It took him almost two hours in the pitch dark, but he was in no hurry. By the time he reached Hampstead Village he was almost frozen. Only then did he recall that he’d left his cloak behind, on the pathway at Walden house.
But along with everything else, it had ceased to matter.
ELEVEN
There was a distant voice, calling to him. But the name wasn’t his … Someone must be in error. Dismissing it, he tried to burrow into the space he’d been in, which was warm and inviting. But the voice grew louder, until in irritation he was forced to address it. Turning sharply, he flung out a hand – and woke at once, with someone shouting in his ear.
‘Lawrence! Mon dieu!’
Charlotte de Baume was bending over him, her hair loose, wearing an elaborate morning-gown. When recognition dawned, Marbeck fell back on to the pillow. He was sweating, his mouth was dry and his limbs ached … Unable to summon a word, he gazed at her.
‘Do you not know me?’ she asked, her large eyes peering into his. ‘You seemed to remember last night, when you fetched up at my door like a ghost … What has happened to you?’
But the only response was a barely audible groan as things came into focus. Frowning, he closed his eyes.
‘Don’t shut me out … It is most unkind.’ Charlotte shook his shoulder, rather sharply.
When he opened his eyes again, she was wearing a look of concern. ‘Your pardon,’ he murmured. ‘I … I promised to come and dine with you, did I not?’
‘Indeed, so you did!’ Charlotte arched her brows. ‘Yet I see you have been occupied in some questionable business. You came here like a fugitive, Lawrence. Was it sanctuary you sought? If so, you are too late – the ambassador is gone, and I have no influence.’
For a moment he didn’t understand; then it dawned. ‘You mean Monsieur Harlay?’ He shook his head. ‘No, it wasn’t that kind of sanctuary I sought …’
‘Only that of my body, perhaps?’ A smile was forming. ‘Well, that was on offer last night. But there was such a weariness upon you, it could not be assuaged. In short, you forbore to touch me, and I let you slumber.’
He frowned, remembering at last. ‘How long have I slept?’
‘Many hours – the sleep of un cadavre. It is morning, and now you should eat. Look – see what has been brought.’ Her smile broadened. Drawing back, she gestured to a table across the wide room, laden with silver platters, jugs and cups.
Marbeck took one look, caught the fatty odour of roast meats, and averted his gaze. ‘Your pardon once again … You’re most kind, but I’ve little appetite.’
She froze, and almost at once he feared a repeat of the last time he’d been here and witnessed her explosion of anger. Once more her dark eyes flashed as she struggled to master her temper.
Raising a hand, he put it to her cheek. ‘Forgive me, I’m not myself. I should get some air … though I’d welcome a drink. Is there something weak on that tray?’
It did not placate her. Her chest rising menacingly, she took his hand away and gestured impatiently to the table. ‘Weak? Indeed … as weak as you are today, monsieur. There is juice of pomegranates … Most difficult to obtain just now, I might add. I would have mixed it with wine, with my own hand, and served it to you. But first I meant to disrobe and climb in beside you, that we may delight in each other’s bodies again. Instead, I see you devoid of that appetite, even now!’
She fell silent and turned her back on him, her voluminous gown swirling. She wore stockings of fine lawn, and no doubt little else beneath the robe. But it was true: bodily desire had deserted him. All he could see was Meriel’s careworn face, telling him there was no child …
‘I’m a fool, and a milksop too,’ he said finally. ‘No man in his senses would refuse you … I can but ask pardon again.’
Somewhat shakily he roused himself, threw the covers back and stood up, whereupon she turned to face him. He was in shirt and hose, still damp with sweat. His outer clothes lay upon a nearby chest, where no doubt Charlotte had placed them. He forced a smile, and quickly her manner changed.
‘Lawrence … forgive my harshness, pray. Will you not sit with me and try to eat something? You need to regain your strength.’
So they sat down at the table, close together, and at once she became talkative. Though she avoided speaking of the manner in which he’d arrived at her house, which was a relief. Soon, while he inspected the dishes laid before him without enthusiasm, he managed to change the subject.
‘Will you not speak of yourself?’ he murmured. ‘Do you still plan to remain in England, or return to France?’
