Marbeck and the Privateers (22 page)

Marbeck's teeth were set tight. He was struggling to form some strategy, however desperate, when there came a shout: looking aside, he saw the sailors readying their boats. Already some had climbed aboard; matches flared as lanterns were lit. The bodies of their dead comrades, he realized, were simply being left behind. Another man was scavenging, collecting up weapons. Someone else appeared, grasped the handle of Gideon Swann's lantern which was still on the shingle, and took that away; now only the flickering light of Marbeck's torch remained.

Then came a commotion, as a figure was manhandled towards the water. Jack Swann, tightly bound, was about to leave England for a life of slavery. Marbeck watched as he was forced to the nearest boat, head bowed in misery; his precious Italian blade had been taken from him. Turning his gaze back to Reuben Beck, Marbeck would have spoken – but the man wagged his pistol, its muzzle an inch from his eyes.

‘El Mirlo knows you don't mean it,' he said.

For a moment Marbeck didn't understand; then he did. Beck was referring to his wish to die on English soil … and the implication was obvious. He would be offered a choice: submit to being taken away, or die a slow death.

‘You see it.' Beck nodded, his tarred pigtails wobbling. ‘Are you ready to go, or to perish here like a fool?'

Suddenly, Marbeck felt oddly calm. For some bizarre reason, the figure of Machiavelli from
The Jew of Malta
flew to mind, leering at the audience, speaking with glee of power and strength. But he had faced impossible odds before, as he had faced death, and it had yet to lay hands on him. Was it to find him here on a wild beach in Dorset, where none would know of his passing save for his killer and a broken-down barber-surgeon in Melcombe? A while ago he might have laughed at the notion, but now …

Then his torch blew out, and both he and the surviving Sea Locust were plunged into darkness.

M
arbeck was running. Sliding on loose stones, falling and scrambling up again, he ran: away from the sea in pitch darkness, in the direction of the great bank of pebbles that fringed the beach. At his back the noise of the surf grew fainter; then he heard a distant report, and dropped flat. The pistol ball whistled past, but it was wide: they were firing blind. He got up again, and when a second shot came, trusted to luck and kept running. Hearing no sound of a ball he slowed his pace, his breath coming in short bursts. Then abruptly the shingle rose beneath his feet, and he began clambering up the steep slope. Stones rolled away under his shoes, he lost his balance but managed to claw his way up. Then the wind hit him, and he fell forward; he was on the crest of the barrier. A moment later he was sliding down the other side on his rump – to land with a shock in cold water.

He was sitting in the ditch beyond the Chesil bank, submerged to his waist. Gasping for breath, he began to get up – then started as a voice called out from only yards away.

‘Who's that? Speak – I have a sword!'

‘Niles?' Marbeck stared into blackness. ‘It's me – Janes.'

There was a moment, then an oath flew out of the dark. ‘By God! I'd like to run you through as well!'

With much splashing, the man waded towards him. As Marbeck straightened up a spark was struck, a flame appeared and Niles was there, holding his tinderbox.

‘Were you followed?' he demanded.

But Marbeck blinked, for the commander of Portland Castle was a sorry sight. His helmet was gone, and one side of his face, from the hairline downwards, was streaked with blood. His steel cuirass was dented from blows received, his leather jerkin scarred and slashed.

‘I don't know.' Bending, Marbeck drew several long breaths. In the feeble light he saw blood on his own sleeve, and for the first time felt pain. Seeing the other was in no mood to wait he told him what had happened, which prompted a stream of curses. ‘I've lost my entire escort, thanks to you! Meanwhile, those devils have got away. I chased one of them, he was skulking in the rear – ran like a rabbit, but I caught him on the bank. Come and look.'

Holding his tinderbox up, Niles took a few paces in the water. Marbeck followed … then stopped at the sight of a blooded corpse, lying half in the ditch.

‘It's Henry Swann,' he said.

Niles gave a start, and suddenly the flame in his hand shook. ‘Good Christ … he's just a boy.'

‘His father's dead,' Marbeck said tiredly. ‘The other son's been taken away by Beck.'

Niles cursed again, then swayed suddenly and slipped into the water. The flame went out, prompting a groan.

