Marbeck and the Privateers (9 page)

‘No, don't!' Fitch shook his head quickly. ‘It's not part of my craft – to make such a thing would risk the gallows.'

But he wore another expression now: one of disappointment. Marbeck had expected the man to deny knowledge of the needle-bomb, but now doubts arose. Was Fitch regretting the loss of potential business? ‘Then you couldn't contrive such a device?' he asked. ‘Or you could, but you didn't make the one I speak of?' When the other hesitated, he added: ‘Well … perhaps we might do business anyway.'

The other's greedy look returned at once. ‘How so?'

‘I mean, if you knew of another who might have constructed such a weapon,' Marbeck replied. ‘And if you were to point me to him, another shilling could be yours.'

At that Fitch began a struggle with himself, of a sort not unfamiliar. Fear and greed did battle: fear of informing on another rogue like himself, which might have grave consequences, vied with the risk of losing a shilling – a day's wage for a craftsman. Finally, to Marbeck's silent relief, greed won the day.

‘You leave here without having seen me,' Fitch said.

Marbeck's silence served for assent.

‘And were you to tell anyone I'd named the man – one I know only by reputation, you understand – I'd deny it on oath.'

A further assent.

‘More, you don't return here. And the price is not shillings, but a half-angel.'

Slowly, Marbeck reached in his purse. But having found the coin, he kept it in his fist until the other stepped closer, and with the air of a stage conspirator, said: ‘Seek out Richard Gurran – a needle-maker, turned joiner.'

But the name was unknown to him; and frowning, he withheld the coin. ‘Where might he be found, this Gurran?' he demanded. ‘For in a city of two hundred thousand souls, one might speak of other needles …'

‘I cannot say with certainty,' Fitch said quickly. ‘I spoke the name truthfully, and you must seek him for yourself.'

‘Where?' Marbeck demanded. ‘I need more than that.' He moved towards Fitch, who shrank away.

‘Well … he's probably at sea by now.'

‘You mean he's fled the country already?' Marbeck loomed over his informant, who took a step back. His old poniard reappeared – then he gave a yelp. With a rapid movement Marbeck seized his wrist and twisted it, forcing him to drop the weapon. As it clattered to the floor, he pulled the man close.

‘By the Christ, let go of me!' Fitch cried. ‘I spoke truly: he's a seaman, the sort you'd do well to steer clear of. If 'twas he made the device, he'll have gone back to his ship. It's called the
Amity
… that's all I know. Now release me!'

Frowning, Marbeck let go of him. A seaman … With a curse on his lips, he thought suddenly of Limehouse. He might even have been close to the man, only the day before. Absently, he held out the coin. Fitch snatched it, then scuttled past him to the doorway.

‘We're finished!' he said angrily. ‘Now get you gone, before I call for a friend who'll break both your legs!'

But Marbeck barely heard him. Without looking back he went to the door and stepped outside.

Two hours later however, after he had made his way back into the city, and walked most of the length of Thames Street and back again, his mood had changed. For it took only a few casual enquiries on the quays to learn of the vessel the
Amity
.

She was a fast merchantman of a hundred tons, he was told, with a crew of about fifty men. She carried ten guns, and often sailed the Channel – and further, to the Bay of Biscay and beyond; she rarely came to London. In the days of licensed sea-plunder she had made many voyages under her master: a man of bad reputation, who went by the name of Reuben Beck. But it was one last piece of news that struck Marbeck most forcibly, and sent him hurrying to the nearest stairs to hail a boat.

The
Amity
, he discovered, had sailed that very morning from Gravesend bound for her home port: Weymouth.

B
ack in his cluttered chamber at Salisbury House, Marbeck made up his pack. A restlessness was upon him: a desire to follow a trail, and hang the consequences. And though it was based on little more than instinct, and the testimony of a toothless man in a Limehouse tavern, he meant to pursue it. Let Oxenham hunt for Solomon Tye, and others watch Somerset House: Marbeck had found a reason to leave Cecil's mansion, with its oppressive atmosphere. He was about ready to depart when the door opened, and there stood Langton the steward wearing a look that would sour fresh milk.

