Marbeck and the Double Dealer (3 page)

‘And at Corunna, or so I've heard,' Marbeck put in.

‘Assuming such reports can now be believed,' Cecil said dryly. ‘Though my man in Lisbon I've always found reliable.'

Marbeck considered. ‘Do you truly think King Philip would repeat the follies of his late father? Send another Armada against us?'

‘Why would he not?'

‘Because, from what I've heard, Spain's almost bankrupt – not to mention racked with plague,' Marbeck replied. ‘They say the new king has no stomach for the war. He's a pious young man, who spends half his time at prayer.'

‘Indeed – leaving things to his favourite, the Duke of Lerma,' Master Secretary said. ‘Who, like most of the Hotspurs of Spain, has unresolved business with us. Do you follow me?'

Marbeck followed only too well. In the last decade, the word
Armada
had acquired a near mystical power in England: enough to strike fear into every heart. It was twelve years since Francis Drake and the English seamen had seen off the huge Spanish fleet of Medina Sidonia, but since then no less than two others had been sent by the embittered King Philip II. Only luck and foul Channel weather had saved the English, it was said – which was why panic had broken out only a year ago, when rumours of yet another Armada, sent by the late king's young successor, threw the country into turmoil. Rumour had sped in upon rumour: the Spanish had landed at Southampton – or was it the Isle of Wight? Trained bands were mustered, troops readied, chains strung across London streets . . . all to no purpose.
The Invisible Armada
, many now called it – a figment of someone's fevered imagination. Yet the words had a hollow ring, and no one could be sure whether the next rumour might turn out to be true.

‘There's little doubt that another fleet is being readied,' Cecil said. ‘Though it appears small, compared with those of the past. Hence we must discern its true purpose – and with good intelligence we will. But in the meantime –' he met Marbeck's eye – ‘in the meantime, I need you to relieve me of my most immediate difficulty.'

‘You want me to find out who Mulberry is?'

‘I do. I'll instruct Weeks to pay you an advance. Fifty crowns.' He waited; the meeting was over. But Marbeck had another question.

‘Those suspicions you mentioned . . .'

‘Ah yes.' The spymaster frowned. ‘There are two that come to mind just now. Men I'm unsure of, shall I say? Neither is known to you, I think. Their names are Saxby and Ottone – Prout will know where they may be found. I'll leave the manner of approach to you – and now, if you'll allow me, I need to do some thinking.'

That night, in his chamber at the Dolphin, Marbeck did some thinking of his own. He had no relish for the task that faced him: that of questioning two fellow intelligencers, either of whom might be a traitor.

He had been to Nicholas Prout and obtained the whereabouts of the men Cecil had named. One was Thomas Saxby, an ex-soldier who lived at Clerkenwell. The other was an Italian, Giacomo Ottone, who kept a fencing hall in Gracious Street. Both men would no doubt resent being objects of suspicion – wouldn't Marbeck himself? And yet it was imperative the matter be resolved, and promptly. The spymaster had left him to his own devices – but then the man knew he would trust his instincts, and make do with whatever cards fell to him. With that thought, he went to his bed and slept soundly, rising to a clear day. The weather was fair, and he decided not to ride but to walk through Moorfields and make his way to Clerkenwell by Smithfield. So, having taken a light breakfast, he went to seek out Thomas Saxby.

The ex-soldier, he discovered, lived in poverty in a tumbledown tenement by St John's. Ragged children fought and yelled in the narrow alley, where refuse had clogged the runnel to form a midden. Passers-by glanced at Marbeck, some men eying his good clothes and his sword, though he appeared not to notice. Arriving at the last house, he knocked. The door was opened by a blonde-haired woman in a faded frock, who flinched at sight of one who looked a gentleman.

‘Tom's not here,' she said at once. ‘I've not seen him for . . .'

Gently Marbeck took her arm. ‘He's here, and he'll see me,' he said. ‘Don't fret – I merely want to talk to him.' Steering her aside, he entered the hovel, which was devoid of any sort of comfort. At once a figure raised itself from a low pallet, and a male voice called out harshly.

‘Come any closer, and I'll fire this!'

Sitting up in the gloom was a heavily bearded man in a sweat-stained shirt, an old wheel-lock pistol in his hand. Marbeck glanced briefly at it.

‘Hadn't you better prime it first?'

