Marbeck and the Double Dealer (7 page)

Suddenly, Marbeck almost laughed. Standing on the tilting deck with sea-spray in his face, he preferred not to think upon storms. He took a lungful of salt-laden air and cheered himself with the prospect of dry land. He pictured an inn, a warm fire and a cup of good wine.

But his optimism, it transpired, was short-lived. For at eventide a day later, as he finally clambered ashore in Brittany with a queasy stomach, two things struck him. The first was that in the village of Conquet nobody seemed to speak French; or, at least, nobody he encountered would admit to knowing any other tongue than their native Breton. Moreover, the inn was cold, and even the claret not to his taste.

But the surprise that awaited him the next day was more serious. Having begged a ride from a carter travelling eastwards, he arrived at last in the town of Brest – and found that Cyprien was dying.

I
n France he was not Marbeck; nor was he even John Sands. He was Thomas Wilders, a merchant of mixed Dutch and English blood. Thomas Wilders had few morals, and even fewer scruples about how he did business – or with whom. The persona had served him well in the past, in Paris and elsewhere, and it should serve him in Brest, too. With that in mind, he took a room at an inn, then ventured out to get his bearings.

The town was old and had seen much conflict. It occupied the steep banks of the Penfeld River, and the visitor's eye was soon drawn to the castle at its mouth. But Marbeck's was on a round tower, the
Tour de Tanguy
,
a short way upriver. Near it stood the home of the man he sought: a French Huguenot, who used the name Cyprien.

But he would not go yet. First, he strolled about, as any traveller might. He heard both French and Breton spoken, but no Spanish. Walking near the castle, he peered across the inlet, the
Rade de Brest
, and glimpsed the outline of the old Spanish fortress, the
Castilla de Leon
. A desperate battle had been fought here, six years ago, but that was when Spain and France were still at war. Now Marbeck was struck by how peaceful the town was. Having taken its measure, he returned to the inn. Then, as evening fell, he made his way to the Tour, and in his passable French asked for the house of a man with a white streak in his hair . . . only to receive a shock.

That would be Louis Orme, he was told; his informant, an old woman, sighed and crossed herself. The
monsieur
must seek him at the convent of La Madeleine – in the hospital.

Dusk was falling, and briskly Marbeck walked as the woman had indicated, to a building which was unmistakable. At its entrance he found an aged Carmelite nun, and asked permission to visit his friend Louis Orme, who he had heard was gravely ill. The
religieuse
looked him over, before admitting him. So at last he came to a small, candlelit infirmary and was conducted to the bedside of one who appeared to be unconscious. But as the nursing sister moved away, the man opened his eyes.

‘
Qui êtes-vous?
'

‘I'm Thomas Wilders,' Marbeck said, speaking French. ‘I've come over the water, with greetings from my friend Roger Daunt. He begged me to seek out his old comrade – Monsieur Cyprien.'

The other's eyes widened. He searched the visitor's face, but made no reply.

‘I'm saddened to find you in this place,' Marbeck said. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?'

He took in the man's shrivelled appearance. Cyprien's face was haggard, while the snow-white streak – his distinguishing mark – was now invisible, since all his hair had become the same colour. His eyes strayed to a stool by the bed, where stood a pitcher and an earthenware beaker. Marbeck poured water and brought it to the man's lips. After he had drunk, Cyprien sank back feebly upon the pillow. Then he spoke.

‘Wilders . . .' He pronounced the word as if testing it.

Marbeck glanced round. The occupants of the other beds appeared to be sleeping. A sister sat by the door, fingering her rosary. But when he looked back, the invalid was trying to lift his hand. He took it, feeling its clammy warmth. But there was no grip; the man was as weak as a sparrow.

‘Well, Thomas Wilders . . .' A faint smile appeared. ‘I never thought my last confidant would be an
Anglais
. How does your good Queen Elizabeth? Rumours abound in France that she too lies close to death.'

With some relief, Marbeck smiled back; the man was not delirious as he had feared. He said: ‘Rumour's a fickle jade, my friend. The last I heard, the Queen was dancing galliards at Richmond Palace and bantering with ambassadors.'

