Marbeck and the Privateers (18 page)

Sitting beside the carrier in her new clothes, she looked what she was: a slim girl of eleven years, but one who had been cruelly used, and had ceased to be a child. In the end, as they parted she found no words, merely allowed the tall carrier to lift her onto the bench, where she sat staring ahead. But when the man at last cracked his long whip and sent it snaking over the heads of the horses, Marbeck saw her shoulders droop.

He watched the wagon pull away, his thoughts already turning to business. Together with the letter to the steward at Cranborne, he had given Mary another, marked urgently for Lord Cecil himself. It contained a hasty report he had compiled the evening before; he could only hope that the steward saw fit to send it promptly to his master in London.

By midmorning he had paid the inn's reckoning and left the town, riding out on the southward road towards the Downs. The sun had disappeared, and clouds scudded in from the west, but he barely noticed. Sitting high in the saddle with a haughty air, richly dressed and clean-shaven, he prepared to take on his role as Marcus Janes.

The rain began after he had crossed the Downs and was walking Cobb through the tiny village of Upwey. Forced to shelter in a barn to protect his new clothes, he waited for the shower to pass, then rode on through Broadwey and downhill towards the coast. By the time Melcombe came into view the afternoon was waning, but he would not wait for nightfall. Instead he dismounted and led the horse into the town. When last here, he'd been Giles Blunt: black-clad and bearded. Now he was bejewelled, dressed in russet-and-gold silk and beardless. With the effect of those changes and his new manner, he felt confident enough. Soon he was passing through rain-washed streets to the house close to the sea, and knocking on Woollard's door. It opened, the man appeared, and almost jumped off his feet.

‘Good Christ!' He drew back, peering through his spectacles. ‘What in heaven's name do you want?'

‘Best if I come in, isn't it?' Marbeck said.

‘No! You've brought me troubles enough …'

‘Not as bad as others I could bring,' Marbeck said. ‘Will you admit me, or do I make a coil here on the doorstep?'

Woollard cursed audibly, but went back into the house leaving the door ajar. In a moment Marbeck was safely inside, following the man into his parlour.

‘Well?' Angrily the barber-surgeon faced him. ‘Haven't I done enough for you, or is there another corpse to shift?'

Without invitation, Marbeck sank wearily onto a stool. The ride from Dorchester was only eight miles, but he was still recovering from his drinking bout of the night before. Forgetting about Marcus Janes, he pulled out a kerchief and wiped the grime of the road from his face.

‘I've no choice but to ask you to aid me further, Woollard,' he said finally. ‘It will mean stepping aside from your cosy life and working for me … or rather for Cecil, in the end. I can't promise reward, or even thanks. But you still know right from wrong, I believe. As I believe you'll step up to the mark when you have to.'

‘The what?' Woollard's face fell: suddenly, he looked a haggard old man. ‘You don't mean that … and in any case, I'd be no use! To the devil with Cecil – and with you too!'

‘That's what I expected you to say,' Marbeck replied. He looked round the man's chamber: at his flasks and instruments, his books and wall-charts of anatomy. ‘But I've set a course, and I need you. Or are you content to let the Sea Locusts thrive, carrying children like Mary Kellett to the slave-marts of Algiers?'

At that Woollard swallowed audibly. ‘You're not serious, are you? I've told you of those people, as I've told you I'm known to them …' He stared, his fear plain to see. ‘Do you wish to cause my demise, as you did that of the poor wretch you ran through with your sword?'

‘Not if I can help it,' Marbeck said. He turned as the door opened, and there stood a plain woman who had to be Woollard's servant. For a moment he wondered why it wasn't she who'd answered the door, then remembered she was deaf.

‘Leave us,' Woollard said loudly. ‘All's well.' But as the woman started to go, he called her back. ‘Place the sign on the door – I'm not to be troubled.' She went out, whereupon he found Marbeck's gaze upon him.

‘See now, this won't do … I've too much to lose,' he began in an exasperated tone. ‘People here rely on me. I'm not suited for danger any more …'

‘You live with it daily, do you not?' Marbeck eyed him without expression. ‘You said you've been useful to these people, the Sea Locusts. They let you practise, but they could rein you in any time they choose.'