The other glared but kept the weapon levelled.

‘Master Saxby, is it?' Marbeck went on. ‘Gunner Saxby?'

There was a rustle of skirts, and the woman brushed past him to stand beside the pallet. ‘Jesu,' she breathed, ‘not another recruiter!' And when Marbeck looked at her, she cried: ‘He's done with fighting – are you blind, or what?' Stooping, she threw aside the coverlet. Marbeck looked down, then raised his eyes.

‘I ask your pardon,' he said.

‘Well you might!' Fiercely, she faced him: a spirited woman, Marbeck saw, with an intelligence belied by her shabby appearance. He turned his gaze to meet the ex-soldier's eye.

‘I'll ask your pardon too, gunner,' he said.

‘It's cannoneer,' the other man threw back. But he lowered the pistol, so that it rested beside his right leg. It had been amputated below the knee, the stump swathed in a cloth.

‘Who are you?' he demanded.

‘A friend,' Marbeck said, prompting a snort from the woman. ‘I'd like to speak with you – nothing more.'

‘About what?'

‘Business.' He let his eyes rest on Saxby's companion briefly, whereupon the man frowned.

‘Who sent you here?' he asked. His tone had changed, but he remained suspicious.

‘Roger Daunt sent me,' Marbeck replied, and, having used the code name, he waited. There was a moment before Saxby looked to his companion.

‘Help me up, Anne,' he said. ‘Then you'd best leave us for a while.' But when he turned back, Marbeck was shaking his head.

‘The Red Bull, at the top of St John's Street. I'll await you there.' To Anne he said: ‘Those who've been wounded in service of the Queen deserve succour. Please – take this.' Producing a silver crown, he held it out.

She stared, then took it without a word, whereupon Marbeck got himself outside. He wore a look which some would have interpreted as distaste, at the squalor in which one of apparent good breeding had found himself; others, however, might have seen it differently. But a short while later, when Thomas Saxby in his mouldy soldier's jerkin entered the Red Bull tavern, he found Marbeck seated by a window, composed and seemingly in good spirits.

‘Sit with me,' he said. ‘Are you hungry?'

Saxby, who had manoeuvred himself in with the aid of a crutch, shook his head. ‘I'll have beer,' he said as he eased himself down. ‘But if they'll sop some toasted bread in it, that'd be welcome.'

Marbeck called the drawer and gave the order. It was early, and the tavern was almost empty. The mugs came soon, and both men drank in silence, until Saxby spoke first.

‘Do you have a task for me? I know you not, but you named Roger Daunt . . .'

‘So I did,' Marbeck said.

He looked hard at him: at the drawn face, the hollowed cheeks. This man had paid a heavy price for his service with Elizabeth's army. ‘Where did you lose your leg?' he asked. ‘The Low Countries, or—'

‘Ulster,' came the terse reply. ‘The bog of Europe . . . fit for naught but leeches.'

‘So I've heard.' Marbeck gave him a grim smile. ‘Who did you serve under?'

Saxby pulled a lump of soggy bread from his mug and thrust it into his mouth. ‘Sir Arthur Chichester, at Carrickfergus,' he said as he chewed. ‘He's the best man they've got over there – which isn't saying a great deal.'

‘I've heard that, too,' Marbeck said. ‘It's anger drives him . . . revenge, perhaps, for what the Irish did to his brother. Do you know about that?'

A frown creased Saxby's brow. ‘Who doesn't know? The devils cut off his head – played football with it, so they say.' He swallowed and spat out an oath. ‘I hope they pay – every last one of them.'

‘Because they've rebelled against the Crown?' Marbeck enquired in a casual tone. ‘Or because they're papists, or—'

‘All of that – and this.' The ex-soldier banged a hand down: not on the table, but on his ruined leg.

‘None would dispute with you,' Marbeck said, after a moment. ‘And there's no reward for men such as you when they get home, is there? Those who are fortunate enough to return, that is.'

‘Fortunate, you say?' As Marbeck had intended, Saxby's anger had risen. ‘And what would a man like you know,' he growled, ‘who, by the looks of you, never saw a battle, nor lifted a hand save to wipe your arse?'

‘Tell me, do you know a man called Gomez?' Marbeck asked.

Saxby blinked. ‘What?'

‘Physician, lived over the river at Lambeth. Portuguese – know him, do you? Or
did you
,
I should say. He's dead, poor fellow – died in prison, under torture.'

