Marbeck and the Privateers (23 page)

But then, after what had happened, Buck was bound to flee. Woollard had been right: the Sea Locusts and their associates had known of his involvement all along. Buck had been ordered to despatch him – by Sir Edward Quiney, perhaps? Not that it mattered: after what had happened the previous night, Marbeck now saw things differently. Gideon Swann was dead, and Reuben Beck himself had come ashore to see him despatched. The arrival of Niles and his men might have forced the Sea Locusts to change their plans – or more importantly, forced their owner to rethink his. If Quiney believed the Lord Admiral was now aware of his activities, perhaps the man was making certain preparations. But in the meantime, where might Buck have gone – to his master, or further afield?

For a while he stood, sifting ideas and rejecting them, until at last a way forward appeared. The distant clang of a bell reminded him: it was exactly a week since he had entered the Customs House at Melcombe and questioned a man who, if Woollard was right, was also in the pay of Quiney. He would go there now – and this time he would get some answers.

His mouth set tight, he left the empty house and walked back to Cobb. As he stooped to loose the rein, however, he grew aware of a murmur of voices. Looking up, he found himself being watched by an assorted group of Weymouth folk, all of them eying him warily. His gaze swept over them, but when no one spoke he climbed into the saddle and stared down.

‘Do you know that Gideon Swann's dead?' he said harshly, his hand on his sword-hilt. And when the only result was a few frightened looks, he added: ‘So is his son Henry – and Jack Swann's taken to the Barbary states, to suffer the kind of life his father meted out to others. John Buck's days are numbered too … will that serve you for news, on this Sabbath day?'

But there was only a silence; that, and a few dark looks passing between some of the men. With an impatient tug of the rein, Marbeck urged Cobb away towards the bridge.

In Melcombe once again, he dismounted and led the horse along the quayside. The town was quiet, church services still in progress; but as before, the door to the Customs House was ajar. Leaving the horse outside, he assumed a brazen air and walked in to find the same grizzled man seated by his table. Seeing no one else present, Marbeck closed the door and drew its heavy bolt across. Then he turned about, and before the other could say a word, strode over to him. Gripping his coat, he yanked him to his feet.

‘I bring news,' he said. ‘Last time we spoke, you said you'd forgotten who owns the
Amity
. Well, it's Sir Edward Quiney, who also owns the
Lion's Whelp
. The captain of the latter is dead: Gideon Swann, that is. The other is Reuben Beck, who still lives – though not for long if I can help it. Now I've jogged your memory a little, I'd like a proper talk … does that sit well with you?'

The other was agog, especially when he met Marbeck's eye and saw someone who meant business. Still, he would have struggled had Marbeck not thrust him backwards into his chair. A poniard appeared swiftly, to be stuck under the man's chin.

‘You can't do this to me!' he cried, in mingled fear and outrage. ‘I'm not some wharf-monkey, to be manhandled like—'

‘Who are you then?' Marbeck demanded. ‘One of Quiney's lackeys, the local clerk who tidies up the loose ends?'

The other gulped. ‘You look like a man who's lost his reason,' he said hoarsely. ‘I'm beholden to the Crown … I take customs fees, search ships for seditious books—'

But Marbeck leaned closer, keeping the dagger's point tight against his skin. ‘You mean you work for Lord Cecil?'

‘Well, in a way I do,' the other retorted. ‘And he'll never brook this insult. You will find yourself arrested!'

‘But I work for Lord Cecil too,' Marbeck said. ‘Do you not see?'

The man stared at him. ‘See what?' he snapped. ‘Do you mean to tell me we're on the same side, or …'

‘Oh no …' Slowly, Marbeck lowered the dagger. ‘Don't make that mistake. In fact, I've a mind to turn you over to the commander of Portland Castle – Captain Niles, that is. He's a friend, you might say … and somewhat angry with those who serve Sir Edward Quiney just now. There was a fight on Chesil Beach last night – Gideon Swann was killed, along with one of his sons.'

With that he straightened up and looked down on the customs master, who was badly shaken. ‘And I wonder if my Lord Secretary is aware of how you run things down here, so far from London?' Marbeck went on. ‘I've an idea he'll be most interested when he hears.'

‘Who are you?' the other faltered. ‘What do you want?'