‘Precisely so,' Woollard retorted. ‘And I've no intention of offending them. I was hard pressed enough to get the body of your friend away without attracting attention—'

‘Indeed,' Marbeck said. ‘But you've already shot your bolt there. The man was Thomas Oxenham, one of Cecil's intelligencers. Once he hears of it he'll have you brought to London, tied to a horse. I might even be the one who has to convey you.'

‘What do you mean?' Aghast, Woollard stared at him. ‘I saved your neck … allowed you to get clear – and that's how you'd repay me?' When Marbeck made no reply, he backed to his chair and slumped down in it.

‘So … nothing's changed in sixteen years,' he said bitterly. ‘Men like you are as they always were: as unscrupulous as those you work against …'

‘I think not,' Marbeck said abruptly. ‘For the man I mean to snare is the one who runs the Sea Locusts. He's Sir Edward Quiney. Odd you didn't mention his name when we spoke before.'

Now the fear in Woollard's eyes increased. Marbeck allowed the words to sink in, then added: ‘I won't ask more of you than you can accomplish. But I need to devise a means to meet with Quiney, alone if that's possible—'

‘It isn't!' Woollard snapped. ‘He's never alone, nor would he meet with someone he doesn't know.'

‘He'd see you, though, would he not?'

The other's mouth fell open.

‘Were you to send an urgent message, telling him that he was in danger, for instance?' Marbeck spoke calmly. ‘That you'd received word of a body of men, say – sent by order of the High Court of the Admiralty – who were coming to arrest him—'

‘He'd never believe that!' Woollard shook his head fiercely. ‘He's well informed – were it true, he'd have known of it sooner. More, he'd suspect me of exactly the sort of double-dealing you're proposing!'

‘Double-dealing?' Suddenly, Marbeck felt inclined to laugh. ‘Forgive me, but who is it owns corsair ships, equips them to sail off and snatch slaves, and carry them to Barbary? Who's likely in league with a fleet of Spanish renegades, and whose influence is felt in London, thanks to his grubby right arm: a villain called Jewkes. And who's the man who gives his bastard daughter to a jackal like John Buck, to sell as he pleases …'

‘Enough!' In agitation, Woollard threw up a hand as if to ward off such thoughts. ‘Damn you … you've no right!' Suddenly he was on his feet, pointing a finger at Marbeck. ‘I served the Crown loyally – came within an inch of my life doing it, and nearly lost my sanity too! I'll not be judged …' Almost shaking, he broke off and sat down again.

‘I know,' Marbeck said gently. ‘I feel the same, some days.'

Woollard's eyes were closed, his breathing rapid, until by some means he mastered himself and opened then again.

‘Do this one thing for me,' Marbeck said. ‘You know it's right. It may be my last act, since I got Mary Kellett away from Weymouth and sent her to a place of safety.'

Woollard gave a start. ‘You took her from John Buck?'

Briefly, Marbeck nodded.

‘And you weren't followed?'

‘Perhaps I was. But I'm here now – and if you care to know more, I'll flesh out the details. Are you willing to listen?'

There was a moment's silence, before the barber-surgeon heaved a sigh. ‘There's a man in Melcombe – an astrologer, whom I always thought a charlatan,' he said at last. ‘He told me my death would come in on horseback, with the rain … is it you who brings it?'

Marbeck had no answer.

T
he two of them talked, as they had two nights ago in the same room, though to very different purpose. Woollard told his servant to bring a cold supper but ate little himself. A gloom was upon him; and Marbeck's plan, after he'd outlined it, was soon the object of his scorn. The notion of sending a message to a man like Sir Edward Quiney, from a stranger who wished to do business with him, was doomed from the outset. Moreover, Quiney would force whoever brought the message to remain under his roof until he'd got to the bottom of it.

‘He trusts no one, not even his captains,' Woollard said. ‘They work together because the rewards are so great, they'd be fools to do otherwise. More, the captains themselves are rivals who detest each other, and Reuben Beck – “el Mirlo” – deals harshly with any man who doesn't knuckle under to him.'

‘What of Swann?' Marbeck asked. ‘Do his sons not sail with him?'

‘The older one did, so I heard. But even he had no stomach for the trade … deals in contraband wines instead.'

‘And so thwarts the customs,' Marbeck said drily, letting his thoughts drift. ‘Do you know who will hold the Great Farm soon, take handsome fees in import duties? No less a man than Lord Cecil himself, I hear – another token of King James's gratitude, for services rendered.'

