Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  He stood up and drew the Comtesse to her feet. Then, gripping her by the shoulders, he thrust his face close to hers. ‘Give me a name and I’ll leave,’ he said. ‘Refuse or play me false, and I’ll break your neck. Do you doubt it now?’

  He placed his hands about her throat, thumbs to her windpipe. She shook, but made no sound, while outside someone called from the stairhead.

  ‘Then adieu, madame,’ Marbeck muttered.

  It was his final throw: already his thoughts were on his escape. But keeping to his ploy, he began to squeeze. The woman let out a gasp, then:

  ‘His name is Juan Roble!’ she said, her voice cracking at last. ‘And he is a match for you, monsieur. I pray that he kills you, and tears out your heart—’

  But she broke off, as Marbeck let her fall. Even before her body hit the floor, he was turning: footfalls sounded at the door, and he had only time to spring aside as it opened. Fortunately, he was behind it. A candle appeared, borne aloft by a grey-headed figure in an ornate floor-length robe.

  ‘Qu’y a-t’il?’

  The Comte de Paiva gave a start and stopped in his tracks. His wife, for her part, let out a blood-chilling scream – but Marbeck was ready. With a single blow to the back of the man’s head, he felled him. Then he ran out, down the stairs – straight into the ageing servant whom he had seen on his first arrival. Mathieu, however, had only time to register astonishment as Marbeck ducked past him.

  In a moment he was crossing the hallway; then he was through the door and flying down the steps. Shouts came from the house, but his eyes were on the gates. As he crossed the yard, he was aware of a startled flurry, of doves flapping in their cote. Then he was out of the château, running in the moonlight.

  Some distance down the road he stopped: for a moment he couldn’t find his bearings. He peered about in the gloom until, a few feet away, Chacal snickered. In a moment he had untied the horse and was scrambling on to its back.

  He tugged at the halter, using his knees to urge it forward. But the animal jerked nervously, unwilling to obey, until Marbeck flatted himself along its neck and spoke softly. Soon it began to walk, then to trot . . . and at last, clinging to its bare back, he was able to guide it up the slope towards the trees.

  At the tree-line he reined in and dismounted, to free Chacal’s hooves of their muffles. He was shivering: whether from exhilaration, hunger or cold – or perhaps all three – he didn’t know. But swiftly he remounted and pointed the animal’s head to the north. He would ride up the valley of the Scorff, then cross the river and turn eastwards, in the direction of Rennes.

  How long it would take him to reach Paris, he did not know; hundreds of miles lay ahead – half the width of France – but reach it he would. He was without weapons, apart from a lute string; but he had a mount, he spoke the language, and he had money. The Spaniards had taken his purse, but failed to make a thorough search of his clothing: the lining of his doublet held enough ducats, he believed, to see him through.

  His task now was to put enough distance between himself and the Château des Faucons. Then he needed food and rest, a change of clothes and a sword, but such things could be purchased easily enough. What had been harder to purchase was information – that and his freedom. He tasted it now, drawing in lungfuls of air, and a smile tugged at his mouth: the first real smile he had allowed himself in days. At the same time, he became aware that the night was ending: through the trees to his right, a grey light showed.

  He gazed down at the château, the seat of the Comte and Comtesse de Paiva. Briefly, he thought about the name: surely it was not French but Italian? Now, however, he had a new name to ponder – a Spanish name: Juan Roble. It intrigued him, and not least because of the way the Comtesse had spoken of the man: a match for him, she had said.

  ‘We’ll see, shall we?’ he said to himself. Then he dug his heels into Chacal’s flanks and urged the horse forward into the trees.

  TEN

  The journey to the capital took three long days.

  The first was the hardest, for Marbeck could not be certain he was not being pursued. Though hungry and weary from lack of sleep, he forced himself to keep riding, pausing only at streams to wash the blood from his face and to water his mount. By afternoon the horse was tiring, and he was forced to slow his pace. He was tempted to beg fodder from a farm, but knew his appearance might attract unwelcome attention, as his lack of a saddle did. That, Marbeck decided, was his worst discomfort; he would have to obtain one soon.

  Yet, despite everything, the journey passed without incident. The sun dried his clothes, as he rode north-east through wood and pasture until he struck the main highway that led from Brittany to Paris. Travellers on foot and on horseback stared at him, but he avoided their gaze, his eyes on the horizon. Finally, as evening drew in, he walked his exhausted mount into the great cathedral city of Rennes. They had covered more than eighty miles.