‘Can you stand up?' In the dark, Marbeck groped towards him, almost falling over in the process. ‘My horse is tethered by the path. If we can get to it—'

‘Damn you to hell!' Niles gave vent to his rage, born of pain and despair. ‘I should have held you at Portland … trusted my suspicions. What was all this, some private feud with the Sea Locusts? You're no Admiralty man – and I'll wager that warrant's a forgery, you vile bastard!'

The man's rant ceased, giving way to a grunt of pain. He forced himself to his knees, then to his feet. Marbeck reached out a hand, but when it touched Niles's arm it was immediately grasped and held in a fierce grip. At the same time, he heard the scrape of a poniard being unsheathed.

‘I'm unarmed,' Marbeck said. ‘You hold the cards: you can either spike me, or I'll help you to my mount, provided we can find him. Then I'll get you to Portland—'

‘No!' Niles cried. ‘I'll not face them … not yet. In the morning, perhaps …' He sighed, racked with shame. ‘I'm unfit to command! If I face a court martial it's no less than I deserve … Jesu, why didn't I die along with them?'

Marbeck said nothing, and after a moment his arm was released. Knee-deep in water, the two men stood in silence: survivors, but brothers only in shame.

‘Tomorrow, then,' Marbeck said at last. ‘Meanwhile I can take you to a barber-surgeon in Melcombe. He's a friend, and …' He paused, having made a quick decision. ‘And he was once an intelligencer like me,' he added. ‘He served Walsingham, as I serve Lord Cecil. You were right: the warrant was forged, and my name's not Janes – it's Marbeck. I came here seeking answers, and found myself up against a posse of slavers. Now a lot of men are dead because of me – so you're not alone in your remorse.'

Niles was silent, his breathing loud in the darkness. Marbeck was suddenly aware of the clammy coldness of his wet clothes, and somehow it brought him to his senses. He had almost lost his life – but while he lived, he could act …

‘A barber-surgeon?' The captain's voice was subdued. ‘And you say he too is an intelligencer?'

‘He was. I trust him … and you need a healing-man quickly.'

Another moment passed, then another sigh came out of the gloom. ‘I'll lean on you,' Niles muttered. ‘Let's get out of this whoreson ditch.'

But the night was not done with them yet.

Blooded and exhausted, Niles seated on Cobb with Marbeck leading, the two made a slow journey back to Weymouth, descended the steep hill and crossed the bridge into Melcombe. The town was silent, with barely a light anywhere. They skirted the quay and neared Woollard's house, whereupon Niles said he would get down. His pride gone along with his anger, he allowed Marbeck to help him. Soon they were at the door, with a light showing from within – but at once Marbeck knew something was wrong.

‘What is it?' Niles demanded, sensing his unease. Leaning on the door-frame, he reached for his poniard. ‘Take this … or do you want my sword?'

With a shake of his head Marbeck took the poniard, then lifted the latch. The door was unlocked; he pushed it open, but nobody appeared. As he entered the dark hallway there came a sound from the parlour, and at once he knew what it was: a woman weeping desperately. In a moment he had thrown the inner door wide, and stopped on the threshold.

In the candlelit room Woollard lay sprawled on the floor, his lifeless eyes staring upwards. Beside him, cradling his head, knelt his servant in floods of tears. At sight of Marbeck she looked up sharply, then gave a cry of despair. ‘I couldn't save him!' she wailed. ‘My poor master …'

A chill swept over Marbeck. He dropped the poniard, took a step and dropped to his knees beside her.

‘When …?' he began, then remembered the woman was deaf.

‘Couldn't do it …' She shook her head helplessly. ‘Too much bleeding … even with what he taught me, I couldn't.'

Now he saw wads of linen, soaked with blood. Blood covered Woollard's shirt, the servant's skirts and hands. She had tried … Marbeck put a hand about her thin shoulder, which prompted a jerk of alarm. But she turned to him, her face filled with anguish. ‘It was Buck,' she said.

His pulse leaped. ‘Buck … you're certain?' He repeated the words, mouthing them emphatically, and she nodded.

‘John Buck … slew him with a sword. Like the devils on the church wall, smiling while they stab with their forks … I thought he'd kill me too, but he went away.'

There was a sound from behind; Niles was standing in the doorway. He took in the situation, and flagged visibly.

‘John Buck's killed him,' Marbeck said.

