Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  Marbeck sighed and got to his feet.

  They ate quickly; Marbeck because he’d taken nothing since the previous night, Trigg simply because he was ravenous. Finally, the scholar leaned back from the table, drained his cup of wine and eyed his host. ‘Now we may talk, if you wish,’ he said.

  The ordinary was quiet, and they sat in a corner booth. Marbeck took a drink and eyed him. ‘What’s afoot here?’ he asked. ‘I know fear when I smell it – and I smelled it the moment I came off the boat.’

  Trigg looked surprised. ‘You must have heard the rumours, surely? The place is on tenterhooks – sentries posted, patrol boats manned. Everyone keeps an eye out for the Spanish.’

  ‘Will you elaborate?’ Marbeck asked, after a moment.

  ‘By the Saints!’ Trigg frowned. ‘Have you forgotten what happened down here, five years ago? Galleys sweeping inland, villages burned – even Penzance was aflame!’

  ‘That was in Cornwall,’ Marbeck said. ‘A small raid – four ships, wasn’t it? Plymouth’s well fortified.’

  ‘Not many troops now,’ Trigg said, with a shake of his head. ‘This isn’t the main departure point for Ireland – Chester fills that duty. Levies get sent to Barnstaple. Plymouth’s a supply port now – surplus grain, mostly.’

  ‘So what’s the source of these rumours? You know invasion scares are common as fleas – have been since eighty-eight.’

  ‘Ah, but there’s intelligence, too.’ Trigg leaned forward. ‘I’ve a report for Cecil back at my lodgings, half written. I’ve set it all down.’ Suddenly, his face twitched. ‘I know he thinks me a third-rate informer – perhaps that’s why he seldom pays me. But my eyes are as sharp as yours, Marbeck – my ears, too. And I can still tell the difference between gossip and fact!’

  Drink had enlivened the man, but Marbeck let him talk. Soon, flushed and animated, Trigg was holding forth about a Spanish plan to invade England from the west. This time, he was certain, they wouldn’t attempt to sail the length of the Channel. Instead, they would land at Cornish ports like Falmouth and Fowey, then send troops inland while other vessels made for Plymouth.

  ‘They could have done it in ninety-five!’ he exclaimed. ‘If they’d crossed the Peninsula, Bristol would have been threatened. And Welsh renegades would have joined them to attack us! Don’t you see?’

  ‘I didn’t think the Welsh posed a serious threat,’ Marbeck observed dryly. ‘Some of them are fighting for us in Ireland.’

  But his words only aroused Trigg further. ‘What matters that?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, it’s but fifty years since the Cornish rebelled against the Crown, back in King Edward’s time. Meanwhile, a hundred miles west – as you say yourself – the Irish are at our throats!’ He seized the wine jug and poured himself another cupful. Then, taking a slurp, he levelled a finger. ‘Never trust a Celt, Marbeck – they’re as bad as the Spanish, and as wily as the French!’

  A sigh escaped Marbeck’s lips. ‘Is that the substance of your next despatch to Master Secretary?’ he enquired.

  ‘What – do you scoff at me?’

  There was a moment, then Trigg set down his cup. ‘Pray forgive me . . . I’ve made free with your hospitality,’ he said, with an attempt at dignity. ‘Yet poor as I am, I’ve not lost my reason. I fed on logic at Oxford – just as you did, at the other place.’

  ‘Very well.’ Marbeck met his eye. ‘Then let’s apply reason and logic, shall we? These rumours of a Spanish landing in the west – where do they stem from?’

  ‘I’ve said I had intelligence,’ Trigg replied. ‘It was no idle boast. My informants are few, but trustworthy. The fishermen go far afield – to the Bay of Biscay, even. And there are pinnaces out at sea, ready to board Breton boats.’ He grew animated again. ‘Papists sneak in by the back door, you know. Think of the Bretons – they’re Celts too, aren’t they? What did I tell you?’

  ‘Your source,’ Marbeck said wearily, ‘for this talk of a Spanish landing?’

  ‘The source? It’s in Brest,’ Trigg told him. ‘A hundred miles south of us. Cecil has a man in Brittany . . . but you’ll know that, I expect.’

  Marbeck nodded briefly. And seeing he would add nothing, Trigg talked on. ‘He’s a merchant, I think,’ he said. ‘Or something else . . . Anyhow, he uses the name Cyprien. Two weeks ago he sent word to me that—’

  ‘Two weeks?’ Marbeck had lifted his cup; now he put it down with a thud. ‘And you’ve not yet penned your despatch?’