‘What do I want?' Marbeck held his gaze. ‘I want everything you've got. By the time I leave here, you'll have told me all about Sir Edward Quiney … but first you can tell me about John Buck. He killed a man last night, someone who'd become a friend of mine. Likely you'll know him: Thomas Woollard, barber-surgeon.'

At that the man jerked backwards with a look of disbelief. ‘You're lying. He wouldn't do such …'

‘I think you know he would, if he thought he had to – or if he were ordered to,' Marbeck replied coolly. ‘As I think you know that, like you, Woollard was useful to Quiney's people … tending injured men, perhaps, or even disposing of bodies.' He paused. ‘I speak of the Sea Locusts: those you said were but a fable; an old Dorset folk tale. But we both know they're two ships, the
Amity
and the
Lion's Whelp
, who deal in a particular kind of bulk cargo: human creatures, to be taken to the Barbary states and sold into slavery.'

A long moment passed. The other man swallowed, then fumbled in his coat and produced a kerchief. Beads of sweat showed on his forehead, and were quickly mopped. ‘Slavery's naught to do with me,' he said. ‘What happens on the high seas is beyond English law …'

‘But attacking Spanish vessels, in defiance of the King's proclamation, amounts to piracy,' Marbeck broke in. ‘After disposing of their human cargo, I think the Sea Locusts dislike returning to their home port with their holds empty. Hence, a little sea-plunder on the way back doesn't go amiss, does it? To be landed here and brought ashore in secret, avoiding duties – while you turn a blind eye to the trade.' He allowed himself a wry smile. ‘Believe me, Lord Cecil is ruthless when his own interests are at stake.'

Another moment passed; then the other heaved a sigh. ‘I understand you,' he said, struggling to master himself. Marbeck merely waited – and was unsurprised when the offer came.

‘I can get you two hundred crowns by tonight … that, and a promise of another two hundred to follow. Plus a pension for life, paid wherever you choose. Now, what say you?'

To the man's dismay, however, Marbeck appeared to relax. He even sheathed the poniard, glancing idly at the window. The streets were filling up, as the people of Melcombe emerged from their churches.

‘My thanks,' he said. ‘You've confirmed what I needed to know. But I still wonder where John Buck is. My thoughts stray towards Quiney's manor at Abbotsbury – what say
you
?'

I
n the early afternoon, Marbeck rode along the cliff path above Weymouth bay, then followed the narrow spit of land to the Isle of Portland. The mist had lifted, and the sea was a bright steel-blue. But his eyes were downcast, his thoughts bleak. The final part of what had become a terrible mission lay ahead … and he knew it might even be his last.

He had been back to Woollard's house, and found that Niles had already left. He learned this from Marjorie Howarth, who also told him that her master's body lay in a nearby church. Many had cause to be grateful to the barber-surgeon, she said, and he would receive a proper funeral and burial. She was pale but calm, and spoke of leaving Melcombe soon after. Marbeck offered her money, but it was refused. Instead, she had filled a leather flask with her late master's claret and given it to him as a token. Then with few words, they had parted.

At Portland Castle he dismounted and spoke to the sentry, who sent him to the commander's quarters. Here he found Niles seated with one of his subordinates. When Marbeck appeared he looked up sharply, his face taut. A new bandage was about his head, another around his hand. The two exchanged looks, before Niles turned to his fellow, a young ensign, and gave a brief order. The man got up, threw Marbeck a curious glance and went out, leaving them alone.

‘You aided me last night,' Niles said. ‘Yet I'll not thank you. Your actions have cost me dear … if my men knew the extent of it, I'd wager you wouldn't leave here alive.'

His gaze was frank, the eyes clear. ‘I came to return your sword-belt,' Marbeck said quietly. ‘And to tell you John Buck's fled – to Quiney's manor, I think.'

The other frowned. ‘How do you know that?'

‘I found out this morning, along with other intelligence. Would you like to hear it?'

After a moment Niles nodded, and gestured him to a stool. So Marbeck sat and recounted what he had learned. By the end of his time with the customs master, he related, the man had become frightened enough to tell a great deal: enough, perhaps, to have Sir Edward Quiney arraigned for piracy along with Reuben Beck. But news of the fight on the beach, together with Swann's death, would have reached Quiney immediately. The man would move swiftly to protect himself, including silencing those he saw as a threat. Buck had served as a hired assassin in the past; if ordered to deal with Woollard, he would then have run straight back to his paymaster.