‘I sought you earlier, Blunt, but you seem to be everywhere except at your duties,' he droned, with a glance at the untouched piles of papers. ‘It's come to my attention that you've been using Miller for private purposes – purposes of pleasure, I might say.'

‘Might you, master steward?' Marbeck buckled the straps on his pack and straightened up. ‘I thought your place was to see that I was well bestowed, then leave me to my own devices.'

The other frowned. ‘My place?' he echoed. ‘You wouldn't dare presume to tell me that.'

‘I presume nothing,' Marbeck said. ‘And I have to leave again, on business for the Lord Secretary.'

‘That's odd,' Langton sniffed. ‘In fact my lord exchanged a few words with me about you this morning, before he left for Somerset House.' Seeing that he had Marbeck's attention, he added: ‘You'll be aware that he's now in residence here, in his private rooms. But he has issued orders he's not to be disturbed at this crucial time, while the talks are in process with the Spanish delegation – not for any reason. He was particular about including you in that instruction – almost as if he thought you might try to seek an audience with him. Though that would be highly presumptuous, in any case.'

‘It would,' Marbeck agreed, with relief. He had no intention of asking to see Cecil; in fact just now he preferred to avoid him. He was summoning some words to get rid of the steward, when another thought occurred. ‘By the way: I stumbled across that fellow I saw by the stairs two days ago,' he said brightly. ‘The one you claimed had never been here – name of Jewkes.'

Langton stiffened.

‘He gets about a good deal, I gather,' Marbeck persisted, enjoying the other's discomfort. ‘Yet I confess it has troubled me, your denying all knowledge of him. Then, you're a man who obeys orders to the letter, I see. Loyal to the last.'

‘In that you are correct,' the steward said after a moment. But he spoke low, the phrase almost catching in his throat. Marbeck pressed on.

‘So if you were told to invite the man here, on the very day I arrived – on some pretext of business, perhaps … and then send him away again, saying your master was too busy to see him, you would of course carry out that instruction. You understand that this is mere speculation on my part.'

The other said nothing, though his unease increased.

‘You dislike telling lies, don't you, Master Langton?' Marbeck said, in a different tone. And when the other blanched, he went on: ‘Even for our Lord Secretary, who in turn is often obliged to lie himself, on the King's behalf. We're all deceivers, aren't we?'

‘Yet I am a Langton of Hertford, who has served the Cecils faithfully all his life, as my father did before me,' the steward replied, puffing himself up. ‘Whereas you are …' He hesitated. ‘Well – were I a gambler, I'd lay odds your name's not Blunt, for one thing.'

‘I
am
a gambler,' Marbeck said. ‘And I'd lay similar odds you know very well who Simon Jewkes is: a double-dealing cockroach who appears to be hiding himself much of the time. Why the man would believe Lord Cecil wanted to see him, I can't imagine.'

But Langton was recovering. ‘How dare you question me!' he snapped, with sudden anger. ‘I'm a gentleman chamberlain, who commands respect all over London! You're insolent … unfit to be in my lord's service. I could have you thrown out onto the street!'

‘There's no need,' Marbeck told him. ‘I'm taking my leave anyway … I'd express gratitude for your hospitality, but I'd be lying.'

And picking up his pack, he moved to the door. For a brief moment Langton blocked his path, then with a snort of indignation stood aside. Without looking at him Marbeck stepped out into the passage and walked towards the stairs.

An hour later, having crossed the Thames by ferry, he was mounted and on the road to Wandsworth. From there he would travel west to Kingston, and should make Cobham by evening. After that a long ride stretched ahead: Woking, Basingstoke, Andover and Salisbury. He was uncertain of his way beyond Salisbury, but he would find it; he thought it led through Blandford and Dorchester. With a fresh breeze in his face he spurred Cobb through the Surrey fields, as London fell far behind.

The next morning he awoke in unfamiliar surroundings, then remembered he was not in Cobham, but in Woking. The road was good, and the horse had run well after several days in the Salisbury House stable, taking him further than he'd hoped. After a breakfast of hard bread, bacon and peas he left the inn and was soon on the road again, crossing the border from Surrey into Hampshire. It was twenty miles to Basingstoke, where he halted to water Cobb. Then he was back in the saddle, with the Marlborough Downs rising to the north and west. By late afternoon he was in the old town of Andover: roughly halfway. Here he decided to rest himself and his mount, and to take stock of what lay ahead.

