Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  Gifford’s face showed relief: Prout was not badly hurt – but immediately his gaze swept past Marbeck’s shoulder.

  ‘Look out!’

  Marbeck snapped round, almost too late. He saw the dagger and weaved aside. But the blade jabbed his torso, slashing his padded doublet. There was a stab of pain in his side. He staggered, but managed to grab the arm of his assailant. At the same time he looked up into a narrow face: a woman’s face, contorted with hatred.

  ‘You whoreson javel!’ Anne Saxby cried. ‘I’ll spike you!’

  But Marbeck held her, tightening his grip. Falling to a sitting position, he used both hands to force her wrist backwards until she dropped the poniard. And though she fought him, she was slender and had little strength. Soon she sank to the floor, panting with the effort.

  ‘Jesu, what a coil . . .’

  Gifford appeared, to seize Anne from behind. She struggled, but knew she had lost. In a moment she had been yanked to her feet, her arms pinioned. Only then did Marbeck get up, breathing hard. There was a wetness on his left side; he glanced down, saw the stain.

  ‘Is it bad?’ Gifford asked.

  He shook his head. The two eyed each other, then looked to their prisoner. She was slumped, head bowed.

  ‘She fired the second shot,’ Marbeck said.

  ‘I know.’ Gifford nodded towards the corner. Now that the powder-smoke was clearing, the crumpled figure of Thomas Saxby could be seen, wearing the same old jerkin that Marbeck remembered. He lay half on his side, his ruined leg stuck out at an angle. Beside him was the pistol with which he had shot the guard, before Anne had fired at Prout. Prout’s answering shot, however, had found Saxby and not his wife.

  ‘I’ll hold her,’ Gifford said. ‘You’d better see . . .’ He broke off. There was a murmur of pain: Saxby was alive. And at once Anne’s head flew up.

  ‘Tom!’ she screamed.

  Marbeck stepped across the room and got down on one knee beside the ex-soldier. The man’s eyes were open, though he remained still. A welter of gore was spreading outwards from his body, pooling on the floor.

  ‘You . . .?’ His face drawn with pain, Saxby narrowed his eyes. ‘I know you, do I not?’

  Without answering, Marbeck lifted the man’s wrist and felt his pulse. Then he looked down at the terrible wound and finally leaned back. His expression was enough.

  ‘So . . . I’m to perish at home?’ Saxby let out a sigh. ‘Then, I thank Christ it’s here, and not in some Irish swamp.’

  Marbeck made no answer.

  ‘Please – let me go to him!’

  He looked round, to see Anne straining against Gifford’s grip. ‘I beg you!’ she cried. ‘He should die in my arms . . . for the love of Jesus!’

  ‘Let her be with him.’

  It was Prout who spoke. Marbeck and Gifford turned quickly to see the messenger on his feet. He was stooping, one arm hanging uselessly. Blood ran from it and dripped to the floor.

  ‘We’ve made enough of a farrago already,’ he breathed. ‘And any man should be allowed to make his peace.’

  Gifford hesitated, but Marbeck shifted his gaze to Anne. ‘We’ll sit him up,’ he said.

  There was a moment before Gifford unwillingly released his prisoner. Anne darted forward and fell to her knees beside her husband. Between them, she and Marbeck raised the man’s limp body and turned it, so that he could rest with his back to the wall. He winced with pain, but made no further sound. There he sat, his face ash-grey, blood seeping through his jerkin.

  ‘Gifford and I can question him,’ Marbeck said. ‘We’ll wait to the end, then make full report.’

  ‘So be it,’ Prout murmured. He looked to his guard, who was also bleeding profusely. ‘I’ll get him to a surgeon,’ he added in a dull voice. He looked like a spent old man.

  ‘Not on your own, you can’t,’ Gifford said. ‘Yet, if he can stand, we may move him between us. But two of us should be here,’ he added, with a nod towards Anne. ‘I’ll bind her hands—’

  ‘Whose warrant is this, Gifford?’

  Prout’s voice was savage. Gifford blinked at the expression on the man’s face. But Marbeck recognized the look: the same one he had seen that night in Gracious Street, outside Ottone’s fencing hall.

  ‘Let Prout look to it,’ he said.

