Marbeck and the Privateers (5 page)

The dock was noisy, barges and lighters being unloaded and men scurrying everywhere. After looking about the Salt Wharf, Marbeck made his way along the waterside, past the turnings into Stew Lane and Timber Street. He'd thought of looking for Simon Jewkes, even though the chances of running into him were slim. Then as he arrived at Broken Wharf he struck lucky, if not in the way he'd hoped. Standing idly at a corner was someone he had not seen in many months. The moment the fellow caught sight of Marbeck he turned away and sloped off … only to round another corner, and find him standing in his path.

‘Good morrow, Peter,' Marbeck said.

Peter Mayne lurched to a halt, a curse on his lips. ‘Sands … what the devil do you want?'

‘I thought we'd exchange gossip.'

The other scowled. A former seaman, his body ruined by a life of hardship and disease, he picked up a meagre living on the wharves, begging and stealing when necessary. Marbeck had often found him useful, even if the man was not a natural informant. He knew Marbeck by the name he'd employed in the past: John Sands. And though he no longer used it, it would serve just now. ‘There's a penny for you,' he said. ‘Or would you prefer me to buy you a mug?'

Mayne's expression didn't alter. ‘I'll not drink with you,' he grunted. ‘But a penny would do, for charity's sake.'

‘Soon,' Marbeck said. He gestured towards the Thames. ‘Will you walk?'

So they moved to the riverside, and along it towards the opening of Trig Lane, Mayne with the shuffling gait by which he was known. After a while he said: ‘What manner of gossip do you want? If it's about the Dutch lords, you'd best go down to the Tower Wharf. They're coming up from Gravesend …'

‘So I've heard,' Marbeck said. ‘I'm more curious about a man you'll know, a familiar sight about the Quays. Simon Jewkes, he of the three hands. Have you seen him about?'

A frown creased Mayne's brow. ‘I might have,' he answered. When Marbeck slowed his pace, he added: ‘I might even know where he can be found … did you say two pennies?'

‘I might have,' Marbeck echoed drily. ‘But if you mean the man's residence, I could find that easily enough.'

‘Not now, you couldn't,' Mayne retorted. ‘If you're thinking of the house near Tower Hill, he don't live there any more. He takes rooms when he's in London, does business other places.'

‘So, which inn does he use at present?' Casually, Marbeck reached for his purse. But instead of answering him Mayne said: ‘I want my name kept out of it.' Marbeck peered at the man, and saw a nervousness that was unlike him.

‘Does something trouble you?' he enquired.

Mayne gave a start. ‘Like what?'

‘I know Jewkes is a varlet. But why would he object to your pointing me to him, if it's on business?'

The
wharf weasel,
as Mayne was sometimes called, was decidedly uneasy. He rubbed his unkempt beard and said: ‘Mayhap he's changed his ways, grown suspicious, from dealing in cargos he shouldn't. He has two fellows with him now, as a rule: the sort who'd tap you on the head and roll you off the quay's edge … You follow me?'

At this Marbeck's curiosity was aroused: his sight of Jewkes the day before, on the jetty at Salisbury House, seemed to take on a new significance. He opened his purse and drew coins out. ‘The place where he stays at present,' he said. ‘Then we part, and I'll forget I saw you.' Whereupon he opened his palm to reveal two pennies.

Mayne sniffed, stuck out a grimy hand and spoke the name.

It was downriver, by the Steelyard. Marbeck threaded his way along the waterside, avoiding handcarts and porters with loads on their backs. He passed the Three Cranes and Emperor's Head Lane, but at Grantham Lane turned left and walked away from the river as far as Thames Street. He mingled briefly with the dense crowds, before crossing Dowgate and turning right into Cosin Lane. Here, outside the Black Horse, he stopped and thought.

He was puzzled that a man like Jewkes, who had always made money and enjoyed the comforts it brought, should lodge in an unsavoury tavern like the Black Horse. He was also surprised to hear that the man had, as Peter Mayne claimed, sold his townhouse. Jewkes was a Londoner to his bones and lived by trade, dealing in goods which arrived by the river. Having pondered the matter Marbeck pushed open the door, his hand hovering by instinct near his sword-hilt. On entering, however, he relaxed somewhat: the place was quiet, the only customers a few men from the nearby yards. Despite the late May sunshine outside, the interior of the tavern with its tiny unwashed windows was gloomy. He glanced about, then as the drawer approached, put on a grin.

