But the man had grown agitated. He coughed again, then said: ‘Thomas Wilders – if such is really your name – please listen to me. My homeland of France – she is torn and bleeding. Do you know how many of her people have died, these past two score years? One million, or so they say.’ He gave another sigh. ‘Will we ever know peace? Why, it’s but two years since the law gave rights to such men as me. That’s why I’m permitted to lie here, instead of dying in the street!’
‘The sisters are merciful,’ Marbeck said. ‘Taking in a Huguenot.’
‘It’s not only that.’ Cyprien gazed fiercely at him. ‘I speak of sacrifice – you understand me, I think . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I ask you now to do me a service, my friend. It will be my last wish. I ask you to ride to this woman I spoke of, and tell her of my death. Tell her she was in my thoughts at the very last, as always . . . and besides, you may learn matters to your advantage. Where these tales come from, perhaps.’
In his eagerness, the man had raised his head slightly. Now he fell back in exhaustion, but his eyes peered into Marbeck’s. A moment passed, then:
‘Where should I go?’ Marbeck asked quietly.
‘To the Château des Faucons, on the Scorff River,’ Cyprien answered. His relief was such, he even smiled. ‘It’s two days’ ride, to the south-east. There you will find Marie, the Comtesse de Paiva. I was once her groom . . . and, in my private thoughts, I longed to be more.’ His smile faded. ‘But confide in her only – not her husband. She can tell you of the Spanish, more than you would learn elsewhere. So – will you make me this promise, my friend? Will you swear it?’
He waited, until at last Marbeck nodded. Then with a sigh, he closed his eyes.
The horse was named Chacal. Marbeck had been told so by a widow who kept a tiny stable close to Louis Orme’s cottage near the Tour de Tanguy. The cottage, Marbeck learned, was to be hers; Monsieur Orme was a widower who had no relatives living. In return, she agreed to carry out the last wishes of her friend, as set out in the letter Marbeck showed her, and provide him with a mount. The letter was in his own hand, but at its end was a scrawled signature – all the dying man had been able to manage. Fortunately, it was recognizable. Which was how, mounted on a stubby French pony, Marbeck came to leave Brest the following day and ride up the Elorn Valley. At Landerneau he crossed the river and turned southwards, to begin his journey to a château on the Scorff, where lived the Comtesse de Paiva.
He was thoughtful as he rode. It was a promise to a dying man, he told himself – several times – but it didn’t help much. He had to get a despatch to Cecil, at the first opportunity. Though at least he could reflect while he travelled. Part of him insisted that the journey could prove useful, perhaps shedding light on Spanish activities. He might even uncover the source of what he felt certain was false intelligence – and which, bizarrely, seemed to have emanated from the French interior, before coming thence to the west of England via Brittany.
Other thoughts pleased him less. This was a fool’s errand, another part of him reasoned, which stemmed from a moment of weakness. Or had he simply been intrigued by the dying Cyprien’s account of the Comtesse de Paiva, whom he seemed to adore? The woman was close to the Spanish, the man had said . . . in which case, perhaps, a visit might prove fruitful. As Thomas Wilders, he would pose as a dealer in ordnance – a man with access to cannons that had gone astray from Elizabeth’s navy. He had used the story once before; English guns were prized and much sought after. But he must speak to the Comtesse alone, Cyprien had told him. Might her husband pose a difficulty?
He looked about him. The sun had risen, and ahead in the distance was a range of hills: Les Monts d’Arrée. Beyond them was another range he must cross, Les Montagnes Noires – the Black Mountains. A hilly country of farms and forests lay beyond, before he would eventually strike the valley of the River Scorff. The river flowed down to join the estuary of the Blavet; there, the Spaniards had once based a fleet. If Cyprien’s suspicions were correct, they might yet have vessels in the region.
That at least would be something to tell Sir Robert Cecil, he thought, when he eventually made his way back to London. He could say he had travelled through the heart of Brittany, and made certain that the Spanish had truly departed – hence confirming that intelligence to the contrary was false. It might just persuade Master Secretary that his journey had not been entirely wasted.
