Marbeck and the Privateers (14 page)

‘Pirates now, who were once seen as patriots,' Woollard said drily. ‘Since the King stopped the licensed plundering that's made so many men wealthy, they've simply widened their activities. And who knows what happens out at sea? If they still attack Spanish ships in defiance of the law, you may be certain they leave no witnesses behind to make a complaint.'

‘I see that,' Marbeck said, thinking fast. ‘But I sense there's more to this than sea-plunder. You told me they voyage far …' Then he caught his breath and looked at Woollard, who merely nodded.

‘Yes – they are slavers too.'

It was obvious: so obvious he should have seen it sooner. And yet his reaction was disappointment rather than outrage. The practice, though wicked enough, would be of little concern to the King or his Privy Council. And it had little bearing on the Spanish, who carried out such activities themselves.

‘A lucrative trade, in captured Africans,' Woollard went on. ‘Yet hardly one that, as you put it, threatens the peace of our nation.'

‘Then why are they so bent on secrecy?' Marbeck wondered, thinking of Buck's words of the night before. Suddenly he thought of Richard Gurran: the man had been a member of the
Amity
's crew.

‘It's the way of such people,' Woollard was saying. ‘And hence there's nothing for you to do here. The Sea Locusts are contrabanders, slave-traders and no doubt more besides, but …' He made a dismissive gesture.

Marbeck let out a long breath. ‘Well, I'll not impose on you further,' he said finally. ‘In the morning we'll part, and I owe you my thanks.'

‘Just guard yourself,' Woollard said. ‘Now I'll go to my books, while my servant lights you to the spare chamber.'

‘With your forbearance, I need some air first,' Marbeck said. ‘The bay beach will be deserted at this hour, will it not?'

‘I suppose so,' Woollard answered, after some hesitation. ‘The Shelf, it's called here. You may encounter a pair of lovers making sport, but …'

‘Discretion shall be my watchword – as it is yours,' Marbeck said, and rose from the table.

Outside, there was a little moonlight to see by. Breathing deeply of the salt air, he turned his back to the town and began to walk. He was irritated, as well as disappointed: in the end, he had learned nothing of value. Meeting Woollard had been fortunate, he'd thought, but now it merely threw his wasted efforts into sharper relief. A long ride back to London loomed ahead, followed by a gloomy session with Levinus Monk … and perhaps more dallying at Salisbury House, staring at the Thames. Head down, he walked through a narrow street, then along a path that led to the bay. Soon loose stones crunched beneath his feet; there were no lights anywhere, though far out to sea he thought he saw a glimmer. Nearing the shoreline, where waves hissed and rattled on the shingle, he made out the faint whiteness of the surf and began to walk parallel to it. He strode faster, working off his frustration as he went. But after a while, having turned everything about, he began to retrace his steps.

He had resolved one thing, at least: he would keep his word, and take Mary Kellett away from John Buck. He would do it the following night, though getting a message to the girl posed a difficulty. He was pondering this when, alarmingly close, there came a crunch of footsteps on the shingle.

He stopped, determined not to be caught out again. Sweeping his sword from his scabbard he swung round, crouching low … whereupon something whistled above his head and landed with a loud
clack!
on the pebbles. A curse rang out in the near-darkness. He glimpsed a silhouette, and levelled his blade.

‘Stand still, or I'll strike!'

But his answer was the sound of another sword being drawn. Whoever it was stumbled on the shingle, cursed again and righted himself.

‘This is foolishness,' Marbeck said harshly. ‘We cannot fence in the dark. And the moon's behind you – I can hardly miss.'

Another curse flew from the lips of his opponent, followed by another rasp of pebbles as the man stepped forward. He was as clumsy as a carthorse, Marbeck thought … then he stiffened, and threw himself backwards as the other's sword arced across in front of him. ‘Enough!' he breathed. ‘I've no wish to fight someone I can't see – lower your blade!'

But his answer was a cry – more of desperation than anything else, it seemed. He was puzzled: this blundering figure was not one of those who had waylaid him the previous night. Such a man would know the terrain, and could have killed him by now had he wished to … but sensing another thrust coming his way, he ceased to think of that. His fighting skills taking over, he merely parried the blow. Swords clashed, sparks leaping in the dark … then Marbeck drew back, lunged and felt his blade penetrate flesh. There was a yelp, and a clatter as his assailant dropped his own sword. With a moan he sank to his knees … whereupon a doleful voice floated out of the night.