  He turned back to Anne, who sat beside her husband, holding his hand. Tears stained her cheeks, but she was silent. Behind him Marbeck heard Prout and Gifford lifting the wounded guard up, but he didn’t look round. There were murmured voices, and, further off, the noise of people gathered in the street. Then Prout and his man were gone, and Gifford was back.

  ‘What in God’s name made you turn, Saxby?’

  Marbeck looked up, saw no sympathy in Gifford’s gaze. His fellow intelligencer gazed sternly upon the pair of unlikely traitors and shook his head. ‘What did they offer you – gold?’

  There was no answer. Anne refused to look at her captors, but kept her eyes on her husband. Despite everything, Marbeck sensed love flowing between these two ragged people. Yet, like Gifford, he knew he had a task to perform. With an effort, he got to his feet, to see that his companion had found a stool and was placing it behind him.

  ‘You should get to a surgeon, too,’ he muttered.

  ‘Soon.’ Marbeck sat down, throwing him a glance which conveyed enough: the wounded man had only minutes to live. Gifford took a step forward.

  ‘There’s no sense in holding back now, is there, Saxby?’ he said in a flat tone. ‘We can do no more harm to you . . . but we can to your wife. You should think upon that.’

  Saxby gave a start. ‘You would sweat her, in my place?’ There was fear in the man’s eyes – though not for himself. He peered up at Gifford.

  ‘I wouldn’t, but there’s one who would, and smile while he did it,’ Gifford answered. ‘Name of Sangers . . . you’ll know who he is.’

  There was a gasp from Anne. Her eyes flickered towards Marbeck, who remained impassive. A current of understanding passed between him and Gifford: like it or not, this was an interrogation. Gifford had already chosen to play the hammer role; Marbeck would be the anvil.

  ‘Was it Gomez who came to you?’ he asked Saxby. ‘The man you swore you hadn’t heard of?’ Receiving no answer, he added: ‘No matter, let’s say it was him. So – was it merely money he offered?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. D’you think you can buy a man like Tom as easily as that?’

  Anne was overcome with fury. Hatred shot from her eyes, as she turned them on Marbeck. And she would have said more, had not a word from her husband stayed her. Swiftly, she turned back to him, squeezing his hand.

  ‘Let me talk,’ he said weakly.

  There was a brief silence, before Anne sagged. Racked with sobs, she began shaking her head from side to side.

  ‘Nay, forbear to weep,’ Saxby murmured. ‘There’s things to be said.’ He eyed Marbeck. ‘I want your word she won’t be punished for my sake.’

  ‘You know I can’t give that,’ Marbeck told him.

  ‘Then, the devil take you!’ The man’s breathing was laboured now, but a fierce light burned in his eyes. ‘For you’ll get naught but my contempt.’

  ‘Your words may help, though,’ Marbeck added, his gaze steady. ‘And I would hear them anyway. When did they recruit you? After you got back from Ireland?’

  There was a moment, then a grim smile appeared on Saxby’s face. ‘Nay, they’d no need to do that . . . My mind was altered long before I was shipped back from there.’

  Without warning, Gifford dropped to his heels beside Marbeck, making the wounded man start. ‘Do you mean you converted to the Roman faith?’ he snapped.

  ‘Nor that, even,’ Saxby answered, his voice low. ‘You may blame the Queen’s commanders in Ireland if you like . . . for they did Spain’s work for themselves.’ He closed his eyes: his life was ebbing away. Impatiently, Gifford leaned forward.

  ‘Then, what say you?’ he demanded. ‘Was it the plight
of the Irish people that moved you? The burning of their fields, the starvation . . .’

  ‘In heaven’s name, why can’t you leave him to die?’

  Anne faced Gifford, her voice torn with grief. ‘I can tell you as much as he,’ she cried. ‘More, even. You think I haven’t heard all there is to hear about Ireland? Women and children burned alive in their huts – treated worse than dogs! The English soldiers are become animals over there. Tom was all fired up for Queen and country too, when he went – but ’twas a different man who came back!’

  She fell silent and turned to her husband. Thomas Saxby’s face was taut, but he was smiling at her.

  ‘She’s painted the picture well enough.’ He sighed and turned his gaze upon Marbeck. ‘I remember you now,’ he added. ‘You bought me a mug in the Red Bull, only you’d come to rack me for a turncoat . . . but I gave a good account, did I not?’

  Marbeck said nothing.

