‘Well, have we a name?’ he demanded.
‘We do, thanks to a fine performance on Poyns’s part,’ Marbeck answered. Suddenly, he felt elated. He gave the gist of what had happened, whereupon the messenger’s jaw dropped.
‘Spinola? Surely not … why, he lent gold to the Queen’s Council.’ He frowned. ‘Meeres has spun you a tale.’
‘I think not,’ Marbeck said. ‘I know the truth when I hear it.’
Poyns nodded. ‘I too believe it,’ he said.
‘Well, likely it will be a formality in any case,’ Prout said, after a moment. ‘If it was Spinola, he’ll surely have fled by now.’
‘But you at least will know it was he,’ Marbeck said. ‘You may search his home – he might have left evidence. Something to tell Master Secretary when he returns, isn’t it?’
Despite himself, Prout was looking relieved. ‘I suppose … Spinola has a great house in Broad Street, as I recall.’ He was rapidly becoming his former self. ‘I’ll gather an escort, force an entry …’ He was about to go, then checked himself. ‘And you’d better come along too – both of you.’
By noon the party had assembled by the pump in Threadneedle Street, a short distance from the Royal Exchange. Before them was Broad Street, where stood the town house of one of the richest men in London. Yet Augusto Spinola, who claimed acquaintance with some of the crowned heads of Europe, had always been a shadowy figure, rarely seen outside his well-guarded residence. He was frequently abroad, and had other properties outside the city, rumour said. The man did business in many fields: wool, lead, timber and alum – yet there was one commodity in which he dealt above all else: money. He was an argentarius, Meeres had said: one who managed silver and gold for others, and somehow made it work in his favour. There was no word in the English language for such men, as yet; but it was well known that in Italy and Germany certain powerful figures were forging new ways of doing business. Several times throughout the morning, Thomas Burridge’s words had echoed in Marbeck’s head: Men like them live by money as others live by their toil … their fortunes multiply as if by sorcery …
‘Bartolemeo Renzi,’ Poyns was saying. ‘He’s foremost among moneylenders, is he not? I’d have laid odds he was our man – I’d barely heard of Spinola before Meeres named him.’
He and Marbeck stood apart from the group: three armed pursuivants were being given their instructions by Prout. They all carried swords, and the messenger had a pistol. The intelligencers wore their rapiers and poniards, and the party had already attracted attention. But it was too late for a dawn intrusion, and being impatient for results, Prout would not wait until nightfall.
‘I’d barely heard of the man either,’ Marbeck replied. ‘But Drax’s paymaster said he was hired through Renzi. He would know Spinola, and could have recommended the man to him – one who was easily bought.’
‘But then, what man doesn’t have his price?’ Poyns asked.
Marbeck touched his arm: Prout was nodding at them. So in broad daylight the six men moved off up the street, to stop outside the iron gate of Spinola’s residence. The front was deceptively narrow, someone said: the house stretched back a long way, as far as the gardens of Gresham House. Nobody was certain whether there were other entrances to the property, so Prout despatched one man to look. Then he tried the gate, which to his surprise was unlocked, and they were soon nearing the front door. But already, disappointment threatened.
‘The courtyard’s unswept,’ Marbeck observed. ‘There’s nobody here … we would have seen servants by now.’
‘I care not,’ Prout said shortly. ‘I want the place ransacked, every closet turned out, floorboards lifted.’ But for propriety’s sake, he banged on the door before trying the latch. It was locked, so the guards would force it. Meanwhile Marbeck and Poyns stood back to survey the shuttered windows.
‘I’ve seen places like this in Lombardy,’ Poyns said. ‘Cool in summer, warm in winter. They know how to build.’
‘Do you see that?’
Marbeck pointed, and moved to a window at the corner of the house. Prout’s attention was on the door, which his men were about to break. Poyns came over to examine the shutters.
‘Someone’s forced an entry here,’ Marbeck called to Prout. ‘Do you want to look—’
But a crash of splintering timbers interrupted him, as the front door gave way. The guards piled in, while Prout looked impatiently at the intelligencers. ‘Thieves, most likely … let’s get inside.’
