Marbeck and the Privateers (25 page)

It was nothing much: just a patch of wall by the corner that looked slightly different to the rest. He stared at it, stepped forward and kicked it – and his pulse leaped. Immediately he reached for his sword, but being unfamiliar, the army weapon caught in the scabbard. He barely had time to get it clear before a wooden panel crashed outwards. A figure loomed up – and at last, he was face to face with John Buck.

‘You?' Buck's expression was one of amazement. ‘By the Christ …'

‘Drop to your knees,' Marbeck said, raising his sword.

But the other stared, and slowly shook his head. ‘I won't.'

‘You will – or we'll finish it here.'

A moment passed, then Buck gave a sigh. ‘Aye … mayhap we'd better.'

‘As you wish,' Marbeck replied. His sword-point was levelled at Buck's chest, which was half-exposed: the man wore only a loose shirt and breeches. His face was dirty, and dust fell from his clothing as, with an unhurried movement, he stepped forward until Marbeck's blade was touching him.

‘Well now – can't you do it?' he breathed.

‘Believe me, I can,' Marbeck told him. ‘But first, I want you to know you'll die because of Mary Kellett, and the other women and girls you wronged. She's safe, by the way …'

‘I care nothing about that,' Buck growled.

‘Nor for your wife either, I see.'

The other's mouth tightened. ‘That's none of your affair.'

‘But I mean to make you remorseful,' Marbeck replied. ‘For I don't propose to make it a quick death.'

Buck was glowering now. ‘I should have finished you a while back. But no matter: yours won't be a quick death, either.'

Outside, the courtyard was silent; even the birds on the roof had grown quiet. His eyes fixed on Buck's, Marbeck readied himself for any movement. ‘I almost forgot,' he added. ‘It's for Woollard too … he was a friend.'

But at that Buck smiled broadly: the man was drawing Marbeck, trying to make him angry. In his anger he could act hastily, and Buck would be ready. As when he had first seen him, the man had no weapon but his large, calloused hands.

‘I think we're done,' Marbeck said finally. ‘If you won't kneel …' But he was cut off – for at once Buck's hand shot up, to grip the blade of his sword. Grinning savagely, he squeezed it, forcing it aside; blood ran through his fingers, but he gave no sound of pain. Marbeck felt the blade slice through the man's palm … and knew that his life lay in the balance.

Still smiling, and believing that since Marbeck wore no poniard, he was at his mercy, Buck raised his other hand and put it to Marbeck's throat. It would remain there until he had squeezed the life out of him; there was a split second to act, yet Marbeck felt calm: calm, and a quiet rage. His hand flew to his pocket, the tailor's bodkin appeared, and was jabbed hard into Buck's wrist.

The man hissed with pain, yet still held on to Marbeck's sword. His hand dripped blood … but his grip weakened slightly: it was barely noticeable, but it was enough. With all his strength Marbeck yanked his sword from the man's fist, wrenched himself away and dropped into a fencer's crouch.

And now at last, Buck saw his looming death.

Their eyes locked, and Marbeck had enough time to register the man's fear before dealing the fatal blow. It was a
stoccata
: a straight lunge to the heart. The rapier entered between the ribs, causing blood to well out. Yet he continued to drive forward using his body weight, while Buck went rigid, both hands now clasping Marbeck's sword. This time, however, it didn't work: the blade cleaved muscle and tissue, then stopped as it struck bone: the back of Buck's ribcage. Breathing hard, he let go of the hilt and stepped back.

For what seemed a long moment, Buck remained upright with the sword protruding from his chest. He kept hold of it, as if trying desperately to pull it free, but his strength was failing; suddenly he let go, and with a gasp slumped to the floor. He looked down, watching his life's blood run into the floor of packed earth. Finally he raised his eyes and looked at Marbeck, but made no sound. A sickly pall spread slowly over his face, and his eyelids drooped; then he toppled to one side and lay still.

Marbeck stood for a while, feeling the clamminess of cold sweat on his body. Then he turned about, pushed the door wide and stepped out into the courtyard. It was bathed in sunlight, and some distance away the servants stood watching. Marbeck barely gave them a second glance. Instead he crossed to the stables, where Cobb was still saddled. Then he got himself mounted, and without looking back rode out of the yard, through the gatehouse and on to the road.

