Recovering quickly, he gripped her wrist and twisted, forcing her to drop the blade. But she was on her feet, grabbing for other implements, before he was finally able to overpower her and force her back into the chair. Whereupon, all restraint gone, she thrust her face out and screamed at him.
‘I am Charlotte de Baume! I’ve no need to hide behind other names, like all you cowards! I am Charlotte de Baume, of noble blood. And I know full well who you are – Monsieur Marbeck!’
TWELVE
Charlotte’s mask was gone, and she seemed almost relieved to have put it aside. Remarkably composed, she sat at the table and now admitted what Marbeck suspected: that she was one of a team of two who had been ordered to kill him. And after some thought, he began to guess more.
‘I’ve heard of women like you in Paris,’ he said. ‘Yet you seem young, for one of those … Shall I speak of the former escadron volante?’
She did not deny it, and, on his feet now, he began to piece it out even as he spoke. Long ago Catherine de Médicis, Queen Consort and mistress of intrigue, had put together her notorious company of female spies: young, pretty women who would seduce men of power in order to learn their secrets. The flying squadron, they were nicknamed by some; by others, less charitably, a stable of unscrupulous whores. How effective they had been while Catherine was alive, few people knew for certain. What seemed bizarre was that one of them should arrive in London to kill Marbeck, so many years after the death of their notorious queen.
‘Let’s come to it, then,’ he said dryly. ‘I want to know who hired you – for it wasn’t your former mistress, from beyond the grave. Nor was it usual, I recall, for women like you to operate outside France. As for keeping a Spanish servant …’ He frowned, and suspicions arose … but when he looked at her again, he saw a different expression.
‘I can offer a bargain,’ she said, without lifting her eyes.
Slowly, Marbeck shook his head. ‘I think not, madam.’
‘But you should think so. For this is not some tiresome matter of state intelligence; the man I serve has little use for such.’
She looked up then, and for a moment he almost swayed where he stood. He was struck by the glow from her eyes, and by a jolt of unseen power that shot through his vitals like a current. Whereupon, very deliberately, she put her hands to her gown and pulled it low, to expose both breasts.
‘We are the same, Marbeck,’ she said softly. ‘Why should we pretend? If ordered, or if forced by one who had the means, you would kill me too; as you killed Miguel, you say – and I believe you. In any case, I was told something about the man I came to seek out … I, and my helper.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Miguel was never a servant, or only as long as appearance counted: he was sent to make sure I did as I was ordered. After that—’ She broke off.
He sat down then, somewhat heavily. Realization had been just beyond his consciousness, he realized: ever since he’d overpowered her and heard her shout his real name. Perhaps he should have guessed sooner; as it was, for a time he was lost for words. Finally, he let out a breath. ‘You work for Juan Roble.’
Her silence was answer enough.
‘Does he hate me still, that he takes such pains – spends so much, merely to destroy me?’ he went on. ‘Five years, since …’
He stopped, almost in disbelief. Juan Roble, a man he’d never seen: the former Spanish spymaster he had once humiliated, and who, it seemed, could never forgive the slight. The same man who was now a renegade, a commander of murderous corsairs who spread terror throughout the Mediterranean Sea … Marbeck shook his head. ‘Did someone aid you, when you reached London?’ he asked finally. ‘Or does that man know so much, that you were able to find me with ease? If so, his reach is long indeed.’
‘His reach is long,’ she answered, speaking low. ‘Yet even he cannot know where you live, since you move about so often. Yes, I had help … poor men, who blow with the wind. I will not say more. You know there are always people who can be bought.’
He stiffened; something else had just fallen into place, which shook him more than he would show. ‘No, you needn’t say more,’ he said, after a moment. ‘And I’ll have a reckoning soon, with one of those I think you mean. Yet now, one question remains: what must I do with you?’
‘Indeed, I see your dilemma.’ She smiled then, as if growing in confidence. ‘There are rumours, or so I’m told, that you’re dissatisfied with your life. You were offered riches once, were you not? Yet you remained loyal to your masters and to your country. I admire that – even if men like Juan Roble scorn such sentiment. Even I served France, Marbeck …’ She stopped, with another look of uncertainty, for his anger had risen with sudden speed.
