Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  ‘So you’ve returned,’ Gifford observed. ‘I hope you had a pleasant night – or at least a profitable one. For my part, I was busy with matters of state.’

  ‘Of course you were,’ Marbeck retorted. ‘Perish the thought that you might have run into one of your drabs and made a night of it – and a day of it too, come to that.’

  ‘You wrong me, sir.’ With a smile, the other threw himself on to a bed, which creaked alarmingly. ‘I did spend time with an acquaintance, but to our purpose. In short, I was at a house in Everades Well Street that overlooks the windmill where I laid our missive last night. It’s a perfect vantage point.’

  ‘That’s why you appear so smug,’ Marbeck said. He produced a newly bought purse, weighing it in his hand. ‘I’ve obtained funding – more than enough.’

  ‘Hard-won, was it?’ Gifford put his hands behind his head and regarded him. Receiving no answer, he added: ‘Well, you can buy me a supper in return for the one I bought you in Dover. I’m a hungry man.’

  ‘We’ll go to the Duck and Drake,’ Marbeck said. ‘If Tom Rose is to serve as my go-between, he’ll expect payment.’

  The old tavern on the Strand was busy when the two entered. Pushing through the throng of customers, they found the grey-headed drawer beside a barrel, working the spigot. At sight of Marbeck, a frown appeared.

  ‘I wondered when you’d show your face. I’d be glad of a warning in future if you’re planning to use me as a letter-drop.’ He glanced at Gifford, who grinned.

  ‘Remember me, Rose?’

  ‘By the Christ . . . why are you here?’

  Thomas Rose, a Crown pursuivant of old, surveyed both of them without warmth. He was one of those men who had lost his place as a result of pure ill luck: in his case, a sword wound that had lamed him badly. Though he still acted as a messenger on occasions, he was an embittered man. But his irritation lessened when Marbeck produced a half-angel.

  ‘Use you as a letter-drop?’ he echoed. ‘Why, has someone been asking for me?’

  With a practised movement, Rose took the coin and stowed it away. ‘I’ll bring you a mug presently,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘If you can find somewhere to sit.’

  ‘We’ll have a supper, too,’ Gifford told him, and received a grunt in reply.

  They squeezed on to a bench by the window. Private talk being impossible, they both ate hurriedly and in silence. Thomas Rose served them, letting them know he had words for their ears only. Finally, they got up, caught his eye and made their way to the rear door, which led out to a walled yard. There, amid a clutter of kegs and barrels, they received the news. Neither of them had expected it to come the very day after Marbeck’s letter was delivered.

  ‘It was but an hour ago,’ Rose told them, wiping his hands on his dirty apron. ‘’Twas a simple message, for the man known as Sands: your friend sends his thanks for the gift of stockfish. You’re to look again soon, at the place you know.’

  ‘That was all?’ Gifford enquired.

  Rose merely shrugged.

  ‘My thanks,’ Marbeck said. ‘There may be further discourse between me and the other party, if you’re willing.’ But when the drawer nodded and turned to go, he stayed him. ‘Wait,’ he added. ‘I want to know who delivered the message – can you describe the man?’

  Rose raised his eyebrows. ‘Well now, there’s an odd thing,’ he said. ‘’Twas in the shape and garb of a man right enough, but I saw through the disguise: it was a woman.’

  The other two looked sharply at him.

  ‘You’re certain of that?’ Gifford said, frowning.

  ‘Eh? Who do you think you speak to?’ Without warning, Rose’s temper flared. ‘I was serving Sir Francis Walsingham near twenty years back, when you were a snot-nosed boy!’ he retorted. ‘You think I can’t tell a pair of dugs when they’re under my nose? She’d strapped herself about, put a thick jerkin and breeches on, but there was a woman’s body under it all.’ He glared at Gifford. ‘If you want I’ll swear it, you damned popinjay!’

  Becoming angry in turn, Gifford would have replied, but seeing the look on Marbeck’s face he kept silent. Marbeck’s thoughts were racing: he was in the dark room facing Silvan, with a whiff of sulphur from a primed pistol . . . and a notion sprang up.

  ‘Very well,’ he said to Rose. ‘I’ll come by again, see you’re rewarded.’

