Marbeck and the Privateers (2 page)

‘No matter.' Meriel was watching him. ‘You know you've naught to fear from me.' She indicated the chest. ‘There's water here – will you take some?'

He nodded, whereupon she brought the cup to him. When he had drunk thirstily she set it aside and said: ‘You're a deal better – until a day ago, you were vomiting everything up. What about food? The inn will be stirring soon, I could see what they have.'

‘Later, perhaps …' He lay back, feeling the cool water swirling in his stomach. But a restlessness was already upon him, things undone crowding his mind. He had been sick for a while … had he been indiscreet, when the fever took hold?

‘This man Daunt,' he said. ‘What did he look like?'

‘Like a schoolmaster,' Meriel replied. Stifling a yawn she sat down on a stool, spreading her skirts. ‘Dry as dust, and a beak like a kite's. He had an accent – Dutch, I think.'

Levinus Monk, of course … Marbeck frowned. Sir Robert Cecil's new secretary, the man from Ghent, was handling a great deal of intelligence business these days. Then, England's chief spymaster was no longer Sir Robert, but must now be addressed as
my lord
– Baron Cecil of Essendon. And if rumours were true, he would soon be raised to the higher rank of viscount. Master Secretary, as Marbeck still thought of him, had become too lofty to deal with his own intelligencers. Sometimes he wondered whether the man gave him a thought.

‘You should have payment,' he said suddenly. ‘I don't expect you to nurse me for no reward. There are risks …'

‘Save your breath, Marbeck.' Meriel's gentle manner was giving way to her brisker self. ‘And if it sets your mind at rest, you've no tokens of infection. A physician came – for the landlord feared the worst – but he found no sign. You merely ate something your body disliked, he said, and you're fortunate in having a strong constitution. In short, he thought it likely you'd been poisoned.'

Marbeck stared at her. He recalled eating at an ordinary, on Fish Street Hill; then he'd been to a tavern …

‘You've never been short of enemies,' Meriel said. And when he made no answer, she gave a sigh. ‘Now I should go home … can you fadge for yourself?'

He indicated his assent, and managed a smile. She was the mistress of his fellow-intelligencer Joseph Gifford, and someone he trusted. ‘Is our friend in London?' he enquired. ‘I speak of your paramour …'

‘My paramour?' She gave him a withering look. ‘He ceased to be that weeks ago, did you not know?' Seeing that he didn't, she added: ‘That could never have lasted … how long have any of his queans lasted? For that's all I was to him – you know it well enough.'

‘What do you do now?' Marbeck asked, after a moment.

‘I've been staying at my sister's house in Hart Lane,' she replied. ‘Why – are you offering to keep me?'

She put on a wry smile, but it was more than a jest. He had known Meriel Walden for nearly a year: since last summer when England's new sovereign had been crowned at Westminster, and cheering crowds lined the streets. Gifford, drunk on Rhenish wine, had lurched up to Marbeck in the Strand and presented his new lover, whom he claimed to have rescued from a drab's life. Though this, like many of Gifford's tales, turned out to be a fiction: Meriel was the daughter of a lawyer, who despaired of her settling down and finding a husband. Though he always made light of the matter, Marbeck had enjoyed her company from the start.

‘I could do worse,' he said. ‘But you deserve better.'

She gave a snort and got to her feet. ‘The potboy will run errands if you wish. I've done all I can for now …' She picked up a cloak from the stool and drew it about her shoulders. ‘If you wish to repay me, you must think of some other means.'

She was moving to the door, but hesitated. ‘I hear the King has a fear of violence – and no liking for people like you and Gifford,' she said. ‘He fawns over his favourites, those perfumed coxcombs that flock about Whitehall … I can't help but wonder what the future will be, for men of your ilk.'

‘You mean I should do something else?' Marbeck said. But without another word, she went out.