‘You served France?’ he echoed, on his feet again. ‘Perhaps you did, at one time, in the only way you could. But what happened afterwards, when Catherine was dead? Were your skills no longer needed – were you even despised? You were no longer the young coquette you’d been … Was it then you were tempted, by a man who offered wealth beyond your dreams? That’s what one of his minions offered me, in a dark room by the Thames: the chance to live under balmy skies like a pasha, with a harem. Is it possible for a woman to live so, in certain places? Even to keep a harem of men – a stable of your own?’
Angrily, he stood over her – but she laughed in his face. ‘Mon dieu, Marbeck, what a puritan you can be!’ she cried. ‘Are you truly such un moraliste? You’ve played a wicked game yourself: lied and deceived, fought and killed – for what? Your enemies are not only overseas, but also here, in your own country! I ask again, what is it for? One day you may falter, and it will be you who dies before your time. What does it matter then, if you are slain by a lord or a lackey – a prince, or une putain? For who will care? Your father, your ruthless brother … your paramour, whoever she is?’
She sighed, giving him a look almost of pity … then quite suddenly, she began to speak in a different tone. ‘Think what we can do together, you and I! When I report your death, I mean – and that of Miguel, who is nothing to me. I can explain the loss of a servant, in a way that will satisfy El Roble. Then, with the payment he promised, you and I can go away, make a home wherever we choose. What could be better than to live free of restraint, delighting in our senses? Come – speak plainly: do you not yearn to fall on my body, even now?’
They gazed at each other: she smiling, Marbeck bewitched; or at least, that was what he would think, much later. For just then, he saw the truth in her words. There was little difference between the two of them, in the end … and a very short distance physically. The easiest thing for him to do was to go to her, as she clearly expected; yet he hesitated.
‘I did as I was ordered, Marbeck,’ Charlotte said finally. ‘As do you, every day. I told you: we are the same.’
‘No … I don’t believe that.’ He drew a long breath and forced himself to turn away – and when he faced her again, the spell was broken. She saw it too, and would have spoken had he not forestalled her.
‘We could do as you say, easily enough,’ he admitted. ‘Between us, we may bend matters to our will … and for a time, things might even be as you describe. But how could we trust each other? You would tire of me before long, perhaps before I tired of you – and what then?’ He nodded towards the spilled cup of wine she’d knocked from his hand. ‘How long would it be before you picked your moment to unburden yourself of my company?’
After that there was silence between them, until finally she turned aside and covered herself, pulling the gown about her shoulders brusquely. When she faced him again it was with a sullen look.
‘Do your will, then,’ she said. ‘For I tire of this.’
He paused, thinking of her servant Miguel, who had offered to help him before pulling a dagger; he thought of Charlotte seizing the table knife and attacking him; then he glanced at the jug of Romney wine, still more than half-full. He lifted it, picked up the overturned cup with his other hand and filled it.
‘Drink,’ he said, pla
cing it before her. ‘You know how much to take, I suspect, to make yourself sleep. Whether you choose to drink more, I leave to you. Either way, I’ll be gone.’
She stared, not understanding. ‘You won’t force me? Why, when you could do so?’
Marbeck didn’t answer.
‘Why?’ she repeated angrily. ‘Do you wish me to live, or do you expect me to take my own life? Is this mercy, or vengeance? If the latter, I refuse you: you’ll have to kill me with your own hands, for I’ll not do your work!’
But his response was a bleak smile. ‘I’m tired of killing, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘I leave you to deal with El Roble, for I can hardly be of service there. I expect he’ll find out, one way or another, that you failed him.’
She was rigid, sitting like a figure of wax. When he crossed the room to collect his clothes, she made no sound. He glanced back once and saw her gazing at the cup, but making no move to take it. So he left her and went outside to dress himself.
It was raining now: not a sweet refreshing shower, but an autumn drizzle that soaked his clothes. His face set tight, Marbeck reached London by early afternoon, walking doggedly. But instead of returning to his lodgings he went straight to Fleet Street, turned into Shoe Lane and arrived at the cockpit.