‘Have you a pie, or a dish of pottage for a hungry man?'

But the other shook his head; as sour-faced tavern-keepers went, Marbeck thought, this one could win prizes. ‘This is no ordinary,' he said. ‘If you want to drink and smoke, you can drink and smoke. Aught else, there's the door.'

‘Well, but you could have something sent in, could you not?' Marbeck asked innocently. ‘I've done well at the tables … I could do with a wench to share in my luck, too.'

‘You mean you want a private room?' The drawer shook his head again. ‘We've chambers above, but they're taken.'

‘By …?' Marbeck raised an eyebrow.

‘By Master Goodenough, since you ask.' The man spread his hands and waited – then his face fell.

‘Goodenough?' Marbeck beamed at him. ‘How splendid! I'll go and surprise him … I haven't seen him in years.'

‘Nay – he's not here.' In some confusion, the drawer moved to block Marbeck, who having seen the stairs in the corner, was starting towards them. ‘I can't say when he'll return.'

‘All the better,' Marbeck said brightly. Drinkers were looking curiously at him, perhaps taking him for a gallant who'd strayed somewhat out of his territory. ‘I'll wait for him,' he added. ‘You can send up a jug of Rhenish …'

‘I don't have any Rhenish, and you can't go,' the other snapped. He made to seize Marbeck by the arm … then froze. From nowhere a poniard had appeared and was pressed lightly against his side, concealed by a fold of his apron. Still smiling, with his other hand Marbeck reached for his purse.

‘Garnish for you, if you let me go up,' he said softly, leaning close. ‘A cut below your ribs if you don't.'

A moment passed, in which the drawer wet his lips and looked around. Finding eyes upon him, he managed a nod. ‘As you wish, sir,' he said loudly. ‘I'll … see what I can find, send someone up with a tray …' And stepping aside, he gestured to the stairway. Marbeck found a coin and threw it up, forcing the man to catch it, then walked unhurriedly away. His poniard had disappeared, none but the drawer having been aware of its presence.

He climbed the stairs, glancing back once to see that no one was paying him particular attention. On the upper floor he paused at the sight of two closed doors, then chose the nearer one and knocked. There was no answer; he knocked again and heard a noise, as if someone had got up abruptly from a bed – but it came from behind the other door. At once he moved to it and tried the handle. It opened, and he threw it wide but didn't enter – which proved to be wise. For the next second a figure sprang into view, sword in hand … only to stop dead on finding the point of Marbeck's rapier at his chest.

But it wasn't Simon Jewkes: it was Solomon Tye.

In surprise the two men stared at each other: Crown agents both, one on active service … the other, whom Marbeck had seen two days ago at the Fortune Theatre, apparently returned from the dead. For Tye, recognition took longer; when it came, he lowered his sword in surprise.

‘Marbeck?'

‘Tye … or is it Master Goodenough?' Marbeck kept his own sword levelled. ‘Interesting name – but is that any way to greet a fellow?'

The other made no reply. His chest rose and fell, while Marbeck took a good look at him. It had been years, and in that time the man had changed: once handsome enough, his face was now gaunt, the crows' feet about his eyes streaked with lines of deep sunburn. Finally he drew a breath, and dropped his eyes to the rapier.

‘Is that necessary?'

‘It depends,' Marbeck said, but after a moment he lowered the blade. ‘I came here seeking another … perhaps you'll serve instead. May I come in?'

T
he conversation that followed was tense; and from the start, Marbeck felt as if he were facing a suspect rather than another intelligencer. Though sometimes, of course, the two were one and the same. He took the only seat, a rickety stool, while the other sat on the bed. Neither spoke for a while, until Marbeck decided to break the silence.

‘Some thought you were dead,' he murmured. ‘You crossed the Channel and vanished … when was it, five years back?'

He glanced round the squalid little chamber: compared with this place, his old room at the Three Cups would have appeared pleasant. Then he regarded Solomon Tye, who looked somewhat unkempt. His rust-red doublet, though of good quality, was second-hand and a poor fit, while his brown hair was lank and untidy …

‘Why are you here?' Tye asked him abruptly.

‘I would ask the same of you.'

‘Does it matter? I've transgressed no laws, have I?'

‘I came seeking a man named Jewkes,' Marbeck said. ‘I was told he lodged here – hence my surprise, on finding you.'