  ‘Well, I lied to you,’ Saxby went on. ‘Just a little. I wasn’t always with Chichester’s force. I was with Sir Henry Harrington’s, too – you know what happened to him?’

  Gifford frowned. ‘Harrington’s army was beaten by the Irish last year, at Wicklow . . .’

  ‘Aye – and you know what our Queen’s commanders did, to pay him out for that?’

  From somewhere Saxby had found a shred of energy: the last gasp of a dying soldier. Angrily, he eyed both men, fixing at last on Marbeck. ‘The Earl of Essex – damn his heart – took it as an affront to his command,’ he muttered. ‘Called our men cowards. He executed every tenth man as punishment – officers, too. How is that for English justice?’

  ‘So – you saw your comrades slain, by our own men?’ Marbeck asked calmly.

  ‘Not just comrades: his own brother!’

  Both Marbeck and Gifford showed surprise, as again Saxby’s wife turned her fury on them. Eyes blazing, she spat the words out. ‘Tom would have died in his place – his brother was but a lad of seventeen! He begged them to spare Samuel and take him instead, but they wouldn’t listen. He had to stand with the others and watch him perish! Do you wonder that he hates Elizabeth, and all those who do her bidding?’

  Gifford drew a sharp breath. ‘By the Christ – do you tell us all this was but a matter of revenge?’ he said harshly. ‘Because Essex is a vain fool, you turn against your own country – to work for Spain, our sworn enemy?’

  ‘The boy was all the family I had,’ Saxby breathed. ‘They showed no mercy . . . Soldiers are but tools to them, to be used and thrown aside. I lost my loyalty back there in the bog, along with my leg . . . Do you tell me you’d have done any different?’

  To that Gifford made no answer. Instead, with a swift glance at Marbeck, he straightened up.

  ‘I’ve heard all I want to,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  But even as he moved away, Saxby appeared to forget him. The man’s eyes were glazed, his breathing shallow.

  ‘He’s near the end,’ Marbeck said to Anne. ‘I’ll leave you, too.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish me to fetch a parson?’

  But the woman barely heard him. Shakily, she raised a hand and laid it against her husband’s face. Marbeck got up stiffly and took a step, whereupon a jolt of pain checked him. He glanced down, saw the dark stain that had soaked his doublet and his breeches, as far as the thigh. He looked to the doorway, where his companion stood.

  ‘You must attend to that,’ Gifford said.

  Weakly, Marbeck nodded.

  ‘I’ll finish up here,’ the other added. ‘Then I’ll take her to the Marshalsea. They can get all they need from her now.’

  Marbeck nodded again.

  ‘Surely you’re not going to peg out too, sirrah?’ Gifford made an attempt at a smile. ‘Master Secretary would be most displeased to lose another man – especially so soon.’

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ Marbeck said at last. ‘I’ve a score to settle yet, with the one who runs these people.’ He indicated the dying man and his wife. ‘It may have been she who pointed a pistol at my head that night, but Silvan’s voice was one I shan’t forget. I mean to see it silenced, one way or another.’

  There was a cry of anguish. Both of them looked towards the corner. Anne was leaning forward, peering into her husband’s face, but even from a distance they could see it was over. Saxby’s eyes were closed, his body lifeless. His wife lay her head upon his bloodstained chest and wept quietly.

  ‘Let her alone for a while,’ Marbeck said.

  Gifford sighed and looked away.

  EIGHTEEN

  Three days later, on a bright morning that carried the chill of approaching winter, Marbeck crossed London Bridge and made his way to the Marshalsea prison.

  He walked stiffly through the crowds, with his sword on the right; he was bandaged, to cover the stitches made on his left side by a barber-surgeon. The wound was raw but it was clean, and he was recovering. Yet his mouth was tight; what lay ahead was something he did not relish at all.

  Once he and Gifford had made a full report to Sir Robert Cecil, the spymaster had wasted no time. He was displeased by the outcome of the raid on the Saxby house, and by the death of the false agent now known to be Mulberry. There was some relief in the knowledge that both Nicholas Prout and the other man would recover from their wounds. But, in the light of what had emerged, his orders were clear: every scrap of knowledge must be extracted from Anne Saxby, by any means necessary. Marbeck and Gifford were to conduct the interrogation, with Richard Sangers in attendance.