They followed him into the darkened house. At first little could be seen, until the shutters were opened. Then as light flooded in they saw that everything – furniture, mirrors and portraits – was covered with sheets. The guards pulled some of them off, revealing finely carved chests, tables and presses. Tapestries hung from floor to ceiling, though there was little in the way of plate or ornaments. Nor, Marbeck noticed, was much dust raised.
‘They left recently,’ he said. ‘No more than a week …’
But Prout, unusually animated, was already striding off. ‘Look in every room,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Open the chests – break locks if you have to.’
The intelligencers exchanged looks. ‘There’s a man trying to salvage his reputation,’ Poyns said wryly. ‘Shall we aid him?’
Without much enthusiasm they set to work; but as Marbeck had feared, the search brought little result. Augusto Spinola had removed himself, along with his family and most of his wealth. The only items that remained were those too large or too heavy to be carried away quickly. A cursory examination of the room with the damaged shutter also proved fruitless. Thieves had apparently broken in some time ago, but had no doubt departed with little to show for their efforts. From there, the two intelligencers moved to a large kitchen, where at last they found evidence of recent habitation. The place was untidy, with dirty pans and dishes lying about. In the great fireplace the ashes were cold, the turnspit silent. Poyns poked about on shelves, then turned to Marbeck.
‘Do you smell that?’
‘I believe I do …’ Marbeck looked to a corner, where stood a large copper still. He smelled herbs and alcohol.
‘No, bacon … well cured, too.’
Poyns was bending, peering under a low table where there was a small keg. He pulled it towards him, lifted the lid and wrinkled his nose. ‘Not fresh, but edible if you’re hungry enough …’ He glanced up at Marbeck, who recognized his expression. He had seen it before, at the deserted farmhouse by Gogmagog, when his fellow had looked up from a fireplace where papers had been burned.
‘Let me guess – something doesn’t feel right,’ he said. ‘So what think you: someone stayed here after the household fled?’
For answer Poyns stood up. ‘It’s worth considering. Shall we look upstairs?’
They left the kitchen and walked along a passage to the entrance hall. In one room they could hear the guards clattering about, moving things aside. From another doorway Prout appeared, then gave a start. They all looked round as a door by the stairs opened. The third guard appeared, who by the look of him had climbed through a hedge.
‘There’s a back gate into the gardens,’ he said, out of breath. ‘A fair sight … statues, and ponds with carp and all.’
‘Is that all?’ Prout snapped. ‘This isn’t a sightseeing foray.’
‘If you let me finish,’ the man retorted, ‘I’ll tell you there are more rooms, opening off a covered way – a colonnade, like in the Exchange. One looks like the master’s private chamber. No windows and an iron-bound chest, but it’s empty.’
Disappointed, Prout muttered under his breath, whereupon Marbeck spoke up. ‘We think someone’s been using the place,’ he said. ‘And not just thieves …’
‘Or even beggars,’ Poyns put in. ‘Otherwise, they’d have left more sign.’
‘The upper floor, then,’ Prout said to his pursuivant. The man nodded and went off to the stairs; as he ascended, the messenger faced the other two. ‘Have you found something?’
>
‘A barrel of bacon,’ Poyns said with a shrug.
‘Bacon?’ The messenger glared.
‘Just a notion I have.’
There was a bang from the room nearby, followed by a squeal of hinges; the guards had forced a lock. With a grunt Prout turned … then stopped in his tracks. Poyns froze too, but Marbeck swung round, his eyes going to the staircase. They had all heard it: a muffled cry, followed by a thud.
‘You men, out here!’ Prout shouted, reaching for his pistol. But even as the guards appeared Marbeck was climbing the stairs, loosening his sword as he went. Poyns was behind him, light of foot. The two scanned the landing above, but there was no one in sight.
‘Wait!’ Prout shouted from below. But his men were quicker to act, their boots thudding on the steps. Marbeck gained the top floor and looked round. Light spilled from open doorways, but one door was closed. He glanced at Poyns, who nodded. Hurrying forward, they placed themselves on either side of it, then Marbeck kicked the door in. Sword in hand he rushed inside … and stopped; the room was empty, save for a pile of soiled bedding and a broken chair. Poyns was already off, hurrying to the next room. Marbeck followed, almost colliding with the first guard at the stair-head. The man was drawing his sword, eyes darting about …
A groan; whirling round, Marbeck ran in its direction, to the farthest doorway. It was the main chamber spanning the front of the house, and there was noise within. He gained the entrance – and almost fell over.
