Restlessly, he threw the covers aside and got out of bed, to stand in his shirt. Not many hours ago, he had planned to question the Comtesse de Paiva about a rumour she had passed to Cyprien, concerning an impending Spanish landing in the west. Yet his instincts had held him back. How he should behave now, if she indeed appeared through the wall at any moment, he was uncertain. He had enjoyed women’s company in curious circumstances before, of course, but not quite like this. Though when he pictured the lady at supper, her neck and shoulders shiny in the firelight, he believed he could do justice to the occasion . . .
A sudden noise, far louder than expected. He turned, his eyes on the wall. Then came a clanking, but from a different direction; he whirled round – too late.
It was not the wall-panel that flew open, but the door. A flame sputtered, and heavy shapes lurched into the room. Boots thudded, torchlight flickered on helmets and steel cuirasses – and before Marbeck could leap for his sword, they were upon him. In the gloom, brawny arms seized him; he struck out with a fist, felt it connect, heard a grunt. But someone else grabbed his wrist . . . There were three men. He struggled harder. His arms were being pinioned. He kicked, but since he was barefoot the effect was feeble. In a moment he was held, wrists forced upwards behind his back . . . then something cold and sharp was pressed to his neck.
‘Basta! Be still – you are a prisoner!’
The speaker was Spanish. Breathing hard, Marbeck looked round into a black-bearded face.
‘You mistake!’ He snapped. ‘Erroneo, si? I’m a guest of la Comtesse – I came here to meet with servants of el Rey Philip—’
He broke off, hearing a click. It was followed by a squeal of rusty hinges, and the wall-panel swung inwards to reveal another figure bearing a light. This one was quite short, however, and not garbed as a soldier. Stooping, he lifted the torch, and at once Marbeck knew who he was.
‘Monsieur Wilders?’
The newcomer was grey-haired and grey-bearded, richly dressed in a suit of dark brocade and lace. With some difficulty, he manoeuvred himself through the narrow opening and stepped into the room. As he did so, the two Spanish soldiers who held Marbeck thrust him against the wall. There he remained, while the third man, their captain it seemed, held a poniard to his throat.
‘I am Henri, Comte de Paiva.’ The grey-haired man wore a look of some amusement. ‘You were expecting someone else, I think?’
Marbeck merely gazed at him.
‘I hope you enjoyed your supper,’ the other went on. ‘My wife has told me you were most desirous of meeting with Spaniards.’ He put on a thin smile. ‘Alors – now you have your wish.’
‘Monsieur le Comte – this is intolerable!’ Quickly Marbeck summoned a bewildered look. ‘I’m a merchant . . . I’ve come here to—’
‘No, monsieur – you are a spy.’
Moving carefully in the cramped room, the Comte took a step forward. There was a sconce on the wall, and he placed his torch in it. He looked at the Spanish captain and muttered a few words. Marbeck knew a little Spanish and understood that he was to be taken away at once.
‘A spy?’ he echoed, with incredulity. ‘Monsieur, that’s absurd! I’m a man of business, a citizen of Antwerp—’
‘Indeed? Then, pray, address me in the Holland tongue.’
‘Gladly,’ Marbeck said. And he would have uttered what words of Dutch he knew, but he was not given the chance. An order was barked, and he found himself shoved towards the bed. Someone picked up his clothes and threw them at him.
‘Dress yourself,’ the Spanish captain said in English. He glanced round, saw Marbeck’s shoes and kicked those towards him, too. ‘Be quick!’
The room had become warm, and smoky from the torches. Marbeck sat on the bed, and, as he dressed, risked a look at the soldiers. Both were professionals, muscular and alert. Having assessed his chances, he faced the Comte.
‘Monsieur, please listen. I am in your power, yet I insist there has been some fearful misunderstanding. I’m a dealer in ordnance – I came here to make contact with men who will buy my wares . . .’
But he fell silent; the Comte wasn’t even listening. With a casual movement, the man pushed the secret panel by which he had entered. It closed with a click, whereupon he moved to the door, which was still ajar.
