Marbeck and the Privateers (16 page)

‘He lied.' Marbeck broke in. ‘I'm not from the Admiralty court, nor any other court … you've nothing to fear from me. And there are men – decent men – who might help someone like you …'

‘Oh, indeed?' The change in her tone was stark, but he understood. What cause had she to trust any man, after what she'd suffered? ‘But … I will go with you,' she said finally. ‘You've been my saviour – and what other choice have I?'

‘Then try to rest now, and I'll wake you when it's light,' Marbeck said. A weariness had come upon him, yet he doubted he would sleep. He wrapped himself in his cloak and lay back. When he heard Mary stretch herself out, he assumed tiredness would get the better of her. But instead, she suddenly turned to him.

‘I'll tell you his name now. I may speak it in my sleep anyway … I sometimes do, for it's a name I knew before any other. He's the man in whose house I was born … it's but seven or eight miles from where we are now.'

After a moment, Marbeck sat up again.

‘It's a fine manor house, on the hills above Abbotsbury,' Mary went on. ‘It's where Buck goes, sometimes. I might have lived there still, had I been born of another woman … but I was an embarrassment, and a trial to the master's wife. And now, I know he had other plans from me from the beginning. The man who lives in that house, I mean … a knight, one of the richest in the county they say. He claims acquaintance with the highest … owns more land even than they …' She yawned; for a moment he thought she was drifting into sleep – until she spoke the name.

‘He is Sir Edward Quiney,' Mary said. ‘He owns the Sea Locusts, as he owns their captains and much else besides … and he is my true father.'

T
he inn at Dorchester was named the Ship, and it was both well situated and busy, which troubled Marbeck. They could be noticed, here in the centre of the town. But since Mary was weary and he had no wish to search further afield, he hired a small chamber. When she fell asleep within minutes of crawling into the narrow bed, he left her and went out.

It was still early but the town was stirring, and finding an ordinary he ate hungrily. Then, having seen Cobb stabled and fed, he walked into the square where the shambles stood, with stallholders setting out their wares. From there he followed a street to the northern edge of the town, and found himself on the banks of the River Frome. Here, with swans gliding on the water and larks calling from above, he sat down to make his decision. For the choice was plain: he was being pulled in two opposite directions. One led to Salisbury and then to London, and his spymaster. The other, dangerous as it was, lay westward: to Abbotsbury, and the seat of Sir Edward Quiney.

The name was known to him, as it was to many. Quiney, the rake who had spent time at Queen Elizabeth's court; Quiney who had outlived two wives, and being yet in his forties, had married for a third time. Yet he was a man who was not born into wealth, but had acquired it by other means … and much was now explained. Here was one of those who, thwarted by the King's cancelling of letters of reprisal, had been swift to turn his attention to other kinds of seafaring. And there were few more profitable trades, Marbeck thought, than that of abducting people and selling them into slavery.

But it was not unknown: reports sometimes reached London of individuals disappearing from boats out at sea, or from beaches and isolated farms. Seamen spoke with dread of the slave-markets of Tangier, Tunis and Algiers, and of the great Ottoman galleys rowed by slaves. Some female captives were sent eastward, across the Mediterranean to the palace of the Grand Sultan in Constantinople. Marbeck had heard tales of women from as far north as Scandinavia ending up in the harem – though he hadn't known that English sea captains were among the slavers. Again he thought of the
Amity …
and of Gurran, who may or may not have set a needle-bomb to frighten the Spanish …

He got up, stiff from riding, and began to walk downriver through sunlit fields. Cattle grazed and sheep stood on the distant hills; but on the Dorset coast, an evil trade was being practised. The Swann brothers, whose father captained one of the ships; Reuben Beck too, and those in their pay, like John Buck – all were party to it. And behind them was the one who financed the voyages and reaped the lion's share of profit: one of the wealthiest noblemen in the county – who was likely in league with Spanish renegades: ruthless men on both sides, who had become a law to no one but themselves.

A splash startled him, breaking his thoughts. He glanced at the water, saw the circle of ripples where a large fish had leaped to take a fly. Across the river a boy was sitting, fishing pole in hand. He saw Marbeck, took off his straw hat and waved it cheerfully. The lad was about Mary's age. He returned the greeting, and drew a breath.

