Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  Without comment, Marbeck faced his host, but the man wouldn’t meet his eye. Eyebrows knitted, he gazed down at the table. Finally, Marbeck said: ‘This man Roble . . .’

  ‘He’s a fable.’

  At last Ingle looked up, a thin smile on his lips. ‘You’ve been spun a yarn, my friend,’ he went on. ‘Roble’s a bogeyman . . . or if he exists, no one’s set eyes on him. I’ve heard a dozen tales about him, none of them worth a cannikin of spit.’

  Marbeck leaned back slowly. Suddenly, he saw the face of the Comtesse de Paiva, and recalled how she had cried out the name of the man he’d assumed to be her lover. Had she lied? Well – the name existed, at least. Fighting disappointment, he said: ‘Will you tell me what you’ve heard, in any case?’

  Ingle shrugged and poured more wine into his cup. He waved the jug at Marbeck, who brushed him aside.

  ‘He’s said to run intelligencers here in France.’ He took a gulp, then sniffed. ‘Don’t let that treaty the Spanish have signed fool you,’ he muttered. ‘They don’t trust the French, any more than we do. King Philip’s people have eyes and ears in every province, especially in Paris and the ports. Juan Roble – if he exists – serves Juan de Velasquez, Spain’s chief spymaster.’

  ‘Well, I’ve another name for you,’ Marbeck said. ‘The Comtesse de Paiva.’

  ‘Ah, la Comtesse volage – the flighty contessa.’ Ingle gave a nod. ‘We think she’s linked to Velasquez’s man in Brittany. Breton ships are carrying English traitors to Spain, through La Rochelle and San Sebastian.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a maelstrom here, Marbeck – you should trust no one.’ He drank again, then gave a snort. ‘How’s this for a jest? I’ve heard that Roble gives his men the names of fruits! Uva for a grape, say, Higo for a date . . .’

  ‘And Morera for Mulberry?’

  Ingle gave a start. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied, in some surprise. ‘What – have you heard this, too?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Marbeck sat rigid, his tiredness forgotten. Briefly, he recounted the events of almost a fortnight ago that had led him to seek the traitor known as Mulberry, before Cecil had ordered him to Brittany. ‘What do you know about the Spanish plans?’ he asked. ‘There’s talk of another Armada. I’ve a notion it’s destined for Ireland . . .’

  Ingle looked sceptical. ‘For O’Neill? It’s possible, I suppose. But I’ve only heard rumours of Spanish troops entering Brittany again, poised for another landing in England. In Devon, or Cornwall . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows what to believe? But I sent a report to Cecil anyway.’ He caught Marbeck’s expression. ‘You’ve heard the same?’

  ‘Where did that come from?’ Marbeck asked sharply. ‘Tell me – it’s important.’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Ingle sniffed, wiped his nose again and frowned. ‘To tell you truly, I’m hard pressed to remember.’

  ‘Well, try, can’t you?’ In exasperation, Marbeck leaned forward.

  ‘I believe the report stemmed from the south – from Bordeaux, perhaps . . .’ Ingle groped for a memory. ‘But the man I got it from was an Italian who was here – a papist, of course, but one of ours.’ He yawned. ‘Yes, I remember: odd fellow, jumpy . . . hair tied up like a woman’s. He was here a month or so back – at least, I think it was then . . .’

  Ottone.

  Suddenly, Marbeck was elsewhere: in a fencing hall in Gracious Street, bandying words with the man Ingle had just described – the one he had dismissed from his thoughts. He sighed; a weight seemed to settle upon him.

  ‘What’s wrong . . . are you ill?’ Ingle was frowning at him.

  ‘Not ill – sick at my own foolishness . . . my haste . . .’ Marbeck put a hand to his head: it all made sense. Ottone was the double-dealer. That was why he was so nervous . . . the shaky hand, the sharpness of his speech. Marbeck had had the man within his grasp, and he had let himself be fooled. Ottone was Mulberry – and for all he knew, he had now left London and made his escape . . .

  ‘What did he tell you, this Italian?’ he asked quietly.

  Ingle gave a shrug. ‘Merely what I said. He had strong intelligence the Spaniards were planning a landing in the west, he said. They did it a few years back, didn’t they? Burned Plymouth, or somewhere.’

