Marbeck and the Double Dealer (24 page)

Marbeck whirled round – too late. The door flew inwards, cracking him on the forehead. He staggered back, while at the same time Grogan was shoved forward. Then mayhem broke out.

There was a scream – from Anne, he thought. There was a shout, too – from the guard, no doubt. Then came a clash of weapons, more cries, and bodies were swaying about in the gloom. In a daze Marbeck raised his sword – and when a shape loomed over him, he lunged. He felt the point strike home – there was a fearful shriek, and the figure collapsed.

He lurched across the room. There was a grunt, and someone fell to the floor in front of him.

‘Anne!' he shouted.

Figures flitted across his field of vision, then stopped. There was a brief silence, which was broken by an anguished cry from behind. Marbeck's heart gave a jolt.

‘Help me . . .'

It was Grogan. In dismay, Marbeck snapped round, knowing at once what he had done. As he did so, he realized that the other on the floor was the guard, who lay still.

‘Your friend needs help, I think.'

There was the voice in the dark again: Silvan's. But as Marbeck raised his sword, something swung at him, thudding into his shoulder. Pain shot through him. He reeled and fell to the floor, squinting up at his assailant: it was Anne.

She dropped the stool and stepped back. As she did so, the rear door opened, flooding the room with daylight to reveal Silvan, minus his hat and cloak. His sword was in one hand, while with the other he took Anne's arm . . . and he was smiling.

‘You are a disappointment,
signor
.' He looked down at Marbeck. ‘You and I could have done much together.'

Then he was outside, and Anne with him.

His shoulder throbbing, Marbeck staggered to his feet. There was a noise at the other door, and a face poked round: that of the landlord of the Three Cranes.

‘What's the coil here . . .?' he began. Then he gasped.

Walking heavily, Marbeck came forward and knelt beside Grogan. The player was shivering, while his heart's blood pumped from the wound: the fatal wound that Marbeck himself had inflicted.

‘I was good, wasn't I?' Grogan gazed at him, his eyes very bright. ‘My Madge Mullins, I mean . . . and my extempore, too.'

Slowly, Marbeck nodded.

‘I always tried to give my best,' the player added. He shuddered, and his eyes closed.

‘You were superb, my friend – as always,' Marbeck said. Then he fell silent. He was talking to a dead man.

Bleakly, he looked up at the landlord. ‘Will you call a constable?' he said. ‘Tell him two players were practising their swordplay and suffered an accident . . .' He broke off. There was a groan, and he looked round to see the guard stirring.

‘Accident?' The landlord stared at the scene of carnage. ‘And what of him?' he demanded.

Dazed, the guard sat up. His and Marbeck's eyes met, whereupon the other gave a brief nod. His hand was bloody where Silvan's sword had slashed it, but otherwise he had suffered nothing worse than being knocked unconscious.

‘He was our umpire,' Marbeck said.

Outside on the Vintry wharf, he leaned against a wall to collect himself. People looked askance at him: a beggar, holding a sword. They would think he had stolen it. He shook his head and, with the noise of the quayside in his ears, indulged in a moment of self-excoriation. To say that he had failed would be inadequate. He had underestimated his opponent, who had escaped with ease. More, in the confusion he had killed the man he'd hired to help him, and lost his hostage into the bargain.

Silvan and Anne could have gone in any direction. The great city seemed to roar defiantly at Marbeck's back, with its myriad streets and alleys. Before him stretched the river, swollen and sluggish at high tide, dotted with craft of all kinds. Over on the Southwark shore he could see the theatres: the Swan, the Rose and the Globe, flags fluttering to denote a performance about to begin. Now there was one less player to strut their stages, he thought grimly.

‘Oi, you – what are you doing?'

He turned to see a heavy-set man in a russet coat staring at him. There was a billet stuck in his belt. As Marbeck looked, the fellow started towards him.

‘That's two laws you've broke,' he announced. ‘A sturdy beggar with no permit, and carrying a sword. Where'd you filch it from?'

‘It's mine.' Just then Marbeck hadn't the energy to lie.

‘And I'm the Lord Treasurer,' the constable jeered. ‘Hold still while I take it off you.'

‘Truly, I wouldn't advise that,' Marbeck said.

His tone checked the man. Here was a dirty vagrant, speaking like a gentleman. A frown appeared.

‘Who are you?'

‘Name's Sands,' Marbeck said automatically. His gaze shifted back to the river. Then he gave a start. A skiff had entered his vision, from somewhere to his left. The waterman was heaving at the oars, taking his boat into midstream . . . He stared at the two passengers seated in the stern, and his pulse leaped.

‘I have to go,' he said. And before the constable could reply, he darted past with a speed that caught the man by surprise. But as he went, he called out. ‘You're needed in the tavern – hurry.' Then he was running along the quay, and down the Three Cranes Stairs.

There were two watermen waiting. One was young and lean, eager for trade; the other was a grizzled Thames veteran, his shoulders thick and bowed from a lifetime of toil. Marbeck took one look and went to the older man's boat.

‘There's a shilling to get me across,' he breathed, dragging a coin from his jerkin. ‘Another if you can catch that fellow – do you see?'

The waterman stared. But he took the coin, then followed Marbeck's outstretched arm to pick out a boat bobbing in midstream, the heads of a man and a woman visible.

‘Best get in, then,' he said.

Marbeck stepped into the skiff and sat down. He still carried his sword, but the boatman ignored it. In a moment he had put an oar to the stairs and shoved his little craft out. It turned with the current, then shot forward as he plied both oars; at last, the chase had begun.

As the spray hit his face, Marbeck found hope surging through him. Now, too, his reasoning kicked in. It was no great surprise that Silvan had taken to the water. He might intend to go downriver, and take passage to Dover from Deptford. Or perhaps he had a bolthole on Bankside – that would make sense. Whatever the reasons, Marbeck was on his heels.

It took a very few minutes to reach the middle of the stream. The grey-headed boatman uttered not a word, but every now and again he looked round, eyeing the other craft. They were gaining, Marbeck was certain of it. He also grew aware of more small boats clustering on the opposite shore. People were spilling out, flocking to the theatres. His mouth tightened: he could lose Silvan in the crowd.

‘Pull to your larboard,' he said. ‘Forget the other boat; just get me ashore.'

The waterman looked up. ‘They'll be packed together like eels,' he said. ‘Better I take you to the Falcon Stairs.'

‘No, go the shortest way.' Marbeck peered forward, gripping his sword hilt, keeping his eye on Silvan's boat. He could make out faces now, but to his satisfaction neither of the two occupants looked behind. He guessed they did not expect to be followed, but he couldn't be certain. On impulse, he leaned over the boat's side and scooped up a handful of water. Tearing off his ragged jerkin and shirt, he used them to clean his face and hands. The boatman glanced up to see his passenger now stripped to the waist.

‘Your coat,' Marbeck said, fumbling in the jerkin. ‘How much will you take for it?'

Without pausing at his task, the old waterman eyed him. ‘On the run, are you?' he muttered.

‘In a way. But the money isn't stolen, I swear it. I'll offer you four crowns.'

The other blinked. ‘You must need it bad.'

‘I do,' Marbeck said. He found the coins, counted them out and laid them on his palm. ‘What do you say?'

After a moment the man nodded. And within minutes, somewhat better attired, Marbeck was stepping ashore on Bankside with the great wooden theatres towering above and people surging about him.

Sword in hand, he walked parallel to the river. He had lost sight of Silvan and Anne, but now, to his relief, he saw them again: they too had alighted and were walking away from the shore. Soon they had rounded a corner and disappeared, but he kept his eye on the spot. The Globe, the splendid new theatre built the previous year by the Lord Chamberlain's Men, was at his left; he heard the roar of the packed crowd. The Rose Theatre – older, smaller, but just as noisy – was ahead. It was the Swan that was still filling up, he realized; that was some distance upriver, with people streaming towards it. Picking up pace, Marbeck strode along Bankside, threading his way through them. He passed alehouses, bowling dens and low dwellings. Then he reached the corner where Silvan and Anne had turned, and halted. There was no sign of them in the narrow street, nor in the open space ahead. The way led to fields, and to ponds: the Pike Gardens. The ground here was marshy and criss-crossed with drainage ditches. He tensed: it was a likely place for an ambush.

He took a breath and started down the lane. There were few people here, though they threw him some wary looks. Eyes ahead, Marbeck walked to the end of the short street, where he slowed . . . then stopped dead.

The point of a sword had appeared, an inch from his nose.

‘So you followed,' Silvan said softly. ‘That was quick work. I may revise my opinion of you, after all.'

Very slowly, Marbeck turned his head. The man stood beside the wall of a rough-timbered house, thatch sagging above his head. Anne was nowhere in sight.

‘Drop your sword, please,' Silvan added, stepping out to face him.

But Marbeck remained motionless. Now, at last, he was able to view his opponent at close quarters. He was a handsome man, he realized, with the face of a native of southern France rather than of Italy. His dark eyes regarded Marbeck coolly.

‘Come, you know this is not the time to fight.' His voice had acquired an edge; the sword trembled slightly.

‘I asked you before,' Marbeck said. ‘Did you kill Ottone?'

The other gave a sigh of irritation. ‘Let fall your weapon,' he snapped. ‘Or it ends now.'

Marbeck's eyes flicked aside briefly. There was no one in sight, and from Bankside the noise of the theatre crowd had diminished. Ahead of him was a meadow, its only occupant a cow munching grass.

‘You mean, we should fence here?' Marbeck asked.

‘I mean no such thing!' Silvan snapped. Marbeck remained motionless, assessing his position.

‘I meant to give you one more chance to consider the offer I made,' the other went on. ‘Let's leave aside your tiresome attempt to entrap me since.' He gave a snort. ‘Is your master Cecil so short of ideas, or was the failure your own?'

‘Well, we found Mulberry,' Marbeck said gently. ‘That's
Morera
to you – or
La Mora
, perhaps. And now I'm at close quarters with his – or I should say
her
– master.'

Silvan bristled. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken,' he said flatly. ‘I heard you were a man of taste, and of vision – one who hopes for better things than have come to you.'

‘Did your people get that from Moore?' Marbeck asked with interest. ‘If so, he lied.'

‘Drop the sword,' Silvan hissed. ‘Or I'll pierce you.'

Marbeck appeared to waver. Finally, he sighed and let his sword fall to the ground.

‘This way.' Silvan stepped back, jerking his head towards the house. Eyes peeled for any movement, he kept his sword levelled. With a shrug, Marbeck complied.

‘Through the gate,' Silvan added, close behind him.

Marbeck found himself at the rear of the small house, which looked derelict. There was a garden, badly neglected, with fruit trees. He lifted the latch of a wicket gate and walked in. Silvan's sword was at his back.

‘Go inside.'

The house door was ajar, approached by an overgrown path. As Marbeck neared the threshold, he sensed someone within. Anne was there, he was certain. He slowed, then stopped. The spot wasn't ideal, but . . .

‘What is it?' Silvan demanded, then caught his breath. In that split second Marbeck had dropped to his heels. It was a Ballard trick: with a single movement, he rolled aside, grasping Silvan's leg as he did so. The man lurched, his sword arm flailing. As he fell, he swept the weapon downwards, scraping Marbeck's arm, but the blow was weak. The blade sliced through his new-bought coat. But no sooner had Silvan hit the ground than he found his wrist pinned down by Marbeck's knee.

‘Now
you
drop it,' Marbeck breathed.

T
he two men locked eyes; there was little doubt that this fight had barely begun.

‘Let go your sword,' Marbeck repeated.

Silvan hesitated, then his left hand flew to his belt. Even as Marbeck grabbed it, a poniard appeared, and suddenly both men were locked in a struggle for the weapon. In the process, Marbeck's weight shifted – which was the momentum Silvan needed. His sword hand broke free, though, since he was on his back, the position was awkward, and he took too long to strike. Risking a wound from the poniard, Marbeck seized Silvan's arm in both hands – as he had done on a Spanish ship in the Blavet – but even as he bent it, the man's other hand came up. He glimpsed the dagger point flashing towards him and jerked his head aside. Then came a dreadful crunch, as Silvan's elbow was broken. With a cry of agony, he went limp.

Panting, sweat running down his face, Marbeck seized the man's sword by its ornate hilt, pulled it from his grasp and threw it away. Though white with shock, Silvan fought back. Grunting with pain, he jabbed a knee into Marbeck's side. Marbeck winced, but put his strength into forcing his opponent's dagger hand down. He was gaining ground, he thought – until he made a slip. It was an old trick: Silvan allowed Marbeck to force his wrist flat, then used his own weight against him. The next moment he had been toppled aside into the grass, and his opponent was struggling to rise.