The guard was lying on the floor, sprawled on his back, his mouth working feebly as blood gushed from his neck. Marbeck looked up … and his heart thumped.
‘I might have known,’ William Drax said, in a voice as cold as marble.
For what seemed an age, they gazed at each other. The former commander of the rebel army, whom Marbeck had last seen at a table toasting victory, was crouching balefully, rapier in hand. He was dishevelled and dirty, but the same pitiless eyes bored into Marbeck’s. His blade, Marbeck saw, was stained with blood. He breathed hard, holding the man’s gaze: the one they called the Basilisk … nor did he turn when Poyns and the guards hurried up behind him. Somewhere Prout was shouting, but nobody listened. For there was another movement from nearby. As one man the Crown’s servants whirled round towards it – but too late.
Lieutenant Follett, in shirt and breeches, his face disfigured with burns, leaped from behind the door like a crazed animal. His sword flashed and found its mark: the first guard fell with a gasp, blood welling from his chest. The second lifted his own blade, but wasn’t nearly quick enough: the young officer merely ducked under his arm and struck again, slashing the man’s neck. The guard reeled and fell against the wall, before sprawling beside the body of his companion. All three men down … in the doorway, Poyns stared in disbelief.
‘Now the odds are changed,’ Drax said. There was no mistaking his intent; he even smiled. ‘And I rejoice that we may finish it here,’ he added. ‘For there’s a reckoning to be paid, is there not?’
‘Perhaps there is,’ Marbeck said at last.
They eyed each other: four swordsmen now, their breath loud in the empty room. Sunlight flooded through tall windows, dust-motes glittered … but Marbeck suddenly lowered his sword, stood to full height and relaxed.
‘Will you allow me a moment?’ he said. When nobody moved, he went to the door. Bending, he pulled the body of one guard roughly aside: the man was dead, and could hardly object. Having cleared the doorway, he seized the heavy door and started to close it – just as Prout arrived out of breath.
‘What are you—’ he began, but his words were lost as Marbeck closed the door on him and drew a heavy bolt across it. Then he turned back to the others.
‘Shall we play?’ he said.
Poyns nodded.
TWENTY-ONE
Once, when Marbeck was a boy, he had been bold enough to challenge his fencing master on a point of honour. ‘You didn’t give me time to ward, Master Ralph,’ he had said indignantly. ‘Didn’t you say a gentleman would signal when he was ready to begin the bout?’
‘I did, sir,’ Ralph had replied. ‘Yet suppose the one you’re fighting isn’t a gentleman, but a ruffian who means to spike you and take your purse … what would you do then?’
In the years since, Marbeck had recalled his teacher’s words many times, though seldom as vividly as now. He had fought for his life before, but rarely against an opponent like William Drax. The man was not only desperate; he was a murderer, as cunning as he was cruel. Marbeck had seen it at their first meeting, in a forest in Kent. And as soon as the two engaged, he knew he was locked in a duel to the last.
At first it was routine fencing: thrusts and parries, each probing for the other’s weaknesses. Drax attempted a few bolder strokes, which Marbeck warded easily. But the man was a fine swordsman, he saw, which sharpened his mettle. Drax soon manoeuvred him to a position where the sunlight might dazzle him; but by jabbing and feinting, Marbeck forced the other round. Then the two veered back and forth, their breath coming faster. Words had ceased to be of use. The Shade of Death hovered in the room; it would be but a short time, Marbeck knew, before it decided where to alight.
He tried not to think about Poyns, though he couldn’t help hearing him. The little man and Follett were engaged in a terrible struggle at the other end of the dusty room, gasping and snarling like fighting-dogs. It was no fencing bout, but a feral struggle. Poyns was not a skilled swordsman like Marbeck; the thought troubled him. Follett was enraged and, like Drax, a man with nothing to lose. Poyns had been right about intruders: the forced shutter was explained. How long the two fugitives had been hiding here Marbeck didn’t know, but it made sense: Drax had come to Spinola seeking the means to leave England – only to find that his sponsor had fled.
