Marbeck and the Privateers (27 page)

‘Or I might,' Marbeck put in. ‘I'm thinking of that bump on the head I got at the Black Horse, not to mention having a caliver levelled at me in a wood by the Frome …'

‘What do you want?'

Jewkes snapped the words out, his face twitching. His eyes roved the town and its harbour, but no help was near. His tongue emerged to wet his lips, as Marbeck remembered in the stable at Dorchester.

‘See now, whatever you are – Admiralty men, Crown officers – it matters not,' Jewkes said quickly. ‘Your wage is nothing: I can pay you tenfold – a hundredfold. You can take ship together, leave England. I know people who'll heap riches upon you, beyond the stuff of dreams! You can live in a grand house, in perpetual summer – keep servants, women …'

But he broke off, his eyes filled with alarm. Marbeck was staring hard at him … and unbidden, his hand went to his pocket to reappear with something small, which he jabbed sharply into the man's side. Jewkes gasped, and shuddered from head to foot.

‘Do you mean a harem?' Marbeck said softly.

The man blinked, but was silent.

‘Was that what Quiney promised you, for loyal service? The chance to live like a lord, keep slaves and deal in stolen booty? Rub shoulders with the pashas of Algiers and Tunis? Have the pick of fair women … as young as you like?'

Marbeck had moved forward, bringing his face close to Jewkes. He smelled musk perfume … and he smelled fear. The man was trembling, at which both Marbeck and Tye shared a moment of satisfaction. And something else passed between them too: something dark and unspoken.

‘I don't think I can bear the thought,' Tye said at last. ‘Having to spend the night guarding this toad, then the long ride back to London, hearing him whimper and wheedle … can you?'

‘I'm not sure I can,' Marbeck answered. ‘A tedious notion …' He raised his eyebrows. ‘But then, what's to be done?'

‘It's a conundrum, isn't it?' Tye said, still holding on to Jewkes's shoulder. The eyes of the two intelligencers met, letting the thought hang in the air. Dusk was falling, and people had drifted away from the waterside. Far across the river, the lights of Tilbury glowed faintly.

‘This town was burned once, did you know that?' Tye remarked casually. ‘Centuries back, in the time of the French wars.' Then he signalled with his eyes: whoever had the right, he seemed to say, he would assume the task.

Gently, Marbeck lowered his bodkin and stowed it in his pocket. He looked away, heard the scrape of iron on leather as Tye drew out his poniard, the heavy thud as its hilt fell with some force upon Simon Jewkes's head. There was a faint moan, a rustle of fine silk, and then a loud splash as the man toppled from the end of the jetty into deep water.

From thirty yards away, a pair of boatmen glanced in their direction, pipes in mouths. But seeing only two men on the jetty, seemingly taking the air, they turned away and resumed their conversation.

O
n a warm day in August, Marbeck emerged from a stone-flagged tiring room into bright sunlight, naked but for a scanty loincloth, and stepped to the edge of the King's bath. The pool, the largest and finest one, reserved for those of noble birth, was almost empty this afternoon. But in any case, there could be no mistaking the man he had come a long way to see. His poor crooked frame, pale as bleached linen, was immersed in the soothing mineral waters up to his neck. He sat motionless in one of the stone alcoves, legs stretched out, apparently oblivious to his surroundings. But Marbeck knew better. Unhurriedly, he walked to the corner steps and descended into the blue-green water to his waist. Wading slowly, sending ripples across the pool, he approached the other man and eased himself down beside him.

‘I first came here as a boy,' Lord Cecil said, without turning his head. ‘My late father had great faith in the curative power of the baths. But the vapour gave me a severe headache. Now I've learned to time my immersions better.'

Marbeck inclined his head and waited.

‘I hear you've been at Dover … a pleasant sojourn?'

‘It was quiet, my lord,' Marbeck answered. ‘I took a little time to rest, and to ponder my future.'

Cecil made no answer, merely shifted his position. Carefully Marbeck refrained from looking at his hunched body, his pigeon legs. Other nobles took the waters often, here in the town of Bath; even Queen Elizabeth had tried them. But it surprised him that Cecil, ever conscious of his deformity, had called him to this place. None but the man's wife and closest body-servant, it was assumed, had ever seen him unclothed. Perhaps that accounted for the absence of other bathers: glancing round, Marbeck saw only a handful of other men, and from the way they regarded him he guessed all were employed by the Lord Secretary.

