Marbeck and the Privateers (17 page)

Two men stood inside the stable entrance, and one glance was all Marbeck needed. As hired ruffians went, they were a cut above the average: alert and muscular. They were dressed as huntsmen, in brown fustian; one had a long knife at his belt, while the other held a small caliver which he levelled at Marbeck. There was a click as he cocked it.

‘You were saying?'

Marbeck turned back to Jewkes, who was regarding him with controlled anger. Despite his haughty manner, he was a wharf-weasel at heart – though compared to him, Marbeck thought, his old informant Peter Mayne was a gentleman. He made no answer, whereupon the other spoke in a tone of contempt tinged with amusement.

‘I regret I can't spare the time to continue our conversation,' he said. ‘Instead, I'll leave you in the company of my friends … now, will you kindly move yourself?'

Marbeck looked round, as the hired men advanced and motioned him to stand aside. He backed to the nearest stall, whereupon Jewkes led his thoroughbred mount past them. As he went, he couldn't resist a smirk at Marbeck: cold eyes mocking him, signalling his fate. At the entrance he paused, reins in hand, to speak low to one of his followers. Then he mounted, and without looking back rode away. Marbeck watched him disappear, then eyed his captors.

‘I don't think you'll use that,' he said, with a nod at the weapon. ‘The noise would bring half the town running …'

‘We go outside,' said the man holding the caliver, a well-built fellow with a strong London accent. ‘And I don't need to use it, for this one will be behind you.' Whereupon the other man – a gaunt, hatchet-faced individual – pulled out his hunting-knife and moved forward. Pressing the point to the base of Marbeck's spine, he clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a shove.

His face blank, Marbeck walked to the door and out into the sunlight, the two men at his back. He glanced about, but made no resistance as they steered him briskly away from the busy square, along a quieter street and finally out to the riverside, where he'd walked but an hour ago. This time, however, he was marched upriver for a hundred yards or more, to a bridge. After crossing the Frome they then followed a road which led roughly northwards through fields, before turning aside to a wood. Soon they were among the trees, hidden from the road and far enough from the town. They stopped, and the one with the knife backed off. Standing in dappled sunlight Marbeck steeled himself, weighing his chances.

‘Kneel,' the well-built man ordered.

‘Do you know, I don't think I will,' Marbeck said.

‘On your knees, you whoreson devil!' the other growled. He was the angry one: more dangerous perhaps, but also less controlled, and hence the weaker … Marbeck paused, then turned boldly to him.

‘Are you a gambler?' he asked conversationally. ‘I'll wager a half-angel you can't spike me before I get my poniard out …'

‘Stop.' The one with the caliver, though still calm, was losing patience. ‘Force him to his knees,' he said, with a glance at his companion.

The other hesitated, but only briefly. Glowering at Marbeck, with the knife held forward he stepped close and lifted his free hand – then yelped as, with a movement so fast that both men barely saw it, Marbeck grabbed his arm and twisted it. At the same moment something appeared in his other hand: a tailor's bodkin; and a second later, it was embedded up to its handle in the hatchet-faced man's neck.

After that, things slowed down somewhat. In horror the man with the caliver stared as a thin stream of blood shot from his companion's artery, splashing his hunting-coat. The long knife dropped to the forest floor, followed by the victim himself who sat down with a thud, eyes bulging. Shakily he put a hand to his neck, gripped the bodkin and pulled it out – which only made the blood spurt further.

The other man however, was recovering his wits. With an oath he pointed his caliver at Marbeck – but he was far too late. The weapon was seized by its barrel and torn from his grasp, as the side of Marbeck's closed fist thudded hard against his mouth. He reeled back, his own fists flailing, but that too was fruitless: a sword flashed in the sunlight, and its point was at his neck.

‘Why don't you kneel instead?' Marbeck breathed.

I
t took a very few minutes for the man Marbeck had stabbed to lose consciousness. Soon he was a pale figure lying flat on the ground, eyes closed. While his fellow, silent and chastened, knelt at Marbeck's mercy.

‘Jewkes,' Marbeck said briskly. ‘Where's he gone – to Abbotsbury or to London?'

The man was breathing hard, eyes down. He wavered, whereupon Marbeck thought to give him a jab of encouragement. His sword-arm twitched, and he got his answer.

‘To London … we awaited him here. I never go to Abbotsbury …'

‘Sir Edward Quiney: what's he to Jewkes? Or should I say, what's Jewkes to him?'

But there was no answer; the man's gaze strayed to his dying companion, then dropped.

‘You know what this is, don't you?' Marbeck bent close to his ear, making him flinch. ‘This is your death. In a while you'll be lying alongside your friend. Then I'll cover you both with branches and grass, and none will know you're here until foxes mangle your corpses – or until somebody notices the smell. That's the fate you had in mind for me, was it not?'

There was a shudder; sweat stood out on the man's brow and trickled down his face. ‘Get it done, then,' he said savagely. ‘And the devil take you!'

‘No, you misunderstand,' Marbeck said patiently. ‘It won't be a quick death. I work for the Crown, learned a few tricks in the Marshalsea. I mean to get everything I want first, bit by bit … You see?' And with that he raised his tailor's bodkin, now removed from the hand of the dying man, and held it in front of his victim's eyes.

‘By God … who are you?' the other demanded, with a baleful look. But all he got was a gentle prod with the bodkin.

‘Quiney and Jewkes,' Marbeck said flatly. ‘Tell me about them, or I'll start work in earnest.' For emphasis he jabbed the point in the fellow's arm.

He jerked, and let out an oath. ‘You don't know what you're doing, friend!' he spat. ‘Jewkes isn't the one to fear … you're throwing your life away—'

‘Signing my own death warrant?' Marbeck broke in. ‘I've already been told that, by a man named Buck, in Weymouth. Know him too, do you?'

‘I know the name … but it matters not.' The other gave a groan, of sheer exasperation. ‘You're dealing with powerful men,' he said harshly. ‘They can have you hanged, for any crime they choose to think up …'

‘Piracy, for example?' Marbeck brought his face close again. ‘Perhaps I've been asking the wrong questions … Will you speak of the Sea Locusts instead? What of Swann – and Reuben Beck?'

He straightened up and waited. At first there was no reaction, then finally his victim sighed. ‘You'd better pray they never find you,' he said wearily. ‘If they do, they'll ship you to Barbary. You'll be chained to an oar, and to the bench of an open galley on the high seas, shitting where you toil, your only diet vinegar and biscuit … you wouldn't last a month.'

Slowly Marbeck nodded. ‘I've heard such tales … but they're not my concern. I need to know about Jewkes, and I'm asking for the last time: what's he to Quiney?'

A moment followed, then a sigh. ‘Haven't you guessed?' the kneeling man said at last, with a bitter edge to his voice. ‘He's
nothing
to Quiney – that's the nub of it!'

Marbeck stared at him … and understood. ‘You mean he's the face,' he said, piecing it together as he spoke. ‘The shield, for the man who never gets a drop on him when blood spills. The errand-boy … who dresses like a gentleman, but in the end is just a lackey.'

And when no answer came, because none was needed, he exhaled and lowered his sword. The other gave a start, and looked up.

‘So,' Marbeck said at last. ‘The question remains, what am I to do with you?'

 

In the afternoon, he and Mary Kellett sat in the chamber at the Ship and talked: not about her miserable life at the house of John Buck but about Sir Edward Quiney, who had fathered her on a servant, kept her as a scullion and finally cast her out. She told Marbeck too of the sea captains who sometimes came at night, like Gideon Swann, the man from Weymouth. And servants sometimes spoke darkly of another who was known as El Mirlo,
meaning ‘the Blackbird' in the Spanish tongue. Jewkes also came at various times, to the great manor house on the hills above Abbotsbury. By the time their talk was finished, Marbeck had learned all he needed to know.

Mary looked like a different person, dressed in the clothes Marbeck had given her. The shoes she was very taken with, though they would take the most getting used to. She had eaten dinner, and was now eager to leave Dorchester. But when he told her what he had decided, her face fell.

‘You're not coming with me?'

