The Enterprise of England (31 page)

‘You are to call here in one week’s time to carry my lord’s report back to Sir Francis,’ he said, looking down his long nose which seemed to quiver with contempt at any person under the rank of lord.

Once, I might have given him a sharp answer, that I was commanded by Sir Francis and not his master, but two years in Walsingham’s service had taught me discretion in holding my tongue – most of the time, at least. I merely nodded and left, cursing my loss of time.

Out in the street, I turned in the direction of Ettore Añez’s house. It was well past dinnertime and my stomach ached, but I was anxious to learn whether he could help me in the matter of finding Mark Weber. He was as welcoming as before, and if he was surprised at seeing me again only six months after my previous visit to
Amsterdam, he did not show it. Moreover, he must have detected something in my looks that told him I had not dined, for he summoned cold meats and bread to be brought, and himself carried a bowl of early apricots over to the table placed between us.

‘Apricots?’ I said, surprised.

He smiled. ‘I had a shipment coming in from Italy, and my agent there always sends some fruits. They come to ripeness earlier in the south. Now,’ he looked at me shrewdly, ‘I think this is more than a visit of courtesy.’

Before leaving
London I had discussed Ettore with Phelippes. It seemed he had, from time to time, acted for Sir Francis in small matters and was to be trusted. As I took the edge off my hunger, I laid before him the matter of Mark Weber – his disappearance and what I had learned from Niels Penders about his having departed in company with Cornelius Parker.

Ettore shook his head.

‘That is not good news,’ he said. ‘There is a growing conviction amongst us – I speak of the Amsterdam merchants – that Parker has definitely been supplying arms to the Spaniards. Oh, certainly, they have their own sources from home, but to reach the Low Countries they must either come overland through France – and as you know, Philip of Spain is not on good terms with the French – or else they must come by sea up the Channel, and run the gauntlet of English ships. The Spanish captains are wary of El Draque and his fellow pirates, or privateers, as I think you English call them.’

He grinned.

‘Parker trades in silk fabrics with the Turks, who are also excellent gunsmiths. And he is known to have connections with Prague, where they have been developing further uses of gunpowder. Because his ships fly the flag of the United Provinces, they sail up the Channel unmolested by English ships and, since they are known to the Spaniards, also unmolested by them.’

He paused, tapping his teeth with his fingernail.

‘He would not be so incautious as to put in boldly to one of the ports held by the Spanish, Sluys or Gravelines or Dunkerque. That would quite give his game away. No, he lands his goods quite openly in Amsterdam.’

‘Are there no customs officers here?’ I asked. ‘No port officials who inspect the cargoes coming in?’

‘Most certainly. But it is always possible to find one who will turn a blind eye for a consideration.’

‘But he must then move his guns and other arms south and west to the Spanish lines.’ I remembered with a shiver my alarming journey in that direction with Berden.

‘Aye. He might use pack mules, but I think it more likely he would send his goods by water. This country is criss-crossed with rivers and canals.’

‘I remember.’ I took a final pull of my ale. ‘But why do you think Mark Weber would have left in his company, apparently on friendly terms?’

‘He must have convinced Parker that he was an ally, Kit. Do you know much about this man Weber?’

‘Not a great deal. Like Parker, he is half English, half Dutch. Phelippes and Sir Francis both believe him to be trustworthy. Not all of the agents are. Some play a double game.’ Like Robert Poley, I thought, my personal enemy, who is as trustworthy as a snake.

‘So unless he has turned traitor, he must be trying to spy out Parker’s activities,’ Ettore said, ‘to report back to Sir Francis.’

‘That would not take him over three weeks.’

‘No.’ He looked at me soberly. ‘Some serious mischance may have overtaken him.’

‘That is what I fear,’ I said. ‘He may be dead.’ I had not put it into words before, but now that I did, it somehow seemed more real.

He nodded.

