‘Do you own a good horse, sir?’ Percy demanded suddenly.
In some surprise, Marbeck confirmed that he did, then added: ‘Yet he’s precious to me and not part of my wager. I’d rather lose my clothes and step into the night barefoot than lose him.’
‘What a pity,’ Percy replied with sarcasm. ‘I merely wished to raise the stakes … In fact, I’ll do so anyway.’ Whereupon he took another column of coins and pushed it to the centre of the table. There was a stir from the watchers.
‘Well, what will you do?’ Percy wore another look of disdain. ‘You won’t wager your horse, and we can’t have you go home naked. Why, your extreme parts might shrivel to nothing.’
There were smiles from his friends, and suppressed laughter from some of the onlookers – but what happened next caught Marbeck unaware. He gave a start as a hand was placed lightly on his shoulder. Whereupon a low female voice, with a heavy accent, spoke above his head.
‘I will partner the gentleman. He’s a man of worth, I believe. We match your sovereigns, Master Percy … and bet a further twenty.’
A murmur of surprise followed. Percy looked up sharply, while Marbeck turned in his chair to see who had spoken and found himself looking into a pair of dark eyes that carried a meaning no man could mistake. Getting up to make his bow, he smiled and said: ‘Lawrence Tucker, madam … who, I confess, is both at your service and at a loss.’
The lady inclined her head. ‘I am Charlotte de Baume. Pray continue your game … Whatever the outcome, we may speak of it later.’ Shifting her gaze to Percy, she added: ‘Are you content, sir? Or did you wish to raise the stakes even higher? And before you ask …’ She arched her brows. ‘I have not looked at your opponent’s cards. I know you and I have had only short acquaintance, yet surely you will not doubt my word?’
It was a challenge, but one to which Thomas Percy would not rise. He swallowed and said thickly: ‘Of course not, madam. I accept your bet.’ He faced Marbeck, who had resumed his seat, and pushed the last of his stake across the table. There was a tense moment, but Marbeck held the man’s gaze and allowed a faint look of triumph to appear before quickly suppressing it. It was his final bluff, but it worked.
Stifling an oath, Percy looked at the substantial sum of money that now lay on the table. For a moment he wavered, then with a gesture of irritation threw down his cards. People craned their necks, and a few whispers followed. But Marbeck kept his own cards close; and this time, it cost him considerable effort to conceal his relief.
Percy had not bluffed at all, but had truly held a supremus – one that would have beaten even Heywood’s hand. The host, surprised at the turn of events, peered along with everyone else at the three matching cards – an ace, six and seven – and the king of spades. Had the game continued Percy could have swept the table, and Marbeck would have lost everything. Feeling eyes upon him, he waited until his opponent looked up, before finally laying his own hand out.
A collective gasp followed. The other players – or rather, Heywood and the younger gentleman – stared in disbelief, while from the onlookers came spontaneous applause. With a mere fluxus – almost the poorest hand he could have held – this stranger had outfaced them all. Such a bluff took courage, someone murmured. Someone else dared to make a jibe at Percy, but when the man’s friends looked angrily at him, he dropped his gaze. Marbeck, meanwhile, remained calm and reached out to take his winnings. But glancing up, he stiffened: Thomas Percy’s expression would have quelled most men. His face twitched, and his fingers worked as if he were itching to draw sword. But it was impossible, of course; a gentleman accepted defeat with grace, as he would greet victory with humility.
‘I thank you for your forbearance, sir,’ Marbeck said. ‘And your kindness, in accepting my sword as potential payment. Now I’ll feel safer as I journey homewards.’ Deliberately, he turned to face his rescuer, who had pledged twenty pounds so readily. He’d assumed she was still behind him, but she wasn’t.
‘Madame de Baume …?’ he began, whereupon a bystander touched his sleeve and pointed. Swinging round, Marbeck saw only the lady’s back, and her elaborately styled head of hair, as she swept out of the room.
‘So, Master Tucker: you appear to have won the day … and by sheer guile, at that.’
Unhurriedly, Marbeck faced Percy again. The man was sitting back, regarding him coolly. Someone had placed a goblet in his hand, from which he took a sip. ‘It’s odd we haven’t met before,’ he went on. ‘Where is it you hail from?’
