Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  It took longer than he had expected, and a deal longer than he liked. The big man thrashed wildly, his fingers clutching at Marbeck’s wrists, but he was weakening. Then he was gurgling, as the tough string crushed his windpipe. Marbeck looked over his head at the officer, who was still seated on the floor. Though dazed with pain, the man was looking him in the eye.

  ‘You had better kill me too, señor,’ he panted. ‘Or else I will remember you . . . and one day I will find you, and put you to a terrible death!’

  But Marbeck’s ears were bent to the thudding on the cabin door. Though stout, it wouldn’t last much longer. Keeping his grip on the garrotte, he eyed the Spaniard.

  ‘I’ve never killed in cold blood,’ he snapped. ‘Though I could make an exception for this man, who would have racked me until I was broken.’ Abruptly, he looked down: his victim had gone limp. Straightening up, he removed the lute string and thrust it in his pocket, allowing the body to fall. Though senseless, the interrogator still breathed.

  ‘Your name!’ The comandante glared at him. ‘Tell me your name . . . I ask you, as a gentleman—’

  But he broke off, for Marbeck was hurrying to the windows. They were well made and set in oak frames, designed to allow a fresh breeze into what could be a stifling interior. He opened one wide and placed his foot on the sill. Then he turned round and threw a last look at the man who had briefly been his jailer.

  ‘My name? I told you: it’s Wilders. And I don’t expect our paths will cross again – so all that remains is for me to bid you adiós!’

  With that, he bent himself double and squeezed into the opening. Sweet air filled his nostrils as he forced his body through, his feet resting briefly on a narrow ledge below the window; then he was dropping like a stone. As he fell, he heard the crack of splintering timbers: the cabin door had at last given way. There was a great splash as he hit the water, and the Blavet closed over his head.

  It was the twilight that saved him, he thought later; that and the thick reeds that bordered the river. Once underwater, he struck out, swimming until his protesting lungs forced him to surface. The chill of the river was a shock, but it revived him. Gasping for breath as he came up, he looked round and found himself barely twenty yards from the ship. The word Delfin loomed over his head. He was no dolphin, he thought, but he would try . . .

  Something hit the water, inches from his face; a crack followed. His eyes flew to the windows of the master’s cabin, where a puff of smoke showed. Even as Marbeck looked, a second caliver was being aimed. He drew breath and dived.

  Whatever it took, he had to reach the bank. He was sluggish in his clothes, especially his shoes, but there was no time to take them off. Besides, he had walking to do; the thought gave him hope and strength. He lashed out, his hands dragging at the water. Weeds brushed against his legs – then suddenly there was gravel under his chest. For a moment he floundered, clutching at stones and mud, before his head broke the surface. He was on his knees; reeds towered above him, dull grey in the gathering dusk.

  Grasping the foliage, Marbeck pulled himself out of the shallows and fell flat. From a distance he heard another shot fired, but there was no sound of the ball hitting water. With what strength he could muster, he rolled aside, seizing reeds as he did so, and cocooned himself. Then he lay still and began to catch his breath.

  He could not delay, of course; they would send a boat and hunt him down. Their shame and pride would drive them, coupled with their hatred of the English. But his hope was that they would expect him to follow the coast, to east or west. What they would not expect Marbeck to do, he reasoned, was return the way they had brought him: back up the Blavet into the Scorff – and thence upriver to the Château des Faucons.

  It was foolhardy, of course. But he was stuck in Brittany with no immediate means of making an escape, or even of defending himself. His horse and his sword were at the château. His mouth tightened. There, too, was the woman who had betrayed him: the Comtesse de Paiva. Lying swathed in coarse grass, exhausted and shivering in his soaking-wet clothes, Marbeck peered up at a patch of darkening sky and swore an oath; he was not yet done with la Comtesse.

  He waited a few minutes more, alert for sounds of pursuit, but there were none. Finally, his breathing restored, he freed himself from his concealment, got to his knees and slowly lifted his head, to see the Delfin riding peacefully at anchor. Already it was hard to make out its standard, while the lettering on the stern had disappeared in the gathering gloom. There was no sign of movement; then he saw a flame above the poop-deck, and knew someone had lit a lantern.