‘If you can wait a day or two, I will set some enquiries in motion. They need to be discreet, even casual, but I will find out what I can. Someone may have heard or seen something about the movement of Parker’s goods from
Amsterdam, which will give you a starting point.’

It was more than I could have expected. I was reluctant to endure even this short delay, but I would need to be content.

Chapter Thirteen

I
t would be two days before I heard from Ettore. I found it difficult to occupy myself in a strange town where I did not speak the language, despite the fact that almost every person I met had at least a little English. On the first day after visiting Ettore, having kicked my heels at the inn for half the morning, I decided to visit the minister Dirck de Veen at his church, where I learned that no one had ever been brought to trial for the murder of Hans Viederman.

‘I fear the town authorities do not take very seriously the death of a beggar,’ the minister said sadly. ‘They say it was a falling-out amongst thieves, though Hans was no thief. And there would have been nothing in his cottage to steal. It was a tragic loss of a life. A man once so gifted. Such a waste, such a waste.’

‘At least his dog survived,’ I said hesitantly.

‘Ah, the poor creature! It ran off and was never found again.’

I realised, of course, that I had not seen the minister after Berden and I had headed south before Christmas. ‘I have the dog, Dominee de Veen,’ I said. ‘He followed after me. Indeed, he saved me from an attack by an armed man down near the Spanish lines.’

‘You have the dog!’ He gentle, worried face broke into a smile.

‘He is in London with my father. He was injured, helping me, but he is recovered and grown quite hearty now. I have called him Rikki, for I did not know his name.’

‘I do not think I ever heard Hans speak his name,’ de Veen said. ‘But this is good news indeed. One small spark of light in a sad business.’

‘So who do you think killed Hans?’

He shook his head. ‘I cannot say. Who would do such a thing?’

‘I think he was killed because he knew something. Something that was a danger to someone who took violent action to stop his mouth.’

He turned on me a look that was suddenly less unworldly, and I realised that I had perhaps underestimated him.

‘That may well be true. I only remembered, after you had gone, that other time. A man came asking where Hans lived, a day or two before you found his body. I was busy with some of my parishioners when he was here and it had slipped my mind.’

‘Was it Cornelius Parker?’ I asked eagerly.

He shook his head. ‘No, I know Mijnheer Parker. No, it was a slightly younger man. Now, what is his name? He used to be a merchant, fallen now on hard times.’ He ran his fingers through his bush of grey hair, leaving it standing on end.

‘Was it van Leyden?’

‘That’s the man! How did you guess?’

I shook my head. It did not want to involve the minister too deeply in this dark business. ‘It was but a guess,’ I said vaguely. ‘I had seen him with Parker, and seen Parker with Hans.’

I turned our talk to other things, which, since it was the commonest topic in Amsterdam, concerned the likely arrival of the Spanish fleet. The Hollanders themselves had a very small navy, nothing that could give battle to the Spaniards, but their shallow-draft
vlieboten
– something like our small carracks – could manoeuvre in the shallow waters off Flanders and Zeeland, where Philip’s large warships could not go. By forming a blockade they could hamper the embarkation of Parma’s soldiers on to the barges which were to take the invading army across the Channel to England. I knew that Admiral Justin was moving a squadron of these Dutch
vlieboten
in position to blockade Dunkerque.

‘I have heard,’ said Dirck, ‘that the Duke of Parma still lacks enough barges to transport his men. Some believe he may make a raid on the Zuiderzee to seize any craft that will serve his purpose.’

‘So close to Amsterdam?’

It was alarming news.

He nodded. ‘One of my parishioners overheard some of the English soldiers discussing how they were to be deployed guarding the docks outside the town, on the further banks of the Zee.’

‘Aye,’ I said slowly. ‘I do not suppose
Parma will want to find himself caught up in a fight by coming too close to Amsterdam itself. Now that the Spanish fleet is on its way he will want no distractions.’

