Marbeck and the Double Dealer (27 page)

‘What do you speak of?' Prout asked, not understanding.

‘This cat-and-mouse game with Spain. The toing and froing.' He sighed. ‘They capture one of our men; we unmask one of theirs. They put out a false rumour; we counter with another. Then we each kill one of the other's, only for someone to take his place . . .' He broke off and took a gulp of wine. ‘And all the while, commanding them from the shadows are those we never get close to. Men who spend their agents' lives as gamesters spend halfpennies.'

‘This isn't like you, Marbeck,' Prout remarked after a moment. ‘I always thought you're a man who enjoys the game, as you call it. More than most, anyway.'

‘Well, I could do with a holiday,' Marbeck found himself saying. Then he laughed at his own words. ‘By the Christ, now listen to me.'

Prout tilted his cup and drained it. ‘I'll leave you to take some rest,' he said, and got to his feet.

‘Have you had any tidings of Moore?' Marbeck asked him.

‘Dead, we think,' the messenger replied. ‘The Spaniards had him in their fortress at Brussels, but there's been no further word.' He frowned. ‘If you've got notions of revenge, I'd allay those,' he added. ‘They blur your vision.'

‘That's true enough,' Marbeck said, and saw him to the door. Outside, Prout checked himself.

‘I shouldn't tell you this, but Gifford's going back there. To the Low Countries, I mean.'

Marbeck gave a wry smile. ‘That should please him . . . I hope it pleases a certain Dutch doxy.'

Prout gave a snort of disgust and left.

In the morning Marbeck was conducted to Sir Robert Cecil's privy chamber by Henry Weeks. Outside the door, however, he startled the clerk by producing a slip of paper.

‘There's a list of costs I've incurred, these past months,' he said. ‘Among them is a loan made by a friend – someone of noble birth. It should be repaid with interest.'

‘I'll need authorization from Sir Robert,' Weeks said pompously.

He sniffed, sneezed and opened the door. Whitehall Palace, draughty at the best of times, was especially cold and damp this morning. And Master Secretary, it seemed, was also nursing a cold. He sat behind his table wrapped in a heavy cloak, a scarf about his neck. A fire burned in the grate.

‘I've read your report,' he murmured, in a voice clogged with phlegm. ‘Finding the cache of papist matter was neatly done – that's a route we needed to close off.'

Marbeck nodded politely.

‘And yet Silvan's doings have cost us dearly,' Cecil went on. He fingered the papers before him, then looked up. ‘Is there anything further you wish to add?'

‘No, sir,' Marbeck replied. ‘Save to ask for reparation, for the families of those who've died—'

‘That's not within your compass,' Cecil broke in. ‘You must leave such matters to my discretion.'

‘And to ask for some time,' Marbeck persisted. ‘To visit relations, perhaps . . .'

‘Indeed?' Cecil raised his brows. ‘From what I've heard, your father has all but disowned you – or is it you who've disowned him?'

Marbeck stiffened, but made no reply.

‘In any case, I can't spare you,' the spymaster went on. ‘We are depleted, thanks to this Mulberry pickle. I want you to find some new men – people we can trust.'

‘What incentive can I offer them?' Marbeck asked, glimpsing an opportunity. ‘For, if I might refer to my own case, I've been hard pressed for money these past months.'

Master Secretary sneezed and dismissed the matter impatiently. ‘Draw up an account and submit it to Weeks. I'll approve remuneration.'

Without expression, Marbeck inclined his head. ‘Where would you like me to start, with recruiting?' he enquired.

‘I leave that to you,' came the terse reply. ‘But look not to former soldiers – especially those newly returned from Ireland.'

There was no irony in his tone, but Marbeck sensed his irritation. ‘Touching on that matter, sir,' he said after a moment, ‘I had a mind to speak to you of Mistress Saxby.'

At once Cecil's brows knitted. ‘What of her?'

‘You recall our talk, some days ago. When she's freed, I would like to help her in some manner if—'

‘Freed?' Cecil echoed. ‘She will never be.'

‘You recall our talk, some days ago,' Marbeck repeated carefully.

‘That was a matter of expediency,' Master Secretary said. ‘I'm surprised you would question it – especially in view of subsequent events.'

In dismay, Marbeck watched as the man turned aside, sneezed again, then plucked a handkerchief from his sleeve. ‘We strike no bargains with traitors,' he added.

‘Then . . . she will be executed?'

‘Of course – she's committed treason.'

‘The matter is, I gave her my promise,' Marbeck said, speaking quickly. ‘She risked her life to—'

‘This sounds like impertinence, Marbeck.' Cecil regarded him stonily.

‘Forgive me, Sir Robert –' Marbeck drew a breath – ‘but I was given to understand that—'

‘Then you
mis
understood,' Cecil snapped.