These thoughts flew through his mind as he fought, darting across the bare boards, neither man yet gaining the upper hand. But both were tiring: Marbeck’s hope, albeit a slim one, was that he could disguise his weariness enough to trouble his opponent. Soon he might need to pull a Ballard trick from his repertoire … he was running over the notion, when Drax tried a ruse of his own. He stumbled suddenly, putting his free hand out to steady himself. Marbeck hesitated, but only for a half-second: Drax’s blade flew up, missing his face by a whisker. Ducking aside, he slashed the man’s exposed arm, and was rewarded by a hiss of pain. But at once Drax was up, blood on his sleeve, thrusting as before.
Grimly Marbeck set to again. Swords clashed and rang in the room; a scene of carnage already, with the guards’ bodies piled by the doorway. Then he grew aware of a thudding, and realized it had been there from the start: Prout was shouting and pummelling the door, but the stout bolt held. Marbeck ignored him, narrowly avoiding another lunge from his opponent. He smelled the man’s breath, sour and sharp …
A cry from across the room. He gritted his teeth, but dared not look. He knew Poyns had been hit; it only surprised him that it hadn’t happened sooner. He heard a raucous laugh: Follett scented victory, and was going for the kill. His anger stirring anew, Marbeck struck Drax’s next thrust aside savagely, and at the same time reached for his poniard. The other man had none, he saw: why had he not noticed? But the thought had barely occurred, when there came another cry that jarred his nerves. A helpless anger welled up in him: Poyns was about to die, and he could do nothing for him …
There was a crash of breaking glass that startled all of them. Shards sparkled and flew across the room, whereupon there was a shout from outside, through the broken window.
‘Yield, by order of the Crown! There can be no escape … throw down your weapons!’
‘For pity’s sake, Prout,’ Marbeck muttered, gripping the handle of his poniard. Inside the room four figures gasped and staggered in the sunlight, swords flailing, narrowly avoiding the bodies of the guards. Blood ran across the floor, dark and shiny. One of the men was still alive; Marbeck heard him wheezing. He dodged another thrust from Drax, after which the fellow attempted a crosswise sweep
– and in that fleeting moment Marbeck saw his chance. He parried the man’s blade, and at the same time brought his poniard up – whereupon his right foot slid from under him, and to his dismay he found himself flat on the floor.
He lay there for what seemed seconds. There was time to notice the ceiling, painted blue and dotted with stars; a common enough conceit, in imitation of the famous Star Chamber. There was also time to feel something wet seeping through his breeches: he had slipped in blood, of course. Winded, but still holding rapier and dagger, he looked up and saw his opponent standing over him. There was an ugly grin on Drax’s features, which were streaked with sweat and grime. Marbeck saw his blade, shining and deadly. He braced himself to roll away – when there was a grunt, and a sudden movement to his left. But even as it registered he saw the look of surprise on Drax’s face … and the next moment the man was falling, his hands grasping empty air. His sword whistled by Marbeck’s ear, then clattered to the floor.
Panting, Marbeck forced himself to a sitting position and saw what had happened. The guard lying nearest – the one who still lived – had seized Drax’s heel with his hand and tripped him. The rebel commander, out of breath, was lying on his back turtle-fashion. Half-dazed he looked round, then struck out savagely. But the blow was wasted: the guard – the one Marbeck had almost collided with at the stair-head – was in his death throes. With a sigh the fellow went limp … but he had saved Marbeck’s life. And in a moment Marbeck was on his feet, the point of his sword at Drax’s throat.
‘Lie still,’ he breathed.
Drax looked up, his eyes bloodshot. ‘End it,’ he said, in a voice drained of emotion. Marbeck held his gaze … then frowned. Though aware of noises across the room, he had been so intent on his own struggle he had barely listened. Now he risked a sideways glance – and drew a sharp breath.
Poyns was on his knees, blood everywhere, his sword arm hanging uselessly; even as Marbeck looked, the weapon slipped from his hand. Follett, his face livid with rage and triumph, loomed over him. His arm rose, blade shimmering in the sunlight. Poyns gazed up helplessly; three other pairs of eyes were riveted upon the scene: a grim tableau of execution. Marbeck heard his fellow gasp – but in that second he acted. His left arm flew up, launching his poniard like a dart; with a soft thud it embedded itself in Follett’s side.
Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Page 20