I pondered this news as I left the church.
Parma would need both weapons and transport. Access to both would be difficult for him, though by now he must have commandeered every suitable barge in the Spanish Netherlands. Ettore had pointed out how convenient Cornelius Parker’s legitimate activities would be as a cover for smuggling arms to Parma. As a merchant with vessels of different sizes at his disposal, he might also be intending to supply barges. Every river and canal in this water-logged country thronged with barges. I had seen for myself the daily activity in the town, with barges being loaded and unloaded beside the merchants’ houses standing along the canals. The barges moved up and down the canals all day long, some with sails and oars, some only with oars, both within the town and out into the surrounding countryside. No one ever gave them a second glance.

I found that my feet had taken me around the corner of the church and down the narrow alleyway towards Hans’s pitiful cottage. In the snowy winter months the place had seemed no worse than shabby and poor, but now in the height of summer, the alley stank like a sewer. The narrow kennel running along the centre of the cobbled way was intended to carry waste down to a canal that I could see at the far end of the alley, but it was blocked now with nameless rubbish. This had dammed up the flow of the contents of piss-pots which had been emptied into the alley and which had now spread in a stinking pool across the cobbles. I picked my way round it, holding my breath. On my previous visit I had been impressed by the cleanliness of
Amsterdam, but this place was as filthy as any back-alley in London.

The last house on the left, Hans’s old cottage, looked more derelict than ever. No one could be living in it now, not even a beggar, for there were great holes in the thatched roof. Most of the houses here in the town, even quite modest ones, were roofed in terracotta tiles, but this ruined place must be a relic of some older time. I averted my eyes as I passed it, remembering with a shudder the moment when I had found Hans’s body, its throat cut, lying in a pool of frozen blood.

I came out of the alleyway into bright sunlight and there at my feet was yet another of the town’s many canals. There were no grand merchants’ houses here, though a line of a dozen barges lay moored along the canal bank. Just round the corner from the derelict cottage there was another similar building – single-storied, small and dirty, and with a thatched roof, although this one was intact. The single window was shuttered. Considering its look of poverty, it was strange to see that it had a stout new door. And the stout new door was secured by an elaborate lock, clearly also new and shiny, with a lock plate as long as my hand. Curious.

This remote part of the town seemed almost deserted, though I noticed a group of four men walking toward me along the edge of the canal. There was no reason to suppose them in any way unfriendly, but my scalp prickled at the sight of them, walking so purposefully towards me, or perhaps towards that heavily secured building. I withdrew into the alley again and walked rapidly back to the church, then on to my inn.

The next day, still having heard nothing from Ettore, I decide to investigate that remote canal further. I did not return to the point where I had found it before. Something warned me to stay away from the locked hut. Instead I found the canal easily enough by turning down the other side of the church and walking parallel to Hans’s alley, along another street which was wider and cleaner. At this point there were no moored barges and indeed this canal, one of the smaller ones, seemed hardly used at all. For the most part, the buildings along the waterside turned their backs on it. As I followed it in the direction that would lead me out of the town, the canal was on my left hand, while on my right for most of the way there was a blank run of brick walls enclosing gardens of houses which faced in the opposite direction, towards a pleasanter part of the town. Finally I came to a large warehouse where a few men were working. Beyond that the canal wandered off into the countryside, heading roughly west of south and soon disappearing amongst dense reed beds.

I wonder
, I thought.
If a man wished to move barges quietly out of the town, would there be any better way than this? But perhaps this canal does not go anywhere. It may simply be one of those that the Hollanders dig to drain their fields
.