‘Well, at least that's something in your favour,' Woollard growled. ‘If you were to accomplish the unlikely feat of spoiling the Swanns' trade, you'd reap a reward from your master.'

‘I doubt it,' Marbeck said. ‘Cecil takes the services of his intelligencers for granted nowadays.' He frowned. ‘But see now, what of their father, Gideon Swann?'

‘A rogue, though the less poisonous of the two. Lost an arm in a fight at sea, and drinks himself so senseless each night, his crew must put him to bed. That's one reason his sons won't sail with him, I think …' Woollard shook his head. ‘The man you should fear is the master of the
Amity
, which lies offshore …' He gave a snort. ‘The word means “friendship”, yet I can think of few names less apt for a ship of doom, captained by someone you'd not wish to meet. I speak of Beck, of course: one who truly enjoys his work. Takes his pick of the women they capture, they say, and uses them at sea worse than they'll be used in Barbary …' Seeing Marbeck's expression, he paused. ‘I know how your mind moves. It's more than likely Mary Kellett would be in his hands by now, if you hadn't stolen her away. Can you imagine what a man like that would do to you, if he knew? Or perhaps he knows already – have you thought on that?'

For Marbeck however, a scheme was taking shape: one that he would probably regret later, but that quickened his pulse. ‘The
Amity
is still here?' he said. ‘You said she lies offshore – I assumed Beck had left …'

‘He's here yet – as is Swann's ship, the
Lion's Whelp
,' Woollard answered. ‘The lights of both vessels can be seen, out in the bay. Everyone in Weymouth knows they're the Sea Locusts, though none would dare admit it. They've been taking on water, making repairs and readying for another voyage. Though it can't be long before they sail …' He frowned at Marbeck. ‘I hope you're not thinking of—'

‘Going out there? Hardly – I get seasick crossing the Channel.'

Woollard gave a sickly smile. ‘That's unfortunate.'

‘But if I could get one of them to come ashore,' Marbeck added thoughtfully, ‘use him as bait, to entice Quiney …'

‘Unlikely,' Woollard said, his face grave again. ‘They seldom leave their ships.'

‘They might if one was sinking, wouldn't they?'

The other looked impatient. ‘Now you grow reckless.'

‘Could it not be done? There are guns at Portland Castle, facing the bay …'

But Woollard shook his head firmly. ‘The garrison wouldn't fire on an English vessel, whatever you might accuse them of.'

Now, Marbeck was starting to get annoyed. ‘Then what's to be done?' he demanded. ‘Should Beck and Swann be allowed to sail off on another of their ventures, while we simply wish them “God speed”?'

‘That's what people here do. The Sea Locusts bring business to the towns, and their paymaster Quiney has always rewarded those who play his game. Those who wouldn't …' Woollard shrugged.

‘By the Christ!' Marbeck stood up, frustration getting the better of him, and took a turn about the table. ‘There must be a weak point,' he insisted. ‘Someone who can be bought … or made to fear something worse than what Quiney or his captains could do.'

‘That would be difficult,' Woollard remarked drily.

‘What of that wooden-faced rogue who sits on his backside in the Customs House? If I threatened him with the rope …'

‘Too much to lose – Quiney bought him off years back, I'd wager.'

‘The Swann brothers, then? They're young, they think they have a future. If I put the fear of God into them – or rather, the fear of a pirate's death at Execution Dock …'

At that Woollard put on a different expression: not one of approval, but at least of doubt. ‘The older boy, Jack – he'd slit your throat before he'd bargain with you,' he said. ‘But the younger one, Henry, has a girl he wants to marry.'

Marbeck frowned. He recalled his meeting with the two brothers on Chesil Beach: their hostility, as well as their unease. He recalled too the younger one's anger when he spoke of Mary Kellett. Moving to his chair, he sat down again.

‘There's a chance, isn't there?' he said finally. When Woollard made no reply, he added: ‘If I can convince the boy a noose is closing around the Sea Locusts – around Quiney too – and he has the means of saving his father's neck, or see him face a watery gallows at Wapping? Or, what if Marcus Janes isn't a man chasing profits, but a messenger of the Privy Council? Better still, an official of the High Court of Admiralty?'