  In Rennes, he moved through bustling streets, leading Chacal by the halter. Mercifully, it proved easy enough to find an auberge with stabling. Having seen the horse bestowed, he took to his chamber, ordering a supper to be brought up along with a pail of hot water. Thereafter, after bathing and feeding himself, he fell into a sleep that lasted until morning.

  Once up and breakfasted, stiff in limb but restored, Marbeck set about improving his lot. His clothes were ruined and drew many odd looks. So he purchased a plain costume from a dealer in hand-me-downs – blue coat and breeches, grey hose, shoes and belt – and discarded his black doublet. He also bought a cheap sword and, after some hard bargaining, a poniard to go with it. Finally, he found a saddler and, after more bargaining, bought a well-worn saddle with stirrups. Thus equipped, he paid his reckoning at the inn and left Rennes by mid-morning.

  Now, travel was easier. Fougères, with its ancient castle, marked the boundary of Brittany, and Marbeck could not help feeling relieved as he passed into Normandy, where the terrain grew hilly. Now and again he saw signs of the long years of civil war: ruined houses and bridges, devastated fields. The road, however, was good; by afternoon he was in Mayenne, crossing the river of the same name. Alençon was less than forty miles further, or so he learned when he stopped to water the horse. By nightfall he had reached the old town, pleased with his progress. One more day, he told himself, as he clattered through cobbled streets; one more day and he would reach Paris.

  That night, in a run-down hostelry at Alençon, Marbeck borrowed pen and ink from his host and wrote a report for Sir Robert Cecil. During the long ride, he had pondered the sequence of events that had marked his time in Brittany – an experience he did not care to repeat. Sitting up late in his chamber with sounds of revelry below, he set down what he had learned, mentioning in particular the name of Juan Roble. This man, whoever he was, appeared to be the source of false intelligence that had found its way via the Comtesse de Paiva to poor Louis Orme in Brittany, and hence across the Channel to Edmund Trigg. Like all such reports, it was designed to sow confusion in the minds of the English. It would irritate Master Secretary, Marbeck knew. He had no means of sending the despatch before he reached Paris, but hoped this account might serve to justify what had become a lengthy sojourn in France.

  There was an English embassy in the capital, of course: Sir Henry Neville, the ambassador, had a house on the Quai de Tournelle. But Marbeck would not announce his presence: Neville was an officious man, he had heard, who might want explanations that would slow him. Instead, he planned to seek out Cecil’s agent, one who used the name George Ingle. He had never seen Ingle and knew little of him, yet he needed to share intelligence with someone who knew the territory. Ingle might know of Juan Roble too, he reasoned: if not, it was time he did.

  Having finished the report, he folded it and secreted it in the lining of his coat. He had already threaded his lute string into it. He had one regret: that when the Spaniards searched him, back in Brittany, they had taken his tailor’s bodkin. It was a tool that had proved useful more times than he cared to
remember. He even thought about purchasing a new one, then dismissed the idea: his money was almost gone. He hoped Ingle could loan him enough to find his passage home.

  With that thought, he went to bed and was asleep within minutes. When he awoke, he thought for a moment he was back in his room at the Dolphin by Bishopsgate. Then he arose, stiff in every limb, and resigned himself to one more gruelling ride.

  Paris may have been bigger than London, and fairer too, but one thing the two cities shared, Marbeck thought, was the smell.

  With the sun sinking at his back, he passed via the West Porte into noisy streets, and a familiar odour assailed him. It was made up of many things: the smells of ordure, offal and wood smoke, mingled with that of the river; Thames or Seine, it made little difference. Soon, however, Marbeck paid it no heed; like the horse plodding beneath him, he was close to exhaustion. The last part of his journey had taken longer than he expected: at Dreux he had been stopped by soldiers and asked to account for himself. Only quick thinking had saved him: he was a traveller, he said, who had come by Cherbourg and Caen, meaning to visit Paris by a scenic route. He was expected at the embassy on the Quai de Tournelle – the messieurs could check, if they wished. The name was John Sands, Marbeck added, having decided to leave Thomas Wilders behind. It was something of a relief; though not so great a relief as when he was finally believed and sent on his way.