  He reached the gates, showed his written pass to the turnkey and entered the prison as he had done a month earlier. This time he was directed not to Sangers but to a small cell with a barred window. The room was bare save for some straw – and an iron ring set high in the wall, with a set of manacles attached. Here, Gifford was awaiting him.

  ‘How is the wound?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s healing.’

  They fell silent. Even Gifford, he thought, viewed the task before them with distaste. The pair had not seen each other for the past two days, since Gifford had left the White Bear and found lodgings elsewhere. Marbeck had used the chamber to rest, though he too would remove himself soon.

  ‘Where’s Sangers?’ he asked.

  ‘Collecting the woman. She’s been put in with others. One of them’s a prison louse, but it seems she was wise to that ploy. She hasn’t spoken a word since she was captured.’

  That came as little surprise to Marbeck. He had formed an opinion of Anne Saxby as a woman of shrewdness and courage, which made what would happen here all the more terrible. Restlessly, he took a few paces about the room, while Gifford stood by the door, looking tense. From nearby a jumble of sounds reached them: shouts, harsh laughter, the clang of a tin jug. The prison was damp and chill, and the reek, as ever, was all but unbearable.

  ‘Have you no paper and ink?’ Gifford muttered. ‘If there’s matter to set down, I mean . . .’

  He broke off. From the passage outside came a squeal of hinges, and at the sound of the voice that followed both men stiffened. Gifford stepped back, both he and Marbeck facing the doorway, to see Sangers enter in his rough leather apron. With him, barefoot and shivering in only a shift, was Anne Saxby. Beside the interrogator she looked like a waif.

  ‘See, what did I tell ye?’ With a broad grin, the fellow turned to his prisoner. ‘These men are come to have a talk with you. You’ll like that, eh?’

  She looked sharply at them both, before recognition dawned. But she said nothing, lowering her head and offering no resistance as Sangers pushed her against the wall. But no sooner had he chained her than the woman’s ordeal began – for only by standing on tiptoe could she reach the floor. There she hung by her arms, her body stretched to its full extent; it was clear to any man she would not endure this for long.

  Satisfied with his work, Sangers stood back and turned to the intelligencers. ‘Ask what you will, masters,’ he said with a sniff. ‘I’ve the means to get everything you need.’ He p
atted his belt, from which hung several implements. ‘If you need me to step things up . . .’

  ‘We’ll call on you.’

  Gifford didn’t trouble to conceal his disdain for the man. He caught the eye of Marbeck, who moved close to the prisoner.

  ‘You need to tell us all, Anne,’ he said. ‘This man enjoys meting out pain – he needs no persuasion. Do you see?’

  She was breathing fast, her chest rising. He saw the dark patches under her eyes and knew she had slept little. Nor had she been fed, by the look of her. Her lips were cracked, her cheeks pinched. But she managed a quick nod.

  ‘I’ve no cause to lie now,’ she said, in little more than a whisper. ‘I tried to speak to him, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  She meant Sangers. Without looking round, Marbeck nodded. ‘It was you, sitting in the dark that night with Silvan, was it not?’ he said, after a moment.

  But she looked at him uncomprehendingly, whereupon Gifford stepped forward at once. ‘Don’t try to dissemble!’ he snapped. ‘You had no scruples shooting a messenger of the Crown. You stabbed this man, too – you aimed for his heart!’

  She caught her breath. ‘Please – I know not what you speak of,’ she said to Marbeck. ‘I never saw you again, after you came to see Tom – until the day he was killed . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Save for the time you followed me, from the Fields.’

  Gifford gave a snort and would have spoken again, but Marbeck stayed him. For some reason, he believed the woman, whereupon a new thought sprang up.

  ‘Then, if it wasn’t you, who was it? Membrillo, perhaps?’

  Mournfully, she shook her head. ‘I don’t know that name,’ she said. ‘Please believe me.’

  ‘Did your knave of a husband teach you how to handle firearms?’ Gifford broke in.

  ‘He did.’

  Her voice was taut. Whatever energy the woman had possessed since the debacle that had resulted in Thomas Saxby’s death, it was now ebbing away.

  ‘Speak up!’ Gifford ordered. ‘Are you too dull-witted to judge your position? Before you leave this cell, you’ll spill everything you know, and wish there were more you could tell. The Queen’s loyal servants have no mercy for traitors!’