‘Hampshire … near Fareham,’ Marbeck told him. There was a pause while he took up his winnings. Heywood and the young player had risen without further word and moved off, nursing their defeat. Others drifted away, leaving the two men alone.
Percy watched Marbeck fill his purse until it bulged, then said: ‘In that case you’ll know Lord Pavey … a good friend of mine.’
‘I’ve heard the name,’ Marbeck said. He threw a glance at the other’s followers and saw they were still close. As he rose, he gave a polite nod. ‘Now, with regret, I must take my leave. My compliments to you for your indulgence … We must play again.’
‘Indeed we must,’ Percy said, his voice low. The warning in his eyes was stark, but Marbeck ignored it. He turned from the table to walk out, whereupon one of Percy’s friends stepped towards him and took his sleeve.
‘My master’s a generous man,’ he said gently. ‘Yet if you care to take my advice, sir, you’ll not set foot here again.’
But Marbeck merely looked down at his sleeve until the fellow let go and drew back; something told him this man would be more than his match.
Once downstairs he looked for Curzon and found him in the room where the consort played, in conversation with another dandyish figure. As Marbeck came up, his friend beamed at him.
‘My dear fellow!’ He raised a silver cup and took a slurp. ‘See, I’ve run into an old acquaintance – a poet, like myself. We’ve much to speak of. Were you in haste to go, or …?’
‘Lawrence Tucker,’ Marbeck said emphatically, with a brief bow to the other man. While with his eyes he reminded Curzon not only of the name he was using, but of the circumstances in which they had met that day.
Taking the hint, his friend gulped. ‘I’ll not be returning to … to my lodging this night,’ he said hastily. ‘This gentleman has invited me to stay with him and read his new work … Mayhap we’ll meet again tomorrow?’
Marbeck shrugged, remembering that in any case the city gates would now be shut. He was about to take his leave, then paused. ‘Do you happen to know a Frenchwoman, by the name of Madame de Baume?’ he asked casually.
But both men looked blank, and Curzon shook his head. So, with a nod to the poet, who was looking somewhat the worse for drink, he went out. As he moved into the hallway, he wondered how much the hapless fellow would have loaned Sir Matthew Curzon before the night was over.
In the wide entrance hall, he paused to collect himself. His task was to watch Percy from now on, while somehow keeping out of the man’s sight, which wouldn’t be easy. It had been rash of Marbeck, of course, to meet him face to face, let alone beat him at cards. And yet he couldn’t help feeling pleased; it had been an exhilarating experience. Suppressing a grin, he passed a group of chattering gallants and walked towards the doors … only to stop in his tracks.
By the doorway stood Charlotte de Baume, looking directly at him. A servant fussed about, arranging her outdoor cloak, but she ignored him. With a polite smile, Marbeck walked forward and made his bow for the second time.
‘I’ve not had the chance to thank you, madam,’ he said. ‘For your timely generosity, as well as your courage …’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Assuming, that is, that you hadn’t had sight of my cards, as you told my opponent?’
The lady smiled slightly. ‘So … unlike Master Percy, sir, you would doubt my word?’
‘Heaven forbid,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Or the weight of my winnings would prick my conscience.’ He touched his purse
briefly. ‘As it is I leave here a contented man, thanks to you.’
A moment passed. The servant, a swarthy-looking man, finished his task and stood back respectfully, whereupon Charlotte de Baume waved him away. Then, catching Marbeck unaware, she moved so close to him that they were almost touching and lowered her voice.
‘My coach is outside. I’m staying at a house in Hampstead village – will you accompany me? I have a fear of highwaymen on the heath … and my servant is such a milksop.’
He met her gaze – and at once, a warmth swept over him. It began in his loins and spread through his entire body, while in the same moment his mind was filled with relief. Opportunity was not done with him yet: here was an invitation to forget all else, for one night at least, and be nothing more nor less than a man: a man with appetites that were no different from any other’s.
‘It would be an honour and a pleasure,’ he replied.
Whereupon, as if any shred of doubt remained, Madame de Baume ran a hand quickly down his thigh before turning to the doors. Her servant at once leaped forward to fling them open.