‘By the Christ, Marbeck … what have you done?'

In Woollard's candlelit surgery, the man lay sprawled in a chair, his chest smeared with blood. The barber-surgeon had cut his shirt away to expose the wound: a deep gash between the ribs. He worked to stem the blood-flow, his face set in a grimace; but there was little doubt what would happen.

‘The lung is badly pierced,' he said, without looking up. ‘I'll have a corpse on my hands by morning.'

But Marbeck could only stare at the man he had last seen in Castle Lane by St Paul's, asking him if they might strike a bargain. Their eyes met, yet there was no anger in Thomas Oxenham's gaze: merely a look of helplessness.

‘Well then, why not hasten it?' the wounded man said hoarsely, his eyes on Woollard. ‘Pour a vial of something down my throat, and spare yourself the wait …'

‘Be quiet!' Woollard snapped. ‘Save your breath for sweeter words …' He sighed. ‘Must I fetch a parson?'

‘No …' Slowly, Oxenham shook his head. ‘No parson or priest … but I need some time alone with my friend here.'

At that Woollard stiffened, then faced Marbeck. ‘I wish you'd never set foot in my house,' he said angrily. ‘And I wish to know nothing of what's between you and this man. There's just one thing you can do, to make amends—'

‘Dispose of my body?'

It was Oxenham who spoke. A wheezing laugh followed, then a cough which brought a bubble of blood to his lips. With a muttered oath, Woollard bent over him and dabbed at his mouth.

‘Aye, he may do it,' the dying man said. ‘Take me out in a boat, weight me with stones and heave me over the side … a watery grave will serve as well as any other.'

Nobody spoke for a while after that. The surgeon patched the wound, drew a length of cloth about Oxenham's body and bound it, while the man's breath soughed in his windpipe. Marbeck stood by, until finally Woollard straightened up.

‘There's nothing more to be done,' he said. ‘I've dulled the wound with clove oil, but when air invades the chest cavity the heart will likely fail. And that, Giles Blunt, will be the end of my part in this.'

The intelligencers eyed him: a man who had once been in the same service as they, though only Marbeck knew it. Finally, it was Oxenham who broke the silence again. ‘There's a purse at my belt, master surgeon,' he said. ‘Take what you will, and give the rest to this man. He'll find a use for it.'

Woollard drew a breath, but made no reply.

‘And it was no jest … about burying me at sea,' Oxenham went on. ‘I meant to disappear when my task was done; this one last act of idiocy …' He turned to Marbeck. ‘You were right, about it being foolish. I was never made for such sport.'

His voice was weak, his skin a deathly grey beneath what Marbeck now saw was not floridness, but deep sunburn. He turned to Woollard, but the surgeon was already moving away.

‘I'll leave you,' he murmured. ‘Call me when … when you must.'

He went out, closing the door. Outside the window a breeze had got up, carrying the noise of the surf with it. As soon as they were alone, Marbeck slumped down on the stool where he'd sat that morning to have his ear mended. ‘So – instead of hunting Solomon Tye, you followed me all the way here,' he said at last. ‘Why did you so? Or rather, who ordered you—'

‘Not Monk,' Oxenham broke in. ‘You may set your mind at rest there.' He wheezed again, a feeble attempt at laughter. ‘You've never had any difficulty making enemies, Marbeck, but he's not one of them. Even though it's often our own kind we fear most, is it not?'

Marbeck made no reply.

‘And yet …' The dying man paused, wincing in pain. ‘By the Christ, it hurts. Despite our friend's clove oil …' He exhaled slowly. ‘Not long ago, if any man had told me I'd perish within the sound of the sea, I'd have called him a liar. For after I returned to England, I swore I'd never go near it again.'

‘Which sea was that?' Marbeck asked, for want of anything else to say.

‘It's a fair question, for I've seen several,' Oxenham answered. ‘The Mediterranean and the Ionian, to name but two … but it was in the Tyrrhenian Sea I met my nemesis …' He groaned; speaking was becoming a strain. ‘Then, I fear I've no time for traveller's tales. You should hear of the man who's sworn to have you killed, or kill you himself.'