Within the hour he had skirted the southern edge of the Downs, and reached the Roman road at Upwey. There at last he turned northwards to Dorchester, and began his long journey back to London.

I
t took him four days to reach the city, for he was in no hurry. Later, he would barely remember what towns he had stayed in en route: Shaftesbury, Andover once again, while on the third night, with his purse empty, he had bedded down in a barn near Wokingham. At last, on a cloudy afternoon, he rode through Ludgate and by St Paul's into Knightrider Street; London crowded and stinking, the air heavy with the promise of a thunderstorm. Leading Cobb by Candlewick Street, East Cheap and Tower Street he made his way to Hart Lane where, having nowhere else to go just now, he found the house of Meriel Walden's sister. To his relief, Meriel was at home; but at sight of Marbeck standing in the cloud-dark street, she tensed in alarm.

‘Your pardon,' he said. ‘I came seeking a place to sleep … if the house is full, I'll move on.'

She stared at him: at his dirty, bloodstained clothes, his unkempt hair and stubble of new beard, and at his ear where stitches showed through pale scars. Beside him Cobb stood with head drooping, horse and rider alike the image of exhaustion. Finally she said: ‘You may have my bed. I'll share my sister's chamber … her husband's away.'

He murmured his gratitude, and said he would find a stable for the horse. But before he could go she stayed him. ‘They came here, looking for you.'

Blearily he met her gaze. ‘Who did?'

‘I didn't know the first one: a dandyish fellow, red-faced. A fortnight back, perhaps … he was agitated, eager to know where you'd gone. But of course, I could tell him nothing.'

Oxenham … Marbeck let out a sigh. ‘You said “they”?'

‘The other was here a week ago, the same man who came for you when you were fevered, at the Three Cups: a dry stick, and bad-tempered. He wouldn't believe I didn't know anything. He even threatened me. He said if you ever turned up I was to send word to him at once. He gave me a location … a letter-drop, I suppose.'

‘Your pardon again,' Marbeck said. ‘I'll go to him and explain.' He sagged, lowering his eyes. ‘I'd best go now …'

‘That's madness,' Meriel broke in. ‘You look like a beggar. You need food and rest – and clean clothes.'

‘That's what he said,' Marbeck replied vaguely. Before him swam a picture of Levinus Monk standing by his bedside, telling him to rouse himself … how long ago was it? He raised his eyes and saw a look of grave concern on Meriel's face. But it disappeared, to be replaced by a wry expression.

‘See to your horse – he needs rest even more than you do.'

With a nod, he led Cobb away. As he turned out of Hart Lane there was a bright flash, followed by a deafening clap of thunder; and within seconds the rain was falling in torrents.

In the night, having slept exhaustedly for some hours, he awoke from troubled dreams. As so often, he forgot where he was; then as the room began to take shape he remembered. A rush light burned, illuminating Meriel's tiny chamber: a press, pegs for clothes, and the bed, narrow and unyielding; he slept better on hard surfaces. The rain had stopped, though water still dripped from the thatch. After a while he sat up, leaned back against the wall and allowed himself to think. For there was little doubt in his mind; he had known it for days, perhaps weeks: his days as a Crown intelligencer were probably over. He might even find himself arrested; Monk had made it clear that he had little patience with a man like him.

Lying in the semi-darkness, he found his mind drifting back to Dorset. Faces rose up: first Mary Kellett's, pinched and pale; then those of Oxenham, Woollard, Gideon and Henry Swann … and finally John Buck, slumping down before him, covered in blood. A bleak thought occurred to him: all at once the long gallery at his father's house in Lancashire sprang to his mind, with its portraits of long-dead ancestors. Now he could have his own collection: the faces of those he had killed or seen killed, ranged along a wall … He drew breath through his teeth, closing his eyes.

Then the door opened, and Meriel came in.

He looked round sharply, but she was facing away from him, closing the door. Then she turned about, and stood still. Neither of them spoke; he could hear her breathing rapidly in the small room. At last, he drew back the coverlet and sat up.

‘Are you certain of this?'

‘No … far from certain.' She looked down at him, then put a hand to her neck, to the laces of her night-gown. ‘But I've waited long enough.'

And when he stood up, she came forward and put the other hand to his face.