‘I don't know anyone of that name,' Tye said at once. He met Marbeck's eye, daring him to dispute it.

‘I saw you at the Fortune, on Monday,' Marbeck said instead. ‘Did you enjoy the play? One of his best, I've often thought.'

‘I was there,' Tye admitted. ‘I didn't enjoy it much.'

‘I wonder if the Spanish ambassador did,' Marbeck said. ‘Count Juan de Tassis, that is. You were staring up at him from the pit, as I recall.'

‘Is that who it was?' The other raised his eyebrows. ‘I saw a foreign lord, surrounded by lackeys. How times have changed, if Spaniards can walk about London without fear of arrest.'

‘Or of being shot at,' Marbeck replied, watching him carefully. But there was no reaction. Tye looked away briefly, then said: ‘I've no business with you, Marbeck, and no quarrel. I won't ask what you're about, and you know better than to ask me. We have our tasks—'

‘And you know better than to treat me as a fool,' Marbeck broke in. ‘I asked about Jewkes … what's he to you?'

They eyed each other. Tye threw a glance at his sword, which he had placed on the bed. Marbeck had sheathed his, but with a casual movement his right hand wandered across his lap, to rest near the scabbard. He barely knew the other man, but had heard of his ruthlessness, as well as his prowess with foil or rapier.

‘I told you – I never heard of him,' Tye answered. ‘As you said yourself, I've been away for a while.'

‘I wonder where,' Marbeck mused. ‘Somewhere warm? You look as if you've been in the sun.'

The other said nothing.

‘I was with Levinus Monk at the Fortune,' Marbeck added in a conversational tone. ‘He's everywhere these days, like a busy huswife – like the biblical Martha. Some even call him Martha behind his back, did you know? He was curious about you. I think he'd have mentioned it, had you been in his service.'

‘Are you certain of that?' Tye enquired. ‘Our masters have always told us what they need to, and no more.' Unexpectedly, a smile tugged at the man's mouth. ‘Now I recall something else. I heard a rumour that you'd done a little outside business, last year … helped in the capture of one of our own people. Thomas Luce, wasn't it?'

Though he showed no emotion, Marbeck felt a stab of anger. The charge against him – a ruse by the Spanish to smear his name, and sow doubt within Cecil's intelligence service – had been false. But he hadn't forgotten how it felt to be under suspicion, shunned by his own spymaster. After a moment he said: ‘I'm intrigued to know where you heard that. Surely not in Spain, whence the rumour came?'

The other's smile faded. ‘I've never been there … and this conversation grows tedious. Shall we save our discourse for another day?'

Marbeck was about to speak, but all at once there came a noise from the passage outside: footsteps on the stairs. He glanced towards the door – which, it appeared, was the opportunity Tye had awaited.

Seizing his sword, he sprang up from the bed and lunged at Marbeck, who managed to avoid the thrust. He leaped aside, and the blade missed its target, but the momentum threw Tye off balance. Reaching for his own sword, Marbeck struck his assailant with his fist, the two of them lurching across the room. But as Tye recovered himself, the door flew open. Marbeck threw a quick glance, and saw the man he had come to seek, framed in the entrance. Simon Jewkes, in a fine doublet and feathered hat, stared at the two of them in surprise. Marbeck whirled to face his opponent again – too late.

Tye cracked him on the jaw, stunning him. Then with an unpleasant crunch, something thudded on his skull from behind. In a daze he fell to his knees, aware of someone brushing past him. There was a hasty, muttered exchange of voices above his head, before a savage kick to his side sent him sprawling. Then the door slammed and he was left alone, while two sets of footsteps thundered on the stairs and out of earshot.

Weakly, Marbeck got to his knees again. He tasted blood, while the back of his head throbbed and his ribs hurt … He breathed deeply, pressing a hand to his side, and retched.

But as he slumped to a sitting position, the question rose starkly in his mind: what connection could there be, between Solomon Tye and Simon Jewkes?

In the afternoon he returned to Salisbury House, trying to slip in unnoticed. He had tidied his appearance and fortified himself with a mug of spiced ale, though not at the Black Horse. His departure from that place had been awkward, if not embarrassing. When he'd descended the stairs, walking slowly, every eye was upon him. The surly drawer, for his part, merely watched him make his way to the door in silence. But the worst part was that he had let Tye get away – and instinct told him the man would not return to the Black Horse.