Marbeck frowned. ‘What man …?' he began – then a notion sprang up, that made him draw a sharp breath.

‘He calls himself El Roble,' the other answered. ‘In Spanish it means “the Oak” … but his true name is—'

‘Juan Roble.'

Oxenham saw the look on his face, and fell silent. But for Marbeck the name hung in the air, and years rolled away.

Juan Roble: the Spanish spymaster whose circle of agents he had broken four years ago, after the man's beautiful lover, the Comtesse de Paiva, had cried out his name in a French château; Roble, who had despatched forged letters only last year, designed to fall into Cecil's hands and brand Marbeck a traitor. And now, in a house in Dorset, he heard the name again from the mouth of a man who would die by his own hand …

‘I see you know of him … you'd best come closer.' There was urgency in Oxenham's voice; Marbeck stood up and moved nearer to him.

‘There are things I'll tell,' he said. ‘They matter not to me now, but I ask something in return. Do you swear you will do it for me?'

His face taut, Marbeck nodded briefly.

‘Go to my father, Richard Oxenham. He's a shoemaker in Dover … almost blind, lives near the quays. Make sure he's safe – for he's the reason I had to kill you – among others. You see, I first thought I'd despatched you back in London, when I doctored your drink.'

Marbeck stared. ‘It was you who tried to poison me …?'

His answer was a feeble nod. ‘Your pardon for that,' Oxenham sighed, with an attempt at a smile. ‘But had I refused the order, they said my father would die the same vile death I faced. And that's a death I wouldn't wish on any man … save perhaps those who mete it out to others.'

‘
They
said?' Marbeck echoed. ‘You mean Roble?'

‘I never set eyes on him – but one of his captains had me at his mercy, in Algiers …' Oxenham screwed his eyes up, as if at some terrible memory. ‘Listen to me, Marbeck. There's a fleet – a force of pirates and raiders that spreads terror before it, and anguish in its wake. Their reach stretches from the Azores to the Levant: and behind it are a group of wicked men: Spaniards, all-powerful. Roble is one of them – El Roble, I should say. I know nothing of the others, but their name is feared across the Mediterranean: Las Langostas
–
it means—'

‘Locusts – the Sea Locusts.'

‘Yes …' Oxenham's eyes narrowed. ‘You've already heard this?'

Slowly, Marbeck nodded, trying to order his feelings: remorse tempered with amazement – and despite everything, a grim sense of satisfaction. Weighing every word, he leaned close. ‘Tell me all you can,' he murmured. ‘I must know this.'

‘Las Langostas
despise their own king,' Oxenham went on, after a moment. ‘They think Philip a pious fool, and a traitor to his father's wishes. They hate the peace he now makes with our king. They've broken loose, made their base on islands where there's no law … like Formentera, where the salt-fields lie. They're renegades like others in Barbary – and can you believe that some of them are Englishmen?'

He coughed, and his hand shook; all Marbeck could do was nod. ‘I think I can,' he answered.

‘Well, there now … I've made amends,' the other sighed. ‘And so can you, Marbeck. I've a horse nearby, stabled in the White Hart Inn. Sell it, and my pack too; everything I own is inside it. Then go to my father and tell him of my death … only embroider it, won't you? So that he may go to his grave in peace … he'd given up all hope of my being aught but a disappointment. A city dandy and a spendthrift … if only he'd known.' He smiled feebly, and his eyelids fluttered. ‘
Ecce Aurora
, eh?'

‘
Ecce Aurora
,' Marbeck repeated.

Suddenly he felt exhausted: a tiredness in his bones, that no sleep would assuage. He looked into Oxenham's face, saw his approaching end – then gave a start.

‘You said you had to kill me, among others? Who …?'

But it was no use; he looked into his fellow-intelligencer's face, and saw his approaching end.

‘Oxenham, listen to me,' he said urgently. ‘You've done much – given me tidings we can use. I'll carry them to Cecil … then I'll ride to Dover and find your father. He'll hear news of you that will gladden his heart … this I swear. You can rest – take heart, and rest.'

But the other barely heard him. His breath came in rasps, and another crimson bubble appeared at his mouth. Finally his eyes closed, and his chest rose and fell, ever more slowly.