For a moment he stood outside, hearing the familiar noises from within. Men of all classes were passing in and out, winners and losers distinguishable merely by their manner. Nearby a ballad seller did brisk business, selling broadsides. Marbeck eyed him absently and asked what news.
‘No sense in asking me, sir,’ the man replied breezily. ‘I don’t read well, myself. Here, buy a sheet and read a ballad – the ink’s barely dry, I swear it.’
‘When I come out,’ Marbeck said, nodding towards the cockpit.
The other groaned. ‘Nay, sir – I pray you, buy now! Or you’ll emerge with an empty purse, and I’ll make no sale.’
But Marbeck shook his head and moved off. At the doorway he stiffened, placed a hand on his sword hilt and went inside. A short time later, having surveyed the crowd, he found the man he was seeking and approached him from behind.
‘Good-day, MacNeish.’
There was a grunt, and the big man stiffened like a board. Once again, Marbeck smelled the familiar odour of coarse wool and leather. He waited for what seemed a long time until MacNeish turned, whereupon the look on Marbeck’s face was enough to unsettle him.
‘Good-day to you, Sands … Are ye come to make a wager? Yon snow-white cock’s the new champion.’ The Scotsman appeared affable, though his mouth was tight. When Marbeck merely eyed him he added: ‘I’ve not seen ye in a while—’
‘Indeed,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘What’s the word in Little Scotland now?’
The big man managed a shrug. Over on the brightly-lit platform, a bout was drawing to its close, men shouting and bawling. Beneath the din the squawking of gamecocks could be heard, along with a frantic beating of wings. Finally, unhurriedly, Marbeck fixed his informant with a cold eye and said: ‘I can’t hear myself think in here. Will you step outside?’
MacNeish swallowed. His eyes went to Marbeck’s hand, resting lightly on his sword-hilt. ‘Have I a choice?’ he muttered.
Outside, they stood in the same spot they had occupied many days ago. The big man’s cloak lifted in the breeze, revealing a thick leather belt with a dagger in its sheath. Marbeck barely glanced at it before coming to business.
‘Since we last spoke I’ve thought on what you said,’ he began conversationally. ‘I’ve also met Thomas Percy. But in the matter of your friend Prestall, I was unlucky. He’s gone from Whitehall – dismissed, I was told.’
‘Then my source of palace intelligence is gone too,’ MacNeish said, somewhat quickly. ‘It’ll be the strong wine that did for him … The man never could stop himself.’
‘What of Percy?’ Marbeck asked sharply. ‘Not someone you’d want to wrangle with, was my impression. He’s away now on business for the earl … Is there more you could say about him?’
‘There is.’ MacNeish grimaced. ‘Then, so could any Scotsman who remembers the days before King Jimmy took the English throne … when Percy was in and out of Holyrood, up and down betwixt Edinburgh and London. He it was raised the Papists’ hopes, appointing himself messenger, telling of joy and toleration to come – all of it lies, but mayhap he was as eager to believe them as any of his kind. Now …’ The big man shrugged and seemed to acquire a sudden eagerness. ‘Now he’s one of those seethes in private, I’d say – mixes with other Papists, angry fellows who cast about for other ways to advance their cause. The real firebrand among them is Robert Catesby, they say. A born leader … and if I’m honest with ye, John Sands, he’s the man I’d be watching instead of Percy.’
‘The name interests me,’ Marbeck said, managing a casual tone. ‘I believe he rents a house at Lambeth: the old Vaux manor. Have you heard that?’
‘No … I canna say I have,’ MacNeish replied.
‘What of the other matters you told me about?’ Marbeck persisted, leaning forward deliberately. ‘The plan to attack the Scots was one – but what of the rumour of kidnap?’
MacNeish was tense now. ‘Mayhap I spoke somewhat rashly,’ he said. ‘When I mulled it over later, I doubted anyone could get near the Royal children … not even Percy.’