The other leaned against the door. The servant bowed her head, weeping afresh. After a moment Marbeck withdrew his arm and stood up. He turned to Niles, who caught his expression and frowned.

‘Can you fend for yourself?' Marbeck asked.

Niles hesitated. His gaze went to the woman. She looked up and gave a start. ‘You must sit down,' she said after a moment. ‘I can do what is needed.' Slowly she too got to her feet, her cheeks wet with tears, and faced Marbeck. ‘He would have helped,' she said. ‘And so will I.'

She meant Woollard. And when neither man spoke, she added: ‘Rest … take whatever you need. They can do no more to me … my life was here, and it's over.'

Marbeck looked at Niles, who managed a nod. Clumsily he unbuckled his belt and handed it over, sword, scabbard and all. ‘I'll return to Portland tomorrow,' he murmured. ‘If you come back …'

But Woollard's servant came and stood between them. After peering at Niles's scalp wound she turned to Marbeck, saw his bloodstained sleeve and took hold of his arm. He stiffened, but allowed her to lift it.

‘It will bleed more,' she said. ‘I can stitch you – both of you. You're weak … you need food and rest. Now is not the time to seek revenge.'

They stared at her, a slip of a woman, defiant in her grief; then Niles dropped his gaze. ‘She shames us all.'

Marbeck took her hand, and let his eyes speak. Whereupon she gestured to them both to sit, and quickly became busy.

In the morning a sea mist had rolled in, shrouding Melcombe and Weymouth. It dulled the sounds from the harbour, as it muffled the church bells; it was the Sabbath, the thirteenth day since Marbeck had got up from his sickbed in the Three Cups in Botolph Lane and gone to the theatre with Levinus Monk. Today he arose from a pallet in the chamber he had shared with Niles, leaving him sleeping. Stripped of cuirass and jerkin, his head bandaged, the soldier lay like a dead man.

Stiffly he descended the stairs and entered the parlour, to find the room transformed. Woollard's body was gone, as was the pile of bloody rags. The floor had been scrubbed, the instruments washed and put back in their places. The woman had been up all night, he guessed. He started to go out, whereupon she appeared in the hallway. She looked tired but alert, in fresh clothes and a clean apron. Lost for words, he threw her a look of gratitude. But when he started to make signs, she shook her head.

‘There are people who will come to my aid. You cannot stay here … nor should you.'

‘What's your name?' he asked, speaking distinctly.

‘Marjorie Howarth. And I know who you are, and what you wish to do – my master told me.' Biting her lip, she added: ‘He was more than a master … I think you know that.'

‘I caused his death,' Marbeck said. ‘He foresaw it …'

‘Don't speak like that … not now.' She touched his arm, the one without stitches or bandage. ‘Go to your task. I'll watch over the captain until he's on his feet.'

She was right; there was little Marbeck could do, he thought, apart from help to deal with Woollard's body. Meanwhile, his murderer was free. ‘I'm in your debt, more than I can repay,' he said, but she didn't hear.

‘Avenge my master – bring those people to justice.'

‘Yes.' Meeting her eye, he placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘I'll do all that I can.'

She nodded and stepped aside. By the doorway where he had left it was Niles's sword-belt, with the poniard back in its sheath. Taking it up, Marbeck turned from Marjorie Howarth and went out of the door without looking back. In a short time he had saddled Cobb and was walking him out of Woollard's lean-to. Then he was mounted, guiding the horse through the swirling clouds of vapour.

Determinedly, he pushed his grief aside; there would be time for that later … more than enough. Without looking about at the town, he spoke low to Cobb as the horse picked his way from Maiden Street to the quayside, and finally across the bridge to Weymouth. Once again they seemed to pass through an unseen barrier; even the vapour seemed thicker here. Without checking his pace Marbeck rode beside the harbour, past people who started at the sight of him looming out of the mist. Having reached the opening to Hope Cove he dismounted, led Cobb a few paces and tethered him to a chain. Then he was at the door of the Bucks' house, where he stopped; it was wide open, and the place was empty.

He knew it even before he went inside. The house looked as he last remembered it, when he had spirited Mary Kellett away, leaving Sarah Buck bound and gagged in her parlour. Now there was no sign of her or her husband, or even of any hasty departure.