The next morning, in borrowed clothes, Marbeck walked through puddled streets, all the way to Temple Stairs to look for Matthew Herle. Finding that the man was out doing business, he sat on the steps to wait. Just now, the thought of waiting all day didn't trouble him, even when the watermen who came and went started to cast disapproving looks his way, and then to ask him what he wanted. But when he responded with a cold smile, they grew wary and let him be. Finally, after perhaps an hour had passed, he saw the square-shouldered Herle bringing his boat smartly towards the stairs. He had two passengers; he saw Marbeck, but gave no sign of recognition. The moment the couple had come ashore, however, he gestured to the skiff. In silence, Marbeck stepped into it and sat down.

‘I'll take you eastwards, straight away,' the boatman said, as soon as they were on the water. ‘Those were Monk's orders, if I saw you again.'

‘Where is he?' Marbeck asked. ‘Not Castle Lane?'

‘No – we're going to the Tower.'

After that nothing was said, though Marbeck's mind became busy. For a moment he entertained the absurd notion that as the son of a knight he was about to be imprisoned in the most prestigious gaol in England, reserved for the highest. Then he wondered if Levinus Monk had been promoted to some higher office, or whether the man was in chamber with Lord Cecil himself … whereupon he suddenly remembered the treaty talks, at Somerset House. It was a matter of consternation to think he could have forgotten them.

‘The peace negotiations with the Spanish,' he ventured. ‘Are they still in train?'

Bending hard to his oars, Herle glanced up. ‘They are – progressing well, I hear.'

It was a relief, more than Marbeck expected. He would have asked more, but the waterman was looking darkly at him.

‘I've no desire to talk,' he said.

So Marbeck turned away to stare at the rain-swollen Thames, and at the boats that drifted by, or crossed the water before and behind them. On the Southwark shore, some were drawn up at the Paris Garden Stairs. He thought of John Miller, bringing trulls across to Salisbury House. He even smiled at the thought that with his master in residence, the man's sideline had likely been spoiled. Then he looked ahead, until the bridge loomed, and beyond it the forbidding bulk of the Tower of London.

Herle dropped him at the stairs, then pushed his skiff away without a word. On Tower Wharf he was challenged by a guard in royal livery, but when he mentioned Levinus Monk's name he was admitted through the postern. Skirting the inner courtyard, he was directed past the Mint, his gloom deepening with every step. Officials walked by and servants hurried about, there was bustle but there was order. Finally he found himself at a door, and entered a lantern-lit chamber … only to stop short.

It wasn't Monk who stood facing him: it was Solomon Tye.

Stunned, Marbeck looked him up and down … and as on the last occasion they had met, his hand wandered towards his sword-hilt.

‘You won't need that,' Tye said. ‘I'm not your enemy.'

Marbeck said nothing.

‘And I ask pardon for attacking you that day, at the Black Horse. I had to convince – as I had to kick you, when we were interrupted.'

Slowly, very slowly, Marbeck started to relax; as if from a fog the truth began to emerge, leaving him drained even of anger. When the other man pointed to a bench, he sat down without a word. A cup appeared, and was offered to him.

‘It's just ale,' Tye said. ‘Wine won't do … you'll need a clear head.'

So Marbeck took it and drank. Finally, since something needed to be said, he asked where Levinus Monk was.

‘He's called elsewhere. And before you ask, he knew nothing of my mission until recently. Or he wouldn't have told you to watch me, when you both saw me at the Fortune.'

‘Jewkes …' Marbeck began, but the other shook his head.

‘In good time. First, will you give me your intelligence? I already have a report you sent from Portland. It arrived by courier two days ago.'

‘
You
have it?' Marbeck was finding his voice. ‘And I thought you were a turncoat, paid to wreck the treaty talks.'

‘That's how it had to look,' Tye said briskly. ‘But as you know, no real harm was done. Now, tell me your tale.'

‘No real harm?' Marbeck echoed. Then he checked himself: first, information. He took another pull of the ale, which was watered but good. He faced Tye, who was now seated too, and began.

It took some time, for he was still in no hurry. Leaving nothing out, he gave an account of events from his leaving Salisbury House to his return to London. Tye, alert and somewhat impatient, stopped him at times and asked for clarification. But by the end of the story his manner had changed to one of satisfaction, almost of jubilation. Having told all he could, Marbeck eyed him coldly.