‘Even though he’s a house at Westminster, within a stone’s throw of the Palace?’ Marbeck said dourly. ‘As well as the right to come and go as he pleases?’ And when the other failed to reply, he pressed him harshly. ‘As for Catesby, you’re right in a way. He’s gathering a regiment to fight in Flanders, they say. Men like him can’t very well take up arms for Popery here, so they take their fight abroad instead.’
‘Fools,’ MacNeish grunted, with forced vehemence. ‘Let ’em drench the Dutch fields with their blood, for all the good that’ll do!’
Marbeck said nothing, but looked pointedly at the big man. A moment passed, until finally the Scotsman could stand it no longer. He was about to take a step back, but Marbeck laid a hand gently on his arm.
‘How much did the lady pay you, MacNeish?’ he asked. ‘Or was it her servant who came to seek you out?’
THIRTEEN
There was a long moment, while MacNeish gazed at Marbeck. Finally, seeing that dissembling was pointless, he spoke up.
‘He was a foreigner,’ he admitted, with a glance at Marbeck’s hand, now on his sword-hilt. ‘Spanish or Portugee … Claimed he had important news for you – a warning, he said. He knew we’d done business, off and on – the Lord knows how, but he did.’
‘As you knew he was lying,’ Marbeck said gently. ‘About wanting to warn me, I mean.’
MacNeish gave no answer.
‘In fact, it hardly matters, for he’s dead now,’ Marbeck told him. ‘Or at least, the odds on that are better than you’ll ever make in there.’ He nodded towards the cockpit.
Still MacNeish was silent. Finally, he heaved a sigh and said: ‘What will you do then, Sands? I’ve no head for guesswork.’
‘But one for gathering scraps and rumours and knitting them into something you can sell,’ Marbeck said coolly. ‘Fool I may have been, but I thought you sold them to me and others like me, rather than to the one with the fattest purse.’ Seeing the other about to speak, he lifted a hand briefly. ‘I know – you’re a poor man. The lady I spoke of told me: she tried to kill me, just this morning.’ In a harsher tone he added: ‘That’s how I guessed it was you who gave me away: you’re the only one who knew I lodged at Skinner’s.’
Uneasily, MacNeish rubbed his beard and focused his gaze on the broadside seller – whereupon Marbeck seized the edge of his cloak and made him turn.
‘Would you have seen me despatched so readily?’ he demanded. ‘You knew the people who sought me had some evil intent … Were you indifferent to it?’ He waited, then: ‘Or am I just another Englishman – little better than the Swaggerers who assail you in the street? What’s one less?’
Another moment pa
ssed, in which the other man’s silence was confirmation enough.
His mind busy now, Marbeck spoke quietly. ‘You couldn’t be everywhere, so I’m guessing you’ve had me watched,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I had a feeling I was being followed a while back … I should have paid more attention to it. How else could the lady have known I’d be at a certain house, at a certain time? Was it one of your friends from Little Scotland?’
The big man swallowed, but kept silent.
‘You’d best answer me, MacNeish,’ Marbeck said. ‘Or I’ve a mind to turn you over to my masters … They’d hang you up by your wrists, simply on my word—’
‘Enough, damn ye!’ For a moment, the Scotsman’s eyes flashed. But seeing Marbeck’s expression, he let out a sigh; he was powerless, and he knew it. ‘’Twas Blue Donal watched ye,’ he admitted, in a bitter tone. ‘The wee man’s family are near starving. They – the lady and her man – agreed to cut him in. That way I could help him, as he’s helped me in the past – more than a man like you would know!’
After that, there was little left to say. The noise from the cockpit ebbed and flowed, while the broadside seller, having sold his stock, was walking away briskly.
‘So you may do your worst, Sands,’ MacNeish murmured, with a bleak look. ‘I took the money for my wife and for others worse off than us … Believe that or no, as ye will. But you’re right: you mean naught to me, when all’s said and done. You serve a King who was my King too, but who’s turned his royal back on folk like me. To the devil with him – and with you.’
There they stood: intelligencer and informant, who had once shared a bond of sorts, or so Marbeck had believed. Now, like so much else, he saw it was false. Yet despite everything, he felt no anger: only the same emptiness that had come upon him at Thomas Walden’s house, when he had dropped his sword on the path.
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 11