He wasn't going back to London; he'd known it already. Let Monk berate him all he liked – surely there was something he could do here? Events that took place in foreign lands, even slavery, were outside the reach of English law – but if nothing else, the Sea Locusts might be arraigned as pirates. The
Amity
still came at times to its old port of Weymouth: couldn't a strategy be devised? He wondered what the vessel had been doing in Gravesend … then remembered Elias Fitch's tale. Of course Gurran had set the needle-bomb: a carpenter who sailed on a slave ship would have few scruples about turning his skills to darker use, if the price was high enough … or if he'd been ordered to do it.

Head down in thought, he walked for a mile or so, then turned back towards the town. A scheme was forming, but it was risky, and might involve his finding a new role. He thought of personas he'd employed in recent times – Richard Strang the jobbing lute-player, say, or Thomas Wilders, dealer in ordnance – but rejected them both. For this task he had to be bold, since what he had in mind was nothing less than riding to Sir Edward Quiney's seat and somehow gathering enough evidence to take to Monk, or better still to Lord Cecil. It would give meaning to his journey here … and besides, ever since hearing Mary Kellett's tale he'd been angry. Yet for now, he must rein it in: one slip, and his life would be ended.

Dorchester was bustling by the time he walked through its streets again. Thinking of his promise to Mary, he roamed the shops and the fripperers' stalls and picked out clothes of about the right size: a plain kirtle, skirts and petticoat, stockings and shoes; she would not go barefoot again. Finally he found her a wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off, and laden with purchases, made his way back to the inn. But when he entered the chamber he stopped dead: the bed was empty, and Mary was gone.

Cursing roundly, Marbeck dropped the clothing and went to the window, but the casement was shut fast. He stepped outside and glanced along the passage; chamber doors were open, and a maid was at her work. Standing in the doorway, he asked if she had seen anything of his younger sister, having decided on their relationship there and then; but the woman knew nothing.

Still cursing under his breath, he hurried downstairs and, after a hasty look about the inn, went out into the street. People moved to and fro, and horses clopped by. On a whim he turned left and began walking towards the Guildhall. He passed the turning to South Street, the cross and the water-trough. The town was at its busiest here; he neared the hall … and halted.

There stood Mary Kellett in her tattered gown, her hand outstretched in the manner of beggars the world over. When she saw Marbeck she gave a start, then came towards him with an air of resignation. ‘You can leave me here,' she said, drawing close. ‘I would have gone and …' But she trailed off, for in his relief Marbeck had allowed his anger to surface.

‘So – you ran away from me too.'

‘Please … it's best.' In the daylight she wouldn't meet his eye, but kept hers on the ground. ‘I was going to beg until I made enough to pay a carter to take me somewhere. I owe you much, but you cannot carry me far … and besides, it may already be too late.'

‘What do you mean?' Taking her by the shoulders, he forced her to face him. ‘Have you seen someone?'

She nodded. ‘But not Buck, nor his fellows. It's a man I've not seen in many months. He was here by the Guildhall a while ago, but I don't think he saw me.'

‘Who is he?' Marbeck demanded.

‘I don't know his name. He's a friend of Sir Edward. He came to Abbotsbury sometimes, though he's no Dorset man.'

‘Very well …' Marbeck hesitated, then made his decision. ‘I ask you to go back to the inn. There are clothes for you in the chamber – at least you can dress yourself better. You may ask for water to wash: say your brother ordered it. Then you can choose to wait for me, or to leave. I can't force you, nor will I try …' He paused, as a notion occurred. ‘I've a mind to get you to Cranborne … it's a manor, where I might find a place for you as a kitchen maid. If that doesn't suit—'

‘But it would.' Her hopes rising, Mary's face cleared. ‘It's far away, is it – Cranborne?'

‘Not very far,' Marbeck told her. ‘But you'd be safe there.'

‘Then I'll await you …' She threw a grateful look at him and would have started off, but he stayed her. ‘Wait – this man you saw. Where was he, and what does he look like?'