  ‘Penzance.’ Marbeck gazed at him without seeing. ‘I must get to Cecil at once,’ he said abruptly. ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Ingle echoed. ‘Are you mad? It’s a hundred miles to the coast. You need rest. So does your nag.’

  But Marbeck had lurched to his feet. Vaguely, he looked around – the room had begun to swim. For the moment he seemed to have forgotten where he was. ‘A bodkin,’ he muttered. ‘I need to buy one . . . that and a saddle . . .’

  Then his legs gave way, and he sat down on the floor with a thud. Someone loomed over him; when he looked up, his eyelids felt like lead.

  ‘I’ll make up that pallet,’ Ingle muttered.

  ELEVEN

  In mid-morning, with the sounds and smells of Paris about him, Marbeck led Chacal out of the stable of La Chèvre. Then he was in the saddle once again, walking the horse through busy streets towards the city’s northern wall. Soon he had passed through the North Porte into gardens and orchards, and was striking the road for Dieppe.

  Since rising he had barely exchanged another word with Ingle. He’d slept as only the dog-tired can, waking once in the night when Berthe came in and fell over him. When he finally awoke, the sun had risen and Ingle was at the table drinking, his face haggard in the morning light. Thereafter, after a brief conversation, the two men had parted. Ingle would attempt to find out more about Juan Roble – or so he promised; Marbeck expected little progress in that direction. He, meanwhile, would head for the coast, take ship for Dover and get himself back to London.

  As he rode, he reflected on what he had learned, but found little comfort. There was a shady, if not invisible Spanish spymaster in Paris . . . but, then, wasn’t there one in every capital in Europe? And if the Comtesse de Paiva was indeed his lover, what did it matter? That the false intelligence about Spanish activity originated from Juan Roble seemed in little doubt. Most troubling was the discovery that Giacomo Ottone had been the means by which such information had been passed to Ingle, and through him to Sir Robert Cecil.

  Once again, Marbeck reproached himself for laxity in his questioning of Ottone. Yet his instincts had told him the man had not the stamina for the role of double agent; and sifting the matter now, he found he reached the same conclusion. Ottone had been nervous and seemed to hold something back, but a difficult mission in Paris might have accounted for his manner. Cecil might know more, of course; though what Master Secretary would say now if Mulberry had indeed fled, Marbeck didn’t like to dwell on.

  Instead, with an autumn chill permeating his thin clothes, he sat hunched over the reins and forged ahead. By evening, finding that he was yet some distance from the coast, he was forced to stop for the night. A wayside farmer proved amenable, however: for a small remuneration he fed both man and mount, and allowed them shelter in his barn. The following day Marbeck at last reached the busy port of Dieppe and sought passage on the next ship crossing to Dover. Luckily, there was a merchantman leaving in the morning. So, at last, on a windy afternoon with black clouds scudding in, Marbeck finally stepped on to English soil again. It was the twelfth day since he had left Plymouth.

  In Dover he had little choice but to seek out Joseph Gifford; he could only hope the man was still here. His money was gone, and there was the small matter of retrieving Cobb from the stable: the reckoning would be large. To pay for his passage, he had sold Chacal in Dieppe to a dealer who, sensing Marbeck’s plight, forced him to accept a humiliating price. With regret, he had taken farewell of the spirited little pony, before setting his face grimly to the sea crossing.

  Evening was near by the time he made his way through the knot of streets below Dover castle and found the corner house. He knocked and was greeted by the same maidservant as before, who seemed not to remember him. But whe
n he asked for Edward Porter, recognition dawned.

  ‘You was here a fortnight ago,’ the girl exclaimed, drawing back. ‘I’ve got orders from Mother Sewell not to admit any more friends of Porter!’

  ‘So, he still lodges here?’ Weary as he was, Marbeck tried a smile. ‘I have urgent business with him—’

  ‘He do and he don’t,’ came the snapped reply. ‘That’s to say, the room’s still his, but he don’t always use it.’ She made as if to close the door, then added: ‘There’s some men think once they’ve made free with a place, they own it and everyone what lives here. In any case, he’s out!’

  With that she slammed the door. So Marbeck made his way back to the town, presently finding himself outside the Greyhound where he had lodged previously. He was on the point of trying to bluff his way to a supper, when someone called out from a short distance away. He turned quickly, hand going to his sword hilt, then blinked. There stood Gifford, wrapped in some kind of seaman’s cape. At once Marbeck walked across the street towards him.