And as he passed outside, Marbeck could not fail to catch the man’s expression: one of contempt, compounded with what looked like sheer envy. This was no milksop, he reflected; but then, as excuses went for wanting his company, he’d heard worse.
SEVEN
She was from Paris: a widow, she said, related to the wife of the French ambassador, Monsieur de Harlay. The ambassador was leaving London soon, yet Charlotte had decided to stay for a while. The Paris court was so tiresome, she maintained: a hive of intrigue and base treachery, where men and women alike preened and jostled for power or preferment at any cost. She told Marbeck this in the morning, as they lay between silken sheets in her ornate bed with its tasselled canopy. But if Marbeck appeared to listen attentively, his mind was elsewhere: on Meriel, whose body he had pictured at times throughout the night, while he and this voluptuous woman had coupled like satyr and nymph.
‘Whereas England … England, c’est charmante,’ Charlotte said. ‘I even like the rain … and here on the hill the air is fresh. One may live freely – as I perceive you do. Or am I wrong in that?’
She had rolled on to her side to look at him. With an effort, Marbeck pushed his thoughts away and faced her.
‘Wrong … in what sense?’
‘In assuming you are a free man. Or, have you dependants? Wife, children—’
‘No.’ He gave a quick shake of his head. And though his heart sank, he forced a smile. ‘I’m a restless fellow, who travels a good deal. When in London, I like to gamble.’
‘That much I know,’ she replied. ‘As I know you have a taste for danger … or you would not have dared to wager all your money on such a weak set of cards.’
His smile faded. ‘So you saw my hand, after all … and hence, you knew my strategy. Were you so eager to see me beat Percy that you would not only risk your money, but also tell an untruth?’
‘An untruth!’ She laughed, more harshly than he expected. ‘If you mean un mensonge, why not say it? I was eager, perhaps, but merely to see the game finish. I was tired of the company in that house, and by then I had made my plans.’
‘You mean, plans to spend the night with me?’
‘You, or another,’ she teased. ‘In France, widows like me are less constrained in satisfying their needs … as by now you have learned. As I have learned things about you.’
‘What might those be, madam?’ Marbeck enquired. Outwardly, he appeared playful, but in his mind a faint warning sounded. Reaching for her hand, he drew it from beneath the covers.
‘Des choses grandes et petites,’ she murmured, squeezing his hand; she’d learned that he understood French. ‘One is that you have a paramour somewhere.’ And though he tried not to react, she put on a knowing smile. ‘Voilà … I knew it.’
‘If I did, would it matter?’ he enquired.
‘Of course!’ She retained her smile, but he believed he saw through it. There was a possessiveness about her, he suspected; likely, this woman was a jealous lover.
‘I regret I must leave you soon,’ he said, after a moment.
‘Indeed? And where must you go?’
‘Business, in the city … A dull matter.’ He leaned forward and kissed her, but was unprepared for the reaction. With a rapid movement she threw the sheet aside and raised herself, her loose breasts brushing his chest.
‘And it cannot wait – not even for another hour?’ she cried.
He blinked. ‘Well, perhaps …’
‘Donc, coîtes-moi! Sinon, allez!’
Shocked by her vehemence, he was silent. Her anger had burst forth in a moment … but almost as quickly, she turned it into pouting indignation. Reaching down, she tugged his beard, hard enough to make him wince.
‘Perhaps I have misjudged,’ she said. ‘I thought we would make sport once more, then dine together. I have a splendid cook … He would delight to make you breakfast, no matter what the hour.’
‘It’s most tempting,’ Marbeck said. But a wariness had come over him, more intense than before. In any case, he had things to do, following Thomas Percy being the chief one. Monk would expect results – and Deverell, he knew, would not be slow to report any slackness on Marbeck’s part. Sitting up, he took Charlotte’s face in his hands.
‘I promise we will dine together, as soon as I can arrange it. But there are matters I must attend to. Can you not forgive me?’
A moment passed, in which he sensed the effort she was making; clearly, she was a woman used to getting her way. But finally she let out a breath, took his hands away and placed a hard kiss on his lips.
‘Alors … tu m’a apaisé, Lawrence – for this once.’ She lay back with a deep sigh and deliberately covered herself. ‘Be sure to visit me soon … or you may find I have changed my mind and followed Monsieur l’Ambassadeur back to Paris.’
