Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  ‘Your coat,’ Marbeck said, fumbling in the jerkin. ‘How much will you take for it?’

  Without pausing at his task, the old waterman eyed him. ‘On the run, are you?’ he muttered.

  ‘In a way. But the money isn’t stolen, I swear it. I’ll offer you four crowns.’

  The other blinked. ‘You must need it bad.’

  ‘I do,’ Marbeck said. He found the coins, counted them out and laid them on his palm. ‘What do you say?’

  After a moment the man nodded. And within minutes, somewhat better attired, Marbeck was stepping ashore on Bankside with the great wooden theatres towering above and people surging about him.

  Sword in hand, he walked parallel to the river. He had lost sight of Silvan and Anne, but now, to his relief, he saw them again: they too had alighted and were walking away from the shore. Soon they had rounded a corner and disappeared, but he kept his eye on the spot. The Globe, the splendid new theatre built the previous year by the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, was at his left; he heard the roar of the packed crowd. The Rose Theatre – older, smaller, but just as noisy – was ahead. It was the Swan that was still filling up, he realized; that was some distance upriver, with people streaming towards it. Picking up pace, Marbeck strode along Bankside, threading his way through them. He passed alehouses, bowling dens and low dwellings. Then he reached the corner where Silvan and Anne had turned, and halted. There was no sign of them in the narrow street, nor in the open space ahead. The way led to fields, and to ponds: the Pike Gardens. The ground here was marshy and criss-crossed with drainage ditches. He tensed: it was a likely place for an ambush.

  He took a breath and started down the lane. There were few people here, though they threw him some wary looks. Eyes ahead, Marbeck walked to the end of the short street, where he slowed . . . then stopped dead.

  The point of a sword had appeared, an inch from his nose.

  ‘So you followed,’ Silvan said softly. ‘That was quick work. I may revise my opinion of you, after all.’

  Very slowly, Marbeck turned his head. The man stood beside the wall of a rough-timbered house, thatch sagging above his head. Anne was nowhere in sight.

  ‘Drop your sword, please,’ Silvan added, stepping out to face him.

  But Marbeck remained motionless. Now, at last, he was able to view his opponent at close quarters. He was a handsome man, he realized, with the face of a native of southern France rather than of Italy. His dark eyes regarded Marbeck coolly.

  ‘Come, you know this is not the time to fight.’ His voice had acquired an edge; the sword trembled slightly.

  ‘I asked you before,’ Marbeck said. ‘Did you kill Ottone?’

  The other gave a sigh of irritation. ‘Let fall your weapon,’ he snapped. ‘Or it ends now.’

  Marbeck’s eyes flicked aside briefly. There was no one in sight, and from Bankside the noise of the theatre crowd had diminished. Ahead of him was a meadow, its only occupant a cow munching grass.

  ‘You mean, we should fence here?’ Marbeck asked.

  ‘I mean no such thing!’ Silvan snapped. Marbeck remained motionless, assessing his position.

  ‘I meant to give you one more chance to consider the offer I made,’ the other went on. ‘Let’s leave aside your tiresome attempt to entrap me since.’ He gave a snort. ‘Is your master Cecil so short of ideas, or was the failure your own?’

  ‘Well, we found Mulberry,’ Marbeck said gently. ‘That’s Morera to you – or La Mora, perhaps. And now I’m at close quarters with his – or I should say her – master.’

  Silvan bristled. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken,’ he said flatly. ‘I heard you were a man of taste, and of vision – one who hopes for better things than have come to you.’

  ‘Did your people get that from Moore?’ Marbeck asked with interest. ‘If so, he lied.’

  ‘Drop the sword,’ Silvan hissed. ‘Or I’ll pierce you.’

  Marbeck appeared to waver. Finally, he sighed and let his sword fall to the ground.

  ‘This way.’ Silvan stepped back, jerking his head towards the house. Eyes peeled for any movement, he kept his sword levelled. With a shrug, Marbeck complied.

  ‘Through the gate,’ Silvan added, close behind him.

  Marbeck found himself at the rear of the small house, which looked derelict. There was a garden, badly neglected, with fruit trees. He lifted the latch of a wicket gate and walked in. Silvan’s sword was at his back.

  ‘Go inside.’