  ‘It’s almost finished,’ Trigg said quickly. ‘I’ve a lot to do here, you know. My mind’s seldom still . . .’ But as the other’s impatience showed, he lowered his gaze.

  ‘By heaven, Edmund,’ Marbeck breathed. ‘These are dangerous times. Cecil’s desk is awash with reports of Spanish activity. All intelligence is valuable – perhaps yours more than most! Have you forgotten that?’

  ‘Of course not!’ The scholar gulped. ‘See now, I’ll finish my report today – this very evening. Perhaps you can take it back with you, when you leave for London?’

  But Marbeck shook his head. ‘You must use other means. I’m not going back – not just yet.’

  The other swallowed. There was a dullness in his eyes as he stared down at the table. He not only looked tired: Marbeck saw a man clinging to the remnants of his self-respect. He spoke again, in a gentler tone.

  ‘Send your despatch, and make mention of my visit,’ he said. ‘Tell our master I was en route – he knows where. Say I’ll report when I can. Will you do that?’

  ‘I will.’ Trigg nodded, then lifted his gaze. ‘I . . . I won’t ask where you’re going. I’ll merely say cave, fide amice. You’ve not forgotten your Latin, I hope?’

  ‘I’ve not forgotten.’ Marbeck raised his cup and drained it. ‘I’ll not trouble you for a bed for the night, after all. I have arrangements to make. Perhaps you can point me to someone who’ll sell me some ducats?’

  ‘Of course.’ The scholar showed his disappointment. ‘I’ll walk as far as the port with you.’ He reached out suddenly and caught Marbeck by the sleeve. ‘Speaking of money, has Master Secretary provided you with a goodly purse? I hate to raise the matter, only . . .’

  ‘Save your breath,’ Marbeck replied. ‘Would five crowns be of any use to you?’

  The other’s face lit up briefly. He looked away and mumbled a quotation, adding: ‘Cicero.’

  ‘I know,’ Marbeck said, and called for the reckoning.

  A day later, and the wind had risen; as he had feared, the sea journey was somewhat rough.

  He had sailed the English Channel often enough, but his crossings had been at its eastern end, where the distance was mercifully short. The voyage from Plymouth to the Breton coast was of a different nature: a hundred miles of dangerous water, open to the great Atlantic. And for the first time in years Marbeck felt the threat of seasickness.

  To allay it, he ventured on to the open deck. The seamen were busy at their work, hurrying about the little vessel, and paid him no attention. She was a fishing smack, bound for the waters of Finisterre, but for a price her captain had agreed to put Marbeck ashore on the western tip of Brittany. A Devonshire sea-dog, heavily bearded, he stood behind the wheel, gazing at Marbeck who was clutching a stay for balance. Finally, he beckoned, so Marbeck ventured over to him unsteadily. The captain stifled a laugh.

  ‘I advise ’ee to get below, sir,’ he said, raising his voice against the spray. ‘We’ve more than a day’s sail before we strike Ushant – that’s an isle off Point St Matthew. Another hour or two more, to get you to Conquet.’

  ‘I fear a flux of the stomach,’ Marbeck told him. ‘I believe it’s best to stay in the open air.’ He staggered to the rail again and quickly found a place to steady himself.

  To occupy his mind, he ran over recent events. It was several days since he had sent his last despatch to Cecil, from Dover. Now Trigg would send his; he was confident of that, despite the man’s laxity. They had parted as friends, yet he was uneasy: he would have no choice,
once he returned to London, but to speak to the spymaster about his agent in Plymouth. The times allowed no room for sentiment.

  He thought of Gifford, and then of Saxby and Ottone. A short while ago he had been charged with unmasking a traitor called Mulberry; now he was about to set foot in France, to another purpose. He wondered what he might find. It was two years since the French and Spanish kings had signed their peace accord at Vervins, after decades of strife. Now the Spaniards were supposed to have left, yet reports still spoke of ships criss-crossing the Bay of Biscay, and Spanish voices heard in the coastal villages. His mouth tightened. Once ashore, he must move swiftly. From Conquet he would travel east to Brest, and make contact with Cecil’s agent.