  Carefully, he backed away from the river-bank, keeping low, until the reeds petered out and he found himself in a grassy meadow. He looked round, saw a row of poplars and loped towards them on all fours. Only when he had reached the tree-line did he stand and draw breath. Then he began to walk, parallel to the river, with the sunset fading at his left.

  An hour, he estimated, would take him to the mouth of the Scorff. He was on the wrong side of the Blavet, but was sure he could cross it at some point. Then, following the narrower stream, he would have to find his way in the dark, back to the château.

  As yet, he was uncertain what to do once he reached it. But by the time he got there he knew he would have decided. With that goal in mind, he began a steady jog-trot through sweet-smelling grass, while dusk fell about him.

  NINE

  The archway showed stark against the night sky, as Marbeck made his way stealthily towards it. Above him loomed the château, but no lights showed. He reached the gates and was unsurprised to find them shut. As he had expected, he would have to climb.

  He squinted upwards. There was just enough moonlight to see by; otherwise his journey here would have been longer. As it was, he knew it had taken most of the night. His clothes, streaked with mud and soaked from crossing the river, clung to his skin. But, though cold and weakened, he was unhurt. He had enough strength, he thought, to gain entry to the château and locate the Comtesse’s chamber, provided his luck held. But first he needed to prepare for his escape.

  In silence he worked his way round the courtyard wall, seeking a point of ascent. He found it on the side nearest the river. Prodding the crumbling masonry, he was able to mark out footholds, after which it was short work to clamber up the wall and gain the top. He straddled it briefly, then eased his other leg across and dropped down inside the yard.

  He landed with knees bent and flattened himself against the wall. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he picked out the dovecote and, away to his right, the stable. Straightening up, he padded towards it.

  The latch lifted with a squeal. He stiffened, but the only sound was the distant call of a nightbird. Then he was inside, with the warm scent of hay and horses about him. There was a stir as the animals sensed his presence, hooves thudding softly on straw. Standing by the door, Marbeck gazed about until he could make out the stalls, whereupon a grunt startled him. He looked round to find himself face to face with Chacal, the hill-pony that had carried him here.

  He stroked the animal’s neck, murmuring soft words. The horse shook its head and snickered as he untied its halter, but made no further noise as he led it from the stall. It was bridled but without a saddle, and Marbeck had no time to search for one. His purpose was to get the animal outside, across the courtyard and through the gate without waking the household, which meant he must muffle its hooves.

  Working quickly in the semi-darkness, he gathered up handfuls of straw. Soon he had bound Chacal’s feet, using baling-twine which he severed with his teeth. Then, with one hand grasping the animal’s mane, he led it out of the stable. They crossed the courtyard, passed the dovecote and drew near the entrance, where Marbeck stopped to peer at the gates. They were secured with a simple draw-bar; it was an easy task to slide it clear and heave one gate open.

  Without looking behind, he led the horse through. Twenty yards from the gateway he moved off the road, tethered it to a bush, then stepped away. To his rel
ief, it dropped its head and began cropping grass, whereupon he turned and walked softly back towards the château.

  Once inside the courtyard again, he approached the side door where he had first encountered the Comtesse. He tried the door: it was locked. He looked for other means of ingress, but there were none, and the windows within climbing reach were too narrow. Then his eyes fell on the imposing main doorway, with its flight of steps. It was the last entrance an intruder would think of using . . .

  He mounted the steps and found a solid door with a cast-iron handle. To his surprise, it opened; the lock, he decided, was so old the key had been lost. He slipped through, finding himself in the wide, flagged hallway; ahead was the main staircase.

  Silently, he moved towards it and began to ascend. On the first floor, where a rushlight burned in a niche, he paused to get his bearings. A passage opened nearby, to another part of the château; there, Marbeck remembered, was the Cerise room where he had been captured. He saw closed doors, and, at the far end of the landing, stairs rising. Instinct told him that way led to the Count’s bedchamber, but where would the Comtesse sleep?

