The one with the billet, which had missed Marbeck’s skull by a fraction, cursed and veered aside – but he wasn’t quick enough. Marbeck’s rapier flew from the scabbard, its blade glinting in the candlelight. He dealt the man a deep gash to the upper arm, causing him to cry out. But even as the billet fell from the fellow’s grasp, Marbeck was crouching to face the others. Both men had swords, one already raised. Marbeck lifted his to meet it, the hilts clashing. He whipped his poniard from its sheath and took a swift back-pace, eyes darting from one to the other. Mercifully, the first assailant was down, and he could disregard him. That meant a sword-bout, one man against two – but here at last, he thought suddenly, was something he could do.
With relish, all cares forgotten, he levelled sword and dagger and prepared to fight, and if that meant death, so be it. And it was that resolve, of course, that saved him, as it had done so often. The physical advantage was with his masked opponents – but mental attitude was something apart. And quite soon, when they sensed that they faced not only a skilled swordsman, but one who seemed indifferent to his fate, their purpose began to waver.
At first the two men darted back and forth, making thrusts and feints, but each time their blows were parried. And every time Marbeck won a stroke he wielded his poniard, forcing them to dodge sharply. The blade of his rapier was soon dulled, yet his strength took both assailants by surprise. Soon there were muttered oaths and grunts of frustration … then came the first cry of pain as one man’s shoulder was pierced. Blood showed on his coat as, panting, he lunged again, but found the stroke deflected. And another disadvantage soon told: in their increasingly desperate efforts to down their victim, each man at times got in the other’s way.
For Marbeck, who seemed not only to anticipate their moves but also to adjust his tactics by the moment, their difficulty begged to be exploited. Seizing a chance, he made what looked like a clumsy stroke, uttering a curse. Whereupon one of his opponents hurried to make a counter-thrust, exposing his side … which was enough.
Marbeck’s poniard sank between the man’s ribs, deep into his vitals. He wrenched the blade free as, with a spluttering cry, the fellow sank to his knees. His accomplice wavered briefly, but that too was enough. Knocking his sword aside, Marbeck lunged again, thrusting hard into his stomach. With a great gasp the man sat down heavily, staring at the blood that spurted forth. At which point Marbeck lowered his own sword and, with a rapid movement, leaned down and tore the scarf from his face.
But the assailant was a stranger, the sort that could be seen in London streets at any time: just another discharged soldier, a victim of the King’s peace with Spain, who had no skills for hire save his fighting ability. Leaving him, Marbeck stepped over to the other man, who lay on his back, and saw at once that his wound was fatal. He bent and removed the scarf, to reveal a grey-faced ruffian of similar stamp, staring up in fear.
‘Good Christ … you’ve gone and finished me,’ he muttered.
‘As you meant to finish me,’ Marbeck said.
He was breathing fast, but growing calmer. The exhilaration of the fight was fading, to be replaced by a cauldron of feelings: relief, anger, curiosity – and unease as the other events of the day came flooding back. Whereupon, remembering the third man, he swung round – and found him gone.
Scanning the room, he was about to go to the door when he heard a groan from the other side of the table. He moved around it and found his first assailant – the only non-swordsman – sitting with his back to a table-leg, nursing his arm and shaking. His sleeve was soaked with blood, while his eyes, wide with terror, gazed into Marbeck’s … and then, the penny dropped.
‘Skinner?’
In amazement, and with rising anger, Marbeck dropped to one knee beside the man. He seized the edge of his scarf and pulled it down – to reveal the face of his landlord, milk-pale beneath his unkempt beard. For a moment neither spoke, and the only sound was that of the other injured men, one wheezing, the other moaning pitifully. Then Skinner’s tongue appeared, to wet his dry lips. With a sickly attempt at a smile, he said: ‘You wouldn’t, would you, Tucker? Those bastards threatened me … I’d no choice!’
‘How much did they pay you?’ Marbeck asked dryly.
