Marbeck and the Double Dealer (19 page)

Head down, Marbeck followed. There were houses bordering the Fields on the west, up to the turning into Old Street. Allowing his quarry to draw ahead, Marbeck held back until he saw him reach the corner and disappear. Then he too walked smartly up to it. When he rounded it, the archer, longbow slung across his back, was twenty yards ahead. Thereafter, falling into a steady pace, Marbeck began to trail him.

It was straightforward at first. Confident he had not been seen, Marbeck nevertheless kept a good distance behind his mark. There were people about, and it wasn't difficult to conceal himself. But quite soon he began to wonder if the man was leading him by a roundabout route, which could mean two things: either he knew he was followed, or he thought it likely and was taking precautions.

The suspicion grew soon after the fellow turned left, out of Old Street into Whitecross Street. Since this ran parallel to the Fields and back down to Everades Well Street, it meant that quarry and pursuer would have described a loop. Fully alert, Marbeck followed, walking between the tenements of this sprawling suburb and eventually crossing the end of Well Street. Here his mark took a right turn into Beech Lane, which led into the Barbican. They were now in Cripplegate Ward, close to St Giles, and the streets were becoming busy. If they kept to this course, following the road into Long Lane, they would soon be at West Smithfield, which was always crowded. It would be easy for the message-carrier to lose his pursuer; Marbeck quickened his pace, shortening the distance between them.

With the crowd thickening, he followed his man across Aldersgate Street into Long Lane. The din of the market was ahead, the stench of animal dung in his nostrils. Horses, sheep and cattle would be milling about . . . and as passers-by got in his way, he was obliged to close up the gap again. But he kept his gaze focussed on the point of the longbow, jigging up and down above people's heads. Then quite soon they were in Smithfield, with the noise and press of folk on all sides.

Doggedly, Marbeck weaved his way through the throng, peering between bodies. He passed horse dealers engaged in fierce bargaining, farmers and drovers in from the country, housewives and servants with laden baskets. At one point he feared he had lost his target, then, with relief, caught sight of him again, heading in the direction of Saint Bartholomew's. Hurrying now, he closed the gap once again, dodging a porter with a load on his back and slithering on the foul cobblestones. He eased his way to the southern end of Smithfield, passing Hosier Lane on his right. But he kept his eye on the bobbing tip of the longbow. For a while it was hidden, then it reappeared . . . then, suddenly, it was gone.

Breathing fast, Marbeck pushed his way forward. The market din was behind him now, though the street was still crowded. He was at Pie Corner, with Cock Lane at his right and St Sepulchre's ahead. Swiftly, he scanned the streets in three directions . . . then froze.

Someone was approaching him, carrying a longbow – the same one, he knew, that he had been eying ever since he'd left Finsbury Fields. But this was not the person he had trailed: it was a barefoot boy in poor clothes, holding the bow before him – and he was smiling.

‘Here, master!' the urchin piped as he drew close. ‘I was told to give 'ee this – someone back there said you wanted it, and you should have it. Said you'd pay me three pennies!'

‘Someone?' Spirits sinking, Marbeck looked into the child's dirty face. ‘Was it man or woman?'

But the boy merely held out his hand. Inaudibly, Marbeck cursed. With apparent ease, Silvan's letter-bearer had given him the slip. Worse, it meant that his role as a traitor to the Crown was over as soon as it had begun, and his plan was in ruins.

With a sigh, he reached for his purse, while the child grinned from ear to ear.

I
t was past midnight before Marbeck and Gifford were admitted to Sir Robert Cecil's private chamber at Burleigh House, led by a grim-faced Nicholas Prout. In silence, the two intelligencers filed in, to stand like guilty schoolboys. There was a moment while Prout hovered near the door, but seeing that his presence was not required he soon left. Master Secretary then eyed both men coolly, before inviting them to explain themselves. Whereupon, as he and Marbeck had agreed, Gifford spoke up at once, giving an eloquent account of recent events. It didn't take long, and though delivered with the best polish he could put upon it, the implications were not lost on the spymaster. Finally, when Gifford had said all there was to say, he fell silent. Stiff as posts, two of the Crown's best intelligencers waited.

‘Good,' Master Secretary said at last.