‘You and I are unlikely to see each other again,’ he said, with a final look at Marbeck. ‘But allow me to offer you some advice. Before you enter a seigneur’s house, enjoy his table and dally with his wife, it’s wise to ascertain what kind of people you abuse. But then –’ he gave a shrug – ‘it’s futile to expect a man to change his ways – especially one who has so little time left.’
Then he turned on his heel and went out.
There was a boat tied up by the river: a larger one than Marbeck had seen on his arrival. By torchlight, he was marched along the jetty and made to clamber in. It was difficult, since his hands were bound, but he was soon seated in the stern, facing the Spanish captain, while behind him his men took their seats. In a short time they had cast off and began to row, heading downstream. There was a faint light: dawn was near.
Woods and fields drifted by; water birds flapped away, and somewhere a fox barked. The rowers began easing the small boat to their left – and now there was a change in the sound of the water: the stream had widened. Marbeck peered ahead, and saw that they were emerging from the mouth of the Scorff, into the River Blavet.
His face was blank: a mask, hardened by practice. To a casual observer, he appeared to have retreated into himself, but he was watching. He eyed his captors: the soldiers straining at their oars, the sharp-faced captain. He also watched the banks, noting any landmarks. He had not yet formed a strategy, but one thought took hold: that he was not yet finished with the Château des Faucons. If it proved possible, he would return . . . and when he did, he would be seeking answers from Marie-Clothilde, Comtesse de Paiva.
One of the soldiers muttered something, whereupon their captain glanced behind. Picking up speed with the current, the boat scudded out into the Blavet. Marbeck gazed ahead, squinting in the gloom, and saw the ship.
It was small; the river, he supposed, was too shallow for a vessel of larger draught. A lantern showed at its stern, where he made out a large, red-and-gold standard. As they drew nearer, he heard the creak of ropes and timbers. The captain put his hand to his mouth and gave a shout, and there came an answering call from the ship. As Marbeck watched, another light danced above, at her side. He peered upwards as they rounded the stern, and saw the name in large, elegant letters: Delfin.
Dolphin? Despite everything, he wanted to laugh. Not long ago he had waited, bored and restless, kicking his heels in an inn by Bishopsgate which bore that name. Now he was about to board a Spanish ship of the same name, where he faced another challenge . . . though one that was going to tax him a good deal more severely. Unless, of course, he was able to change his circumstances.
To most people, the chances of that might have looked somewhat slim. But Marbeck had a few ideas; all he needed was the opportunity to put them into practice.
EIGHT
He was put below the forward deck, in a sail-locker. The only light in the cramped space came from gaps in the boards, through which he could hear footsteps and voices. As the sun rose, noise and movement increased, and his main fear was that the vessel would make sail: if he found himself at sea, he would be in serious difficulty. But there was no sign that the Delfin’s master intended to disembark. The ship swayed gently at anchor, while Marbeck lay on a pile of sailcloth and assessed his chances. The prospect, he knew, was bleak: interrogation, probably soon and probably with torture, followed by an ignominious death. In which case, he had better make himself busy.
First, his wrists: they were tied tightly, but it had been done hastily. He worked his hands and found a little leeway. There was no means of cutting his bonds, hence he would have to employ one of Ballard’s tricks. Ballard was a player, whose company had sometimes visited M
arbeck’s home. As a boy, he had been enthralled by the antics of the clown and tumbler. What nobody realized was how much he had learned from him, let alone how useful those skills had proved in the years since. Now, with one ear cocked towards the deck, he set to work. Using the bulwark to brace himself, he shifted to a kneeling position, then began to rock back and forth. As he did so, he tugged his bonds, one way then another, grunting as the cord dug into his flesh. Soon he had loosened them, but only slightly. Further effort followed, until he judged the time was right. He flexed the fingers and thumbs of his left hand several times, before grasping it firmly with his right; then he squeezed.