The other wheezed; an attempt at laughter. ‘If only France had been blessed with such a monarch . . .' He gave a sigh. ‘Well, monsieur . . . you come to learn what you can from me, before I change this bed for a coffin. Is it not so?'

Marbeck made no reply.

‘Your silence is answer enough,' Cyprien breathed. ‘So . . . will you tell me how goes the war? Perhaps I should say
wars.
I've been here some weeks . . . or so I believe. I was mad for a while, the sisters tell me. Now I am sane, but helpless.' His face clouded. ‘This sickness is beyond even their skills.'

Marbeck cleared the stool and moved it closer. ‘I'm come from Plymouth,' he said as he sat down. ‘There I spoke with another friend – you'll remember him as the Shopkeeper. He told me the tidings you sent, two weeks ago.'

‘Was it so?' Cyprien frowned. ‘I was already sick . . .' He gave a cough. ‘Yet, now I remember. You English must make ready – the Spanish aren't done with you yet.'

‘We know it,' Marbeck said – and before the man could speak again, he raised his hand. ‘Please, save your strength. Let me talk.' And with that he gave him a very brief account of recent affairs. Dunkirk was still in Spanish hands, despite the Dutch victory at Nieuwpoort under Maurice of Orange. In the Low Countries the war raged on, as in Ireland. Rumours crossed and re-crossed the Channel, so that few knew what to believe.

‘Enough – I pray you.'

Cyprien was wearying. Drawing a rasping breath, he said: ‘The report I sent on to Plymouth came from someone I always trusted. She it was who spoke of this plan the young Philip's admirals have . . . I mean men like Brochero and Zubiaur. They wish to sail again to England and land in the west – that is why they build new ships at Lisbon—'

‘I don't believe that,' Marbeck broke in. And when the other showed surprise, he outlined his objections.

‘You think the tidings I sent were lies, then?' Cyprien looked aghast. ‘To lure your masters in the wrong direction?'

‘Such practices are common enough in wartime,' Marbeck replied. ‘Your source – you said “she”?'

Feebly, the sick man nodded. ‘She would not fail me. And she is close to the Spanish – too close, some have claimed.'

‘That's why I'm here – to get close to the Spanish,' Marbeck said. ‘To find out why they're building up their troops in Brittany. It puzzles me . . . I understood that by the treaty of Vervins they'd agreed to leave—'

‘But, my friend, they have done so.'

Cyprien's face glistened with sweat, and his breathing was laboured. ‘There are no Spanish here now,' he went on. ‘A few ships down south, perhaps, on the Blavet.' He sighed. ‘Perhaps they may wish your government to think they're still here in large numbers, when their troops are in Spain and Portugal.'

‘But if that's true . . .' Marbeck thought quickly. ‘If they're not here, then they're preparing to embark in the new fleet that's being built. Which means . . .'

Then he saw it; and at once he realized that he had known it all along.

‘Which means?' Cyprien echoed.

‘The Spanish fleet is bound for Ireland. It must be.'

The dying man frowned. ‘Well, it was always the back door to England – everyone knows it. And the rebel Tyrone has been asking for Spanish help for years . . .'

He broke off then, as one of the convent's other patients called out – a wailing cry. Marbeck looked round to see the sister moving to his bedside, then turned back to Cyprien.

‘Indeed, some may wonder why it's taken them so long,' he said dryly.

‘But . . .' Cyprien looked dismayed. ‘I ask again: do you tell me the intelligence I took such pains to pass on is merely lies? I cannot believe such. I repeat: my source is true – she is a woman of courage and honour.'

‘Will you tell me who she is?' Marbeck asked.

‘You would go to her?'

‘I have no time,' Marbeck replied with a shake of his head. ‘Besides, what you've told me is enough. My master must hear of it.' He placed a hand on Cyprien's shoulder. ‘England owes you much for your pains,' he said. ‘Even now, at the very last.'

But the man had grown agitated. He coughed again, then said: ‘Thomas Wilders – if such is really your name – please listen to me. My homeland of France – she is torn and bleeding. Do you know how many of her people have died, these past two score years? One million, or so they say.' He gave another sigh. ‘Will we ever know peace? Why, it's but two years since the law gave rights to such men as me. That's why I'm permitted to lie here, instead of dying in the street!'

‘The sisters are merciful,' Marbeck said. ‘Taking in a Huguenot.'