  He had chosen not to discuss Cyprien with Trigg. He had never met the man, but, thanks to coded information in Cecil’s letter, he knew how to find him. The fellow was said to be reliable; hence intelligence that came from him must be taken seriously. But a Spanish invasion in the west?

  To Marbeck that made no sense. It would mean a two-hundred-mile march to London, giving Elizabeth’s commanders time to prepare defences, and the Spanish generals were too clever for that. There must be more to the matter; had Trigg misunderstood? Or was it misinformation? His thoughts leaped back to his conversation with Cecil. Every scrap of intelligence that has crossed my desk, Master Secretary had said, might be false . . . a storm has broken about our heads . . .

  Suddenly, Marbeck almost laughed. Standing on the tilting deck with sea-spray in his face, he preferred not to think upon storms. He took a lungful of salt-laden air and cheered himself with the prospect of dry land. He pictured an inn, a warm fire and a cup of good wine.

  But his optimism, it transpired, was short-lived. For at eventide a day later, as he finally clambered ashore in Brittany with a queasy stomach, two things struck him. The first was that in the village of Conquet nobody seemed to speak French; or, at least, nobody he encountered would admit to knowing any other tongue than their native Breton. Moreover, the inn was cold, and even the claret not to his taste.

  But the surprise that awaited him the next day was more serious. Having begged a ride from a carter travelling eastwards, he arrived at last in the town of Brest – and found that Cyprien was dying.

  SIX

  In France he was not Marbeck; nor was he even John Sands. He was Thomas Wilders, a merchant of mixed Dutch and English blood. Thomas Wilders had few morals, and even fewer scruples about how he did business – or with whom. The persona had served him well in the past, in Paris and elsewhere, and it should serve him in Brest, too. With that in mind, he took a room at an inn, then ventured out to get his bearings.

  The town was old and had seen much conflict. It occupied the steep banks of the Penfeld River, and the visitor’s eye was soon drawn to the castle at its mouth. But Marbeck’s was on a round tower, the Tour de Tanguy, a short way upriver. Near it stood the home of the man he sought: a French Huguenot, who used the name Cyprien.

  But he would not go yet. First, he strolled about, as any traveller might. He heard both French and Breton spoken, but no Spanish. Walking near the castle, he peered across the inlet, the Rade de Brest, and glimpsed the outline of the old Spanish fortress, the Castilla de Leon. A desperate battle had been fought here, six years ago, but that was when Spain and France were still at war. Now Marbeck was struck by how peaceful the town was. Having taken its measure, he returned to the inn. Then, as evening fell, he made his way to the Tour, and in his passable French asked for the house of a man with a white streak in his hair . . . only to receive a shock.

  That would be Louis Orme, he was told; his informant, an old woman, sighed and crossed herself. The monsieur must seek him at the convent of La Madeleine – in the hospital.

  Dusk was falling, and briskly Marbeck walked as the woman had indicated, to a building which was unmistakable. At its entrance he found an aged Carmelite nun, and asked permission to visit his friend Louis Orme, who he had heard was gravely ill. The religieuse looked him over, before admitting him. So at last he came to a small, candlelit infirmary and was conducted to the bedside of one who appeared to be unconscious. But as the nursing sister moved away, the man opened his eyes.

  ‘Qui êtes-vous?’

  ‘I’m Thomas Wilders,’ Marbeck said, speaking French. ‘I’ve come over the water, with greetings from my friend Roger Daunt. He begged me to seek out his old comrade – Monsieur Cyprien.’

  The other’s eyes widened. He searched the visitor’s face, but made no reply.

  ‘I’m saddened to find you in this place,’ Marbeck said. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  He took in the man’s shrivelled appearance. Cyprien’s face was haggard, while the snow-white streak – his distinguishing mark – was now invisible, since all his hair had become the same colour. His eyes strayed to a stool by the bed, where stood a pitcher and an earthenware beaker. Marbeck poured water and brought it to the man’s lips. After he had drunk, Cyprien sank back feebly upon the pillow. Then he spoke.

  ‘Wilders . . .’ He pronounced the word as if testing it.

  Marbeck glanced round. The occupants of the other beds appeared to be sleeping. A sister sat by the door, fingering her rosary. But when he looked back, the invalid was trying to lift his hand. He took it, feeling its clammy warmth. But there was no grip; the man was as weak as a sparrow.