  The drawer was breathing hard, his eyes filled with cold rage. Finally, he turned, dragging his weak leg, and went inside.

  ‘Well, that’s a turnabout,’ Gifford said, letting out a breath. ‘So it wasn’t Silvan, or Mulberry . . .’ He eyed Marbeck. ‘Unless Mulberry’s—’

  ‘I think it was her,’ Marbeck said at once. ‘As it was her sitting with Silvan while he questioned me, holding the pistol and keeping silent. She had to, or she would reveal herself.’ He cursed under his breath. ‘So much for Master Secretary’s suspicions as to the traitor in his service.’

  Gifford stared at him. ‘So you’ve been on the wrong track,’ he said at last. ‘Chasing cocks, when your quarry was a hen all along.’

  Marbeck merely looked away.

  That night in their chamber, the two men fell into heated argument. There was no disagreement as to the plan they had adopted: that had produced results, far sooner than either of them expected. What divided them was which course of action to take next.

  ‘I say we seek an audience with Cecil, this very night,’ Gifford said for the third time. ‘We’ve opened the door. He will want to decide how to ensnare Silvan and his little circle.’

  ‘He will,’ Marbeck allowed. ‘But it’s too soon. Silvan’s no fool. We can’t know yet whether he believes my tale about Van Zoren and his fleet – he’s testing me still.’

  ‘Then drop another message, and let others keep watch on the whoreson windmill,’ Gifford said tiredly. ‘I’m spent. I was hours sugaring Mistress Mason, for the loan of her back room—’

  ‘Mistress Mason, is it?’ Marbeck said dryly.

  ‘She’s a woman past sixty years, who dwells with her husband!’ Gifford snapped. ‘A pox on you and your suspicions, Marbeck. You can do your own letter-carrying from now on. After all, this is your mission, is it not?’

  ‘It was,’ Marbeck replied. ‘But you were happy to attach yourself to it as I recall, to get on the right side of Cecil again. It wasn’t I who let Silvan into England—’

  ‘Nor I who got drunk and got himself picked up off the street like a fool,’ Gifford broke in. ‘Moreover, it was you who sat only yards away from Mulberry, without realizing she was a woman!’

  Marbeck had no answer to that. The dispute had begun with both men sitting on their beds; now they were standing, railing at each other. Fortunately, the din from the taproom below was enough to drown their words.

  ‘See now . . . can we not look at it afresh?’ Gifford stifled a yawn. ‘Even if we waited until tomorrow, then found another letter under the stone, what would it avail us? Whether Silvan asks for further intelligence or not, we need to move swiftly. One of them will have to collect the messages, so—’

  ‘And I want to know who that is,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘We can dog them, using disguise.’

  ‘No.’ Gifford shook his head firmly. ‘I’ll not play at shadows, trudging through London streets. Master Secretary can set someone to watch the place, then they can follow whomever they wish.’

  ‘He could,’ Marbeck said. ‘But I still say we haven’t enough to satisfy him.’ He gave a sigh. ‘May we not strike a bargain? Give it two days. Then, if we’re no further towards finding Mulberry – let alone Silvan – I’ll go to Prout and spill everything. Moreover, I’ll make it clear this was my scheme and you were an unwilling party. What say you?’

  Gifford sighed too, and flopped down on his bed. ‘Two days,’ he said finally. ‘We go to the Mason house, say we’re constables lying in wait for a thief. You go to the stone tonight, collect a message if there is one, then leave another in reply. Thereafter, we’ll watch the spot like ha
wks. But whichever of us spies the carrier – man or woman – you can trail them.’

  Relieved, Marbeck nodded. ‘I’ll pen the letter, but I’ll give no further intelligence. Instead, I’ll ask for a payment, as proof of Silvan’s intent.’

  ‘Very well.’ Gifford nodded in turn. ‘Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’m taking a nap.’

  By the following morning, all had been done as agreed.

  Both intelligencers had spent an uncomfortable night, in a small chamber at the rear of the house of Gilbert Mason and his wife. Being simple folk, the couple accepted the explanation given them, even if both were alarmed at the thought of their home being used to watch for a thief. A modest payment for their trouble helped smooth matters, however. Left to their devices, Marbeck and Gifford settled down to keep watch on the westernmost windmill in Finsbury Fields, some hundred yards away.