He was bound for Weymouth, and with luck and a good road would arrive there by the end of the next day. Then he intended to await the
Amity
, and seek out a crewman by the name of Richard Gurran. By riding, he was well ahead of the ship, which might take a week to reach the Dorset port. Meanwhile he would wander the town, and see if the castle was indeed falling into the sea as he had been told. Not that it seemed to have any bearing on his investigation, despite Fahz's words. Having found an inn in Andover, he installed himself in the taproom and took a mug … and only now did he face up to the flimsiness of his quest.

As long shots went, he thought wryly, this had to be one of the longest he'd taken. More, by taking off like this he would incur the wrath of Monk, and probably that of Lord Cecil too. But then, he had matters to delve into: the Sea Locusts for one. In this quiet Hampshire inn, he pondered the name once again.

Weymouth, like other south-coast ports, was a departure point for many places. In Queen Elizabeth's time merchantmen, armed and refitted, had sailed out to waylay Spanish treasure ships and rob them. It was a lucrative wartime activity, licensed and carried out with the monarch's blessing: after all, she received a handsome share of the plunder. Many high-ranking lords, including some of the Privy Council themselves, had invested in ships of reprisal. But now everything had changed, with King James's banning of such practices to appease the Spanish – to the chagrin of those who'd reaped good returns from the business. So it was unsurprising that some were suspected of defying the ban, at the risk of being condemned as common pirates; the grim sight of Execution Dock at Wapping came to mind, as Marbeck had seen it from Miller's boat. So, was that it? Were the Sea Locusts simply a crew of pirates?

He was yawning; it would have to wait. Putting the matter aside he finished his drink and went to order a supper. Once again, stiff and saddle-sore from his long ride, he slept soundly and rose to another warm day.

May was almost over, and the countryside hummed with life as he rode across the Wiltshire plain towards Salisbury. Back in London, he reflected, some of the most important men in England, men like Lord Cecil and the Earl of Nottingham, and the Lord Treasurer too, were sat in a chamber in Somerset House hung with fine tapestries. Facing them across a table spread with a rich Turkey carpet would be the Spaniards and their allies, including Count Juan de Tassis. Each day they would wrangle over terms and demands, conditions and concessions. For many people, the outcome was in little doubt: neither side wanted the talks to fail. But there were others, perhaps, who hoped they would.

Marbeck turned the matter over again on his journey from Andover to Salisbury. Later he passed near Cranborne, one of Cecil's own manors, which his lordship never visited. From there it was a long ride up the Stour valley to Dorchester, until he found himself on a windswept southward route – an old Roman road – with the scent of the sea in his nostrils. With evening drawing in, he topped the rise called the Ridgeway and descended via the villages of Upwey and Broadwey. Then it was a further three miles, until finally he reined in. Before him, clinging to the curve of Weymouth Bay, was the town of Melcombe Regis. And beyond, joined to it by a bridge across the River Wey, was Weymouth itself.

So as twilight fell, he dismounted and led his tired mount through cobbled streets to the wooden bridge that separated the two towns. The bridge was but a few years old, having replaced a ferry on a rope: a sign of the division between these communities that had at times erupted into bitter rivalry. Marbeck had heard of old feuds and trade disputes that had led an impatient Queen Elizabeth to issue a charter making them one town. And as he left the bridge and stepped on to the stones of Weymouth quay, an odd feeling came over him: of passing through a kind of barrier … or even crossing a border.

When he stopped and looked about however, he saw only a small but thriving seaport. The masts of ships riding at anchor towered above him; taller ones were visible towards the harbour mouth. Children ran about in the fading light, while fishwives gossiped and men walked the quayside, their voices drowned by the din of seabirds wheeling overhead. Small houses and shops crowded the narrow strip between the water and the steep hill behind: sail-makers, ships' victuallers, cook-houses … and a tavern, the King's Arms, where lights burned. Turning from the waterside, he led Cobb by the reins through an archway into a stable-yard, where an ostler took charge of him. Then he made his way into the inn.