Marbeck and the Double Dealer (10 page)

‘I speak of affairs of state, sir . . . secrets. You will soon know I speak truly. I won't bluff – how could I?' He nodded at the interrogator. ‘I see this man knows his task – how to sift the truth, and how to keep silent. Let him stay if you wish, but permit me to address you, as one man of substance to another. Please . . . what is your answer?'

A silence fell. The guards stirred, not liking the suggestion at all. Neither did the interrogator, who glowered at Marbeck, fingering his implement of torture. To his master he spoke rapid Spanish, from which Marbeck gathered that he believed the prisoner was stalling, and he would soon put an end to it. But when the officer spoke, relief swept over him.

In a few words the soldiers were ordered to withdraw. Without further word, they did so, but as they went out the interrogator seized Marbeck roughly by the arm. With the man's sour breath on his face, he waited until the door had closed. Silently, he counted to five . . . then he struck.

First, his shoulder slammed into the interrogator's chest. Then, even as the man registered the blow, Marbeck jerked his head back and banged it into his face. The fellow staggered backwards, but immediately the officer behind the desk jumped to his feet. Marbeck had barely a moment to jerk his hands out of the cord – but once they were free, he could set to work. Three blows in rapid succession pummelled the already blooded face of the burly interrogator, who fell with a groan.

Dropping to a half-crouch, Marbeck whirled round to face the Spanish commander – to be met by a roar and a spurt of flame. The shot was close; he heard the ball whistle by his ear and smack into the bulwark behind him. Dropping his pistol, the man leaped aside. Marbeck saw the sword in its scabbard, hanging from a beam. But instead of preventing him reaching it, he used those seconds for a different purpose: to secure the room.

The shot had brought running feet; he heard shouts from outside, and just had time to reach the door and turn the key before someone rattled the handle. Then came a shriek of steel as sword left scabbard, and he turned back to his assailant.

The
comandante
came at him, his face livid with anger. His first thrust was deadly, and Marbeck was hard-pressed to dodge it. The blade then rose and fell, cleaving the air, but this time he anticipated it. It flew past his shoulder, throwing its owner off balance – whereupon Marbeck's hands shot out to seize the man's forearm, which he bent backwards with all his strength. There was a fearful crack as the bone snapped, followed by a cry of pain. The rapier clattered to the floor.

A tense moment followed. Marbeck kicked the sword away and stepped back, but he saw the officer was beaten. Numb with shock, the man slumped to the floor, fingers clawing his shattered arm. Meanwhile, shouts came from beyond the door, and blows rained upon it. Marbeck's time was short, and he had one chance of escape: the stern windows, through which a soft evening light filtered . . . He believed he could squeeze through. But first he had a task, for the interrogator was recovering.

Flushed and bleeding, amazed at the speed with which events had unfolded, the heavy man was struggling to his feet. He had dropped his length of rope and was reaching for a poniard at his belt. Marbeck put his hand to his waist and drew out the lute string, then stepped forward and kicked the torturer's leg from under him. As the man swayed Marbeck shoved him to his knees, darted behind him, threw the string around his neck and pulled.

It took longer than he had expected, and a deal longer than he liked. The big man thrashed wildly, his fingers clutching at Marbeck's wrists, but he was weakening. Then he was gurgling, as the tough string crushed his windpipe. Marbeck looked over his head at the officer, who was still seated on the floor. Though dazed with pain, the man was looking him in the eye.

‘You had better kill me too, señor,' he panted. ‘Or else I will remember you . . . and one day I will find you, and put you to a terrible death!'

But Marbeck's ears were bent to the thudding on the cabin door. Though stout, it wouldn't last much longer. Keeping his grip on the garrotte, he eyed the Spaniard.

‘I've never killed in cold blood,' he snapped. ‘Though I could make an exception for this man, who would have racked me until I was broken.' Abruptly, he looked down: his victim had gone limp. Straightening up, he removed the lute string and thrust it in his pocket, allowing the body to fall. Though senseless, the interrogator still breathed.