  Now he walked Chacal along the teeming thoroughfare that crossed the great city from west to east, all the way to the Bastille. He had a few small coins left, which would barely buy a supper; he needed to find George Ingle, ideally before nightfall. He had a half-remembered street name in mind: the Rue de Braque, which he thought was in the north-east part of Paris. So, with the distant sound of the huge bells of Notre Dame in his ears, he rode as far as the Rue des Haudriettes, before finally coming to a halt.

  Here he dismounted and looked about. People hurried past, all of them seemingly men in hats and dark robes. Then the penny dropped: he was in the Jewish quarter. Some eyed him suspiciously, but at his request one old man stopped. Yes, he said, the Rue de Braque was nearby, but he knew of no Englishman living there. There was one who looked like a Turk . . . a foreigner, anyway. He gave directions, whereupon Marbeck thanked him and led the horse away.

  Dusk was falling as he stooped outside a low, narrow-fronted house in a dark street. The window was shuttered, but a light showed through cracks. Half prepared for disappointment, he banged on the door and waited; already he was pondering how he might get Chacal fed and stabled. Then came the noise of a bolt being drawn, and the door opened a few inches.

  ‘Master Ingle?’

  The person carried neither candle nor lantern. Marbeck looked closer and realized he was addressing a woman: blowsy and overweight, with long greasy hair. She stared back at him with a sullen expression.

  ‘I seek George Ingle,’ he told her. ‘I’m a friend from England – the name is Sands.’

  From somewhere in the house came a shout. The woman turned and yelled back, to receive another shout in reply – whereupon a torrent of abuse followed. To Marbeck, it sounded like the continuation of a running battle. With a sigh, he put a hand on the door and shoved it inwards.

  ‘Does he live here or not?’ he asked wearily. ‘If not just tell me, and I’ll be gone.’

  ‘He does. What do you want?’

  The words were in English. Marbeck looked past the blowsy woman at a shambling figure, who lurched forward, pushing her aside. With an oath, she squeezed past him and vanished.

  ‘I’m John Sands, from London,’ Marbeck said. He looked into a dark, heavily bearded face and saw why some might think this man a Turk. ‘Roger Daunt sent me.’

  The other sniffed. ‘Jesu, what’s afoot?’ he asked sourly. Marbeck smelled strong drink on his breath.

  ‘You’re Master Secretary’s man?’ he asked. ‘I confess I expected—’

  ‘What?’ Ingle interrupted with a scowl. ‘What did you expect – a hearty welcome?’ He looked Marbeck up and down. ‘By the Christ,’ he added. ‘Fought your way here, did you? Where have you come from?’

  ‘A long way off.’ Marbeck eyed him blearily. ‘I’m on Crown business. I need a place to sleep and stabling for my horse. And money, too. Can you aid me, or not?’

  Ingle hesitated. Through eyes heavy-lidded under black brows, he squinted past Marbeck to where Chacal stood, a picture of weariness. Then he fumbled in his clothing.

  ‘Here.’ He found a purse and shook out some coins. ‘There’s an inn two streets away – La Chèvre. Get a room and see to your nag. Come back tomorrow . . .’ But he broke off, for Marbeck was shaking his head.

  ‘I’ll stable the horse,’ he said, taking the money. ‘But then I’ll return. I’ve things to ask you – and I don’t want to stay here longer than I must.’

  Ingle swore under his breath. Spreading his hands, he said: ‘The house is unfit. There’s nowhere for you to sleep, save the floor – and others won’t like it.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, leaving no doubt who was meant. But already Marbeck was turning away.

  ‘I’ll be back within the half-hour,’ he said.

  And so he was. Having unsaddled Chacal and seen him made comfortable at La Chèvre, he returned to the Rue de Braque and knocked again on Ingle’s door. This time, however, the man was ready for him. He was admitted and found himself inside the most noisome dwelling he had entered since that of Thomas Saxby, in Clerkenwell. There too, he recalled, he had been greeted by a hostile woman. But the ex-soldier’s wife, he thought, was a gentlewoman compared with the one who shared Ingle’s company.

  ‘There’s bread and cheese . . . it’s all we have.’ Ingle, in shirt sleeves, stood in the middle of the single downstairs room and pointed to a table. ‘Apart from the burgundy,’ he added, indicating a jug. ‘It’s poor, but drinkable.’

