,’ he said finally.

  ‘Oh, that!’ Trigg dismissed it. ‘Too much trouble – I’ve no bent for commerce. I’ve returned to my true muse: poetry. I’m tutor to an alderman’s son – there are some who value real scholarship, even here beyond the pale of civilization!’ He forced a smile through his beard, which was in need of trimming. ‘But please, seat yourself . . .’ He paused. ‘You’re on, ah . . . London business, I expect?’ When Marbeck shrugged, he ran a hand over his bald pate. ‘And how fares Master Secretary? I hear he’s still at loggerheads with that popinjay Essex.’

  ‘There are other matters to occupy him just now,’ Marbeck said, stifling a yawn. He sat down heavily upon the stool. The voyage along the coast had been uneventful, but he never slept well on board ship. He glanced up and found Trigg gazing at him.

  ‘Saints above,’ the scholar muttered. ‘It’s pleasant to see a face from the old days. What joys once, eh?’ But the words caught in his throat – and the next moment, to Marbeck’s embarrassment, the man was close to tears. He sniffed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, then threw his arms out helplessly.

  ‘As you see, this is no place to converse,’ he said. ‘But a few pennies will buy pilchards at an ordinary. If perhaps you could . . .’ He trailed off. To his relief, Marbeck was nodding.

  ‘Away with your pilchards,’ he said. ‘Does a beef dinner not tempt you, with a pint of claret beside it?’

  Trigg’s mouth fell open, and something like a shudder passed through him. ‘Ecce Aurora!’ he said, and opened his hands as if in benediction. ‘Ecce Aurora, fide amice!’