‘Nothing!’ Skinner shook his head quickly. ‘D’you think I’d have taken it, if they had? You’re my tenant—’
‘Oh, I think you took it,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘And I doubt you needed much persuasion.’ He peered into his landlord’s eyes, making him flinch … and a suspicion rose. ‘Who else have you given my whereabouts to, lately?’ he asked. ‘It’s plain that some people knew where to find me – even though you and I had an agreement, remember? No questions, private stabling for my horse, and a handsome rent for that shabby room …’
‘Why, yes!’ Skinner nodded eagerly. ‘And I swear on my beloved’s life, I’ve told no one. I said naught even when your friend Knight came here, though it’s plain as daylight he was running from something. The only ones who’ve come are that boy with the message and that flabby fellow who waited for you, a few days back …’
‘What about those two?’ Marbeck indicated his assailants.
‘In God’s name, Tucker, I never set eyes on ’em before,’ Skinner told him. ‘They came a couple of hours back …’ He hesitated, but seeing Marbeck’s suppressed anger, he began to babble.
‘See, now, I meant no evil … Very well, I’ll confess they paid me to knock you over the pate. But they swore there’d be nothing worse than that … They had a bone to pick with you, they said – money owed. They were going to take you away. They even had a warrant—’
‘Did you see it?’ Marbeck snapped, to which the landlord’s expression was answer enough. ‘No – you didn’t ask to. But then, you’ve wanted rid of me for some time, haven’t you? So when you saw the chance to do it, and earn a sum into the bargain, you grabbed it. You’re a consummate grabber, Skinner.’
He drew a deep breath and stood up, while on the floor Skinner quaked. But when Marbeck stepped away to survey the scene of carnage, his landlord spoke up again quickly. ‘See … why don’t you go, and I’ll say nothing? You weren’t here – I never heard of you. I’ll tell the constables these coves came to rob me. They can’t counter that, can they …? Not if you finish ’em off.’
Slowly, Marbeck turned to look down at him. ‘Finish them off?’
‘Aye – why not? They’re murderers, aren’t they? Though I didn’t know that … I swear I didn’t!’ Skinner was wheedling, desperation in his gaze.
Marbeck eyed him without expression. ‘So: I end their lives, and you spin a tale about robbery, is that what you propose? How then would you explain their deaths? Claim you defeated two sturdy swordsmen, all by yourself?’
‘No … I’ve another idea!’ With a groan, Skinner raised himself and managed to stand up. Leaning against the table he faced Marbeck, clutching his wounded arm. ‘We can blame Knight – arrange matters so they tell a different tale. I know how to make it stick … Come now, what say you?’
Yet still Marbeck stared, until the other looked away. ‘I’ve met some miserable wretches in my time, Skinner,’ he said finally. ‘But you take the prize. Do you think I’d wait for my friend, kill him, then arrange his body to look as if he died fighting …?’
‘No, no!’ Skinner cried. ‘You don’t have to ki—’ He caught his breath, clamping his mouth tight, and tried to turn it to a cough. Bending low, he hawked over the table-top, but the performance was wasted.
Marbeck stepped forward and seized his wrist, making him grunt with pain. ‘Where’s Knight, Skinner?’ he breathed, bending close. ‘What did you mean, I don’t have to kill him?’ And when his only reply was a whimper, he grabbed the other’s upper arm and squeezed it.
This time Skinner screamed in agony. Veering aside, trying vainly to loosen Marbeck’s grip, he squirmed like a rabbit. Finally, he was in tears, the pain too much to bear. ‘He’s upstairs!’ he yelled. ‘They did for him first … They though
t he was you. I tried to tell ’em, I swear I did … For God’s sake, Tucker – spare me, please!’
The last word became a cry as his arm was released at last. Slumping to the floor, he wept pitifully, while Marbeck turned away silently, walked to the staircase and ascended.
But even before he reached the half-open door of the chamber they had shared briefly, he knew what he would find. So it was more with a crippling sadness than with shock that he entered and approached the pallet beside which Matthew Curzon, recently knighted, lay in a bloody heap.
All debts are paid …
The phrase came to mind as he looked down at the handsome face of his friend, peaceful in death. Then, with dismay, he realized something else: Curzon had possessed no sword with which to defend himself, nor even a dagger. The one had been pawned somewhere, while the other was in a closet in Whitehall Palace, where he’d left it when Marbeck took him to freedom.
FIFTEEN
It was the first of November, a bitter morning, and Marbeck seethed with anger. Though one thing, at least, was in his favour: it wasn’t Deverell he faced in the chamber by the Jewel Tower, but Levinus Monk, who had returned at last.
The spymaster was subdued, even contrite; he had grace enough for that. But the air of harassed impatience, which seemed to be part of his nature these days, was unchanged. He sat by the table, with its mass of papers that had also become a permanent fixture, eyes lowered. Marbeck stood over him, controlling himself with an effort.
‘It’s most regrettable, about Curzon,’ Monk said.
Marbeck said nothing.
‘I’ll have the bowling alley cleared,’ the other added. ‘There’s a solution: the place will burn down, destroying everything in it. It’ll probably be a blessing, even to its owner …’ He looked up. ‘What did you do with him?’
‘I left him – alive,’ Marbeck answered. ‘But Curzon’s body is in the upper room.’
‘It’ll be taken to his father,’ Monk said quickly. ‘There was a fight, over debts unpaid … He’ll believe that.’
‘Very tidy.’ Marbeck’s voice was flat.
‘It has to be.’ There was warning in the other’s tone. ‘And it’s not I who’s been remiss here, I might add.’
‘There’s no need to add anything,’ Marbeck said. ‘Even you couldn’t load me with more remorse than I have already.’
Monk sighed. ‘Let’s not tread this path,’ he said wearily. ‘You know the hazards, better than most. Our work’s too important for sentiment when the safety of the realm is at stake—’
‘Ah yes … the safety of the realm.’ Marbeck looked coldly at him. ‘Well, I’ve told you all I know: given a day-by-day account of all I’ve done since I saw Cutler – and yet, you seem ready to dismiss my intelligence once again.’ In this, however, he was being less than truthful: he had left out the business of Charlotte de Baume and the ease with which she’d located him. That, something told him, was best left for another occasion.
‘Of course I don’t dismiss it,’ the spymaster said testily. ‘Do you think I’ve been idle myself, this past week? I’ve hardly slept – nor has My Lord Secretary. Now that the King’s returned from Royston, his shoulders are loaded with business. The welfare of the monarch and his family is paramount – do you doubt that?’
‘I do not. Yet what of the gunpowder? What of the actions of Catesby and his friends—’
‘What actions?’ Monk retorted. ‘As far as Catesby goes, there are none that surprise me. Today is the Feast of All Saints – Papists everywhere will celebrate it in secret. Yet wherever they do so, one or more of our people will be hidden among the worshippers. Hence, has it not occurred to you, Marbeck, that if men like those were planning anything as cataclysmic as you suggest, someone might notice it?’
‘For all I know they have done,’ Marbeck replied. ‘I’ve had no opportunity to ask, being somewhat busy …’
‘Indeed?’ Monk’s mouth flattened into the familiar thin line. ‘Then what of Thomas Percy – the man I told you to follow? Or were you merely going to tell me that he’s on business in the North for his lord, the Earl of Northumberland?’
‘I did know that – as you suspected,’ Marbeck said, after a moment. ‘And in view of all else, Percy’s movements seemed of lesser import. I ask again – what of the gunpowder?’
‘Well, what of it?’
Summoning what patience he retained, Marbeck spoke levelly, spelling it out for the second time. ‘I followed it from Godstone to Lambeth, to the house rented by Catesby. It was stored in the cellar: not one cartload, but half a dozen, accumulated over weeks, according to my informant. That makes thirty barrels at least, by my reckoning. Now it’s gone – all of it. And here we are just across the river, a short boat journey away in Westminster …’
‘Where you have failed to find it. And I haven’t noticed a heap of barrels lying around anywhere, now I think upon it.’ Monk wore his driest expression. ‘What do you propose – that we cordon off the entire district, Palace and all, and search every room? That would cause fear and outrage … The Lord Secretary wouldn’t countenance it, let alone the King.’
Marbeck drew a long breath; Monk could be immovable at times. But there was something else in the man’s manner, he sensed: could it be unease?