‘Your name!' The
comandante
glared at him. ‘Tell me your name . . . I ask you, as a gentleman—'

But he broke off, for Marbeck was hurrying to the windows. They were well made and set in oak frames, designed to allow a fresh breeze into what could be a stifling interior. He opened one wide and placed his foot on the sill. Then he turned round and threw a last look at the man who had briefly been his jailer.

‘My name? I told you: it's Wilders. And I don't expect our paths will cross again – so all that remains is for me to bid you
adiós
!'

With that, he bent himself double and squeezed into the opening. Sweet air filled his nostrils as he forced his body through, his feet resting briefly on a narrow ledge below the window; then he was dropping like a stone. As he fell, he heard the crack of splintering timbers: the cabin door had at last given way. There was a great splash as he hit the water, and the Blavet closed over his head.

It was the twilight that saved him, he thought later; that and the thick reeds that bordered the river. Once underwater, he struck out, swimming until his protesting lungs forced him to surface. The chill of the river was a shock, but it revived him. Gasping for breath as he came up, he looked round and found himself barely twenty yards from the ship. The word
Delfin
loomed over his head. He was no dolphin, he thought, but he would try . . .

Something hit the water, inches from his face; a crack followed. His eyes flew to the windows of the master's cabin, where a puff of smoke showed. Even as Marbeck looked, a second caliver was being aimed. He drew breath and dived.

Whatever it took, he had to reach the bank. He was sluggish in his clothes, especially his shoes, but there was no time to take them off. Besides, he had walking to do; the thought gave him hope and strength. He lashed out, his hands dragging at the water. Weeds brushed against his legs – then suddenly there was gravel under his chest. For a moment he floundered, clutching at stones and mud, before his head broke the surface. He was on his knees; reeds towered above him, dull grey in the gathering dusk.

Grasping the foliage, Marbeck pulled himself out of the shallows and fell flat. From a distance he heard another shot fired, but there was no sound of the ball hitting water. With what strength he could muster, he rolled aside, seizing reeds as he did so, and cocooned himself. Then he lay still and began to catch his breath.

He could not delay, of course; they would send a boat and hunt him down. Their shame and pride would drive them, coupled with their hatred of the English. But his hope was that they would expect him to follow the coast, to east or west. What they would not expect Marbeck to do, he reasoned, was return the way they had brought him: back up the Blavet into the Scorff – and thence upriver to the Château des Faucons.

It was foolhardy, of course. But he was stuck in Brittany with no immediate means of making an escape, or even of defending himself. His horse and his sword were at the château. His mouth tightened. There, too, was the woman who had betrayed him: the Comtesse de Paiva. Lying swathed in coarse grass, exhausted and shivering in his soaking-wet clothes, Marbeck peered up at a patch of darkening sky and swore an oath; he was not yet done with la Comtesse.

He waited a few minutes more, alert for sounds of pursuit, but there were none. Finally, his breathing restored, he freed himself from his concealment, got to his knees and slowly lifted his head, to see the
Delfin
riding peacefully at anchor. Already it was hard to make out its standard, while the lettering on the stern had disappeared in the gathering gloom. There was no sign of movement; then he saw a flame above the poop-deck, and knew someone had lit a lantern.

Carefully, he backed away from the river-bank, keeping low, until the reeds petered out and he found himself in a grassy meadow. He looked round, saw a row of poplars and loped towards them on all fours. Only when he had reached the tree-line did he stand and draw breath. Then he began to walk, parallel to the river, with the sunset fading at his left.

An hour, he estimated, would take him to the mouth of the Scorff. He was on the wrong side of the Blavet, but was sure he could cross it at some point. Then, following the narrower stream, he would have to find his way in the dark, back to the château.

As yet, he was uncertain what to do once he reached it. But by the time he got there he knew he would have decided. With that goal in mind, he began a steady jog-trot through sweet-smelling grass, while dusk fell about him.

T
he archway showed stark against the night sky, as Marbeck made his way stealthily towards it. Above him loomed the château, but no lights showed. He reached the gates and was unsurprised to find them shut. As he had expected, he would have to climb.

He squinted upwards. There was just enough moonlight to see by; otherwise his journey here would have been longer. As it was, he knew it had taken most of the night. His clothes, streaked with mud and soaked from crossing the river, clung to his skin. But, though cold and weakened, he was unhurt. He had enough strength, he thought, to gain entry to the château and locate the Comtesse's chamber, provided his luck held. But first he needed to prepare for his escape.

In silence he worked his way round the courtyard wall, seeking a point of ascent. He found it on the side nearest the river. Prodding the crumbling masonry, he was able to mark out footholds, after which it was short work to clamber up the wall and gain the top. He straddled it briefly, then eased his other leg across and dropped down inside the yard.

He landed with knees bent and flattened himself against the wall. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he picked out the dovecote and, away to his right, the stable. Straightening up, he padded towards it.

The latch lifted with a squeal. He stiffened, but the only sound was the distant call of a nightbird. Then he was inside, with the warm scent of hay and horses about him. There was a stir as the animals sensed his presence, hooves thudding softly on straw. Standing by the door, Marbeck gazed about until he could make out the stalls, whereupon a grunt startled him. He looked round to find himself face to face with Chacal, the hill-pony that had carried him here.

He stroked the animal's neck, murmuring soft words. The horse shook its head and snickered as he untied its halter, but made no further noise as he led it from the stall. It was bridled but without a saddle, and Marbeck had no time to search for one. His purpose was to get the animal outside, across the courtyard and through the gate without waking the household, which meant he must muffle its hooves.

Working quickly in the semi-darkness, he gathered up handfuls of straw. Soon he had bound Chacal's feet, using baling-twine which he severed with his teeth. Then, with one hand grasping the animal's mane, he led it out of the stable. They crossed the courtyard, passed the dovecote and drew near the entrance, where Marbeck stopped to peer at the gates. They were secured with a simple draw-bar; it was an easy task to slide it clear and heave one gate open.

Without looking behind, he led the horse through. Twenty yards from the gateway he moved off the road, tethered it to a bush, then stepped away. To his relief, it dropped its head and began cropping grass, whereupon he turned and walked softly back towards the château.

Once inside the courtyard again, he approached the side door where he had first encountered the Comtesse. He tried the door: it was locked. He looked for other means of ingress, but there were none, and the windows within climbing reach were too narrow. Then his eyes fell on the imposing main doorway, with its flight of steps. It was the last entrance an intruder would think of using . . .

He mounted the steps and found a solid door with a cast-iron handle. To his surprise, it opened; the lock, he decided, was so old the key had been lost. He slipped through, finding himself in the wide, flagged hallway; ahead was the main staircase.

Silently, he moved towards it and began to ascend. On the first floor, where a rushlight burned in a niche, he paused to get his bearings. A passage opened nearby, to another part of the château; there, Marbeck remembered, was the Cerise room where he had been captured. He saw closed doors, and, at the far end of the landing, stairs rising. Instinct told him that way led to the Count's bedchamber, but where would the Comtesse sleep?

He hesitated, knowing he had no choice but to open doors until he found her chamber. So he took a breath, approached the nearest one and opened it. When he looked inside, however, the room was empty. He made out a bed, chest and chair, all covered with dust sheets.

Outside again he listened, but the house was quiet. The servants would sleep below stairs, but some might not: a lady's maid, a servant to the Comte . . . and did the couple have children? He moved softly down the passage and stopped at another door. Its handle turned noiselessly. Gently, he pushed it ajar until he could pass through, to find himself in a large room hung with heavy drapes; at the same time, he grew aware of the sound of gentle snoring. On a chest by the wall candles burned, and there were two beds: an ornate four-poster, fully curtained, and at its foot, set at a right angle, a small truckle-bed. In it a young servant girl lay on her back, snoring peacefully.

He had found the room, but there were two occupants – and again only one course of action presented itself. After closing the door carefully, Marbeck hurried forward, dropped to one knee beside the truckle-bed and clamped a hand over the girl's mouth.