Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (15 page)

They eyed each other, and the moment seemed long. Words were useless: the look on Llewellyn's face was enough. With a final jerk of his head, he made it plain what must be done. Marbeck was unhurt and had a chance, albeit a very slim one, while Llewellyn was weakening fast. Blood soaked his sleeve and ran to the floor. It was needless for them both to die here: Marbeck knew it, even as his throat tightened in near despair. Once before, in a house in Flushing, he had escaped, leaving a friend to his doom; the face of Giles Moore rose before him now, yelling at him to go. Feebly, he shook his head. He made as if to walk towards Llewellyn, but his companion had already turned away. Instead of returning to the kegs, however, he caught the lantern by its handle. Then with a grim look at Marbeck, he lifted it.

Follett's voice rang out again. ‘Last warning – then we storm the building!'

It was followed by a shout: Marbeck thought he recognized the sergeant's voice. For a second he hesitated – then all at once his instinct took over. A coldness welled up in his vitals; a feeling that on this occasion had almost failed him. Suddenly he was calm: he had things to do, things more important than his life or Llewellyn's. He gave his comrade a last look, saw him poised to throw the lantern.

‘If I live, your sister shall know how you died,' he said.

Llewellyn nodded briefly, then turned away. Whereupon, using a move he had learned from his old mentor, the player Ballard, Marbeck dropped to the floor. Making himself into a ball, he rolled out through the barn doorway.

There was an immediate crash of carbine fire; he heard a ball whistle past, but did not attempt to get up. Instead he kept rolling, using his hands like paddles: past the rigid bodies of Robbins and his companion, past the steaming brazier. Shapes rose in the gloom, and another shot roared out. This one was closer: he felt a tug at his sleeve, but no impact. Shouts came and were answered, he was unsure from which direction. Like a snowball he kept rolling, through long grass, then bushes. Darkness enveloped him: he had lost his bearings, but kept moving. Brambles tore his arms and legs, and from somewhere a bird shrieked in alarm. Another shout: it sounded like
he comes your way!
, but he wasn't certain.
Not yet
he told himself, and kept going even though he was weakening. Then another shot, but it was far off: he heard no patter from the bullet. Finally, his breath coming in rasps, he stopped and lay motionless … whereupon at last, Llewellyn blew up the barn.

The explosion shook Marbeck to the bones, and temporarily deafened him. From an unexpected direction – for he had rolled far from his intended route – there followed a great roar. Then the night sky blazed, noon-bright. Panting, sore in a dozen places, he got to his knees and stared at the sight: the building, barely thirty yards away, covered in flames. But half of it, he now saw, was gone: where the roof should have been was a gaping hole. Timbers cracked, while powder, ball and weapons were consumed in the inferno. Now there were screams: some of the soldiers had been close. Peering through undergrowth, Marbeck saw a terrible sight: a man engulfed from head to foot in flame, moving crazily. Figures danced against the light, lurching about in panic. There was a crash as more of the building collapsed … more cries, more cracking of timbers … then at last, somewhat shakily, he got to his feet. A swift look round, then he was running.

Away from the blazing barn he ran, until he regained the path some twenty yards away. Voices came towards him, and boots thudded: at once he ducked into the bushes, heard men running past. Shouts were everywhere: the camp was in uproar. He waited, then got up again and ran to untether Cobb – only to stop in dismay.

There was a whinny of fear, and a horse raced out of the trees towards him, reins and stirrups flying. Seeing him in its path it screamed again and swung aside – but with relief, he saw it wasn't Cobb. Frightened by the explosion, Llewellyn's mount had torn itself free. Marbeck caught a glimpse of the old soldier's pack and scabbard, before the horse galloped away.

Fearing the worst, he stumbled to the spot where he had tied Cobb, then halted. There was a neigh and a stamping of hooves, but nothing more. Then he was at his horse's side, murmuring soothing words. He fumbled for the tether, found it taut. In a trice he had loosed it, seized the pommel and launched himself into the saddle. Then he was riding, ducking branches that threatened to unseat him, guiding the animal by moonlight. Soon he eased Cobb into a trot, keeping the roar of flames and the distant shouts at his back. Finally he broke cover, found himself on a road, and drew rein. Swiftly he took his bearings: the moon was before him, the camp behind.

