Marbeck and the Double Dealer (11 page)

The effect was instant: her eyes flew open, and a look of terror appeared. With muffled squeals, she began to struggle. In silence, Marbeck clamped her wrists together and held them fast in one hand. Then he raised a closed fist, scowling like a playhouse villain. It worked; the petrified servant went limp and shook her head – but at the same moment there came a sound from the four-poster. Sheets rustled, and a voice he knew at once murmured:
‘Agathe . . . c'est toi?'

Now his choice was stark: knock the maid out or gag her – or both. He chose the gag. Whipping the sheet from under her body, he rolled the girl into it and trussed her like a chicken. She yelped as the ends were tied about her neck, then lay quivering with fear. At once Marbeck was up, with barely time to reach the other bed. The curtains moved, parted – and a figure appeared in a loose shift, long hair falling about the shoulders.

Immediately, she saw him, and would have screamed had he not put a hand over her mouth. Seizing her arm, he thrust her backwards on to the bed . . . whereupon mayhem broke out.

He should have expected resistance, he realized; overpowering the servant had been too easy. What he had not foreseen was the ferocity with which the Comtesse de Paiva set about him. Now, he found himself in hand-to-hand combat with an opponent who fought to kill or maim. Her left hand clawed at his cheek, narrowly missing his eye. With his free hand, Marbeck seized it and forced it down – but her right hand became a balled fist, with which she began beating him on the nose and mouth. He tasted blood – then her knee shot up, seeking his groin. He managed to pin it with his elbow, though in doing so lost his balance . . . and before he knew it, he was on the floor. He still clutched the Comtesse's hand, but now her mouth was uncovered. Even as she fell atop him, her jaws opened. He grabbed at her, then grunted with pain. Like some succubus, the woman had bent across him and sunk her teeth into his ear.

It was becoming a comedy, Marbeck thought vaguely; only there was no audience. He felt warm blood on his cheek, even as he caught the Comtesse by the hair. He yanked her head back and saw her face in the candlelight: the face of a gorgon.

‘
Diable!
' she cried. ‘I will tear your neck, you—'

But she was cut short, for Marbeck was at the end of his tether. In exasperation, he seized a handful of her hair and stuffed it into her mouth. As she gasped and gagged, he pushed her aside and got to his knees. The next moment, the lady's hands were behind her back, being tied with cords ripped from her own bed-curtains. The legs followed, and, kick as she might, she was soon bound like her servant. Only then, breathless and bleeding, did Marbeck trouble to unstop her mouth.

‘Enough!' he panted, kneeling beside her. ‘If you shout or scream, I'll stuff your gorge again.'

Gasping, eyes bright with hatred, she spat the words out. ‘What do you want?'

But she was shaking, imagining the worst. From the truckle-bed, the maid could be heard whimpering. Silently, Marbeck cursed himself; he was no violator of women, and he had made a poor fist of the situation.

‘That depends,' he murmured. Lifting his head, he listened – surely the noise of their struggle had wakened someone? He glanced round, and his eyes fell on a door in the far corner: the Comtesse's closet. He stuffed hair into her mouth again and got to his feet. Hurrying to the door, he wrenched it open, found a
garde-robe
lined with gowns and petticoats. Then he was lifting the maid and carrying her like a child into the closet. Laying her down gently, he raised a finger to his lips.

‘No harm will come to you, or la Comtesse,' he murmured in French. ‘Provided you stay still and keep quiet. Agreed?'

The terrified girl nodded, whereupon he closed the door and returned to her mistress. She lay where he had left her, beside the huge bed. Leaning down, he cleared the hair from her mouth again. She retched, and threw a baleful look at him.

‘You can never leave here alive,' she gasped. ‘My husband will stake his honour on it!'

‘Your husband's not my concern, madame,' Marbeck said. He gave his voice a cruel edge: Thomas Wilders would have no pity. ‘And I have little time,' he went on. ‘So, are you going to tell me where your intelligence came from – the false rumour you passed to Louis Orme? I speak of a non-existent build-up of Spanish troops in this province – and of their plans to invade the west of England.'

She froze, her eyes widening. ‘Who are you?' she whispered.

‘It matters not.' Marbeck leaned over her. ‘Speak!'

‘And if I refuse?'

He sighed. He disliked having to pretend such brutality, but there was no other way. Roughly, he put his hand down, found the hem of the Comtesse's shift and yanked it upwards to her waist. She flinched as if struck.

‘Do you really want an answer?' he hissed.

For the first time abject fear showed in her gaze. ‘You would not dare . . .'

‘Are you certain?' Summoning a bleak smile, he began to unlace his doublet. The woman let out a gasp, whereupon he seized her hair again and prepared to stop up her mouth.

