by Ann Swinfen
‘But why are you going to Amsterdam, Andrew?’ I said.
‘I have orders to bring back a squadron of foot soldiers from our army based there,’ he said. ‘I am made a captain now.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘But are you not a trooper?’
‘Aye, my orders are to seek out men who can ride, even though they may be enrolled as foot soldiers as the moment. We need more cavalry. They cannot be fully trained, not in time, but if I can find enough who at the very least know one end of a horse from the other, then we can teach them some simple manoeuvres. The advantage of cavalry over infantry is that we can move about the country more quickly.’
‘Of course.’
‘So if we are needed somewhere in a hurry we can ride there, even dismount to fight on foot if we cannot train them to fight as cavalry.’
It sounded like a desperate measure to me, but I held my peace.
The ship had been moving fast while we spoke. Already Dover was disappearing behind us. The ship heeled over, slicing through the waves faster than I had ever seen a ship move.
‘A fair speed,’ I said, bracing myself to keep on my feet as we heeled further.
‘A fine ship,’ a voice said behind us. It was the black-bearded man. ‘I am Captain Faulconer. Captain Joplyn I have already met and I understand that you are Dr Alvarez.’
‘I am.’ I shook his hand and bowed.
‘If we had a fleet of ships as fine as the Good Venture, we could round up the sluggish Spaniards as a dog rounds up sheep,’ he said. ‘Even our merchant ships and privateers have a fair turn of speed. We will show them what English sailors are made of.’
I remembered what Dr Nuñez had said about the battle of Salamis and nodded, although I did wonder whether Captain Faulconer was partly moved by an inclination to boast of the navy before a captain of the army.
The journey up the Channel and along the Dutch coast showed just how fine a ship this was, and the whole crew conducted themselves as though they were already rehearsing for war. There was to be no sitting in the captain’s cabin, drinking wine on this voyage. Instead we dined, like the crew, on deck, standing and snatching mouthfuls of ship’s biscuit, dried meat, and ale when we could. We might be important passengers, carrying orders from high officers of state, but the times were such that no concessions could be made to our comfort.
So fast was our journey that we reached the waterway leading to Amsterdam before dark, though of course we were now at the height of summer’s longest days, whereas my previous journey here had been in the short, dark days of winter. In seemed Captain Faulconer was familiar with the route to Amsterdam, for he did not stop in the harbour but headed at once for the canal. There was still light enough to see our way, but with the approaching evening the wind had dropped, so the sails were lowered, the oars run out, and the sailors set to. By now they were stripped to the waist, for it had been warm work manning the ship under the summer sun. Now came the sweaty, demanding labour of rowing many miles up the canal. Once we were fairly under way, the captain joined us again. Andrew and I had found seats on two of the water barrels.
‘We are making a fair speed, even under oars,’ Andrew said.
‘Aye, she’s a very light ship,’ the captain said. ‘Light to sail and light to row. Not so hard on the men.’
By the time we had berthed in Amsterdam it was dark. Andrew and I walked to the centre of the town together, where we parted, I to stay at the Prins Willem, Andrew to seek out the officers’ quarters in the town before riding out the next day to the army camp to recruit his men. I wondered how willing they would be, whether they would prefer to remain here in the Low Countries, where the campaign had temporarily reached a stalemate, or would prefer to return home to face an invading Spanish army. On the whole, I suspected they would rather come home to England and their families, even if they then deserted.
‘How soon can you finish your business in Amsterdam?’ Andrew asked before we parted. ‘I am to get these men back to England as quickly as possible, but the ship was commandeered for your use, so it will only leave when you are ready.’
‘I do not know.’ I shook my head. ‘Come to the inn in three days’ time and I may know my plans better then.’
At the Prins Willem I was greeted like a member of the family, plied with an enormous meal I could not finish, and showed into my old room. The inn keeper’s daughter even brought me a bucket of hot water without my asking for it.
The next morning I sought Niels Penders when his early morning duties were over and asked if I might speak to him. We sat down together in the small parlour in the back premises used by the family.
‘I am searching for a man, half English and half Dutch,’ I began, ‘who stayed here a few weeks ago. His name is Mark Weber. He was in regular touch with his friends in England until about three weeks ago. Since then there has been no word and his friends are worried. I wondered whether you could tell me when he left here and whether you know where I can find him now.’
‘Mark Weber?’ He nodded. ‘Aye, there was a man of that name who stayed with us. He arrived soon after you left, Dokter. About Christmas time. He was here in Amsterdam for several months, then he went away until . . .’ He scratched his head. ‘It would be . . .’ He went to the door and called out, ‘Marta! Me’heer Weber, when was it that he came back?’
I could not hear her answer, but he returned and sat down again. ‘Marta says it was six weeks ago. She has a better memory for such things than I have. Ja, it would have been about six weeks ago.’