‘You'll have heard that the negotiations are over and done,' Cecil said suddenly. ‘The Constable of Castile has put his seal on behalf of King Philip, and we are now at peace with Spain.'

‘It's a matter for rejoicing,' Marbeck said.

‘Quite so,' Cecil agreed. ‘Given the lengths some people went to, to spoil it.'

At last he turned to face Marbeck, who received something of a shock: the strain in the man's face was alarming. Cecil was forty-one years old, but had the careworn looks of a man ten years older. ‘I've seen the reports … in fact I've only had time to read them all in the past week,' he went on, holding Marbeck's gaze. ‘Much has turned out as I hoped … while some things have turned out otherwise.'

‘You mean Thomas Oxenham, my lord?' Marbeck drew a breath. ‘I fear the memory will live with me always. That's the chief reason I went to Dover, to keep my promise to seek out his father. The old man wept, but in the end he was calm. I was at pains to embroider his son's death, paint him a hero … which he was in a way, if a reluctant one.'

‘One who faced rejection from my service, and went on a desperate mission to redeem himself,' the Lord Secretary said drily. ‘But you are right: in the end, he laid bare the extent of the threat that stretches across Europe. I've passed the intelligence he gave you to the Count de Tassis, who will report it to his king. Those Spanish locusts may find themselves facing retribution from many quarters.'

Marbeck was silent. The acts of Las Langostas, including their bold plan to send Oxenham to assassinate the Spanish ambassador, still had the power to surprise him. But the fact that El Roble, as he now chose to call himself, harboured sufficient grudge against Marbeck to want him killed too, was less of a surprise now. Emboldened by the frankness his master was showing towards him, he spoke of it.

‘The former spymaster, Juan Roble,' he said. ‘With regard to me, it's a personal matter … I believe its cause lies in what I did to his mistress, the Comtesse de Paiva, four years ago.'

‘Nothing to do with breaking his circle of intelligencers, then?' Cecil raised an eyebrow. ‘The ones who went by the names of fruits, as I remember?'

‘That too, my lord,' Marbeck replied. ‘A man like that could not forgive such a slight. But I laid hands on his mistress, which he can never forget. Nor will he, I expect.'

Neither spoke for a while. The tepid water lapped Marbeck's chest, its heady vapour filling his nostrils. He stifled a sneeze, but at the other's next words, turned quickly.

‘The girl you sent to Cranborne … Mary something? She is hard-working and well liked, my steward says. They've given her a place in the kitchens. She may even serve as a lady's maid, in time.'

‘I'm sure she's grateful, my lord,' Marbeck said. ‘She's courageous. It's partly through her that I found out what I did. She was cruelly used in Weymouth …'

‘Yes, yes,' Cecil broke in. ‘I've read the reports.' He was frowning; Marbeck waited, then heard him say: ‘The death of the man you knew as Woollard was unfortunate.'

‘Unfortunate?' Quickly Marbeck looked away; where the Lord Secretary was concerned, showing one's feelings was pointless.

‘Indeed … He was once a loyal and useful servant of the Crown. He served my father, as he served Walsingham, but the poor man lost his mind, you know.'

Marbeck breathed in and held his peace – whereupon abruptly, Cecil changed the subject. ‘I thought you might be interested to hear of a plan of my own,' he said. ‘One being hatched as we speak. In short, Marbeck, I've offered the Sea Locusts a full pardon.'

Marbeck froze, his face blank.

‘More particularly, the pardon is offered to Sir Edward Quiney,' Cecil went on, regarding him without expression. ‘The man could of course sail to Barbary or wherever he chose, and live the life of any despot – but his wife would loathe the notion. Do you know anything of the Lady Quiney?'

With an effort, Marbeck murmured that he did not.

‘She's of a somewhat delicate constitution, as indeed is Sir Edward himself,' Cecil went on. ‘Neither could bear to live in a hot clime – the south of England's quite warm enough for them. Moreover, Quiney hates the sea, and I imagine he's sick of it by now. A message will reach him soon, when one of our ships encounters his, that if he lands on the Dorset coast and turns King's evidence against his captains he may be spared. He'd merely have to serve a few weeks in the Tower, to allay hostile opinion.'