He was facing south. He even smelled the sea, two miles away. He took a great gout of fresh night air, then turned Cobb to his left: towards Dover.

I
n the dawn, Marbeck walked Cobb slowly through cobbled streets. Wisps of smoke rose as the town stirred into life. Dover Castle loomed in the distance, its flag flying from a turret. Bleary-eyed, grimy but uninjured, he stopped at a corner and dismounted. Then he was leading the horse by the reins towards the harbour. The sea lay before him, flat and pewter-grey.

He had spent the last few hours outside the town, watching the road from St Radigund's. But there was no pursuit, nor did he expect one. Part of his plan, at least, had succeeded. And even though the horses had not been driven from the camp, Marbeck couldn't imagine that finding him would be a priority for William Drax. What gripped his heart like a cold poultice was the memory of Llewellyn, lantern in hand, bidding him save himself. It would stay with him all his life.

By the sea wall he halted. Looking to the harbour at his right, he saw boats drawn up and figures moving; a fishing smack was about to set forth. Shielding his eyes, he peered out to sea, but saw no vessels. The sun was coming up, the sky almost cloudless; for once, there would be no rain. It now remained for him to find a base from which to work. He would take a room overlooking the harbour, though he did not intend to stay a night – in fact if matters went to plan, he would be gone by noon.

Within the hour he had made his preparations. Seated by a window on the upper floor of a waterfront inn, stripped to his shirt and hose, he ate hungrily from a bowl of hot porridge. Cobb was in the stable, feeding on oats. The place was busy enough for a traveller like Marbeck not to attract much attention. The room was small and unclean, but it had the view he wanted: from here he could see any ship that arrived. It had not taken him long to learn that the only vessel to dock in the past two days was a merchantman from Calais. But a small barque was expected today; that was the vessel Marbeck gambled on, which would bring Thomas Burridge along with his pay chest. Tired yet alert, he finished his breakfast and set himself to watch.

To his relief the wait was short. Having scanned the horizon for an hour or so, watching small craft and fishing boats come and go, he was rewarded at last by the sight of a larger ship coming up from the east. Entering Dover roads, the barque shortened sail and veered towards the harbour. Another half hour and she would dock; Marbeck kept his eyes on her as he dressed. Then, having buckled on his sword, he left the room as he had found it.

The quay was crowded, but that was to the good. Shoremen were making ready, eyeing the small vessel as she hove close. Carts had drawn up, horses stamping in the shafts. More people were gathering to greet passengers. Then quite soon the barque was there, and ropes were being thrown over the side. Figures crowded the small deck, sailors scurrying to their tasks. Finally a gangplank appeared, and the first arrival teetered along it, grasping a rope stay for balance.

From the edge of the little crowd, Marbeck looked over the ship. People on board were calling to those ashore, and being answered. Sails had been furled and more passengers appeared, of both sexes. He eased forward, hat pulled low against the morning sun. Soon he was close to the gangway, watching each person alight. None, however, looked like Thomas Burridge. The numbers thinned, and his unease grew. He saw an old man being helped ashore by a younger man and woman, and eyed them keenly … the paymaster might well employ disguise. Casually, he turned to a seaman who stood near.

‘Where does this vessel hail from?' he asked.

‘Why, from London, sir,' the man answered. ‘Where else?'

Marbeck kept a straight face. ‘You're certain of it?'

‘Indeed, sir. She's but a coaster – sailed on Thursday, made Gravesend the same night. Do you await someone?'

Without answering Marbeck moved off. Suddenly things were becoming clearer. The paymaster didn't cross the Channel, but merely skirted the coast. Prout's suspicions were correct: the money came from London.

He moved nearer to the gangplank, then halted. Another couple were coming ashore, seemingly the last people to do so. For a moment despair threatened him: had there been some further change of plan, of which he was ignorant? Indeed, had Drax and the others lied? He watched as the two reached the quay. One was a young man, well dressed, a sword at his side. The other was a rotund woman in heavy skirts, face half-hidden under a broad-brimmed hat. She had no baggage, but the man carried a stout leather bag that looked heavy. As they came ashore, both glanced around. Then the woman's eyes met Marbeck's – and at the same moment, recognition dawned.