‘It's not only that.' Cyprien gazed fiercely at him. ‘I speak of sacrifice – you understand me, I think . . .' He hesitated. ‘I ask you now to do me a service, my friend. It will be my last wish. I ask you to ride to this woman I spoke of, and tell her of my death. Tell her she was in my thoughts at the very last, as always . . . and besides, you may learn matters to your advantage. Where these tales come from, perhaps.'

In his eagerness, the man had raised his head slightly. Now he fell back in exhaustion, but his eyes peered into Marbeck's. A moment passed, then:

‘Where should I go?' Marbeck asked quietly.

‘To the Château des Faucons, on the Scorff River,' Cyprien answered. His relief was such, he even smiled. ‘It's two days' ride, to the south-east. There you will find Marie, the Comtesse de Paiva. I was once her groom . . . and, in my private thoughts, I longed to be more.' His smile faded. ‘But confide in her only – not her husband. She can tell you of the Spanish, more than you would learn elsewhere. So – will you make me this promise, my friend? Will you swear it?'

He waited, until at last Marbeck nodded. Then with a sigh, he closed his eyes.

The horse was named Chacal. Marbeck had been told so by a widow who kept a tiny stable close to Louis Orme's cottage near the Tour de Tanguy. The cottage, Marbeck learned, was to be hers; Monsieur Orme was a widower who had no relatives living. In return, she agreed to carry out the last wishes of her friend, as set out in the letter Marbeck showed her, and provide him with a mount. The letter was in his own hand, but at its end was a scrawled signature – all the dying man had been able to manage. Fortunately, it was recognizable. Which was how, mounted on a stubby French pony, Marbeck came to leave Brest the following day and ride up the Elorn Valley. At Landerneau he crossed the river and turned southwards, to begin his journey to a château on the Scorff, where lived the Comtesse de Paiva.

He was thoughtful as he rode. It was a promise to a dying man, he told himself – several times – but it didn't help much. He had to get a despatch to Cecil, at the first opportunity. Though at least he could reflect while he travelled. Part of him insisted that the journey could prove useful, perhaps shedding light on Spanish activities. He might even uncover the source of what he felt certain was false intelligence – and which, bizarrely, seemed to have emanated from the French interior, before coming thence to the west of England via Brittany.

Other thoughts pleased him less. This was a fool's errand, another part of him reasoned, which stemmed from a moment of weakness. Or had he simply been intrigued by the dying Cyprien's account of the Comtesse de Paiva, whom he seemed to adore? The woman was
close to the Spanish
, the man had said . . . in which case, perhaps, a visit might prove fruitful. As Thomas Wilders, he would pose as a dealer in ordnance – a man with access to cannons that had gone astray from Elizabeth's navy. He had used the story once before; English guns were prized and much sought after. But he must speak to the Comtesse alone, Cyprien had told him. Might her husband pose a difficulty?

He looked about him. The sun had risen, and ahead in the distance was a range of hills:
Les Monts d'Arrée
.
Beyond them was another range he must cross,
Les Montagnes Noires
– the Black Mountains. A hilly country of farms and forests lay beyond, before he would eventually strike the valley of the River Scorff. The river flowed down to join the estuary of the Blavet; there, the Spaniards had once based a fleet. If Cyprien's suspicions were correct, they might yet have vessels in the region.

That at least would be something to tell Sir Robert Cecil, he thought, when he eventually made his way back to London. He could say he had travelled through the heart of Brittany, and made certain that the Spanish had truly departed – hence confirming that intelligence to the contrary was false. It might just persuade Master Secretary that his journey had not been entirely wasted.

With that in mind, he made good speed, heading deeper into the rural interior. The air was sweet and the countryside fair; and so, on the evening of the following day, after a journey of more than seventy miles, he emerged at last from a line of trees and reined in. He was looking down a gentle slope at the valley of the River Scorff – and there below him was the Château des Faucons.

It was smaller than he had expected: the seat of a minor member of the nobility. He scanned the walled gardens and outbuildings. Cattle grazed the surrounding fields, while on the river beyond he saw a landing stage, with small boats drawn up. It was a scene of tranquillity. Why, then, Marbeck asked himself, this feeling of foreboding?