With a shrug, she told him: he had been talking with others, near the Guildhall. He was somewhat slight, and wore a fine silk doublet; his beard was fair, trimmed to a point … But she faltered then, as Marbeck stared over her head.

‘I see him,' he said, almost to himself. And he started past Mary, pausing only to grip her shoulder. ‘Wait for me, and don't leave the chamber.' Then he was gone.

Mary blinked, then began walking. Once she glanced back, but Marbeck had disappeared. She could not know, of course, that he too had recognized the gaudily dressed man from London, who stood out in this country town like a peacock in a hen-house. Or that Marbeck had last seen him in a tavern in Cosin Lane, where he fought swords with Solomon Tye … and that this same man had struck him on the head before making a hasty retreat.

His name was Simon Jewkes.

 

The Guildhall was busy, a hubbub of male voices with merchants thronging on all sides. Servants dogged their heels, officials came and went and even a few beggars ventured inside, only to be thrown out. Through it all Marbeck moved, alert and watchful; he had lost sight of Jewkes, but had a notion he'd entered the hall. A gathering of some sort was about to take place, he realized, and there was a general movement of men in one direction. Yet he satisfied himself that Jewkes was not among them, and made his way back to the main doors. If the man caught sight of him, his plan would fail before it had begun. And a thought struck him: that his journey to Dorset had not gone unnoticed. If Oxenham could follow him down here, so could others … but with an effort, he dismissed the notion. Surely he was the last person Jewkes would expect to see?

His eyes sweeping the hall for the last time, he ventured out into the sunlight and looked about, but there was no sign of his quarry. He crossed the street and stood beneath an overhang. To his left where West Street petered out, lay the ruins of what had been part of the old town wall. Children were playing, climbing on the stones; idly he turned away … and then, he saw his man.

Quickly he averted his gaze, though he was sure Jewkes hadn't noticed him. He stood perhaps thirty yards off, and seemed to be sniffing the air – as he had done more than a week ago, on the jetty at Salisbury house. He wore different clothes, but there was little doubt it was he; in the shadows, Marbeck waited. And when the man finally moved off and rounded the corner of the main square, he followed. It was only a short walk, however, and his face clouded: Jewkes was entering what looked like a stable. If his horse was there, he would be gone before Marbeck got Cobb saddled …

He paused, thinking on what Mary had said. There was no knowing whether Jewkes was on his way to Quiney's manor, or whether he had been there already and was returning to London. By the time Marbeck had ascertained his direction it could be too late. Following him in daylight would be unwise, and would mean leaving Mary alone. Swift action was called for; that and a measure of luck.

He straightened himself, placed a hand on his sword-hilt and strode to the stable. He passed under the low threshold into the interior, its air heavy with the smell of hay and animals … and there was Jewkes coming towards him, leading a fine roan horse. Both men stopped short, but Marbeck's reactions were quicker.

‘Jewkes … or is it Master Goodenough?'

Silence; in the dim interior, horses shifted and snorted.

‘Simon Jewkes?' Marbeck persisted.

Still the man said nothing; the tip of his tongue emerged to wet his lips, then: ‘You mistake – my name's Combes.'

‘I think not.' Emboldened, Marbeck took a step forward. With some force, it struck him that one clue to the mystery that had racked him for the past nine days was standing before him: a thin-faced, round-shouldered man who dressed like a wealthy merchant, but had the eyes and demeanour of a cutpurse. Moreover, he appeared to be alone.

‘I think you're Jewkes, who hired a man called Solomon Tye to work for you,' he said. And when the other bristled, he went on: ‘I also think you've been poking your fingers where you shouldn't … and when I came looking at the Black Horse, you cracked me on the head. And more—'

‘I suggest you look behind you,' Jewkes said harshly.

Marbeck froze. Was it a footfall he'd heard, or a sound from the street? He looked the man in the eye and bluffed.

‘I care not who's behind me,' he said. ‘I mean to swear out a warrant against you for assault, have you arrested and—' Then he broke off, and whirled about. There had been no noise; the only sign was a glint in Jewkes's eyes, but it was enough.