With that in mind, he made good speed, heading deeper into the rural interior. The air was sweet and the countryside fair; and so, on the evening of the following day, after a journey of more than seventy miles, he emerged at last from a line of trees and reined in. He was looking down a gentle slope at the valley of the River Scorff – and there below him was the Château des Faucons.
It was smaller than he had expected: the seat of a minor member of the nobility. He scanned the walled gardens and outbuildings. Cattle grazed the surrounding fields, while on the river beyond he saw a landing stage, with small boats drawn up. It was a scene of tranquillity. Why, then, Marbeck asked himself, this feeling of foreboding?
For unease had come upon him the moment he left the tree-line. Alert, despite his weariness, he eased the pony forward and rode down the slope until he struck a road which approached the château from the south. By the time he neared the gates, which stood open, dusk was falling. Nobody challenged him, so he passed under an archway into an enclosed courtyard and halted.
There was no one about. The only sound, a soft cooing, came from a dovecote that stood in the centre of the yard. The surrounding windows were dark – save for one on the upper storey, where a light showed. He glanced round in the saddle. The main entrance was ahead of him, approached by a broad flight of steps. After a moment he called out in French. There was a brief silence, then to his left a door clattered open. He swung round, to see a figure stumble out.
‘Monsieur . . . c’est vous?’
The servant was elderly, with long white hair. Torchlight spilled from the doorway behind him. Marbeck stayed in the saddle as the old man hurried towards him, bowing obsequiously. But when he drew close, squinting upwards in the gloom, he gave a start.
‘Non – c’est un autre! Qui va lá?’
At once Marbeck assumed the manner of a man of status addressing a lackey. In clipped tones he announced himself as a merchant who had business with la Comtesse de Paiva. Then, without waiting for reply, he dismounted and held out the pony’s reins. ‘I’ve had a long ride – see my mount’s well cared for,’ he said. ‘Will someone conduct me to la Comtesse?’
The servant stared, then took the reins automatically, whereupon another figure appeared in the doorway.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
The voice was female. Marbeck strode past the old man to greet one he assumed was a woman-in-waiting. He gave his name and business, and mentioned a message he carried. It was private, for la Comtesse, he went on . . . then he looked into the woman’s face, and fell silent.
‘I’m Marie-Clothilde, Comtesse de Paiva.’
She said it in English. Marbeck gazed at her, concealing his surprise, and made his bow.
‘Your pardon, madame,’ he said. ‘I thought—’
‘So I surmise.’ The lady peered at him with large eyes, though her expression gave nothing away. Then she glanced at the elderly servant, who was still standing beside Marbeck’s horse. In a few words she instructed him, whereupon he led the animal away.
‘Matthieu has poor eyesight,’ she murmured. ‘He thought you were my husband.’
Marbeck inclined his head. Sugared phrases rose to his lips, but he held them in. This woman, he sensed, would not be susceptible to flattery. Instead, he said: ‘Then perhaps I arrive at the right hour. For the words I carry are for your ears alone, madame. I have brought them from the convent of La Madeleine in Brest . . . from the bedside of a dying man. He begs to be remembered to you; his name is Louis Orme.’
The Comtesse continued to gaze at him, and, in spite of himself, he was i
mpressed. She was rather beautiful.
‘Wilders,’ she murmured. ‘Is that a Dutch name?’
‘Anglo-Dutch, madame,’ Marbeck said. ‘Yet my loyalties are to none but myself.’ He was hungry and thirsty, his body sore from riding. Yet he watched her and waited – and all at once the woman frowned.
‘He’s dying . . . Louis is dying?’
‘I fear so,’ Marbeck answered. ‘I was at his side . . . He had but days to live.’
Only now had the news struck home, he realized. ‘But that is terrible . . .’ The Comtesse looked round and called towards the open doorway. A voice answered.
‘You need rest after your journey,’ she went on, facing Marbeck again. ‘But first you must take food and tell me of poor Louis. You are a friend of his?’
‘I am, but not a close one,’ Marbeck replied.
‘Yet you came all this way, only to bring his respects?’
He hesitated. This wasn’t the time – yet when would there be another? It seemed the Comtesse’s husband was expected at any moment; he drew a breath.
‘In fact, it’s not only for that. I’m a man of business, madame, and I’ve heard you may be able to help me.’
A moment passed . . . then, to his relief, the woman nodded.