  Late at night Marbeck had walked up to the windmill, which was silent and deserted, and, with the aid of a blazing torch, had found the black stone. It was smooth and flat, and lifted easily. As he’d hoped, there was a scrap of parchment beneath, folded tightly. Back in the house, he and Gifford pored over it by candlelight. Its contents were short:

  I wish to know more of Van Zoren’s ships: from where do they sail, and when? What gunnery is carried, and how many troops?

  To those questions Marbeck would give no answer. Instead, he wrote a terse reply, saying he needed time to obtain further intelligence. Meanwhile, he demanded a payment of ten crowns. Having set this down, he went back to the windmill, lifted the stone and placed the letter beneath. His fear was that the ink might run if left too long in the damp ground. But judging by the speed Silvan had thus far shown, that seemed unlikely.

  The morning came, overcast but dry, and the two men resigned themselves to what was now a routine task of surveillance. Neither was a stranger to such work, and they soon fell into a pattern. To sustain them, they had bottle-ale, very weak, and rye bread. Thus provisioned, they would each watch for four hours in turn, allowing the other to go out when necessary. They said little; there was nothing to discuss. By mid-morning, their world had narrowed to a view through a rain-washed window, northwards across Finsbury Fields. There stood four wooden windmills on the rise beside Holywell, their sails turning slowly in the breeze. In particular, each man’s gaze was fixed on a spot to the right of the westernmost mill, close by its base. Whoever passed by there was scrutinized, very carefully. The Fields were rarely empty. This open space north of the overcrowded city was a favoured spot, used for many purposes. Men exercised their hunting dogs, practised their archery, or simply strolled. In fine weather, women laid washed sheets on the grass. Children played, lovers walked hand in hand, old folk stood and gossiped. By noon both Marbeck and Gifford were bleary-eyed from staring. At last, having finished another stint, Gifford broke the silence.

  ‘You realize two days could pass with us still in this room, and nothing to show for it,’ he grunted. ‘Indeed, how can we be sure Silvan’s courier didn’t sneak up in the night?’

  ‘There was enough moon to see by.’ Marbeck, who had taken most of the night watch, half turned from his stool by the window. ‘I’m satisfied no one’s been there.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ His companion stretched, yawned and rubbed at his beard. ‘By the Christ, I need a wash and a change of clothing.’

  ‘Then go and pamper yourself,’ Marbeck told him, turning away. He had been eying a group of men practising with longbows, shooting at a straw target close to the windmills. It being past midday, they were gathering their arrows and preparing to return to the city. He watched them amble away, taking the path towards Moorgate.

  ‘What about digging into your hoard?’ Gifford said. ‘Now I think of it, you haven’t repaid me the sum I loaned you for boat-hire.’

  With a sigh, Marbeck fumbled for his purse . . . then paused. The group with longbows had moved off and were almost out of his vision. But another archer had appeared, seemingly from nowhere. As Marbeck watched, the man stopped some distance away from the spot they surveyed. Casually, he bent his bow, strung it, then appeared to test its strength.

  ‘What is it?’ Noticing his demeanour, Gifford came and crouched beside him.

  ‘Does that fellow look like a bowman to you?’ Marbeck enquired.

  Gifford narrowed his tired eyes and peered out across the Fields. The man had taken an arrow from the quiver on his back and was fitting it to the string. They watched him take aim, then shoot . . . and, as one, they stiffened.

  ‘He’s no more an archer than I’m a Bankside whore,’ Gifford said. ‘So why do you wait?’

  But already Marbeck was on his feet. In a moment he was at the door, then sprinting downstairs, startling Mistress Mason in the hallway. He hurried past her, out of the house and into Everades Well Street, where he broke into a trot. The house was at the end of the row; in seconds he had rounded it and, slowing to a walk, entered the Fields – just in time to see the lone archer stooping to retrieve an arrow from the grass. As Marbeck moved towards him, he saw the figure lift the black stone quickly, take what was beneath and drop it back into place. Whereupon, he turned and began to walk off in a northerly direction, crossing the ditch into Bunhill Fields.