The paved path which had accompanied the canal to this point petered out, though it was possible to follow the line of water further, along a strip of beaten earth through the reed beds, running parallel to the canal but about two yards from it. Perhaps it was one of the
jaagpaden
, as Captain Thoms had called them, used by men or horses towing barges. I headed slowly along it for perhaps half an hour, through deserted countryside, encountering no one. There was no sound but the soft incessant whispering of the reeds in the slight breeze and the occasional call of a bird. I disturbed a heron who made off with those long, slow wing beats which look too casual to lift the heavy body and trailing legs, yet somehow manage to propel the bird effortlessly upwards. I sat down on the ground, watching it fly as far as the nearest tree, a pollarded willow. There were few enough trees in this flat country of reeds and water, but from a bundle of twigs perched amongst its branches, I guessed that the heron had its nest there.

The silence and the warmth of the midday sun stole over me, so that I lay down on my back amongst the reeds, watching, through half-closed eyes, a grasshopper clinging, above my head, to a swaying stem. The reeds were alive with the leaping of these small green grasshoppers and the faint chirp of crickets, almost on the edge of hearing. Sleep was stealing over me, when the grasshopper above my head suddenly sprang from the stem and disappeared. At the same moment the heron, who must have made a silent return, clattered up from the edge of the canal. Suddenly I was aware of what they had heard, the sound of oars and men’s quiet voices.

I rolled over on my stomach and peered through the reeds. At first I could see nothing, then a barge came into sight, rowed by four men and towing another larger one. The sails were furled, for there was not enough of a breeze to aid their labours. Between the two pairs of oarsmen lay a bundle in canvas, perhaps a yard or more long and about as large around as my arms would reach. The following barge was piled high with more bundles, all the same size and shape. In its stern there were three large barrels.

Giving thanks that the reeds were thick here, I pressed my head down against the ground, my left cheek painfully against a sharp stone. My clothes were dull in hue and unlikely to draw attention amongst the reeds unless one of the men were to turn and look in my direction. With the instinct of a hunted animal seeking sanctuary, I closed my eyes and held my breath, until I could no longer hear the sound of the oars and the heron had returned to his fishing.

Slowly I sat up. The sunlight reflected off the water of the canal danced in stars before my eyes. Those canvas bundles meant only one thing to me. I had seen similar ones in Dover Castle. They contained army muskets, half a dozen in each. The barrels might be anything, but my guess was gunpowder or shot. As for the barges, I recognised the leading one by a careless streak of green paint across the bow. I had last seen it outside the locked hut, no more than a few yards from Hans’s door.

When I arrived back at the Prins Willem, a message from Ettore awaited me. He had not discovered much. He had managed to find out nothing of Mark Weber. Cornelius Parker, however, was known to have returned from his latest voyage and unloaded a substantial cargo of his usual goods, mainly rich fabrics from the Near East, and a fresh supply of the more expensive spices which were his most lucrative stock in trade. How easy, I thought, to stow those canvas bundles I had seen in amongst the innocent bales of cloth, which would also be wrapped in canvas for protection. An obliging customs official would take a cursory glance at a few bales of damask and nod the cargo through, for a small consideration. Barrels of more lethal goods could stand amongst the barrels of spices, and that same customs official would check the lading manifests and pass them through without opening them. The valuable spices, after all, must be kept carefully sealed, away from dirt and damp.

Ettore had also learned that van Leyden had been seen in
Amsterdam about two weeks ago, but not since, nor did anyone know where he was living. After his flight from Leicester’s quarters before Christmas, he was not known to have taken any other lodgings in Amsterdam. Ettore believed he had probably been out of town until recently, possibly even out of the country.

I regret
, he wrote,
that I have no more detailed information for you, but I will continue my enquiries. Parker’s house is located on Sint Nikolaas Straat, not far from the church of Sint Nikolaas. Van Leyden may be living there.

Ettore
Añez.

At these words, I looked up suddenly, searching my memory. When I had first met Dirck de Veen, he had said he was the minister of . . . aye, the
church of Sint Nikolaas. I had forgotten that until now. I had never know the name of the street. If that was Sint Nikolaas Straat, then Cornelius Parker’s house could well be one of those whose garden backed on to the canal I had been following, only a few minutes’ walk from the locked hut and the moored barges.