  The house door was ajar, approached by an overgrown path. As Marbeck neared the threshold, he sensed someone within. Anne was there, he was certain. He slowed, then stopped. The spot wasn’t ideal, but . . .

  ‘What is it?’ Silvan demanded, then caught his breath. In that split second Marbeck had dropped to his heels. It was a Ballard trick: with a single movement, he rolled aside, grasping Silvan’s leg as he did so. The man lurched, his sword arm flailing. As he fell, he swept the weapon downwards, scraping Marbeck’s arm, but the blow was weak. The blade sliced through his new-bought coat. But no sooner had Silvan hit the ground than he found his wrist pinned down by Marbeck’s knee.

  ‘Now you drop it,’ Marbeck breathed.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The two men locked eyes; there was little doubt that this fight had barely begun.

  ‘Let go your sword,’ Marbeck repeated.

  Silvan hesitated, then his left hand flew to his belt. Even as Marbeck grabbed it, a poniard appeared, and suddenly both men were locked in a struggle for the weapon. In the process, Marbeck’s weight shifted – which was the momentum Silvan needed. His sword hand broke free, though, since he was on his back, the position was awkward, and he took too long to strike. Risking a wound from the poniard, Marbeck seized Silvan’s arm in both hands – as he had done on a Spanish ship in the Blavet – but even as he bent it, the man’s other hand came up. He glimpsed the dagger point flashing towards him and jerked his head aside. Then came a dreadful crunch, as Silvan’s elbow was broken. With a cry of agony, he went limp.

  Panting, sweat running down his face, Marbeck seized the man’s sword by its ornate hilt, pulled it from his grasp and threw it away. Though white with shock, Silvan fought back. Grunting with pain, he jabbed a knee into Marbeck’s side. Marbeck winced, but put his strength into forcing his opponent’s dagger hand down. He was gaining ground, he thought – until he made a slip. It was an old trick: Silvan allowed Marbeck to force his wrist flat, then used his own weight against him. The next moment he had been toppled aside into the grass, and his opponent was struggling to rise.

  On their knees, the two faced each other. Silvan’s right arm hung at a bizarre angle, while his face was a mask of pain and rage. But Marbeck still gripped his left hand with the poniard – and, as if at a signal, they began to strain against each other, tiring quickly as they fought for mastery of it. Silvan was the weaker now, however, and he knew it. For the first time an expression appeared – not of fear, but of uncertainty. Then all at once he fell backwards. In a second Marbeck had wrenched the poniard from his fingers and put it to his neck.

  ‘Be still,’ he panted.

  A hiss of pain escaped Silvan’s lips. His eyes darted aside, to his shattered arm. Then he spoke.

  ‘Let me die, or let me live – choose now!’

  For a moment Marbeck was seized by an impulse to do the first. The heat of combat had cooled in him, to be replaced by a cold fury. Here was the cause of his misfortunes, at his mercy, and there were no witnesses . . .

  A sound startled him, only feet away. He looked up sharply, to the doorway of the house. Anne stood there, gazing down at them. She was holding a small pistol.

  ‘Kill him,’ she said quietly. She lifted the gun and pointed it.

  But Marbeck shook his head.

  ‘Then, get out of the way.’ Anne’s voice rose. From the grass where he lay, Silvan let out a groan.

  ‘Is this why you helped him escape?’ Marbeck said, forcing her to meet his eye. ‘So you could get him alo
ne? Is that what you intended?’

  ‘Stand up and move away,’ Anne ordered.

  ‘I cannot.’ Suddenly, Marbeck was calm, and his calmness unsettled her. Though she was shaking – whether with fear or anger or both, he was unsure – she wavered.

  ‘I do it for Tom,’ she muttered. ‘And for the things this devil made me do.’

  ‘You could hang,’ Marbeck said. ‘Do you think he’s worth that?’

  She shrugged, to show she no longer cared.

  Slowly, he got to one knee, keeping Silvan’s dagger pressed against the man’s neck. ‘He’s my prisoner, Anne,’ he said. ‘My masters want him alive. They need to question him.’

  She hesitated. Marbeck turned and put his face close to Silvan’s. ‘Who’s Membrillo?’ he demanded.

  There was no answer.

  ‘It was him beside you that night, when you had me at your mercy, wasn’t it?’ he persisted. ‘He held the pistol.’