He finished his account and waited. Niles had taken in the information without expression, but now another frown appeared. ‘I could send to my commander and ask for orders,' he said, ‘but it would take too long. If Quiney knows I escaped he'll think he's under threat, and hence he may flee. So I will act now – this very night.'

Marbeck sat up abruptly.

‘It's a ten-mile march to Abbotsbury.' Niles stood up, and took a few paces. ‘I know Quiney's manor. It has easy access to the sea, but we can block that. I'll take twenty men; it leaves too small a force to man this castle, which could mean my losing my post. But just now, that isn't my chief concern.'

‘No … the destruction of the Sea Locusts is,' Marbeck said quietly. ‘And I'm asking leave to accompany you. I can fight.'

‘I don't doubt that,' Niles replied. He thought for a moment, then: ‘You may come as a volunteer, for reasons of your own. I'll deny all knowledge of your purpose if you wish, as I'll forget the name you gave me last night. You can be Marcus Janes again, if you prefer.'

They eyed each other; few words were needed. ‘I'll give no other name, for the present,' Marbeck said.

‘Very well … then I'll take my sword back, and have you outfitted from the armoury. We'll march as soon as it's dark, take positions about the house and enter it at dawn. Now, I have despatches to write. A rider will leave within the hour.'

‘For where?' Marbeck asked quickly. ‘I have a report in my saddle-bag, addressed to Salisbury House in London.'

‘Give it to me, and I'll see it gets there,' Niles said. ‘Meanwhile you can stay here, rest and eat. Will you call my ensign back?'

In relief, Marbeck nodded and got to his feet. Despite the heaviness of his heart, as he went to the door he felt a faint stirring: if not of hope, then of possibilities.

And when night fell at last, he was ready.

It had been a tense wait in Portland Castle, though he had tried to keep himself occupied. He had shed Marcus Janes's garish clothes and attired himself in his customary black. He wore a plain but serviceable sword supplied by the castle's armourer, and had seen Cobb fed and rested. His despatch to Cecil was sent, and he was free to think on the matter in hand – though in this, he knew he had strayed far from his territory.

He was no longer Marbeck the intelligencer; at best he had become a self-appointed Crown officer, at worst a private citizen bent on revenge. Like Niles, he no longer cared about the consequences; but as far as the previous night's debacle was concerned, it was impossible to forget it. It was impossible, because a party of Niles's men had already been out to Chesil Beach to bring back their dead comrades. A few stunned onlookers had gathered, staring at the bodies, which had been stripped of clothing as well as weapons. The corpses of seamen from Swann's crew were also brought in, and thrown into a common grave. Gideon Swann's body, along with that of his younger son, had been taken to Weymouth to be dealt with by the townspeople. Otherwise, there was no trace of the Sea Locusts. And when dusk fell, no ships' lights were visible out in the bay; Reuben Beck had escaped, and was beyond reach.

As a result a mood of gloom hung over Portland Castle, which by nightfall had changed to anger. Niles's men seethed with resentment – partly at their commander, who had escaped and left his men behind, dead or dying as they were. Though his pursuit of one he believed to be a raider was understood, it would be a long time before he was forgiven. Marbeck saw it, as he saw the man's reasons for the march. Niles was acting in lieu of a knight-marshal, making an arrest he would later have to justify; Sir Edward Quiney was no common criminal, but a powerful man.

Marbeck, however, no longer felt bound by any constraint. The events of the past weeks had crystallized into a desire to avenge people: Woollard, Mary Kellett … even Oxenham in a way. Above all, he burned with the desire to confront John Buck, and to hear him beg for his life.

Finally, it was time. As darkness fell the troop assembled, moving out of the castle gates onto the rocky foreshore. They were all mounted: Niles's best men, well armed. Their captain wore his battered cuirass; Marbeck had refused the offer of armour, and wore only his padded doublet. The company carried no torches, but would rely on the half-moon and starlight to guide them along the coast road. When they reached Quiney's manor, on the hills above Abbotsbury, they would secure the path to Chesil Beach and surround the house. Then at Niles's order, they would advance from all sides. If the gates were locked they would be forced open; after that, Niles was relying on his subordinates to maintain discipline. There would be no killing or looting, he ordered – and Sir Edward Quiney must be taken alive and unharmed. So at last they left Portland and passed in file along the narrow isthmus, with the sea on either side. On reaching the mainland they turned west: a line of riders, barely visible in the dark.