‘Good?' Gifford blurted. ‘You . . . you approve of our strategy, sir?'

‘It was bold and inventive,' came the reply. ‘If somewhat precipitate . . . but, then, that was always your way.' He threw Marbeck a wry look. ‘The situation obliged you to act swiftly. And, as you say, you opened up a way to our new friend Silvan.'

‘Only to close it again,' Marbeck said, concealing his relief. ‘I was sluggish in pursuit of the courier . . . now that I fear I've shown my true hand, they'll drop me like a stone.'

‘Well, what's done is done.' Cecil was seated behind his table, propped on cushions. He thought for a moment, then looked up. ‘We might even build upon it,' he said.

Though startled by the turn of events, Gifford recovered quickly. ‘Indeed, sir,' he agreed. ‘Perhaps if you were to draw up a new list of intelligencers currently about London, we may question them and—'

Cecil cut him off sharply. ‘That would take too long. Besides, this talk of a woman running messages throws everything into question. I have no female agents – that's a French practice.'

‘Perhaps a Spanish one, too?' Marbeck ventured.

Master Secretary was frowning. ‘If it was anyone else but Rose, I'd have been sceptical,' he said. ‘But he has the eyes of a goshawk. I trust the man's judgement – as I do yours, Marbeck. Though it's a leap of imagination, to assume the person who was alongside Silvan when he had you at his mercy was the same woman – let alone that she is Mulberry.'

‘Yet I believe it's so, sir,' Marbeck replied. ‘I think a new circle has been formed – a regrouping, after Gomez was taken. They got rid of Ottone too, to clear the way . . .' He broke off, as a look of irritation appeared on Cecil's face.

‘That was a loss I could have done without,' he murmured. ‘Coming on top of the capture of Moore – who, it seems, is being racked in the Spanish Netherlands, for whatever intelligence he can give . . .' He looked away. ‘If there were a way to put an end to his suffering, I'd like to know of it.'

Marbeck caught Gifford's eye. Master Secretary could be ruthless, and the true meaning of his words was not lost on either of them: to stop Moore's mouth, he would have ordered his death in an instant.

‘How may I serve, sir?' Gifford asked. ‘I would ask that—'

‘Enough of your flannel.' Cecil's voice was icy. ‘I have a notion what to do next, and there may well be a part you can play. But the plain fact is Silvan's only here because you failed to keep a close enough watch at Dover.'

Silence ensued. Gifford lowered his gaze, whereupon Master Secretary eyed Marbeck. ‘The false fleet bound for Ireland was a good device,' he said. ‘Yet it will be only a short time before it's exposed for the pack of lies that it is. If Silvan's half the man I think he is, he's already seeking verification – and trying to get a despatch to his master, perhaps.'

‘Gifford intercepted one message at Dover from Mulberry,' Marbeck began, but the spymaster looked up sharply.

‘You mean the one taken off the papist student?' He moved a few papers and picked one up. ‘But this isn't signed by Mulberry.'

Gifford blinked. ‘Forgive me, sir, I thought—'

‘Do you mean to say you haven't examined it thoroughly?' Cecil demanded. ‘This word isn't
Morera
. It's the name of another fruit –
Membrillo
. That means a quince, in case you wonder,' he added icily.

There was a moment as both men took in the information. ‘Then, there's another of them?' Gifford blurted.

Inwardly, Marbeck cursed. ‘So Silvan's circle is already wider than we thought,' he said.

Gifford swallowed audibly. ‘Well, then, we must step up the search on all ships leaving the ports,' he stammered. ‘Strengthen the watch—'

‘No – that would also take too long,' Cecil objected.

In silence, the other two waited.

‘A projection,' their master added, after a moment. ‘It's the only way to flush them out. We must outfox the foxes.'

‘How so?' Marbeck asked.

‘By making further use of your device while we may,' came the reply. ‘In short, let every intelligencer about London hear of a fleet that's been put together rapidly, much as you've described. We'll even keep the name of your admiral – Van Zoren. We can come up with the names of other commanders, too – along with those of some of our vessels currently under repair, or decommissioned.'

Seeing Master Secretary rather animated – a rare event – Gifford spoke up. ‘I have a few Dutch names I could add,' he said with relief. ‘Sea captains who truly exist.'