  Head down, Marbeck followed. There were houses bordering the Fields on the west, up to the turning into Old Street. Allowing his quarry to draw ahead, Marbeck held back until he saw him reach the corner and disappear. Then he too walked smartly up to it. When he rounded it, the archer, longbow slung across his back, was twenty yards ahead. Thereafter, falling into a steady pace, Marbeck began to trail him.

  It was straightforward at first. Confident he had not been seen, Marbeck nevertheless kept a good distance behind his mark. There were people about, and it wasn’t difficult to conceal himself. But quite soon he began to wonder if the man was leading him by a roundabout route, which could mean two things: either he knew he was followed, or he thought it likely and was taking precautions.

  The suspicion grew soon after the fellow turned left, out of Old Street into Whitecross Street. Since this ran parallel to the Fields and back down to Everades Well Street, it meant that quarry and pursuer would have described a loop. Fully alert, Marbeck followed, walking between the tenements of this sprawling suburb and eventually crossing the end of Well Street. Here his mark took a right turn into Beech Lane, which led into the Barbican. They were now in Cripplegate Ward, close to St Giles, and the streets were becoming busy. If they kept to this course, following the road into Long Lane, they would soon be at West Smithfield, which was always crowded. It would be easy for the message-carrier to lose his pursuer; Marbeck quickened his pace, shortening the distance between them.

  With the crowd thickening, he followed his man across Aldersgate Street into Long Lane. The din of the market was ahead, the stench of animal dung in his nostrils. Horses, sheep and cattle would be milling about . . . and as passers-by got in his way, he was obliged to close up the gap again. But he kept his gaze focussed on the point of the longbow, jigging up and down above people’s heads. Then quite soon they were in Smithfield, with the noise and press of folk on all sides.

  Doggedly, Marbeck weaved his way through the throng, peering between bodies. He passed horse dealers engaged in fierce bargaining, farmers and drovers in from the country, housewives and servants with laden baskets. At one point he feared he had lost his target, then, with relief, caught sight of him again, heading in the direction of Saint Bartholomew’s. Hurrying now, he closed the gap once again, dodging a porter with a load on his back and slithering on the foul cobblestones. He eased his way to the southern end of Smithfield, passing Hosier Lane on his right. But he kept his eye on the bobbing tip of the longbow. For a while it was hidden, then it reappeared . . . then, suddenly, it was gone.

  Breathing fast, Marbeck pushed his way forward. The market din was behind him now, though the street was still crowded. He was at Pie Corner, with Cock Lane at his right and St Sepulchre�
��s ahead. Swiftly, he scanned the streets in three directions . . . then froze.

  Someone was approaching him, carrying a longbow – the same one, he knew, that he had been eying ever since he’d left Finsbury Fields. But this was not the person he had trailed: it was a barefoot boy in poor clothes, holding the bow before him – and he was smiling.

  ‘Here, master!’ the urchin piped as he drew close. ‘I was told to give ’ee this – someone back there said you wanted it, and you should have it. Said you’d pay me three pennies!’

  ‘Someone?’ Spirits sinking, Marbeck looked into the child’s dirty face. ‘Was it man or woman?’

  But the boy merely held out his hand. Inaudibly, Marbeck cursed. With apparent ease, Silvan’s letter-bearer had given him the slip. Worse, it meant that his role as a traitor to the Crown was over as soon as it had begun, and his plan was in ruins.

  With a sigh, he reached for his purse, while the child grinned from ear to ear.

  SIXTEEN

  It was past midnight before Marbeck and Gifford were admitted to Sir Robert Cecil’s private chamber at Burleigh House, led by a grim-faced Nicholas Prout. In silence, the two intelligencers filed in, to stand like guilty schoolboys. There was a moment while Prout hovered near the door, but seeing that his presence was not required he soon left. Master Secretary then eyed both men coolly, before inviting them to explain themselves. Whereupon, as he and Marbeck had agreed, Gifford spoke up at once, giving an eloquent account of recent events. It didn’t take long, and though delivered with the best polish he could put upon it, the implications were not lost on the spymaster. Finally, when Gifford had said all there was to say, he fell silent. Stiff as posts, two of the Crown’s best intelligencers waited.