‘That would be telling,’ Charlotte teased. ‘I am in no hurry … though there’s no lack of men in Paris who would like to hasten my return. While here, others would prefer me to stay …’ She arched her brows. ‘Some have been insolent in their approaches – as if I were no better than une putain. The kind of men you mix with too, perhaps, at Essex House … Do not deny, Lawrence. You were eager to bed me on sight, as you would a Bankside trull.’
‘As you were me, Madame de Baume,’ he answered after a moment. ‘I hope, in that respect at least, I gave satisfaction.’
She laughed at that, with a coquettish air that seemed somehow false. Then she softened and bent forward deliberately, allowing him a clear view down the front of her loose gown. ‘Indeed you did,’ she murmured. ‘Or I could not contemplate the things I wish to do with you soon, in my bed. As I trust you will delight me, as you promised … but first, will you take a little wine mixed with pomegranates, as I promised you?’
He nodded. The meal set before him was too sumptuous, though most of it was familiar enough to an Englishman: veal and eggs, broth, roast neat’s tongue. But first, Charlotte insisted, he must take some oysters.
‘They are my delight,’ she said, opening one with the aid of an elegant silver knife. ‘And they warm the blood, Lawrence … A prelude to love.’
To please her he ate one and signalled his approval. She was eager to press more dishes upon him, which he tasted sparingly. Try as he might to put other thoughts aside, the events of last night preyed upon him. Finally, it became obvious to Charlotte, who put down her knife somewhat sharply.
‘Lawrence … this is too unkind. Today you are in my house. Forget the world outside, as well as your troubles, and give yourself to me. What must I do, to fix your attention?’ She smiled archly. ‘Lower my gown and dine bare-breasted, like a tavern coquette?’
She put out a hand, which he took. Though a fire had burned itself out in the grate, the bedchamber was warm enough. Feeling tense, Marbeck wondered how he might take his leave, when, as if sensing it, Charlotte spoke up.
‘See – I spoke of my promise!’ She withdrew her hand and tapped him playfully on the wrist. ‘Here is a delightful Romney wine … You must taste it, Lawrence.’ Whereupon, taking up a silver jug, she half-filled a cup. Then she lifted another jug and poured the deep red juice of pomegranates in with the wine. Smiling archly, she dipped her forefinger into the mixture and swirled it about.
‘Did I not say I would serve you with my own hand, Lawrence?’ And with that, she took her finger from the cup and put it to his lips. ‘Now – taste!’
So to please her again, he touched her forefinger with his tongue and tasted the mixture, which was sickly sweet. Managing a look of approval, he took the cup, sipped, and made a show of savouring it. ‘You’re a good hostess,’ he said. ‘But are you not going to partake with me?’
‘Of course.’ Charlotte smiled and half-filled her own cup with wine. She raised it, regarding him over the rim. ‘Now I will confess something: I knew nothing of this Romney wine, until a friend told me of its special character. That is the reason I had my servant search for it, after your last visit: he would be refused entry to the house, I told him, until he’d found some.’ Her smile widened. ‘Do you know what property I speak of?’
He hesitated. ‘Is it a cure for melancholy?’
She blinked, her smile fading; t
hen seeing that he was jesting, she gave one of her pouts. ‘Lawrence, you torment me! You know what I speak of … This beverage, my friend assured me, is … how shall I say, pour encourager l’amour?’
‘I follow you, madame.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Though it’s the first time I’ve heard that. I fear your friend may have spun you an old wives’ tale. But no matter: I toast your kindness, as well as your determination.’ He took another sip, then saw that Charlotte wasn’t done with pretending offence.
She tapped him again on the wrist and said: ‘Determination? How like a man, to think in such fashion! You think I am so starved of love that I must take measures to secure your presence in my bed?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Men have fought duels over me, Lawrence … Do you doubt my word on that?’
‘How could I?’ Marbeck said. ‘I can imagine such. But you know you’ve no need to seduce me – you knew it after our first night together.’
‘Our first night?’ Charlotte arched her brows again. ‘You mean our only night together, monsieur. Yesterday you came as a fugitive and forbore even to touch me.’