‘Yet surely the matter will not stand there?' Marbeck raised an eyebrow at Cecil. ‘Do you mean to make it known that this flotilla is to anticipate the Spanish fleet bound for Ireland? In which case, we've shown that we already know its purpose.' He hesitated. ‘It's a risky strategy, sir.'

‘Perhaps,' Cecil allowed. ‘But the Spaniards wouldn't be surprised that we've already guessed what the new fleet's for. Their intelligencers are not idle, and they assume ours aren't either. Besides, I'm counting on a swift response from Mulberry. He – or she – will be eager to cast doubt my way. While every loyal agent will make haste to apprise me of this new intelligence, I think Mulberry's despatch will read somewhat differently.'

The other two saw it now. All Master Secretary would have to do, once word of the bogus fleet had been leaked, was to sift the reports that came to him. Any one that sat oddly with the rest would almost certainly be from the traitor.

‘I wish I'd thought of such,' Marbeck said.

Cecil merely frowned at him. ‘You may wish all you like, Marbeck,' he snapped. ‘For your part, this is your chance to make amends for your recent laxity. The same goes for you, Gifford,' he added. ‘When the time comes, I'll call on you both to apprehend Mulberry – alive. Following that, you may find yourselves alongside Sangers at the Marshalsea, when he draws every grain of truth from the traitor – and, if she is indeed a woman, I pity her already.'

Two days then passed. And by the end of the second, the tempers of both Marbeck and Gifford were close to breaking point.

‘It could all come to nothing,' Gifford muttered. It was evening, and his tone was murderous. ‘Like your feeble attempt to trail the false bowman. Once he – or she – sensed you were in pursuit, our whole strategy was doomed.'

Marbeck refused to answer.

‘And you didn't even get close enough to see if it
was
a woman in man's attire,' Gifford scoffed. ‘Whoever she is, she had the better of you from the outset!'

Still Marbeck declined to rise to the bait. He had more faith in Cecil's plan than Gifford did. And having expected the worst, he now had some hope of success. ‘Silvan's people may have won a throw,' he said finally. ‘But the game still runs.'

With a grunt, the other turned away and picked up a bottle of ale. They were back in their chamber at the White Bear, where they could be reached quickly. The projection had been put in hand – with some speed, it seemed – but neither Marbeck nor Gifford would know what followed until Prout came to find them.

‘There are whores a-plenty but a stone's throw from here,' Gifford said, raising an earlier suggestion. ‘What say I find a couple and bring them up here, to pass the time?'

Marbeck's response, however, was flat. ‘Do what you will,' he said. ‘But do it elsewhere. I'll be glad to have the chamber to myself.'

As he had already done a dozen times, he was thinking over Gifford's words: had the archer indeed been a woman in disguise – the same one who had carried the message to Rose at the Duck and Drake? He only wished he had got closer.

‘By the Christ, this whole business is a rat's nest,' Gifford said, almost to himself. ‘Why don't they just round up every papist in London? We need to shake a few trees, see what falls out.'

‘Cherries?' Marbeck said. ‘Quinces, perhaps?'

‘I take back what I once said,' the other muttered. ‘Your true bent is not for serious play-acting, but for comedy.'

But even he fell silent, bored with his own banter. Dusk came, and both men prepared for yet another night of waiting. Neither had much appetite, and since the food at the White Bear left much to be desired, they didn't bother to order a supper. Each lay on his bed, in private rumination. They lit no candle, allowing the room to grow dark, and finally both drifted into slumber. For Marbeck, it was a sleep shot through with vivid dreams, culminating in a vision of Lady Celia Scroop, stark naked. He was reaching out for her, when she spoke in a voice that wasn't her own . . .

‘Marbeck! Wake up, damn you!'

He awoke with a start, to find someone shaking him by the shoulder.

‘There's movement at last,' Gifford said, bending over him. ‘Prout's waiting outside – get ready.'

Marbeck roused himself hurriedly. Gifford had lit a candle; by its flame, he saw him buckling on his scabbard.

‘What news is there?' Marbeck asked as he dressed.

‘I'm not certain,' the other replied. ‘He said he'll tell us on the way.'

‘On the way to where?'