‘I understand, Monsieur Wilders,’ she said stiffly. ‘Will you please to enter my house?’
SEVEN
The Château des Faucons was ancient, it seemed, and had changed hands many times before coming into the possession of the Comte de Paiva. So the Comtesse told Marbeck over an excellent supper, in a small chamber on the upper floor of the house. His hostess had already dined, but nevertheless kept him company while he ate, taking a cup of sweet wine herself. The only others present were two male servants who waited on them. The atmosphere was congenial; indeed, Marbeck’s welcome had been warmer than he expected. Which was why, as he enjoyed roast quails and stewed carp, he began to wonder why he was being treated like an honoured guest.
He soon exhausted his tale of Louis Orme, whom he described as a friend he had not seen in years, before finding himself by chance at his sickbed in Brest. It was the dying man’s wish, he explained, that he should tell the Comtesse his last thoughts had been of her, and of happier times. This the lady acknowledged politely; her manner, he thought, had become markedly cooler than earlier. Finally, having declined a rich pudding, Marbeck declared himself sated and changed the subject.
‘Your husband, madame – you expect him home soon?’
‘He has been out two days on Domain business,’ the lady replied. ‘He will return by nightfall.’ She glanced towards the window. ‘And yet the night draws in already . . .’ She favoured Marbeck with a smile. ‘The roads are poor hereabouts, Monsieur Wilders – you will, of course, be our guest. I have ordered a chamber to be readied for you.’
Taken aback, Marbeck expressed gratitude. ‘Your kindness is such, it pains me to speak of mundane matters,’ he ventured. ‘Yet I would beg your indulgence. I’ve said I’m a man of business, madame. I came to Western France in hopes of finding representatives of His Royal Majesty . . . I mean not your King Henri, but the King of Spain. I was told you might number such men among your acquaintance?’
He touched a napkin to his mouth. The room was warm, lit by a log fire as well as numerous candles. He longed to unbutton his doublet. La Comtesse, for her part, displayed a neck and shoulders bare of anything save jewellery and puffed sleeves of silver gauze. Keeping his eyes on hers, Marbeck waited.
‘Was it Louis Orme who told you so?’ she enquired, raising her eyebrows. ‘I ask because it’s some years since he and I saw each other. Times change . . . as do circumstances.’
‘They do,’ Marbeck agreed. ‘I know that since the peace treaty the forces of Spain have withdrawn from Brittany. Nevertheless, I suspect there are some not too far away, whom I could do business with.’ He met her eye. ‘Or do I presume too much?’
There was a silence. Then the Comtesse smiled again, somewhat archly, and fingered a ruby pendant that lay upon her chest. Inwardly, he tensed: was she now flirting with him?
‘Might I ask what, precisely, is the nature of your trade, Monsieur Wilders?’
The question sounded casual. But knowing that opportunity might be lost at any moment, Marbeck seized it.
‘Ordnance, madame,’ he said. ‘More precisely, cannons that once saw service on English ships – the same ships that vanquished the late King of Spain’s fleet, a dozen years ago. I’m a peddler, if you like – a dealer in instruments of destruction.’
‘That is a dangerous activity,’ the lady observed.
‘It is,’ Marbeck allowed. ‘Yet as long as men wage war upon one another, it remains profitable. It has taken me to many places: to the fringes of Europe . . . even to the Palace of the Grand Sultan, in Constantinople.’
‘And was that visit profitable?’
Perhaps she wasn’t flirting after all, he thought, but testing him. It was time to produce some cover.
‘Not as much as I’d hoped,’ he answered amiably. ‘The Turks are fierce bargainers. The Spanish, on the other hand, can be generous. Ten years ago they were paying twenty English pounds a ton for our cannons – cast-iron, of course. Now I’m asking twenty-five for culverins – eighteen-pounders, splendid guns cast in the Forest of Dean. I can also lay my hands upon demi-cannon – thirty-pounders.’ He smiled. ‘But I’m sure you’ve no wish to hear such petty details.’
‘On the contrary, it’s most interesting.’ La Comtesse gazed steadily at him, and it was then that Marbeck made a slip. It was unlike him, but he was weary and the wine was strong, and though he had tried to drink little, it had taken its effect.