He took a breath. He was eager to leave her and this house, to be alone. But as he was seeking the words, quite suddenly an odd feeling stole over him … a touch of dizziness. Blinking, he lifted his cup to drink again … then as it touched his lower lip, he froze.
Charlotte, he saw, wasn’t drinking. In fact, he realized with a shock, she hadn’t even tasted her own cup. With an effort, he set down his drink carefully and forced a smile.
‘Forgive me. I must to the jakes,’ he said. ‘A man’s weakness, first thing of a morning. If you’ll direct me to it, I’ll make haste to return, that we may finish our breakfast together.’
He was acting: his intelligencer’s instinct kicking in at once, for the purpose of self-preservation. Yet his smile was such that it worked: even on this woman who, he had learned in that moment, meant to poison him.
He stood up, trying not to appear hasty, and saw her gazing fixedly at him. ‘There is a good-sized jordan in my closet, and it is unused,’ she said gently. ‘Pray, avail yourself of that.’
But as she gestured, he shook his head. ‘I thank you, but I need some air, too.’
There was a moment, and once again that warning flash of mingled anger and impatience showed in Charlotte’s gaze. Then to Marbeck’s relief she flicked a hand dismissively, and gave a shout of laughter.
‘Pah, you Englishmen – so particular in your privacy! In Paris a gentleman would step aside from his salon conversation, summon a servant with a urinoir and relieve himself then and there! But go … descend the stairs and follow the passage to the rear of the house, where you will find what you need. Then hurry back, for I mean to test your stamina.’
So he went from the room, still in his shirt and hose. Having descended the staircase to a dimly-lit passage, he quickened his step and found a back door, barred from within. A moment later he was out in the cold morning air, striding through a walled garden. He didn’t trouble to find the jakes: instead, by the far wall he bent over, thrust two fingers hard down his throat and vomited into a flowerbed.
Bring it forth … Make the yellow fountain …
They were his father’s words, half impatient, half-amused, from far away and long ago, in a nobleman’s garden in the Ribble Valley. There he had scolded his twelve-year-old son, who’d drunk copiously and foolishly, as boys will. How many times since had he repeated that experience?
The memory vanished as he breathed in the still October air, gagging and retching. Up came the undigested oyster, along with the liquids he’d drunk. Especially the mixture of Romney wine and pomegranate juice; that had an under-taste he hadn’t noticed – until he’d smelled a faint aroma that made him uneasy. Yet it wasn’t that, so much as the look he’d caught in Charlotte’s eye – that, and the fact that she was so eager for him to drink while she took not a sip.
He stood for several minutes to regain his strength, shivering slightly. He had ceased making himself vomit: there was nothing left, apart from a soreness in his stomach. He had acted quickly enough, he believed; had he taken one more mouthful of the wine …
He needed water, to flush out his innards. He straightened up, looked towards the house and saw a rainwater-butt. Stumbling over to it, he shoved his face under the ice-cold surface, through a layer of leaves and algae, and filled his mouth. Then he drew back, swallowed the foul-tasting water and bent double. This time he had no need to force himself: up it came, along with the last trace of scarlet juice. Coughing and gasping, he sat down at last on damp flagstones with his back to the barrel … only to become aware of a figure, drawing close.
He looked up sharply and saw Charlotte’s servant: the one who had fussed about her at Essex house and stared so brazenly at him; the same one, he now recalled vaguely, who had admitted him the night before.
‘Are you ill, sir?’ the man enquired – in a thick accent that wasn’t French, but Spanish, which set a warning bell clanging in Marbeck’s head. ‘Pray, let me help you to rise …’
He bent forward, stretching out a hand – but he wasn’t quick enough with his other hand. The blade flashed, only to be turned aside as Marbeck grabbed his forearm. There followed a crack as the bone was shattered, then a yelp of pain … and the man reeled backwards, his own poniard protruding from his neck. He fell heavily, choking, his blood gushing on to dew-soaked grass.
On his feet and panting, Marbeck whirled about, alert for further danger. But there was only a light wind, and the distant call of crows. With a glance at the assassin, who would never pose a threat to anyone again, he took a moment to gather his wits. Then he went back into the house, closing the door behind him.