  Through his pain, Silvan managed a harsh laugh. ‘You cannot kill us all,’ he breathed. ‘Others will come – every year, a new harvest—’

  ‘Who is he?’ Marbeck shouted, and he jabbed the point of the poniard, drawing a little blood. Silvan flinched. Then, from the corner of his eye, Marbeck caught a movement from Anne, and for a second his attention shifted – which was a mistake. Silvan’s left hand shot up and seized his wrist, shoving the dagger point aside. Crying out, with the last of his strength, he forced the point upwards. Marbeck veered away – but as he did so there was a deafening explosion. Half blinded by the flash, he fell over.

  A long moment followed. His ears ringing, Marbeck got to his knees and stared downwards at Silvan’s body. There was a gaping wound in the man’s head, from which blood and brains had welled. The eyes were open, but they were lifeless.

  He looked up, but Anne would not meet his eye. Without expression, she dropped the pistol.

  ‘Why did you not shoot me?’ Marbeck asked finally.

  She made no reply. Stiffly and painfully, he stood up.

  ‘Now I have to take you back,’ he said. ‘There are things they’ll want from you; you’re still a source of intelligence.’

  ‘I would shoot you, too,’ Anne said abruptly. ‘If I had the means.’

  ‘Well, you stabbed me once,’ Marbeck replied. ‘And now I’m torn again.’ He looked down at the blood seeping through his doublet. He was hurting in several places, but he was alive. He drew a long breath.

  ‘You said my life depended on me helping you,’ Anne said. ‘Are you a man who keeps his word?’

  He nodded. ‘I am. Though they’ll hold you for a while yet, until they’ve got all they need. I speak not of close questioning. You endured it once; they’ll know they only need to threaten it.’

  She gave a long sigh. A breeze had got up, blowing in from the river. Absently, she surveyed the overgrown garden.

  ‘We wanted damson trees,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘Me and Tom . . . we were promised a house with an orchard, in Barbary.’

  Marbeck gazed at her. All at once something fell into place. His mind flew back to Silvan’s tempting of him, in the darkened room: the promise of riches, if he turned traitor. All along it had troubled him – how Silvan knew where to find him that night – and suddenly he saw it: the French Lily.

  Someone, for reasons of his own, had tipped off Silvan, and suddenly he saw the stern face of Charbon, peering down at him.

  He faced Anne again, saw her staring at him. ‘Did Silvan ever send you on an errand to the French Lily?’ he asked. ‘In Mark Lane?’

  ‘The Frenchman’s place?’ she nodded. ‘Two or three times . . . but ’twas only about wine. Consignments and such . . .’

  She trailed off, for Marbeck was no longer listening. Her face blank, she watched him turn away and go to pick up the pistol.

  After conveying Anne Saxby back to the Marshalsea – a procedure she submitted to in silence – he crossed the river again. First, he found a barber-surgeon and had his wound newly sewn. Then he returned to the White Bear, where he washed, attired himself in his own clothes and rested with a jug of Rhenish wine for comfort. By evening he had gathered himself and knew what to do; but it would require help, which presented a difficulty. Gifford was the man he wanted just now, but that wasn’t to be. Nor could he go to Prout; in fact, none of the Crown’s servants were available to him. He would have to make a full report to Sir Robert Cecil first, which would take time. But at last he saw a solution. If it was unorthodox, just now he had little choice. So, at twilight he left the inn and walked to the Strand, where he entered the Duck and Drake and found Thomas Rose.

  ‘What do you want of me now?’ the grizzled drawer asked sourly.

  ‘I had a mind to take you on a search,’ Marbeck said. ‘Like in the old days. If you’re interested, that is.’

  ‘A search – for what?’

  ‘The usual matter – seditious books and papers.’

  ‘Are you mocking me?’ Rose grunted. But when he caught Marbeck’s expression, he gave a start.

  ‘I need someone discreet, and I need him quick,’ Marbeck told him. ‘It’s not a warrant – just a notion I have, to sound out a man who might not be what he seems. Will you hazard it with me, or no?’

  Rose frowned at him, standing by the barrels. The inn was not yet crowded, but men were calling their orders. At that moment the hostess appeared, her hands full of empty mugs. ‘What are you about, Tom?’ she demanded. ‘You’re paid to serve, not to gossip. Move yourself!’

  Her eyes went to Marbeck, who turned away. But he threw Rose a look . . . and suddenly the man made his decision.