‘Our friend Cyp—’
Quickly, he turned it into a cough. ‘Forgive me, madame.’ He patted his chest and made a gesture of self-deprecation. ‘I’ve ridden far, and your table is so fine . . . I grow sluggish. Perhaps we may speak further tomorrow?’ Then, feeling he should mention her husband, he added: ‘I would naturally wish to pay my respects to Monsieur le Comte.’
There was no reply. Marbeck waited – then gambled.
‘Although . . . Louis Orme did suggest it was you I should confide in,’ he went on. ‘You are, he said, close to the Spanish. Forgive me, but those were his words.’
‘Were they indeed?’ The lady gazed at him. ‘And what, Monsieur Wilders, did you take them to mean?’
‘Merely that you were acquainted with men of rank and status, during the Spanish occupation,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Their ships were downriver, I understand?’
‘At Blavet.’ The Comtesse gave a nod. ‘The town was returned to French control two years ago. Did you not know that?’
‘Of course.’ Marbeck nodded, too. ‘Yet a man who conducts my sort of business must look beyond the obvious, madame. I seek a market for my wares – nothing more. I deal where I can, and judge no man provided he pays. Do I make myself clear?’
There was another silence. The fire had sunk low, and several candles had gone out. He looked round, expecting a servant to replenish them, and only now realized that he and the Comtesse were alone. Then he felt a hand on his, and turned sharply.
‘It grows late . . . I must go to my bed.’
The lady had leaned forward and laid her bejewelled hand upon his wrist. When Marbeck met her eye, she added: ‘On nights when my husband returns this late, his custom is to go straight to his chamber and have a supper brought there. He will fall asleep at once, and not rise before midday.’ She allowed the words to sink in, then: ‘You will be conducted to the Cerise room. It is small, but it has a unique feature: a hidden panel in one wall. If this should open during the night, would you be alarmed?’
‘It would depend on what – or I should say who – came through the panel, madame,’ Marbeck said, after a moment.
‘Who would you hope might come through it?’
‘I hesitate to voice it.’ He appeared flattered, but he was on his guard. This was not what he ha
d intended, nor did it feel comfortable. But when he asked himself what Thomas Wilders would do, the answer came immediately.
‘Yet if I may make bold,’ he added, ‘I would hope to see the person I see before me now – the most beautiful woman I have encountered in a long time.’ He smiled. ‘Though I would have to pinch myself, to be sure I was awake.’
He waited, smile still in place, whereupon la Comtesse withdrew her hand.
‘Very well,’ she said, in a tone that bordered on the businesslike. ‘Now, if you will excuse me . . .’ She turned and snapped an order. The door opened, and a servant hurried in to stand behind her chair. As she rose, he pulled it back skilfully. ‘Until tomorrow, Monsieur Wilders,’ she said coolly, and stretched out her hand.
Marbeck got to his feet and bent to kiss it. Then he was alone, with the fire sinking to its embers.
The Cerise room was indeed small, and half filled by a large, ornate bed. Tired as he was, Marbeck slept fitfully, before waking in darkness. For a few seconds he struggled to get his bearings, then sat bolt upright. The single window had curtains, but he had pulled them back before retiring. With nothing but starlight to see by, he scanned the room, his eyes resting finally on the wall-panel.
It was narrow and little more than five feet high; he had already examined the wall and found hairline cracks. There was no catch of any sort: it must open from the other side. Briefly, he wondered how many times la Comtesse had used it in the past. Then he began, once again, to run over the details of the past evening.
He was uneasy. Was this really the woman Cyprien adored – his former employer, whom he had described as a woman of honour? Thus far, she struck Marbeck as a bored and flirtatious member of the provincial nobility, perhaps married to a man much older than herself. Such women could be found in any country in Europe; was his friend Lady Celia Scroop not one of them? But Lady Scroop, he knew, would never have behaved as precipitately as la Comtesse had done, with a man she had just met. The more Marbeck thought about it, the more suspicious he became. Hence, any intelligence this woman may have passed on, he thought, should be treated with caution. In fact, he was close to convincing himself that she had indeed been spreading misinformation. For how long she might have done so, he couldn’t know.
Marbeck and the Double Dealer Page 6