‘Would a discreet search not be wise?’ he said at last. ‘Just to be certain, at least in the Lords’ Chamber and its surrounds. In view of the magnitude of the risk …’
‘You speak of risk now?’ Monk broke in. ‘By the heavens, Marbeck, you’ve a nerve. My life revolves around risk – as does My Lord Secretary’s. Not for himself, but for our country: its King and Council, and all who are loyal. Anyone who might pose a threat to the realm is being observed. Your task is to watch Percy – and I’ll take neither advice nor instruction from you.’
Silence followed. Angry yet helpless, Marbeck was on the point of abandoning his efforts when a notion came up that he couldn’t resist airing. ‘Might I ask where you were back in 1587, Monk?’ he enquired gently.
The other frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I was at Cambridge … A youth of seventeen. London was far away then, yet I still recall the news that brought alarm, even to our cloistered little world. That was when we heard of a wild scheme to blow up Queen Elizabeth with gunpowder, placed in a room below her private chamber. Do you recall it?’
And when Monk refused to answer, he added: ‘Hence my suggestion of a discreet search … I leave the notion with you. Now I’ll locate Percy and watch him like a hawk; at least until the opening of Parliament is past and all is well. Thereafter my work will be done, won’t it?’
Turning abruptly, he went to the door, half-hoping that the spymaster would call him back. But no word came, and he was soon outside.
The cold enveloped him, the air as heavy as lead. But he walked, as always, to work off his anger and to reflect. He had begun the day in temporary lodgings, hired late the previous night in a room above the Duck and Drake in the Strand; spending another night at Skinner’s was impossible. He’d had hopes when he rose, of being believed; now desperate notions flew into his mind, only to be dismissed. Monk’s intransigence not only infuriated him: it also dismayed him. The man was shrewd enough, as calculating at times as Lord Cecil himself … Why, then, this reluctance to give Marbeck’s suspicions due credence?
Quickening his pace, he strode along King Street. To his right sprawled the Palace, an untidy jumble of buildings large and small. On his left were houses and cottages, the Royal Cockpit and the King’s Head alehouse … He halted. And because no better idea occurred, he left the road and went to the inn. Frequented by Whitehall servants and hangers-on, it offered a temporary refuge. Soon he was in a corner nursing a mug of spiced ale, and at last he sagged, staring down at the scarred table.
‘Well … what sorry sight is this?’
He looked up to see Deverell, a mug in his fist, gazing sardonically at him. Without replying, he resumed staring at the table. Bu
t seeing the man was about to take a stool beside him, he said: ‘I don’t want company.’
‘I see that,’ Deverell said, and sat down anyway. After a short silence, he added: ‘Can we at least drink and share our troubles?’
‘My thanks, but no,’ Marbeck answered. ‘And I wouldn’t try using your authority just now … I’m in a poor humour.’
‘You and I both,’ the other said. When Marbeck ignored him, he added: ‘Are you thrust on to the sidelines, too?’
Lifting his head, Marbeck eyed him. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know it already. You’re Monk’s lackey, when all’s said and done. Is that why you’re here? Now that he’s back, has he thrown you out of his cosy little chamber?’
‘Out of the chamber, and out of office,’ came the reply. ‘In short, Marbeck, I’ve little authority to wield. I’m supposed to kick my heels until there’s another priest to find, or some such.’
In spite of himself, Marbeck’s curiosity surfaced. ‘What happened to the one from Great Willoughby?’ he asked, after a moment. Once again, the haggard face of Father Cornford rose in his mind.
Deverell grimaced. ‘He’s in the Clink for the present, with others of his kind. It’s a haven for Papists; they celebrate Mass, hear confessions, dine like princes. Too many people on the outside to succour them, send in food … even money.’ He shook his head.
‘No doubt you’d put a stop to that, if you could,’ Marbeck said, but the other refused to rise to the bait. Instead, to Marbeck’s discomfort, he laid a hand on his arm.
‘Did you find that fellow Prestall? The Careys’ servant?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Marbeck replied, remembering. ‘He’s been dismissed … Too fond of the drink, I heard.’
‘Then you heard wrongly.’ Deverell spoke low. ‘He’s dead. He was found floating in the river, his head caved in. They say it was a fall, but I’d wager it wasn’t.’
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 13