  ‘I’ve got to go, mistress,’ he said. ‘There’s bad news – someone’s sick.’

  She peered at him suspiciously. ‘Who’s that, then?’

  ‘No one you know.’ Calmly, Rose took off his apron, but there was a light in his eye that Marbeck hadn’t seen in years. And when the hostess opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand. ‘There’s no sense wrangling with me. I’m going, and that’s that.’

  ‘Is it indeed?’ She breathed in hard. ‘And how long will you be gone – can you answer that?’

  ‘Nay, I can’t,’ Rose told her. And with that he thrust his apron at her and followed Marbeck to the door.

  Outside, dusk was gathering. But when Marbeck told where they were going, the older man’s face fell. ‘That’s a mighty long walk for a sluggard like me. And we’d need to hurry – they’ll be closing Ludgate soon.’

  ‘We’ll take a boat,’ Marbeck said. And he set off at a pace, with the other hurrying to keep up. Fortunately, it was not a great distance to the Ivy Stairs, where skiffs were waiting, their stern lanterns lit. In minutes the two were seated together, heading downstream on the current, and in a low voice Marbeck told his companion of his plans.

  ‘Charbon?’ Rose showed surprise. ‘But he’s a Huguenot . . . he hates papists. As would anyone who went through what he did, on Bartholomew’s day.’

  ‘So he’s always maintained,’ Marbeck said. ‘But has anyone ever questioned him about it? Supposing it was a cover, all along?’

  Rose thought for a moment. ‘Then, I’d say it’s been a mighty good one,’ he muttered. ‘What set you on to the man?’

  ‘Just a notion,’ Marbeck replied, not wanting to add details. ‘A feeling I’ve had . . .’ He frowned. ‘You’re unarmed – I should have thought of it.’

  ‘I’ve a dagger,’ Rose said, indicating his belt. Noting Marbeck’s sword, he added: ‘And from what I remember, you’re no slouch with that.’

  The boat lurched just then, as another passed too close, heading upriver. Their waterman shouted a curse at his fellow, then bent to his oars again. Marbeck lowered his head.

  ‘When we get to the French Lily, we’ll enter separately,’ he said. ‘I’ve an idea the cellar’s the place to look. I’ll move towards the door and wait for you.’

  ‘If there’s anything Charbon doesn’t want us to see, the cellar
will be locked,’ Rose said. ‘We’ll have to spin him a tale, or there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘I’ve no time for tales. If I have to force him to open it, I will,’ Marbeck replied. He didn’t add that, provided his suspicions were right, Charbon knew who he was and what he did, in which case trouble was likely enough. In fact, he wondered how long the man had known – that was a troubling thought, too.

  ‘What, in a tavern full of people?’ Rose was saying. ‘The fellow might have friends he can call on.’

  ‘He might, but I doubt he’ll want them to hear what I have to say,’ Marbeck said. ‘So you’ll have to trust me.’

  ‘You and this feeling you’ve had,’ the other replied, with a wry look. ‘I hope your nose hasn’t failed you, now that I’ve gone and walked out of the Duck.’

  ‘And, yet, when was the last time you had any excitement?’ Marbeck asked, raising his brows. ‘Let alone a chance to serve the Queen’s Council in a proper manner. Doesn’t it stir your vitals a little?’

  Rose eyed him; slowly, a grim smile appeared. ‘Mayhap it does, a little,’ he admitted.

  They stepped ashore at Billingsgate, having shot the arches rather than alight above the Bridge, which would have meant a walk from the Old Swan Stairs. Soon they had made their way by Thames Street and Hart Lane into Tower Street, where they halted. They were at the corner of Mark Lane, with the French Lily a stone’s throw away. Here, after some last-minute conferring, Marbeck left Rose and walked to the inn, entering once again to the strains of a lute. The place was filling up, the drawer busy serving tables. With a casual air, Marbeck threaded his way across the large room, one eye on a door in the corner which he knew led to the cellar. But before he could reach it, a familiar figure barred his way.

  ‘Monsieur Sands?’ Charbon regarded him coolly. ‘You have returned – what a pleasure.’

  ‘Monsieur Charbon.’ Marbeck matched his stare. ‘I wish I could return the compliment. Last time we met, as I recall, we didn’t get the chance to talk.’