In the gloom he stood and listened, but heard nothing. Moving soundlessly, he passed a door that must lead to the kitchen, then softly ascended the stairs and approached the bedchamber where, as far as he knew, Charlotte still waited. He hesitated, whereupon there came a sound from behind the door. He had tensed in every muscle, but just then one desire overrode all others: to confront the woman who’d tried to poison him and find out why. Steeling himself, he drew a breath, then thrust the door open – to be greeted by a thud and a cry of alarm: Charlotte had been listening on the other side.
Thrown backwards, arms flailing, she tripped over her gown and, with a shriek, fell on to her back. For a moment she lay on the floor, eyes wide, before finding voice. ‘Lawrence – you frightened me! What is wrong? Why do you look at me so?’
‘Have you more than one servant?’ he asked, his voice flat.
She stared at him. ‘No, only Miguel … Why—’
‘Why do I ask? Because he’s dying, or dead by now. Was he under orders to kill me?’
Breathing hard, Charlotte struggled to sit up. ‘I don’t understand …’ She caught her breath. ‘He’s dead … Miguel is dead?’
Marbeck merely eyed her. A long moment passed as she returned his gaze … and saw not only that he didn’t lie, but that he also knew what she’d tried to do. In silence, she seemed to be weighing her choices – until she sensed he knew that, too. Whereupon not fear, but a look of uncertainty appeared.
‘Won’t you at least help me up?’ she asked finally.
He reached down, took her hand and pulled her to her feet, letting her feel his strength. When she stood before him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, he gestured sharply. ‘Sit,’ he ordered.
She moved to the table and sat down, then spoke up quickly. ‘There’s my maid too, I should say. She will raise the alarm—’
‘You’re lying,’ he snapped.
She fell silent.
‘So, who are you, then?’ Moving suddenly, so as to startle her, Marbeck sat down in the chair he’d occupied earlier, pulling it closer. ‘For I’d wager you’re not Charlotte de Baume,’ he continued. ‘Nor, I suspect, are you related to the wife of the French ambassador.’
When she refused to speak, he leaned forward. ‘As for that …’ He indicated the jug o
f Romney wine. ‘What was your intent – to despatch me once I’d drunk enough to lose my senses? Was Miguel waiting to finish the task – or did you send him outside in haste, because you feared I’d guessed what was afoot and intended to make my escape?’
‘This is nonsense … You have lost your wits!’ she exclaimed. But she refused to meet his eye, gazing down at the table. Whereupon Marbeck, angry as well as relieved at having spoiled her plan, picked up his cup and brought it to her lips.
‘Drink, then,’ he said. ‘Prove that you weren’t trying to kill me with this wine, that you’d have me believe would serve pour encourager l’amour. The wine you sweetened so liberally with pomegranates, to disguise the taste of poison.’
She caught her breath, but made no move.
‘Must I force you?’ he went on. ‘You know I could, as you know there’s no one here to help you—’
‘Con! Frai du diable!’ Her rage welled up at last. Eyes blazing suddenly, she bared her teeth and spat out a stream of French obscenities … whereupon, to her evident chagrin, Marbeck relaxed.
‘So you are truly French and not Spanish … It’s useful to know. Now I’d like to know who sent you. And more …’ He raised his brow. ‘Was it your intent to snare me that evening, back at Essex House? In which case, how did you know I’d be there?’ He frowned. ‘Unless you were watching me … you, or someone else.’
She merely glared at him, then looked away.
So he put his hand behind her neck, pressing her head forward. ‘Drink,’ he said. ‘Or must I compel you?’
Breathing hard, she clamped her mouth shut.
‘Do you not see?’ He forced her to meet his eye. ‘Your servant is slain. Nobody knows I’m here: I could deal with you as you would have done me. So, will you tell me things I can believe, Charlotte? I’ll call you such, until I learn your real name—’
She moved then, so suddenly that he was caught unawares. Dashing the cup aside, sending it flying from his grasp, she snatched a knife from the table and lunged at him. He had barely time to avoid the thrust, though the flimsy weapon could have done little harm.
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 10