‘And then?’ I prompted.
‘One evening I saw him talking with Me’heer Parker, the cloth merchant. You spoke of him when you were here. Did he have business with Me’heer Parker?’
‘He might have had,’ I said cautiously.
‘They went out together, quite late. The next morning Me’heer Weber returned, collected his belongings, paid his bill and left.’
‘How long ago was that?’
He ran his fingers through his hair, which was growing thin on top. ‘That would have been about three-four weeks ago.’ He looked at me anxiously. ‘And your friends have not heard from him since?’
I shook my head. ‘They have not. He did not tell you where he was going?’
‘Nee. He was very polite, thanked us, and wished us farewell. That was all.’
Ever since my first visit I had liked and trusted this family, so I said, ‘Mijnheer Penders, what do you know about Cornelius Parker?’
At my question, he looked uncomfortable and for several minutes he did not speak, but filled the time getting up and opening a hanging cupboard, from which he drew out two small glasses and a bottle of the curious thick yellowish liqueur they drink in these parts. When he had set the glasses down on the table between us and resumed his seat, he raised his glass to me, and sipped the liqueur thoughtfully. I took a small sip. I had not liked the stuff when I had tasted it before, but did not wish to offend him.
‘Me’heer Cornelius Parker has a bad reputation,’ he began slowly. ‘I tell you this in confidence, Dokter?’
‘Of course.’ I nodded, and took another sip.
‘Much of it is probably rumour, idle gossip. I cannot vouch for the truth of it, but he is said to smuggle arms to the Spanish. A traitor to the States General, Dokter. Yet nothing has been proved against him, nothing has been done to stop him.’ He put down his glass and began to drum on the table with his fingers. ‘When such a thing happens, as you know, money has probably changed hands.’
‘A bribe?’ I said. ‘Corruption? More treachery?’
He shrugged. ‘It may not even be treachery. Perhaps simple greed, a lust for money. We live in dangerous and treacherous times, Dokter. Even the leaders of the various provinces do not agree on what path to take to the future. Some are so weary of war they would make peace with Spain and Parma at any cost. Too many lives lost, you understand. They think it would be better to live under the heel of Spain than in a state of perpetual wa
r.’
‘Spain will bring the Inquisition,’ I said. ‘Believe me, I have seen it in Portugal. You Dutch Protestants will be seen as heretics and suffer at the hands of the Inquisition.’
‘I know that very well. But there are others who persuade themselves that it will not happen here. Such men, if they also have a greed for gold, might wink their eyes at illegal trading by Cornelius Parker.’
‘Do you think Mark Weber went with Parker? He would see Parker as the enemy, and report back to England. I cannot understand what has happened.’
‘Nor I.’
He held up the bottle, but I shook my head. I had not managed to finish the first glass. There was little else he could tell me, but he promised to make discreet enquiries, to try to discover whether Parker was still in Amsterdam and whether anyone knew the whereabouts of Mark Weber.
When he was called to the inn parlour by a group of farmers demanding beer, I looked around for somewhere to dispose of the remains of my drink. There was a blue and white glazed pot containing some sort of fern standing on a corner cabinet. Glancing guiltily toward the door, I tipped the viscous liquid on to the earth as the base of the plant, where it lay like some noxious slime, reluctant to soak away. Marta was sure to notice it as soon as she came into the room. Feeling not a little foolish, I drew my dagger and scraped up the soil until the stain was covered, then patted it down with my hand. Leaving my empty glass on the table, I slipped out, nodding to Niels and heading for the street door.
I had learned that Lord Willoughby was now living in the house where I had attended Leicester half a year before, so I made my way there quickly with the packet of despatches from Sir Francis. Amsterdam in early summer looked very different from the frost-bound town of last winter. The Hollanders have a great love of flowers and there were tubs and pots everywhere, on windowsills, beside front doors, even on the barges lined up along the canals. Many of the houses fronted directly on the street, with a double V of steps leading to their front doors, while small windows at street level let light into basement kitchens. By many of these front doors overflowing pots of cranesbills and heartsease and love-in-a-mist adorned every step. Some houses even had cunning shelves fitted outside their windows holding more flowers. I saw several singing birds in cages hung from hooks beside upper windows.
Yet all this cheerful abundance was not reflected in the faces of the people I passed in the street. They wore the same haunted look as the people of London. The spectre of war was even closer here than in England, though the Hollanders might reflect that if Philip’s mind was bent on the conquest of England, they might be spared for a while yet.
At Willoughby’s quarters I was shown into a cupboard-like room and told to wait, while a condescending liveried servant carried away my packet of despatches to His Lordship. I was reluctant to hand them over to any but Willoughby himself, but I was given no choice. After I had kicked my heels for over an hour by the ornate mantel clock I had seen in the hallway, whose chimes reached even through the door, the servant returned.
‘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
It 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.