  He hesitated, knowing he had no choice but to open doors until he found her chamber. So he took a breath, approached the nearest one and opened it. When he looked inside, however, the room was empty. He made out a bed, chest and chair, all covered with dust sheets.

  Outside again he listened, but the house was quiet. The servants would sleep below stairs, but some might not: a lady’s maid, a servant to the Comte . . . and did the couple have children? He moved softly down the passage and stopped at another door. Its handle turned noiselessly. Gently, he pushed it ajar until he could pass through, to find himself in a large room hung with heavy drapes; at the same time, he grew aware of the sound of gentle snoring. On a chest by the wall candles burned, and there were two beds: an ornate four-poster, fully curtained, and at its foot, set at a right angle, a small truckle-bed. In it a young servant girl lay on her back, snoring peacefully.

  He had found the room, but there were two occupants – and again only one course of action presented itself. After closing the door carefully, Marbeck hurried forward, dropped to one knee beside the truckle-bed and clamped a hand over the girl’s mouth.

  The effect was instant: her eyes flew open, and a look of terror appeared. With muffled squeals, she began to struggle. In silence, Marbeck clamped her wrists together and held them fast in one hand. Then he raised a closed fist, scowling like a playhouse villain. It worked; the petrified servant went limp and shook her head – but at the same moment there came a sound from the four-poster. Sheets rustled, and a voice he knew at once murmured: ‘Agathe . . . c’est toi?’

  Now his choice was stark: knock the maid out or gag her – or both. He chose the gag. Whipping the sheet from under her body, he rolled the girl into it and trussed her like a chicken. She yelped as the ends were tied about her neck, then lay quivering with fear. At once Marbeck was up, with barely time to reach the other bed. The curtains moved, parted – and a figure appeared in a loose shift, long hair falling about the shoulders.

  Immediately, she saw him, and would have screamed had he not put a hand over her mouth. Seizing her arm, he thrust her backwards on to the bed . . . whereupon mayhem broke out.

  He should have expected resistance, he realized; overpowering the servant had been too easy. What he had not foreseen was the ferocity with which the Comtesse de Paiva set about him. Now, he found himself in hand-to-hand combat with an opponent who fought to kill or maim. Her left hand clawed at his cheek, narrowly missing his eye. With his free hand, Marbeck seized it and forced it down – but her right hand became a balled fist, with which she began beating him on the nose and mouth. He tasted blood – then her knee shot up, seeking his groin. He managed to pin it with his elbow, though in doing so lost his balance . . . and before he knew it, he was on the floor. He still clutched the Comtesse’s hand, but now her mouth was uncovered. Even as she fell atop him, her jaws opened. He grabbed at her, then grunted with pain. Like some succubus, the woman had bent across him and sunk her teeth into his ear.

  It was becoming a comedy, Marbeck thought vaguely; only there was no audience. He felt warm blood on his cheek, even as he caught the Comtesse by the hair. He yanked her head back and saw her face in the candlelight: the face of a gorgon.

  ‘Diable!’ she cried. ‘I will tear your neck, you—’

  But she was cut short, for Marbeck was at the end of his tether. In exasperation, he seized a handful of her hair and stuffed it into her mouth. As she gasped and gagged, he pushed her aside and got to his knees. The next moment, the lady’s hands were behind her back, being tied with cords ripped from her own bed-curtains. The legs followed, and, kick as she might, she was soon bound like her servant. Only then, breathless and bleeding, did Marbeck trouble to unstop her mouth.

  ‘Enough!’ he panted, kneeling beside her. ‘If you shout or scream, I’ll stuff your gorge again.’

  Gasping, eyes bright with hatred, she spat the words out. ‘What do you want?’

  But she was shaking, imagining the worst. From the truckle-bed, the maid could be heard whimpering. Silently, Marbeck cursed himself; he was no violator of women, and he had made a poor fist of the situation.

  ‘That depends,’ he murmured. Lifting his head, he listened – surely the noise of their struggle had wakened someone? He glanced round, and his eyes fell on a door in the far corner: the Comtesse’s closet. He stuffed hair into her mouth again and got to his feet. Hurrying to the door, he wrenched it open, found a garde-robe lined with gowns and petticoats. Then he was lifting the maid and carrying her like a child into the closet. Laying her down gently, he raised a finger to his lips.

  ‘No harm will come to you, or la Comtesse,’ he murmured in French. ‘Provided you stay still and keep quiet. Agreed?’

  The terrified girl nodded, whereupon he closed the door and returned to her mistress. She lay where he had left her, beside the huge bed. Leaning down, he cleared the hair from her mouth again. She retched, and threw a baleful look at him.

  ‘You can never leave here alive,’ she gasped. ‘My husband will stake his honour on it!’

  ‘Your husband’s not my concern, madame,’ Marbeck said. He gave his voice a cruel edge: Thomas Wilders would have no pity. ‘And I have little time,’ he went on. ‘So, are you going to tell me where your intelligence came from – the false rumour you passed to Louis Orme? I speak of a non-existent build-up of Spanish troops in this province – and of their plans to invade the west of England.’

  She froze, her eyes widening. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

  ‘It matters not.’ Marbeck leaned over her. ‘Speak!’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  He sighed. He disliked having to pretend such brutality, but there was no other way. Roughly, he put his hand down, found the hem of the Comtesse’s shift and yanked it upwards to her waist. She flinched as if struck.

  ‘Do you really want an answer?’ he hissed.

  For the first time abject fear showed in her gaze. ‘You would not dare . . .’

  ‘Are you certain?’ Summoning a bleak smile, he began to unlace his doublet. The woman let out a gasp, whereupon he seized her hair again and prepared to stop up her mouth.

  ‘No . . . please!’ She shook her head quickly. Desperately, her eyes flicked away, towards the door.

  ‘Your maid’s gagged and confined,’ Marbeck said. ‘Help won’t come soon enough . . . so – for the last time – speak.’

  A pause, then: ‘If I do, will you leave at once?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’ He bent closer, making her recoil. ‘But tell me something I can believe, and we’ll see.’

  She swallowed, then looked down briefly before meeting his eye. After a moment, he pulled her shift back to cover her modesty. A shudder passed through her; then she spoke.

  ‘Louis Orme is nothing to me . . . his death is nothing.’

  Her voice was cold as ice. ‘He w
as a child in Paris, on the Day of Saint Bartholomew,’ she breathed. ‘His parents had been slain. My father took pity and gave him refuge in our house . . . he became a kitchen-boy, then a groom. He’s a simpleton.’

  Marbeck frowned. He had been a small child back in 1572, when, in that terrible August, Protestants had been massacred throughout Paris. Yet the very name of Bartholomew evoked horror in him, as it did in every Englishman.

  ‘You mean, you kept his religion secret – made Louis your devoted servant?’ He drew a breath. ‘He trusted you – he called you a woman of honour.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘So you used him,’ Marbeck went on, thinking fast. ‘And later on you fed him false rumours in Brest, no doubt with enough truth mixed in them to allay suspicion. When did that begin – after Henri of Navarre came to the throne? Did you and your husband profess loyalty to the new king, as others did – knowing one day he would renounce his religion and return to the papist fold? Of course you did! What was it Henri said, when he switched sides – Paris is worth a mass?’

  His anger was real, and the Comtesse saw it. ‘One had to do such things,’ she said quickly. ‘They were desperate times . . . My husband—’

  ‘No.’

  Marbeck bent over her. ‘I don’t believe you care much for your husband,’ he murmured; all at once things seemed to be falling into place. ‘Close to the Spanish, Louis said . . . I think you’re close to someone in particular: someone younger and more handsome than Monsieur le Comte, perhaps? You spoke of Paris – do you often go there?’

  But she refused to answer, until he seized her wrist and gripped it hard.

  ‘My husband has a house in Paris!’ she cried. ‘I am sometimes there . . . Let go of me!’

  ‘So, whom do you visit?’ Marbeck demanded. ‘Who is your lover, whose bidding you do? Or does it merely amuse you, to dabble in matters of state? Tell me!’

  Her chest rose and fell rapidly, but she kept silent. Then suddenly she stiffened. Somewhere a door had banged – and now a male voice called; at last, Marbeck’s luck had run out.