  ‘Well, Thomas Wilders . . .’ A faint smile appeared. ‘I never thought my last confidant would be an Anglais. How does your good Queen Elizabeth? Rumours abound in France that she too lies close to death.’

  With some relief, Marbeck smiled back; the man was not delirious as he had feared. He said: ‘Rumour’s a fickle jade, my friend. The last I heard, the Queen was dancing galliards at Richmond Palace and bantering with ambassadors.’

  The other wheezed; an attempt at laughter. ‘If only France had been blessed with such a monarch . . .’ He gave a sigh. ‘Well, monsieur . . . you come to learn what you can from me, before I change this bed for a coffin. Is it not so?’

  Marbeck made no reply.

  ‘Your silence is answer enough,’ Cyprien breathed. ‘So . . . will you tell me how goes the war? Perhaps I should say wars. I’ve been here some weeks . . . or so I believe. I was mad for a while, the sisters tell me. Now I am sane, but helpless.’ His face clouded. ‘This sickness is beyond even their skills.’

  Marbeck cleared the stool and moved it closer. ‘I’m come from Plymouth,’ he said as he sat down. ‘There I spoke with another friend – you’ll remember him as the Shopkeeper. He told me the tidings you sent, two weeks ago.’

  ‘Was it so?’ Cyprien frowned. ‘I was already sick . . .’ He gave a cough. ‘Yet, now I remember. You English must make ready – the Spanish aren’t done with you yet.’

  ‘We know it,’ Marbeck said – and before the man could speak again, he raised his hand. ‘Please, save your strength. Let me talk.’ And with that he gave him a very brief account of recent affairs. Dunkirk was still in Spanish hands, despite the Dutch victory at Nieuwpoort under Maurice of Orange. In the Low Countries the war raged on, as in Ireland. Rumours crossed and re-crossed the Channel, so that few knew what to believe.

  ‘Enough – I pray you.’

  Cyprien was wearying. Drawing a rasping breath, he said: ‘The report I sent on to Plymouth came from someone I always trusted. She it was who spoke of this plan the young Philip’s admirals have . . . I mean men like Brochero and Zubiaur. They wish to sail again to England and land in the west – that is why they build new ships at Lisbon—’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ Marbeck broke in. And when the other showed surprise, he outlined his objections.

  ‘You think the tidings I sent were lies, then?’ Cyprien looked aghast. ‘To lure your masters in the wrong direction?’

  ‘Such practices are common enough in wartime,’ Marbeck replied. ‘Your source – you said “she”?’

  Feebly, the sick man nodded. ‘She would not fail me. And she is clo
se to the Spanish – too close, some have claimed.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here – to get close to the Spanish,’ Marbeck said. ‘To find out why they’re building up their troops in Brittany. It puzzles me . . . I understood that by the treaty of Vervins they’d agreed to leave—’

  ‘But, my friend, they have done so.’

  Cyprien’s face glistened with sweat, and his breathing was laboured. ‘There are no Spanish here now,’ he went on. ‘A few ships down south, perhaps, on the Blavet.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps they may wish your government to think they’re still here in large numbers, when their troops are in Spain and Portugal.’

  ‘But if that’s true . . .’ Marbeck thought quickly. ‘If they’re not here, then they’re preparing to embark in the new fleet that’s being built. Which means . . .’

  Then he saw it; and at once he realized that he had known it all along.

  ‘Which means?’ Cyprien echoed.

  ‘The Spanish fleet is bound for Ireland. It must be.’

  The dying man frowned. ‘Well, it was always the back door to England – everyone knows it. And the rebel Tyrone has been asking for Spanish help for years . . .’

  He broke off then, as one of the convent’s other patients called out – a wailing cry. Marbeck looked round to see the sister moving to his bedside, then turned back to Cyprien.

  ‘Indeed, some may wonder why it’s taken them so long,’ he said dryly.

  ‘But . . .’ Cyprien looked dismayed. ‘I ask again: do you tell me the intelligence I took such pains to pass on is merely lies? I cannot believe such. I repeat: my source is true – she is a woman of courage and honour.’

  ‘Will you tell me who she is?’ Marbeck asked.

  ‘You would go to her?’

  ‘I have no time,’ Marbeck replied with a shake of his head. ‘Besides, what you’ve told me is enough. My master must hear of it.’ He placed a hand on Cyprien’s shoulder. ‘England owes you much for your pains,’ he said. ‘Even now, at the very last.’