Marbeck eyed his master, then saw the glint in the other's eye. ‘The Dorset coast?' he echoed.

‘Where he will be received with due formality, as befits one of his rank and station … except for one thing.' At last, Cecil allowed himself a wry smile. ‘The offer is made by the Court of Common Law. The coast between high- and low-water mark is subject to such law … hence, once Quiney steps ashore he is on English soil. However, we'll arrange matters so that our party isn't ready to receive him until high tide … Do you begin to follow?'

‘I'm not sure that I do, my lord,' Marbeck said quietly; the man was playing him as he used to, like a fish on the line.

‘Then let me enlighten you. You may not know of a curious anomaly in English law: that when the tide is in, the water comes under the jurisdiction of the High Court of Admiralty. Hence, my offer of a pardon can be overruled. In short Quiney will be arrested for piracy, by order of the Lord Admiral. It's a little scheme His Lordship and I have concocted between us.'

A moment passed; lying beside his spymaster in the water, Marbeck almost smiled at the ingenuity of it. ‘You are modest, my lord,' he said at last. ‘I venture to suggest that it's you who concocted the scheme, whereupon the Lord Admiral readily agreed to it.' And when Cecil offered no denial, he added: ‘I also believe that the usual punishment for piracy – the gallows at Execution Dock – might be appropriate for the Sea Locusts, but not for Sir Edward. In which case …'

‘Now you overreach yourself, Marbeck,' the other said. ‘It's out of my hands … the Admiralty court will try him, and decide the best course.'

Marbeck lay back; he felt slightly giddy, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. There was no denying now that the reign of the Sea Locusts was over. He saw it, let out a sigh, then sneezed.

‘Have a care,' Cecil said. ‘You aren't used to these waters. They play tricks with a man's senses – and his sensibilities too.'

‘My thanks for your concern, my lord,' Marbeck replied.

Another moment passed – until Cecil caught him unawares. ‘Is it true what Gifford has been saying?' he enquired suddenly. ‘That you stole his paramour off him?'

With a start, Marbeck sat up. Some distance away, His Lordship's guards sat up too. But seeing the expression of unconcern on their master's face, they relaxed.

‘I fear you may be the butt of one of Gifford's jests, my lord,' Marbeck replied stiffly. ‘Mistress Walden is a friend to us both … but any liaison between herself and Gifford ended some time ago.'

‘Well, I'm relieved to hear that,' Cecil said. ‘As I was also relieved to hear that you have ceased to dally with Celia, the widow of Sir Richard Scroop.'

Now, Marbeck was well and truly caught; what was about to follow, or how he was supposed to react, he had no idea. The truth was, he had thought little of Celia in recent times: once his secret paramour, she was now all but a recluse in her house at Chelsea. Even she had finally grown tired of his ways: his turning up unannounced, only to disappear again for weeks or months …

‘I fear Lady Scroop wants more than I can give her, my lord,' he said finally. ‘A new husband perhaps, before she grows too old …'

‘It's understandable,' the Lord Secretary said smoothly. Then having startled Marbeck as he intended to, he turned deliberately to face him.

‘Tye told me how you voiced suspicions that Sir Edward Quiney didn't act alone, but at the private request of a member of the King's own council. Someone who might have profited, had the treaty been postponed.'

Marbeck blinked; suddenly, the water seemed somewhat chilly.

‘You'll know that many benefited from outfitting vessels, and sending them to sea under the protection of letters of marque and reprisal,' the Lord Secretary continued, rather quickly. ‘I did so myself, as did the Lord Admiral and others – a simple business venture. Though of course, as soon as His Majesty made it known that he would cancel such arrangements and sue for peace with Spain, we ceased the practice.'

He stopped then; and seeing he was expecting some reply, Marbeck spoke carefully. ‘That's common knowledge, my lord.'

‘Yet you suspected some may have flouted the law, and permitted their ships to continue waylaying Spanish vessels on the high seas.'

The change in his tone was startling. Having played the benign spymaster placating a loyal intelligencer, he was suddenly the ruthless statesman: the man who signed death warrants without a second thought. Marbeck, however, knew both sides of the man; keeping expression from his face, he waited. The silence continued until he could hardly bear it, then: