Fearing the worst, he stumbled to the spot where he had tied Cobb, then halted. There was a neigh and a stamping of hooves, but nothing more. Then he was at his horse’s side, murmuring soothing words. He fumbled for the tether, found it taut. In a trice he had loosed it, seized the pommel and launched himself into the saddle. Then he was riding, ducking branches that threatened to unseat him, guiding the animal by moonlight. Soon he eased Cobb into a trot, keeping the roar of flames and the distant shouts at his back. Finally he broke cover, found himself on a road, and drew rein. Swiftly he took his bearings: the moon was before him, the camp behind.
He was facing south. He even smelled the sea, two miles away. He took a great gout of fresh night air, then turned Cobb to his left: towards Dover.
TWELVE
In the dawn, Marbeck walked Cobb slowly through cobbled streets. Wisps of smoke rose as the town stirred into life. Dover Castle loomed in the distance, its flag flying from a turret. Bleary-eyed, grimy but uninjured, he stopped at a corner and dismounted. Then he was leading the horse by the reins towards the harbour. The sea lay before him, flat and pewter-grey.
He had spent the last few hours outside the town, watching the road from St Radigund’s. But there was no pursuit, nor did he expect one. Part of his plan, at least, had succeeded. And even though the horses had not been driven from the camp, Marbeck couldn’t imagine that finding him would be a priority for William Drax. What gripped his heart like a cold poultice was the memory of Llewellyn, lantern in hand, bidding him save himself. It would stay with him all his life.
By the sea wall he halted. Looking to the harbour at his right, he saw boats drawn up and figures moving; a fishing smack was about to set forth. Shielding his eyes, he peered out to sea, but saw no vessels. The sun was coming up, the sky almost cloudless; for once, there would be no rain. It now remained for him to find a base from which to work. He would take a room overlooking the harbour, though he did not intend to stay a night – in fact if matters went to plan, he would be gone by noon.
Within the hour he had made his preparations. Seated by a window on the upper floor of a waterfront inn, stripped to his shirt and hose, he ate hungrily from a bowl of hot porridge. Cobb was in the stable, feeding on oats. The place was busy enough for a traveller like Marbeck not to attract much attention. The room was small and unclean, but it had the view he wanted: from here he could see any ship that arrived. It had not taken him long to learn that the only vessel to dock in the past two days was a merchantman from Calais. But a small barque was expected today; that was the vessel Marbeck gambled on, which would bring Thomas Burridge along with his pay chest. Tired yet alert, he finished his breakfast and set himself to watch.
To his relief the wait was short. Having scanned the horizon for an hour or so, watching small craft and fishing boats come and go, he was rewarded at last by the sight of a larger ship coming up from the east. Entering Dover roads, the barque shortened sail and veered towards the harbour. Another half hour and she would dock; Marbeck kept his eyes on her as he dressed. Then, having buckled on his sword, he left the room as he had found it.
The quay was crowded, but that was to the good. Shoremen were making ready, eyeing the small vessel as she hove close. Carts had drawn up, horses stamping in the shafts. More people were gathering to greet passengers. Then quite soon the barque was there, and ropes were being thrown over the side. Figures crowded the small deck, sailors scurrying to their tasks. Finally a gangplank appeared, and the first arrival teetered along it, grasping a rope stay for balance.
From the edge of the little crowd, Marbeck looked over the ship. People on board were calling to those ashore, and being answered. Sails had been furled and more passengers appeared, of both sexes. He eased forward, hat pulled low against the morning sun. Soon he was close to the gangway, watching each person alight. None, however, looked like Thomas Burridge. The numbers thinned, and his unease grew. He saw an old man being helped ashore by a younger man and woman, and eyed them keenly … the paymaster might well employ disguise. Casually, he turned to a seaman who stood near.
‘Where does this vessel hail from?’ he asked.
‘Why, from London, sir,’ the man answered. ‘Where else?’
Marbeck kept a straight face. ‘You’re certain of it?’
‘Indeed, sir. She’s but a coaster – sailed on Thursday, made Gravesend the same night. Do you await someone?’
Without answering Marbeck moved off. Suddenly things were becoming clearer. The paymaster didn’t cross the Channel, but merely skirted the coast. Prout’s suspicions were correct: the money came from London.
He moved nearer to the gangplank, then halted. Another couple were coming ashore, seemingly the last people to do so. For a moment despair threatened him: had there been some further change of plan, of which he was ignorant? Indeed, had Drax and the others lied? He watched as the two reached the quay. One was a young man, well dressed, a sword at his side. The other was a rotund woman in heavy skirts, face half-hidden under a broad-brimmed hat. She had no baggage, but the man carried a stout leather bag that looked heavy. As they came ashore, both glanced around. Then the woman’s eyes met Marbeck’s – and at the same moment, recognition dawned.
‘Duggan? What in heaven’s name …’ From under the hat-brim, Burridge’s moon face stared into Marbeck’s. At once he stepped forward; he was on.
‘Our plans are altered,’ he breathed, bending close. ‘The colonel sent me … we’ve no time to waste.’
‘What … is something amiss?’ Burridge took a step back – but his escort stiffened, a hand flying to his sword-hilt.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded.
‘Captain Duggan, sent by Drax.’ Marbeck’s tone was urgent. ‘Please, we cannot talk here …’ He indicated the bag, which he knew held the pay chest. ‘I mean, in view of what you carry.’
There was a moment, as the young man’s eyes flicked to Burridge. But when the paymaster gave a nod, he spoke again.
‘Have you brought horses?’
Marbeck nodded. ‘They’re in a stable. We should go there at once.’ Thinking quickly, he added: ‘I’m alone – there’s been a difficulty, but it’s in hand now.’
‘Difficulty?’ Burridge echoed. He was afraid, his eyes darting everywhere. ‘You don’t mean the landing …?’
‘No.’ Marbeck’s reply was firm. ‘All will proceed as intended. We’re to journey to Folkestone together, and an escort will meet us on the road …’ With a show of nervousness, he too looked about. ‘Come – the place isn’t far.’
The two eyed each other, Burridge very uneasy, the other man suspicious. But after a moment he signalled his assent, whereupon Marbeck turned and led the way through the press of chattering people. The walk from the sea strand to the town took minutes, but finally they were climbing uphill to the tavern. There was a narrow lane beside it, which led to the stable in the rear: Marbeck had surveyed it that morning in some haste, and decided on his action. He had expected a guard of at least two men, so the odds were somewhat improved.
Wordlessly the three of them turned into the alleyway, out of sight of the sea. The armed man was short of breath now, holding the heavy bag to his chest. Burridge was in the rear. The stable entrance opened ahead, to their left. To Marbeck’s relief there was no one about, not even the ostler: he was unsure how he might manage witnesses. Slowing his pace, he entered the gloom of the stables, allowing the others to follow. Horses shifted in their stalls, among them Cobb, who jerked his head on recognizing his master. But Marbeck didn’t look; he merely waited for the two men to get clear of the doorway – then he acted.
His turn was so sudden, Burridge’s escort was caught off guard; by the time he had dropped the bag, which hit the floor with a thud, Marbeck was upon him. Two rapid blows to the stomach were followed by another to the jaw. With a grunt the man staggered, doubling over. But he fumbled for his sword-hilt, leaving Marbeck little choice. He had no dagger: it lay broken in two, in a burn
ed-out barn by St Radigund’s Abbey. Nor did he intend to engage in a fencing bout. What he did was snatch his opponent’s own poniard from its elegantly tooled sheath, and stab him in the neck.
The fellow gasped, a fountain of blood spurting from the wound, but Marbeck didn’t wait for him to fall. Instead he turned on Burridge, then saw at once that there was no threat: the man was rigid with terror. In a moment he was pinioned, arms held fast while Marbeck hissed into his ear.
‘Pick up the bag, and walk outside with me. One squeak, and you’ll die.’ For emphasis he put the dagger’s point to the man’s side, pressing it through his thick skirts.
‘No! God help me … please …’ Burridge choked on his own words. Trembling visibly, he looked down at his escort, who lay sprawled on the straw-covered floor in the throes of death. Then he raised his eyes to Marbeck’s.
‘Take the bag,’ he stammered. ‘It’s yours … I’ll not follow, I swear! There’s a fortune in there—’
But he broke off with a yelp, as Marbeck prodded him. ‘Pick it up,’ he repeated.
They walked out of the stable. There was no one about, so Marbeck ordered his prisoner to wait. Hurrying back inside, he loosed Cobb from his stall. The horse was still saddled, pack in place: his orders to the ostler had been clear on that point. It took but a moment to get the animal to the doorway, past the lifeless form of Burridge’s escort. He delayed long enough to drag the body aside and cover it with straw. Then catching up the reins, he led Cobb outside … to see Burridge, skirts flapping in ungainly fashion, running off up the lane.
With a muttered curse, Marbeck mounted and rode after him. In seconds he was alongside the man, who was puffing like an ageing hound, the bag clutched to his ample stomach.
‘Stop,’ Marbeck said.
Burridge stopped.
‘Stand still, while I dismount.’
The paymaster stood, while Marbeck got down and faced him. With one eye on his quaking captive, he opened his saddle-pack and found a short rope. He took the bag from Burridge, passed the rope through its handles and tied it firmly to his saddle. ‘Now we’ll walk together,’ he said. ‘You’ll come to no harm, provided you do as I order. Is that agreed?’
With a gulp, Burridge nodded. So the two set off, Marbeck leading Cobb, up the lane and into a wider one that led westwards. Then they were crossing the town, threading through streets that were suddenly busy. Church bells rang out – and at once the absence of the ostler was explained; Marbeck had forgotten it was Sunday.
‘Where are you taking me?’
All at once Burridge had found his voice. Turning shakily to Marbeck he added: ‘What use am I to you? I’m on foot – you can take the money. Surely you know what Drax will do when he finds out—’
‘He has other matters to concern him just now,’ Marbeck broke in. His eyes were on the castle to their right, and the road that skirted it, leading north.
‘You don’t understand!’ The man wet his lips; sweat sheened his brow. ‘There’s too much at stake—’
‘You mean the arrival of the Infanta?’ Marbeck turned sharply, making him flinch. ‘I think you’ll find matters have gone somewhat awry, as far as that goes.’
‘What do you mean?’ Burridge stared, his eyes widening. ‘Is robbery not your motive? In God’s name, then what—’
But Marbeck raised a hand. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Wait until we’re on the road.’
‘Road to where? Burridge asked anxiously – then glancing ahead, he gulped again. ‘You mean to Canterbury? But why—’
‘I mean to London,’ Marbeck said. ‘We’ll walk a little, then ride, taking turns in the saddle. If we can make thirty miles a day, that means under three days’ travel. By then I’ll have answered your questions, Master Burridge … some of them, anyway. And you will have answered mine. But for now, keep your eyes on the road and your thoughts to yourself – agreed?’
They gained the outskirts, then walked for a half-hour until Dover was far behind. The day was fair, and larks sang in the meadows: it seemed as if spring had arrived with a rush. But Burridge, panting and sweating in his skirts, was utterly miserable. Often he glanced aside as if assessing his chances of escape, but each time he found Marbeck’s eyes upon him; while one hand gripped Cobb’s reins, the other hovered near his belt. Finally Burridge could stand it no longer. He halted, wiping his dripping brow with a sleeve. Marbeck stopped too, and saw that he was close to tears.
‘I cannot travel like this!’ the paymaster cried. ‘I must rest … I’ve just spent three days at sea, damn you!’
Instead of answering, Marbeck glanced up the road. There was no one in sight. Thus far they had encountered few travellers, though those who passed looked askance at the oddly matched couple. Seeing a clump of trees some way ahead, he pointed.
‘We’ll rest there, and you can drink.’ He indicated his leather flask, tied to the saddle. ‘Have you no other clothes?’
‘Of course I have!’ Burridge retorted. ‘If you’d allowed me, I’d have taken these off – do you see?’ With that he lifted up his skirts. Small wonder the man sweated so much, Marbeck thought: underneath gown and petticoats, he wore shirt and breeches.
‘Come, then.’ Marbeck gave Cobb’s reins a gentle tug and started forward. ‘That copse will shield you while you disrobe,’ he added. ‘But before we ride on, I have questions for you.’
With a groan, Burridge resumed walking. A few minutes later they were in the shade, Cobb cropping grass while Marbeck sat against a tree-trunk. But as the paymaster removed his woman’s garb, he began to talk quickly.
‘You cannot succeed in this,’ he said. ‘Even if you got me to London, it would do no good. Whatever your aims, you have diverted the regiment’s pay chest …’ He paused, then: ‘Clearly that was your aim, rather than mere robbery. But if you think you’ve ruined Drax’s plans, you don’t know the man. Others are involved too …’ He broke off, regretting his words. And seeing Marbeck’s expression, his face fell.
‘I don’t doubt that,’ Marbeck said grimly. ‘And in a few days’ time, you’ll be telling what you know of them. More, even if you’re merely the paymaster, your part in the scheme will not be overlooked. You’ll hang – but not before you’ve been racked until your arms are torn out.’
Burridge had removed his petticoats, and was standing in shirt and breeches. But as Marbeck’s words struck home, his legs gave way. With a look of horror, he sank to the grass.
‘No, I pray you …’ He swallowed, and his hand went to his mouth. ‘I’m but a hireling … Duggan, please …’
‘That’s not my name,’ Marbeck said shortly. ‘It’s Sands. And I work for the Crown – did I not say?’
The other stared, shaking his head in dismay.
‘I work for the Crown,’ Marbeck repeated, ‘and soon your whole design will be laid bare. Whoever your masters are – Drax, the Earl of Charnock, I care not – they will fail. And when the new King comes, they’ll pay for their treason.’
Burridge opened his mouth, then closed it. He was shaking, and tears rolled down his pudgy cheeks. ‘What must I do?’ he asked finally. ‘Can I not tell you what I know here and now, and save you the effort of dragging me along?’ With a sob, he lowered his head. ‘My life’s worth naught, whatever follows,’ he wailed. ‘Do you truly think you can get me to a prison? They have intelligence – they’ll waylay us before we reach London. And whatever I say, they’ll deem me a risk. I’ll die where I stand – as will you, and …’
But he broke off, as abruptly Marbeck got to his feet. ‘Have you finished dressing?’ he asked. ‘If so, leave the woman’s things here. You can ride first, while I walk. I’ll bind your hands, leaving you enough leeway to hold the pommel. I will have the halter, so you won’t be able to get clear.’
He looked down coldly at his prisoner; all discourse was over. After a moment Burridge got up unsteadily.
‘I’d like to have my doublet,’ he said feebly. ‘It’s in the bag.’
&nb
sp; Marbeck went to Cobb, untied the bag and set it down. He unlaced it and rummaged inside, then pulled out a blue-grey coat. ‘Good serge, and silk-lined,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll wager your pay’s somewhat more than a shilling a day.’ He threw the garment unceremoniously at Burridge, then peered into the bag again.
‘Well now …’ Reaching inside, Marbeck drew out a wad of papers tied with white ribbon. He looked up at Burridge, whose face was now the same colour. ‘Despatches, perhaps? Final instructions to Drax – or are they letters intended for her royal highness, the Infanta?’
Burridge looked away, shaking his head. Having noted with satisfaction the pay chest filling the bottom of the bag, Marbeck closed it, stood up and retied it to Cobb’s saddle. Then he turned, one hand on the pommel. ‘Come here while I bind your wrists. Then place a foot in the stirrup, and let me hoist you up. I’ll try not to let you fall.’
The paymaster hesitated. He no longer wept; his eyes scanned the landscape, but he knew he was no match for his captor. With a sigh, he came forward and held out his hands.
‘I thought you had questions,’ he asked, speaking so low that Marbeck had to cock an ear to hear him.
‘I do,’ he replied. ‘But on reflection, we’ll save them for tonight. We might even find an inn to rest in – though if you’ve any notions of getting away, I’d set them aside. I mean to drive you until you can barely stand up.’
Then without expression, he drew a stout cord from his pocket.
THIRTEEN
By nightfall they had reached Canterbury, and Marbeck was as good as his word. Though Burridge had ridden for as much of the way as his captor had, the man was exhausted. He limped badly, his shoes being unfit for walking any distance. Despite shedding his woman’s clothing, he stank with sweat. Dirt streaked his breeches. As they approached the archway known as the Riding Gate, he stumbled to a halt. Marbeck sat in the saddle, scanning the walls of the old city.
‘There’s a place close by Greyfriars,’ he said. ‘We’ll take the best room …’ He looked down at his captive, who gazed up blearily. ‘The reckoning can be paid out of that chest.’
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