‘Duggan? What in heaven's name …' From under the hat-brim, Burridge's moon face stared into Marbeck's. At once he stepped forward; he was on.

‘Our plans are altered,' he breathed, bending close. ‘The colonel sent me … we've no time to waste.'

‘What … is something amiss?' Burridge took a step back – but his escort stiffened, a hand flying to his sword-hilt.

‘Who the devil are you?' he demanded.

‘Captain Duggan, sent by Drax.' Marbeck's tone was urgent. ‘Please, we cannot talk here …' He indicated the bag, which he knew held the pay chest. ‘I mean, in view of what you carry.'

There was a moment, as the young man's eyes flicked to Burridge. But when the paymaster gave a nod, he spoke again.

‘Have you brought horses?'

Marbeck nodded. ‘They're in a stable. We should go there at once.' Thinking quickly, he added: ‘I'm alone – there's been a difficulty, but it's in hand now.'

‘Difficulty?' Burridge echoed. He was afraid, his eyes darting everywhere. ‘You don't mean the landing …?'

‘No.' Marbeck's reply was firm. ‘All will proceed as intended. We're to journey to Folkestone together, and an escort will meet us on the road …' With a show of nervousness, he too looked about. ‘Come – the place isn't far.'

The two eyed each other, Burridge very uneasy, the other man suspicious. But after a moment he signalled his assent, whereupon Marbeck turned and led the way through the press of chattering people. The walk from the sea strand to the town took minutes, but finally they were climbing uphill to the tavern. There was a narrow lane beside it, which led to the stable in the rear: Marbeck had surveyed it that morning in some haste, and decided on his action. He had expected a guard of at least two men, so the odds were somewhat improved.

Wordlessly the three of them turned into the alleyway, out of sight of the sea. The armed man was short of breath now, holding the heavy bag to his chest. Burridge was in the rear. The stable entrance opened ahead, to their left. To Marbeck's relief there was no one about, not even the ostler: he was unsure how he might manage witnesses. Slowing his pace, he entered the gloom of the stables, allowing the others to follow. Horses shifted in their stalls, among them Cobb, who jerked his head on recognizing his master. But Marbeck didn't look; he merely waited for the two men to get clear of the doorway – then he acted.

His turn was so sudden, Burridge's escort was caught off guard; by the time he had dropped the bag, which hit the floor with a thud, Marbeck was upon him. Two rapid blows to the stomach were followed by another to the jaw. With a grunt the man staggered, doubling over. But he fumbled for his sword-hilt, leaving Marbeck little choice. He had no dagger: it lay broken in two, in a burned-out barn by St Radigund's Abbey. Nor did he intend to engage in a fencing bout. What he did was snatch his opponent's own poniard from its elegantly tooled sheath, and stab him in the neck.

The fellow gasped, a fountain of blood spurting from the wound, but Marbeck didn't wait for him to fall. Instead he turned on Burridge, then saw at once that there was no threat: the man was rigid with terror. In a moment he was pinioned, arms held fast while Marbeck hissed into his ear.

‘Pick up the bag, and walk outside with me. One squeak, and you'll die.' For emphasis he put the dagger's point to the man's side, pressing it through his thick skirts.

‘No! God help me … please …' Burridge choked on his own words. Trembling visibly, he looked down at his escort, who lay sprawled on the straw-covered floor in the throes of death. Then he raised his eyes to Marbeck's.

‘Take the bag,' he stammered. ‘It's yours … I'll not follow, I swear! There's a fortune in there—'

But he broke off with a yelp, as Marbeck prodded him. ‘Pick it up,' he repeated.

They walked out of the stable. There was no one about, so Marbeck ordered his prisoner to wait. Hurrying back inside, he loosed Cobb from his stall. The horse was still saddled, pack in place: his orders to the ostler had been clear on that point. It took but a moment to get the animal to the doorway, past the lifeless form of Burridge's escort. He delayed long enough to drag the body aside and cover it with straw. Then catching up the reins, he led Cobb outside … to see Burridge, skirts flapping in ungainly fashion, running off up the lane.

With a muttered curse, Marbeck mounted and rode after him. In seconds he was alongside the man, who was puffing like an ageing hound, the bag clutched to his ample stomach.