‘I cannot,' Marbeck said. ‘There are things I must do – but you'll be safe. I'll find a carrier, a reliable man, and pay him to take you to Cranborne manor. I'll give you a letter to show to the steward, or whoever is in charge. When he reads it, he should let you stay there until he hears from his master. His master's an important man, who'll find a place for you. You have my word on this … if that's enough.'

‘It is enough,' she said, after a moment. ‘And it pains me that I can never repay you.'

‘But you have,' he said at once. ‘You've told me a great deal that's of use …' Then as she didn't understand, he added: ‘To do with Buck, I mean. In time he may be brought to justice. Would that ease your heart somewhat?'

To that, she merely nodded. ‘Will I never see you after this, Master Blunt?'

‘Who can say?' Marbeck told her, summoning a smile. ‘Never is a long time.' Whereupon he left her once again, and went out to make some purchases.

In the town, as he moved through the afternoon crowd, his manner grew brisk. A few hours ago he had left Jewkes's henchmen in the wood, one dying, the other very much alive. But he had no fear on the latter's count: in the end, the man had been so relieved to have his life spared he would have assented to anything. As it was, disarmed and subdued, he swore to obey Marbeck's order: to take his friend's body and leave the county, never to return. He'd agreed to this because, by the end, he was convinced that Marbeck was some kind of messenger for the Privy Council, with real powers – and more, because Marbeck hinted that the Council's eyes were on Sir Edward Quiney, whose days were numbered. On that understanding they had parted, with Marbeck satisfied that the man would not run to Jewkes: he'd allowed him to think that Jewkes too was now under scrutiny.

Now, however, he faced his most difficult task, that would stretch him to his limits. After taking time to think before returning to Mary, he'd abandoned his notion of going to Quiney's manor. The man had never seen Marbeck, but still the risk of failure was too great. Hence Marbeck had a different strategy in mind: to get Quiney to come to him. Since the man rarely left his home, the only way he could do that was to pose as someone as important as Quiney himself. And the man he had invented was Marcus Janes, unscrupulous merchant and venturer, newly returned from a sojourn in France.

To become Janes, Marbeck had work to do. His horse would serve, as would his good sword, but he needed fine clothes, jewels and other trappings. This would be difficult; the purse he had from Oxenham turned out to contain less money than he expected, and he had to see Mary on her way to Cranborne. But he had a few ideas, among them to scour the fripperers' stalls again and find the best garb available, the sort passed to servants by their masters and sold on. Then he would find a jeweller who made convincing fakes, and finally he would visit a barber and have his hair and beard styled. Thinking on barbers gave him another idea; unappealing as the notion was, there was one man who could aid him: Thomas Woollard. He would do so because Marbeck would give him a bleak choice: help him, or feel the weight of Levinus Monk's wrath, when the spymaster learned that Woollard had acted against the interests of the Crown.

Having formed his resolve, he spent the rest of the day fitting himself out, returning to the inn in the evening. His last task had been to approach a carrier who made regular trips to Blandford and Salisbury, and pay him to convey his young sister to Cranborne manor. Receiving a payment in advance, with the prospect of a tip at the end, the man readily agreed; he was leaving the following morning. So by nightfall it was settled, and after a supper Marbeck left Mary in her chamber, while he retired to the taproom and called for the strongest ale.

Here, however, he flagged, as the events of the last two days caught up with him: two men dead by his hand, one of them a fellow-intelligencer. Other dark thoughts welled up, too; at one point he found himself clenching his fists, occasioning looks from other drinkers. Thereafter, knowing he had drunk more than was good for him, he cast caution aside and drank even more … with the end result that when dawn broke, he awoke to find himself in a strange room, lying on a greasy pallet with a blowsy trull snoring beside him. Sitting up too quickly, his head throbbing, he fell back and slept for another hour, before at last staggering to his feet. Stark naked, he swayed once, and found his hostess's eyes on him.

‘We agreed six pence, sir,' the doxy said, covering her own modesty with the sheet. ‘I got half out of you last night … I'll have the rest now.' When Marbeck merely blinked, however, she gave a sigh and relented. ‘Oh, well-a-day … since you did naught but sleep and grunt like a boar, we'll say another penny for the bed. Will that suit?'

An hour later he stood on the east road out of Dorchester beside the riverbank, to see Mary Kellett off on her journey.