Anger threatened Marbeck's composure, but he knew further protest was useless. With an effort, he lowered his gaze.

‘Find two or three loyal men and sound them out to the very bottom.' Deliberately, Master Secretary returned to his earlier subject. ‘The Universities remain a fertile field, but I leave details to you. Indeed, you may regard this as a form of promotion,' he added. ‘Later, I might authorize you to assign missions to those new intelligencers, who will report back to you. I haven't time to do everything.' He paused. ‘And I may need to send you to Scotland soon. You can take ship for Leith. I hear it's even colder and wetter than London. Now, if there's nothing further?'

Without waiting, Cecil picked up his bell and rang it vigorously.

In silence Marbeck turned and walked to the door. Not until he was outside did he realize that the name of Juan Roble had not been mentioned. But somehow that no longer mattered. Drawing a deep breath, he walked out of Whitehall Palace, and kept walking until he found himself by the riverside, where he stopped.

There were many sorts of double-dealer, he thought; and his master was merely another.

I
t rained that afternoon, an icy rain from the east, but Marbeck barely noticed. Carrying a pack, he entered the Dolphin stables, to find Zachary in the harness-room, dozing by a small fire.

‘Master Sands . . .' The old man shook himself awake. ‘Your pardon . . . You'll be wanting to take Cobb out.'

‘I will,' Marbeck said. ‘But first here's something for you, along with my thanks for caring for him.'

Zachary blinked at the gold angel. ‘You're kind, sir,' he said, taking the coin. ‘But 'tis no burden to mind a horse like Cobb. He was well exercised, I should add. Out on the road to Newington and beyond.'

‘So I understand,' Marbeck said. ‘Pray, keep your seat. I'll saddle him and be gone.'

‘Business again?' the ostler enquired.

‘No – a matter of pleasure.'

A short while later he led his mount out of the inn stable towards the busy crossing of Houndsditch and Bishopsgate Street. He was pondering whether to go north by Shoreditch and turn west through the fields, or to ride through the city, when someone hailed him. He turned, and was surprised to see Gifford hurrying towards him in a new hat and cloak.

‘I'd a mind to spend my last evening with you,' his fellow intelligencer said. ‘Even to buy you a supper . . . but I see you're engaged elsewhere.'

‘I am,' Marbeck said. ‘I'm riding west.'

‘To Chelsea?' Gifford raised an eyebrow. ‘Better to go by the river, surely?'

‘I've had enough of boats just now,' Marbeck replied. ‘And of remaining where I can easily be found,' he added.

‘I sniff the odour of dissent,' Gifford said. ‘Not that I blame you, for I'm weary of Master Secretary myself. They say the Earl of Essex is plotting some sort of rebellion from his lair. Perhaps that'll keep our little crookback busy for a while.'

‘And I hear you're bound for the Low Countries,' Marbeck said. ‘Flushing, perhaps?'

‘You may wager that I'll go there, sooner or later,' Gifford said in a casual tone. He frowned slightly. ‘I won't enquire as to your welfare. I heard part of the tale from Prout – I can imagine the rest.'

‘No doubt you can,' Marbeck said. He gripped Cobb's rein; with the din of passing traffic, the horse was becoming fretful. Gifford put a hand out and stroked his neck.

‘A splendid beast,' he murmured. Suddenly, a thought struck him. ‘I almost forgot: I have other news. It seems Sir Richard Scroop was caught with his force near Breda – got into a fearful tussle with the Spanish, I hear.'

Marbeck stared. ‘You mean . . .'

‘I do. He's dead – shot through the neck, they say.'

They stood still, surrounded by noise. A cart rumbled by, plodding out of Bishopsgate.

‘Is this widely known?' Marbeck asked.

Gifford shook his head. ‘Not yet. The news came in on the tide, I believe. Though word will be taken soon, to his widow.' He paused. ‘Then, perhaps you'll wish to forestall the Crown's messenger?'

Their eyes met, and a wry smile appeared on Gifford's handsome features. ‘
Ecce Aurora
, eh?' he murmured. ‘Or if not the dawn, then the promise of it?'

Then he stepped back, as Marbeck gripped the pommel of his saddle and swung himself up on to Cobb's back. The horse jerked, causing his master to tighten the rein.

‘We'll take that supper when you return,' he said, leaning down. ‘In the meantime, be mindful of the danger in Flushing.'

‘Do you speak of the Spanish threat?' Gifford enquired. ‘Or of other matters?'

‘Both,' was his reply.

Putting heels to the horse's flanks, Marbeck shook the reins. At once Cobb sprang forward into the crowd. People fell back in alarm, calling to the rider to have a care.

But Gifford laughed, and watched him disappear through the great stone gateway into the city.