It worked best with his left; he’d found that out long ago. He had his mother’s hands, people said; too slender for a man’s. His brother had mocked him often enough for it . . . Memories flew up while he worked, breathing faster, ignoring the rough cord as it chafed him. Slowly and painfully, he worked his hand free. He wrenched and twisted, until finally his knuckles slid through the last loop, and it was done. Then he sat back against the wall, brought his hands round and assessed the damage. His wrists were raw, but they were unfettered. He worked the muscles of his aching left hand, then busied himself untying his right. Soon, to his relief, he was able to loosen the knots and shake the cord off. What happened after this, he knew, would depend partly on luck; Ballard’s Luck, Marbeck called it. Silently, he mouthed thanks to the old player, dead these past five years, before turning his thoughts to a special weapon that was sewn into the waistband of his doublet.
Working with difficulty in the poor light, he unpicked the stitching. Then his fingers probed until they found the end of the cord: a very different cord from the one he had been bound with. It was a lute string; a Roman string to be exact, that would tune to a low F. Thirty inches long and made of sheep’s gut, it had been treated and twisted until it was as strong as wire. Gently, Marbeck pulled, teasing it out until its end protruded from his clothing by a fraction of an inch. He would likely get just one chance to draw it, and it would need to be done quickly. Thus prepared, he sat back and waited.
To his discomfort, he waited all day. Why that should be, he could not know. Perhaps the Spaniards were in no hurry; they knew he couldn’t escape, just as they knew that, under hard questioning, he would tell what he knew, sooner or later. He refused to dwell on that. By late afternoon he was hungry and thirsty, and doing his best to conserve his strength. He would need every scrap of it.
He was dozing when they came for him, at sunset. There was a clatter as the hatch was opened. Shapes loomed, arms seized Marbeck and yanked him out on to the open deck. There he stood, hands behind his back, blinking in the evening light.
To his captors, his bonds appeared as they had been when he was first taken, in the Château des Faucons. Had any man looked more closely, however, he might have noticed they were now tied with a different knot: one that could be pulled loose by a simple jerk of the hand. But nobody looked. Marbeck was marched to the stern of the vessel, under the poop deck. Sailors looked over the rail, staring belligerently at him, before he was pushed through the doorway of a well-lit cabin that filled the entire width of the ship.
The room was low-ceilinged and dominated by a large table. Behind it, his back to the ship’s rear windows, sat a figure of unmistakable authority dressed in a coat of black and gold. As the door closed behind Marbeck, the man spoke in the thick accent of southern Spain.
‘Welcome, señor. Are you thirsty?’
After a moment Marbeck nodded, whereupon someone stepped from behind and tipped a leather flask to his lips. Eagerly, he swallowed the tepid water before it was snatched away. He glanced round, saw two armed men in jerkins and helmets. But as he turned to face the officer again, his eyes fell on another man standing by a side bulkhead. He knew that look: here was the one who would serve as interrogator, and at once he thought of Sangers, back in the Marshalsea. The man even had the same bull neck, the same piggish eyes that bored into Marbeck’s.
‘Come closer, please.’
He took a step. He was facing a handsome man in his thirties, with a neat beard and a gold earring; for a moment he reminded Marbeck of the Earl of Essex. But the comandante of the Delfin was no vain swaggerer. He eyed his prisoner coolly, then flicked a hand to indicate the interrogator.
‘Now, señor, you are not a fool, I think. You know what we can do, to make you speak. So, you will begin by telling me who you are and why you came here. I believe you are English, as I believe you are a spy for your Queen Elizabeth. So talk, and save yourself much pain. You understand?’
Marbeck glanced at the interrogator; then he coughed and looked down at the floor. His intention was to look as scared as his captors expected him to be.
‘My name is Wilders, sir,’ he said. ‘But I swear to you I’m not a spy. I came here to make contact with men I can do business with. I have access to English guns – falconets, culverins, demi-cannon . . . Profit is my only spur. I implore you to believe me—’
‘Cavador, avante.’
The officer’s snapped instruction cut him off. The bull-necked fellow stepped towards Marbeck, holding a short length of rope fashioned into a loop. It was a simple device, but an effective one: when placed around a victim’s head it would be twisted tightly, until the pain was unbearable.
‘Wait, please – there’s no need. I will speak!’
Marbeck swallowed, then: ‘It’s true – I am English,’ he said hurriedly. ‘But I swear I’m no spy. I carry tidings from La Rochelle, to men of business like myself. They tire of the war – who doesn’t?’
In part, he spoke the truth. It was no secret among intelligencers that overtures of peace had been going on throughout the conflict, through private intermediaries. Trade had suffered badly, and many were indeed tired of it all.
‘And there’s more, Capitán . . .’ Deliberately, he looked round, before facing the man again. ‘But not before common soldiers,’ he went on. ‘Such matters are not for their ears. You understand me, sir?’
It was a gamble, but he knew enough about the Spanish aristocracy to think it might work. The officer was a caballero, who sensed he was being addressed by another gentleman. And when a look of doubt flickered across the man’s features, Marbeck pressed his advantage.
‘I speak of affairs of state, sir . . . secrets. You will soon know I speak truly. I won’t bluff – how could I?’ He nodded at the interrogator. ‘I see this man knows his task – how to sift the truth, and how to keep silent. Let him stay if you wish, but permit me to address you, as one man of substance to another. Please . . . what is your answer?’
A silence fell. The guards stirred, not liking the suggestion at all. Neither did the interrogator, who glowered at Marbeck, fingering his implement of torture. To his master he spoke rapid Spanish, from which Marbeck gathered that he believed the prisoner was stalling, and he would soon put an end to it. But when the officer spoke, relief swept over him.
In a few words the soldiers were ordered to withdraw. Without further word, they did so, but as they went out the interrogator seized Marbeck roughly by the arm. With the man’s sour breath on his face, he waited until the door had closed. Silently, he counted to five . . . then he struck.
First, his shoulder slammed into the interrogator’s chest. Then, even as the man registered the blow, Marbeck jerked his head back and banged it into his face. The fellow staggered backwards, but immediately the officer behind the desk jumped to his feet. Marbeck had barely a moment to jerk his hands out of the cord – but once they were free, he could set to work. Three blows in rapid succession pummelled the already blooded face of the burly interrogator, who fell with a groan.
Dropping to a half-crouch, Marbeck whirled round to face the Spanish commander – to be met by a roar and a spurt of flame. The shot was close; he heard the ball whistle by his ear and smack into the bulwark behind him. Dropping his pistol, the man leaped aside. Marbeck saw the sword in its scabbard, hanging from a beam. But instead of prev
enting him reaching it, he used those seconds for a different purpose: to secure the room.
The shot had brought running feet; he heard shouts from outside, and just had time to reach the door and turn the key before someone rattled the handle. Then came a shriek of steel as sword left scabbard, and he turned back to his assailant.
The comandante came at him, his face livid with anger. His first thrust was deadly, and Marbeck was hard-pressed to dodge it. The blade then rose and fell, cleaving the air, but this time he anticipated it. It flew past his shoulder, throwing its owner off balance – whereupon Marbeck’s hands shot out to seize the man’s forearm, which he bent backwards with all his strength. There was a fearful crack as the bone snapped, followed by a cry of pain. The rapier clattered to the floor.
A tense moment followed. Marbeck kicked the sword away and stepped back, but he saw the officer was beaten. Numb with shock, the man slumped to the floor, fingers clawing his shattered arm. Meanwhile, shouts came from beyond the door, and blows rained upon it. Marbeck’s time was short, and he had one chance of escape: the stern windows, through which a soft evening light filtered . . . He believed he could squeeze through. But first he had a task, for the interrogator was recovering.
Flushed and bleeding, amazed at the speed with which events had unfolded, the heavy man was struggling to his feet. He had dropped his length of rope and was reaching for a poniard at his belt. Marbeck put his hand to his waist and drew out the lute string, then stepped forward and kicked the torturer’s leg from under him. As the man swayed Marbeck shoved him to his knees, darted behind him, threw the string around his neck and pulled.
Marbeck and the Double Dealer Page 7