He turned away then, towards the window, and listened to the rising noise from the street. Like it or not, Meriel spoke the truth: things had changed a great deal over the past year, since he had risked his life to foil a plot against the new king. And though he had been rewarded for it, he felt a growing distance between himself and Lord Cecil, whose power under the new monarch seemed to increase with each passing month. Marbeck had found himself under-used, sent on missions of small importance, which had made him edgy. He thought briefly of Nicholas Prout, the grey-faced messenger, who had incurred Cecil's displeasure and been pensioned off to live the quiet life of a churchwarden in his home parish. What might the future hold for others, Marbeck included? He'd even thought of going abroad, trying his luck in some other land … but then, wherever he went, he knew he would tire of it.

He yawned, and soon drifted back to sleep, to be woken again by a loud creak of floorboards. The room was filled with sunlight, and a stern-faced figure in black, hat in hand, was standing over him. With an effort, Marbeck levered himself up on his elbows.

‘Monk …?'

‘At last – are you well enough to rise?'

Levinus Monk was a man of sharp edges, it was said: sharp elbows, hawk-like features and a sharpness of speech that bordered on insult. He threw a distasteful glance about the shabby room, saw the candle guttering by the bedside and promptly snuffed it out. ‘You need some air, Marbeck,' he said, wiping his sooty fingers on the coverlet. ‘And a set of fresh linen. I'll await you out in the street.' He turned to go, then added: ‘You're ready to work, I assume?'

‘I suppose.' Marbeck took a breath. ‘Or I will be …'

‘Good. It's almost one of the clock – the trumpet sounds at two. Do you have a horse stabled here? It's too far to walk, for a man in your condition.'

‘There's no stable at the Three Cups,' Marbeck said. ‘But my horse is nearby …' He blinked. ‘Trumpet? Where are we going?'

‘I'm taking you to the theatre,' Monk retorted. ‘What do you think I meant? Now, will you stir yourself?'

The Fortune in Golding Lane north of Cripplegate, the fine new theatre built a few years back by the Lord Admiral's Men, was busy that afternoon. It was almost the end of the season, the start of summer when the theatres would close and players would venture out on tour, away from the noisome city with its ever-present risk of plague. Here, among the lively throng about the doors, Marbeck dismounted stiffly from Cobb and paid a horse-holder to look after him.

It was an hour since his conversation with Levinus Monk. Having washed and put on clean clothing he felt somewhat better, if weak as a newborn foal. In silence he followed the man up the stairs to a private booth in the gallery, and sank down upon a padded bench. They were in one of the gentlemen's rooms that served various purposes, often having little connection to the performance taking place on the stage below. Just now, as one of the Crown's intelligencers, Marbeck was to be briefed by his spymaster.

‘The play's a revival of
The Jew of Malta
, in case you're interested,' Monk said, taking his seat beside Marbeck. ‘Penned by one of ours, you recall … before my time of course.'

Absently, Marbeck nodded. Everyone knew of the famous playmaker Christopher Marlowe, a Cambridge scholar as Marbeck had been. Few knew of his other life as an intelligencer: the product of an early phase of recruitment by Sir Francis Walsingham. But everyone knew how his career had ended: stabbed in a tussle, and dead at the age of twenty-nine.

‘Though that has little bearing on why we're here,' Monk was saying. ‘There's someone I want you to see …' He glanced round keenly, scanning the crowded galleries. From below, in the open pit before the stage, the noise of the groundlings rose: a cacophony of laughter and chatter punctuated by the cries of those selling nuts and bottled ale. While on the stage itself, prior to the performance some comedy was taking place, a clown in a parti-coloured suit struggling to be heard above the din.

‘The man isn't here,' Monk said with a frown. ‘But he will be, I believe …' He broke off with a disapproving look at Marbeck. ‘What's the matter? I thought you said you were well enough for this.'

‘I am,' Marbeck insisted, perspiring after his climb up the steep stairway. ‘But I've a powerful thirst.'

‘Why didn't you ask?' Impatiently Monk leaned over the railing, caught the eye of a vendor and beckoned him to come up. ‘You must rebuild your strength quickly, Marbeck,' he added, sitting back. ‘This is a crucial time in our affairs. The rest of the Spanish delegation will come here within the week. Surely you haven't forgotten?'

The man's tone irked him: even during the hours of his delirium, he had thought at times about the peace talks. The conference had been a source of gossip for months, ever since last autumn when King Philip had sent an ambassador to King James. More representatives, and some from the Netherlands where war still raged, were due to arrive soon. After almost twenty years of conflict between England and Spain, the eyes of all Europe were now on London.