His words came quickly. The other stared at him, blank-faced. ‘No, I never heard of him,' he said at last. ‘And in God's name, what's this about?'

In a fair imitation of a stage conspirator, Marbeck glanced round, then leaned forward. ‘He was working for the Spanish,' he said. ‘That's what it's about, Saxby. Our masters are a little uneasy.'

He picked up his mug and took a pull. But Saxby merely continued to gaze at him. Finally, he drew a breath and said: ‘Why do you ask if I knew this man?'

‘Well, did you?'

‘I've said I did not.'

‘You're certain?'

‘I'm certain.'

The man's anger had subsided; instead, he looked alarmed. But, then, Marbeck had seen performances just as convincing in people who had lied to him with their every breath. Abruptly, he changed tack again.

‘The drab,' he said. ‘Can you trust her?'

The other gave a start, then gripped the handle of his mug until the knuckles showed white. Marbeck gazed into his eyes and waited.

‘Anne is my wife,' Saxby said softly.

‘But I ask again: can you trust her?'

A pause, then: ‘She nursed me back from near-death, after I was shipped home. It was months before I could walk, by which time every last farthing we had was gone. She could have left me at any time – none would have blamed her. Yes, I trust her – with my life.'

‘So that's why you turned intelligencer,' Marbeck observed. ‘A matter of money, was it?'

There was a moment, but now Saxby understood. ‘By the Christ,' he muttered. ‘You're here to rack me. You think I'm a turncoat!'

‘Well, I admit you seem an unlikely sort for what our Spanish foes call
un espia
,' Marbeck said mildly. ‘You can hardly travel far, can you? What kind of service do you perform?'

Deliberately, Saxby lifted his mug and took a long drink, then put it down. ‘If you're such a clever one, why not guess?' he said finally.

‘How about prison louse?' Marbeck suggested. ‘The sort that befriends papists in the Marshalsea, say, then draws out their secrets so they condemn themselves? A dirty task, but some are willing enough to do it. Or desperate enough.'

Saxby said nothing. Then he twitched, but it was a spasm of pain that had caused it. He leaned sideways, pressing a hand to his leg.

‘And you,' the ex-soldier said with sudden weariness, ‘in what way do you serve? For it looks to me as if you're playing a similar game yourself.'

‘That's true enough,' Marbeck allowed. A moment passed, in which their eyes locked, but to Saxby's surprise his questioner sat back and relaxed.

‘I ask your pardon once again, cannoneer,' he said in a different tone. ‘I have other business, and I must leave you. This is for the reckoning.' He produced a coin and laid it down beside his mug. But Saxby didn't even notice.

‘You sweet-voiced Judas,' he breathed.

Without looking at him, Marbeck got up and went out.

He walked steadily, a hand on his sword hilt, not towards the city, but westward by narrow ways until he reached Turnmill Brook. There at last he stopped, gazing across the turgid stream towards the fine manor house that stood beyond, in its walled garden: Ely Place – named for the Bishop who built it. Behind him came the din from packed streets, stretching down to West Smithfield. But ahead all was tranquillity and elegance: fruit trees poking above the wall, a wisp of smoke rising from a kitchen chimney. Just then, to Marbeck, the contrasts of London seldom seemed as stark as they did here.

He breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. At times like these he had no difficulty focussing his mind on what he did, and why he did it. Though there were occasions . . . He frowned. Had his questioning of Thomas Saxby been one of them? If so, why? Because the man had suffered?

Impatiently, he turned away. Was it sympathy that moved him? What, then, of Giles Moore, facing torture in a Spanish prison? What of others who had given so much, even their lives, in furtherance of what all knew was merely warfare by other means?

He glanced back, at the smoke that curled from the chimney of Ely Place. For a moment it reminded him of another fine manor house, a long way from here: one where he had not been in years. Then, forcing the memory aside, he began to walk briskly, back towards the city.

Thomas Saxby, he decided, would be a most unlikely double agent; so now he must visit a certain fencing master in Gracious Street and sound him out instead.

G
iacomo Ottone was a surprise. Marbeck had expected a bombastic swordsman, with a pointed beard and a swagger. Instead, he found a slim, clean-shaven man with oiled hair tied back and, alarmingly, a hand that shook, almost as if he were palsied.