  Marbeck moved towards the table. The house stank; it hadn’t been cleaned, or even aired, in months. As he sat down, he threw a glance at the woman, who sat in a corner glowering at him. She had needlework in her hand, though the light was so poor he could barely see it. But he marked the loose, low gown she wore, and guessed how she earned a living.

  ‘Berthe will make up a pallet later.’ Ingle waved a hand vaguely, then shuffled over and sat down facing him. ‘Are you known here?’ he asked. ‘I mean, are you in flight, or—’

  ‘The answer’s no, to both questions.’

  Somewhat gingerly, Marbeck broke a crust off the hard loaf and bit it. Finding it passable, he took some cheese and found that better. Soon he forgot his surroundings and ate hungrily, fortifying himself with the watered wine. His host and hostess watched him in silence, until finally he paused.

  ‘Does she speak English?’ he asked, without looking up.

  ‘Not a word,’ Ingle replied. ‘That’s why I keep her.’

  ‘You keep her?’ Marbeck couldn’t help looking sceptical.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ the other retorted. ‘I pay my way. I give lessons in rhetoric, to the children of a seigneur. I have to,’ he added. ‘Master Secretary, bless his crooked little frame, barely sends me enough to pay the rent!’

  He lifted the jug and poured wine into a second cup, and as he did so, Marbeck saw his hands tremble. Inwardly, he sighed; Ingle was a drunkard, of the kind that is beyond saving.

  ‘I’ve come from Brittany,’ he told him. ‘The Spanish are gone – most of them, anyway. But there are rumours, some of them conflicting. You might know of the new fleet they’re building, in Lisbon. We need to discover its true purpose . . .’

  He paused, for Ingle was staring at him. ‘You rode from Brittany on that broken-down nag?’ the agent muttered. ‘It’s more than a hundred French leagues.’

  ‘I know,’ Marbeck replied. ‘And the horse isn’t broken-down – he served me well.’ Having eaten his fill, he pushed the plate aside. Weariness surged through him; he needed rest badly. ‘I got a name, while I was there,’ he went on. ‘Juan Roble. Spanis
h, I assume. Do you know it?’

  An odd look came over Ingle’s face. ‘Yes . . . I know it.’ He was silent for a moment, then: ‘You’re not Sands, are you? You’re Marbeck.’

  Receiving neither confirmation nor denial, he shrugged, took another drink and wiped his mouth with the cuff of his dirty shirt. ‘So, what else have you heard?’ he asked.

  ‘About Roble? Nothing.’ Marbeck eyed him unfavourably. ‘I was hoping you could tell me more.’

  There was a sound from the corner. Berthe had got up from her stool and was looking pointedly at him. Her habitual scowl seemed to have given way to a lopsided grin, and for the first time he noticed a bruise on her cheek. Frowning, he met the woman’s eye, before swinging his gaze to Ingle, whereupon he blinked.

  ‘You can go upstairs with her, if you like.’

  The man had put on a leery smile. ‘I’m content to lie down here,’ he added. ‘She’s not poxed, by some miracle. She foins well enough . . . afterwards, you’ll sleep like an infant.’

  In the guttering light, Marbeck regarded him stonily. ‘I’ll sleep here, Ingle – alone,’ he said. ‘But first you’d better tell me all you know about Juan Roble, and any other intelligence you’ve bothered to gather of late. At first light I’ll be gone. I’ll ask Master Secretary to reimburse you for the loan. Does that sit well with you?’

  There was a brief silence, as Ingle’s smile vanished. Then, abruptly, he slapped a hand on the table. ‘Don’t you judge me, sir!’ he snorted. ‘You know naught of what I put up with in this city! Lied to and threatened, surrounded by people who despise me – never knowing if I can rest safely at night—’

  ‘Enough!’ Marbeck’s patience was spent. ‘You’re here to serve, as I am,’ he went on. ‘I need any intelligence you have on Roble. Then I’m leaving – tomorrow. So send your woman off to bed, and we’ll talk. Will you do that?’

  Ingle blinked at him, then all at once the man’s anger seemed to melt away. With a sigh, he turned to his companion and muttered a few words. Berthe stared at him, then at Marbeck, who braced himself – but there was no retort. Instead of going upstairs, however, she took a shawl down from a peg and went out. The house door banged behind her.