‘I haven't forgotten,' he said. ‘But I wonder what task you have in mind for me. Before I fell sick, I was watching a papist family in Crutched Friars – the Woodalls. It was a poorly kept secret that they held masses for half the neighbourhood—'

‘Forget them,' the spymaster snapped. ‘Others can snoop in your place. In any case the King's banned such practices, and in time they'll die out – especially as there's no chance of Spain attempting to restore Popery here. They agreed to that demand even before the treaty was planned. The days of Armadas and of desperate uprisings are over, thanks be to God.'

To that Marbeck said nothing: having mingled with dyed-in-the-wool Catholics of late, he didn't share Monk's optimism about their giving up the fight so easily. But his thoughts were interrupted by a knocking. Monk turned and called out, whereupon a boy entered the chamber with a tray around his neck. The purchase was completed in a moment, and the vendor waved away. Monk bought nothing for himself but handed Marbeck a bottle, from which he took a welcome gulp.

‘Not that it's trivial – I mean, keeping a watch on malcontents like the Woodalls,' the spymaster resumed, as if to qualify what he'd said. ‘But see now, the man I expected is here. Look at the end booth.'

Alert at once, Marbeck gazed across the theatre yard with its sea of bobbing heads to the gallery opposite, where several people were entering a private room like theirs. Prominent among them was a dignified, grey-bearded figure in a suit of fine silk and a wide ruff, his bald pate fringed with white hair. The other men, less grandly attired, fussed about him as he took his seat … and now, Marbeck recognized him.

‘That's de Tassis, the Spanish ambassador … did you bring me here to see him?'

‘Juan de Tassis y Acuña, Count of Villamediana, and King Philip's special
delegado
,' Monk said, with an attempt at correct pronunciation. ‘No, I didn't bring you merely for that. Note his attendants too.'

Marbeck did so: four men beside the ambassador. All were Spaniards, dark of hair and beard, all of them dour-faced and watchful. Having observed them he half-turned to Monk, who said: ‘At least one of his followers is a spy – the trouble is we're not sure which. He may not even be here … no matter.'

Marbeck sighed and took another pull from his ale-bottle. ‘Then who do you want me to keep an eye on?'

‘De Tassis himself,' Monk answered. ‘I already have people watching Somerset House, where his delegation lodges. We know who comes and goes … and in any case, I don't want you to trail the ambassador from suspicion: I need you to watch his back.'

‘Is he so vulnerable? Surely he'll be guarded on every side, day and night.'

‘He is. And the King has provided him with a bodyguard whenever he ventures forth, which isn't often. We think an attempt on de Tassis's life unlikely, though there are many who hate Spaniards enough, and will do so to their dying day …' Monk paused, then: ‘Besides – and keep this to yourself, Marbeck: the Count doesn't have plenary powers. It's not he who will ratify the treaty; that task falls to Philip's deputy, the Constable of Castile. He'll come when the ink's dry, and the paper's ready for our King's signature.'

To all of this Marbeck listened in silence, glad of the comfortable seat and the drink. Though a mutton pie would not go amiss, he thought … for a man who'd been poisoned not long since, his appetite was returning with some alacrity.

‘And yet, we take no chances,' Monk went on. ‘My lord Cecil and the rest of the Council have been adamant: nothing must threaten the treaty negotiations – too much is at stake.'

That much was obvious, Marbeck thought, to every man and woman in England, and no doubt in Spain too. In this summer of 1604, little else was being talked of. King James had been firm: his intention, he'd announced to his first parliament, was to be
Rex Pacificus
– the peacemaker king – and bring an end to a war that had left both countries exhausted and Spain bankrupt. Once Europe's foremost power, she was now desperate for a settlement. What fewer people knew was that England was almost bankrupt too, the King having inherited an enormous debt from his late cousin, Queen Elizabeth …

‘So I'm relying on you, Marbeck,' Monk was saying. He peered across the yard to the ambassador's box, where the party was being served with wine and cakes. On the stage, the clown was departing, making way for the afternoon's performance of
The Jew of Malta
.