  ‘I never thought to find you a saviour,’ he murmured. ‘But I could do with your aid. I tried your lodgings.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Outstayed your welcome there, have you?’

  ‘Let’s say boredom set in,’ Gifford said with a shrug. ‘I’ve been visiting a woman in the town.’ He looked Marbeck up and down. ‘What in God’s name are you wearing?’ he added. ‘Have you pawned everything you had?’ Then, taking a closer look, he frowned. ‘Ah . . . long story, is it? Would you care to tell it over a meal?’

  ‘I would,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Only I haven’t a farthing . . . or a sou, for that matter. Can you bear the cost?’

  The other gave a thin smile and led the way.

  Once supper was over, the two intelligencers took themselves to the inn’s taproom and found a quiet corner. Having told Gifford of the events of the past two weeks, Marbeck now spoke of Juan Roble, and finally of Ottone. He was glad to unburden himself to one who understood the significance of such matters. But when Gifford heard the last part of Marbeck’s tale, he was puzzled.

  ‘The fencing master? I know him. He’s loyal – I’d have staked a crown on it.’

  ‘I thought so, too,’ Marbeck said. ‘Yet he’s the one who passed a false report to Ingle. Ingle may be a sot and a wastrel, but he’s no traitor. I’ve turned it about a dozen times since I left Paris, and I see no other explanation.’

  ‘So this devil Roble works the strings over there, does he?’ Gifford mused. ‘The word means “oak”, as I recall. Probably a code-name, like the ones he gives his minions. Fruits?’ A sneer showed. ‘Not very original, is it?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Marbeck said absently. It still irked him that one such agent, code-name Mulberry, had been within his grasp and had outwitted him.

  ‘But what’s the broader picture?’ Gifford wondered. ‘If the Spanish are set on a landing in Ireland, shouldn’t we have other intelligence of it? Your old friend Trigg, for one – he keeps his ear to the ground, doesn’t he?’

  Marbeck sighed, and gave a fuller account of his time in Plymouth.

  ‘Jesu . . . but then he’s not the first to end up in that condition,’ Gifford observed with a frown. ‘Some bear the strain better than others . . . drink, gaming or women – or all three. We each choose our means of solace, don’t we? You’re no Puritan either, Marbeck,’ he added dryly. ‘Do you still dally with Sir Richard Scroop’s wife, while the poor man serves our Queen in Holland?’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip,’ Marbeck said.

  ‘But what else should I do?’ the other countered. ‘Rumour and hearsay, with the occasional nugget of hard fact – that’s our usual fare, isn’t it? That’s why I’m still kicking my heels in this town, instead of getting myself to London.’

  Marbeck said nothing.

  ‘By the Christ . . .’ Gifford sighed. ‘There are times I wish I was back at Cambridge, with a quart of cheap ale inside me and a pretty wench on my lap . . . don’t you?’

  ‘I used to,’ Marbeck admitted, after a moment. ‘Though a man has to do something more, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Do you ever go home?’

  The question caught him off guard. He looked into Gifford’s face, but saw only curiosity. Few men would have asked that of him. He shook his head.

  ‘There’s nothing for me there.’

  ‘Because your brother rules the roost?’ Though sober, Gifford was in expansive humour. But Marbeck never talked of his family, nor their country seat in distant Lancashire. He shrugged again, unwilling to pursue the matter.

  ‘Well, I know enough about the fate of younger sons,’ Gifford said. ‘Especially when there’s a father who refuses to die, and a greedy sibling who’s set to inherit everything.’ He paused. ‘What is it they think you do?’

  ‘I serve our Gracious Majesty, of course. A minor Court post, to do with arranging jousts and pageants.’ Marbeck allowed himself a smile. ‘It’s no secret that I always liked spectacle.’

  ‘You did,’ Gifford agreed. ‘And had a fondness for plays and players, I remember. You enjoy it, don’t you?’

  ‘Enjoy what?’

  ‘Pretending to be someone else.’

  Marbeck considered. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘At times, perhaps.’ Gifford yawned, leaning back in his chair. ‘Well, anyhow, you’d best come back with me to Mother Sewell’s. I’ll have to flatter the old buzzard, but I expect she’ll let you spend the night on my floor. The bed will be mine . . . and before you ask, she won’t be sharing it.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Marbeck said.