In some relief, Marbeck promised. Whereupon, taking care not to show undue haste, he arose and dressed, and soon left the house of Charlotte de Baume.
It was a five-mile walk from Hampstead back to London. Hungry and footsore, he entered the city by Aldersgate, mingling with the throng. He made his way to Skinner’s where he found the man at his table, talking business with a fellow as unsavoury-looking as himself. But as Marbeck made for the stairs, his landlord stayed him.
‘There’s one above, waiting for you. He’s been here for an hour and wouldn’t say what it was about. The cove’s as close-mouthed as you are.’ Seeing Marbeck’s questioning look, he added: ‘It’s not your friend Knight. Seems to me you’re using this place like Paul’s Walk – if you’re expecting any more visitors, I think I ought to hear about it.’
‘I’m not,’ Marbeck said. But as he made his way up the creaking stairs, his resolve grew firm: the dwelling was no longer safe, and he would quit it soon. Outside the upstairs chamber he listened, loosening his sword in its scabbard. But the moment he placed his hand on the latch the door was opened abruptly. There stood William Deverell with a frown on his face.
‘At last … I was about to give up. This is the foulest lodging I’ve ever had the misfortune to be in. I should have sent word and ordered you to Whitehall – but the task won’t wait.’ He stood back to allow Marbeck to enter.
‘What task is that?’ Marbeck enquired. He would have mentioned Percy, assuring Deverell he had him under surveillance, but observing his manner he hesitated. Was it agitation, or mere impatience that gripped the man? Then he caught the fierce light in his eye, and a suspicion formed.
‘I’m about to make a search,’ Deverell said. ‘In Essex, on good intelligence. I’ve gathered a company of men together at short notice, and I need you too. Believe me, you’re not my first choice, however no one else with your skills is close at hand. Will you get your horse? I want to be on the road before noon.’
‘The road to where?’ Marbeck asked. A gloom was descending upon him: the last thing he wished for, now or at any other time, was to
accompany Deverell on one of his passionate hunts for a priest-in-hiding.
‘Great Willoughby, a manor near Romford,’ came the reply. ‘It’s twenty miles, or thereabouts.’
‘What of Thomas Percy?’ Marbeck began, but the other swept the question aside.
‘He’ll wait – will you ready yourself?’
The party thundered along the East Road: twenty-five men or more, with Deverell at their head. A Puritan zeal was upon him: an unquenchable desire to root out the people that many considered to be servants of the anti-Christ, who would convert all England to Papistry if they could. Some of his men had tools strapped to their saddles: crowbars and pickaxes with which to tear down partitions, rods to measure the thickness of walls. All were armed, some with pistols and calivers as well as swords. Marbeck, armed as usual with rapier and poniard, had paused only to shed his clothing from the night before and change into plainer garb. He had also taken a moment, while Deverell waited impatiently in the street, to hide his winnings from the primero game.
Having no enthusiasm for the task ahead, he rode near the rear of the party, the breeze whipping through Cobb’s mane. There had been a frost in the night, and the fields still glistened. When they stopped in the early afternoon to eat bare rations and water the horses, he took the opportunity to question the spymaster, only to receive a cool response.
‘I sense your unwillingness, Marbeck,’ he said. They stood apart from the other men, who were huddled in groups, talking low. ‘If I didn’t know better, I might think you’d some sympathy for these Catholic devils yourself. Have you forgotten the Smithfield fires and the hundreds who perished under Queen Mary’s tyranny?’ When Marbeck made no reply, he added: ‘One of my uncles was among them … a humble rector who did naught but good, yet dared to stand against them in the name of God.’
‘Then, is it vengeance that drives you?’ Marbeck asked.
‘Perhaps it is!’ the other threw back. ‘I’m no saint, any more than you are – yet I know where my duty lies. I’ve had reports of Masses being said at Great Willoughby. The place has been searched before, but it was a hurried affair – I intend to remedy that. It appears there was a good deal of toing and froing around the Feast of St Luke – that’s the time the Jesuits renew their vows. I’d not be surprised if the house was a meeting place for some of them, before they scattered again to spread their poison elsewhere.’
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 6