  ‘But, for now, tell me again of the Comtesse de Paiva,’ Gifford said, with sudden interest. ‘She sounds like a woman I’d like to know.’

  Three days later, on a wet Monday morning, Marbeck entered Sir Robert Cecil’s private chamber in Whitehall Palace, where his welcome was even chillier than he had expected. As always, Master Secretary wasted no time.

  ‘I have your report,’ he said, fingering the badly creased paper that Marbeck had penned, back in the inn at Alençon. ‘It’s somewhat scant. Would you care to fill in the substance of what occurred after that?’

  Not being invited to sit, Marbeck stood before the spymaster’s table and gave his account. He spared no detail, even down to Gifford loaning him money to recover his horse. By the time he had finished, Cecil was looking as stony-faced as ever.

  ‘Forgive my pedantry,’ he said, ‘but, in my last despatch to you, I ordered you to find out whether or not any Spanish were still in Brittany. Not to chase rumours across half of France, as to the possible identity of Mulberry. Do you truly think it has merited the time and expense?’

  ‘I’ve set down my reasoning, sir,’ Marbeck said stiffly. ‘I followed my nose. The scent led me to Paris, and—’

  ‘I see that,’ Cecil broke in. ‘I also received Trigg’s report, soon after you left Plymouth. Filled with apologies and the most flowery language. The man’s a fool. And more, if Cyprien’s dead by now as you surmise, that is a bitter blow. As for Ingle . . .’ He sighed and looked down at his desk, which was strewn with papers, and a frown appeared. ‘How can I rely upon him now? Even though it appears he’s not the only one who was duped, is he?’

  Stung, Marbeck remained silent.

  ‘I was unsure of Ottone, as you know,’ Master Secretary added. ‘Yet I never truly believed him a traitor. Hence, I hope your suspicions warrant what I’m about to do with him.’

  At that Marbeck showed surprise. ‘You mean he’s still here, in London?’ he asked. ‘I thought he would have fled; he must know he’s suspected, after I spoke with him.’

  ‘Yet he sent me a report, only two days ago,’ Cecil replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘While you were still en route here from Dover. As far as I’m aware, he continues to instruct the sons of gentlemen in the Italian style of fencing. Hardly the behaviour of one who fears capture, is it? Unless he’s cleverer than you thought, and has some elaborate bluff in mind.’

  ‘No.
’ Marbeck shook his head. ‘He hasn’t the nerve for that – there must be another reason.’

  ‘Well, he has a wife, and a house in Mark Lane,’ Master Secretary said. ‘But even that’s not enough to make a man brave interrogation. I speak of a torture warrant,’ he added. ‘I believe the Queen will grant one. Ottone would know what to expect, at the hands of someone like Sangers.’ Seeing Marbeck’s expression, he frowned again. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘A while ago you were sure you’d unmasked Mulberry; do you now harbour doubts?’

  ‘This report of Ottone’s,’ Marbeck said. ‘Does it concern—’

  ‘Spanish activity? Not in the slightest degree. It’s routine matter: talk of someone in the French ambassador’s train, who may or may not be in contact with a priest hiding in the north. Barely worth the trouble of setting it down.’

  ‘Then, let me visit him again.’ Marbeck spoke more sharply than he had intended. ‘I’ll get the truth out of Ottone if—’

  ‘You would if I allowed it – yet I do not.’

  The spymaster’s tone brooked no argument. Biting back a reply, Marbeck waited.

  ‘For now, you may rest easily,’ Cecil went on. ‘I’ve already set a watch on Ottone: on his hall in Gracious Street, and his house. There’s been no sign of anything unusual.’

  Though relieved, Marbeck remained troubled. Suddenly, the conclusions he had come to in France seemed in doubt. He began to run matters over rapidly in his mind, but Cecil cut through his ruminations.

  ‘However, I’m sending Prout – tonight. Along with a pair of pursuivants,’ he added. ‘They’ll bring Ottone in.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I repeat: I can but hope your instincts prove true. About the other matter, too. I speak now of Ireland.’

  ‘You mean, the new Armada being destined for O’Neill?’ Marbeck was suddenly glad to talk of something else. ‘I would stake anything on it. Indeed, the more I ponder it, the more likely it looks.’