‘No . . . please!' She shook her head quickly. Desperately, her eyes flicked away, towards the door.

‘Your maid's gagged and confined,' Marbeck said. ‘Help won't come soon enough . . . so – for the last time – speak.'

A pause, then: ‘If I do, will you leave at once?'

‘I haven't decided yet.' He bent closer, making her recoil. ‘But tell me something I can believe, and we'll see.'

She swallowed, then looked down briefly before meeting his eye. After a moment, he pulled her shift back to cover her modesty. A shudder passed through her; then she spoke.

‘Louis Orme is nothing to me . . . his death is nothing.'

Her voice was cold as ice. ‘He was a child in Paris, on the Day of Saint Bartholomew,' she breathed. ‘His parents had been slain. My father took pity and gave him refuge in our house . . . he became a kitchen-boy, then a groom. He's a simpleton.'

Marbeck frowned. He had been a small child back in 1572, when, in that terrible August, Protestants had been massacred throughout Paris. Yet the very name of Bartholomew evoked horror in him, as it did in every Englishman.

‘You mean, you kept his religion secret – made Louis your devoted servant?' He drew a breath. ‘He trusted you – he called you a woman of honour.'

There was no reply.

‘So you used him,' Marbeck went on, thinking fast. ‘And later on you fed him false rumours in Brest, no doubt with enough truth mixed in them to allay suspicion. When did that begin – after Henri of Navarre came to the throne? Did you and your husband profess loyalty to the new king, as others did – knowing one day he would renounce his religion and return to the papist fold? Of course you did! What was it Henri said, when he switched sides –
Paris is worth a mass
?'

His anger was real, and the Comtesse saw it. ‘One had to do such things,' she said quickly. ‘They were desperate times . . . My husband—'

‘No.'

Marbeck bent over her. ‘I don't believe you care much for your husband,' he murmured; all at once things seemed to be falling into place. ‘Close to the Spanish, Louis said . . . I think you're close to someone in particular: someone younger and more handsome than Monsieur le Comte, perhaps? You spoke of Paris – do you often go there?'

But she refused to answer, until he seized her wrist and gripped it hard.

‘My husband has a house in Paris!' she cried. ‘I am sometimes there . . . Let go of me!'

‘So, whom do you visit?' Marbeck demanded. ‘Who is your lover, whose bidding you do? Or does it merely amuse you, to dabble in matters of state? Tell me!'

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, but she kept silent. Then suddenly she stiffened. Somewhere a door had banged – and now a male voice called; at last, Marbeck's luck had run out.

He stood up and drew the Comtesse to her feet. Then, gripping her by the shoulders, he thrust his face close to hers. ‘Give me a name and I'll leave,' he said. ‘Refuse or play me false, and I'll break your neck. Do you doubt it now?'

He placed his hands about her throat, thumbs to her windpipe. She shook, but made no sound, while outside someone called from the stairhead.

‘Then
adieu
, madame,' Marbeck muttered.

It was his final throw: already his thoughts were on his escape. But keeping to his ploy, he began to squeeze. The woman let out a gasp, then:

‘His name is Juan Roble!' she said, her voice cracking at last. ‘And he is a match for you, monsieur. I pray that he kills you, and tears out your heart—'

But she broke off, as Marbeck let her fall. Even before her body hit the floor, he was turning: footfalls sounded at the door, and he had only time to spring aside as it opened. Fortunately, he was behind it. A candle appeared, borne aloft by a grey-headed figure in an ornate floor-length robe.

‘Qu'y a-t'il?'

The Comte de Paiva gave a start and stopped in his tracks. His wife, for her part, let out a blood-chilling scream – but Marbeck was ready. With a single blow to the back of the man's head, he felled him. Then he ran out, down the stairs – straight into the ageing servant whom he had seen on his first arrival. Mathieu, however, had only time to register astonishment as Marbeck ducked past him.

In a moment he was crossing the hallway; then he was through the door and flying down the steps. Shouts came from the house, but his eyes were on the gates. As he crossed the yard, he was aware of a startled flurry, of doves flapping in their cote. Then he was out of the château, running in the moonlight.

Some distance down the road he stopped: for a moment he couldn't find his bearings. He peered about in the gloom until, a few feet away, Chacal snickered. In a moment he had untied the horse and was scrambling on to its back.

He tugged at the halter, using his knees to urge it forward. But the animal jerked nervously, unwilling to obey, until Marbeck flatted himself along its neck and spoke softly. Soon it began to walk, then to trot . . . and at last, clinging to its bare back, he was able to guide it up the slope towards the trees.

At the tree-line he reined in and dismounted, to free Chacal's hooves of their muffles. He was shivering: whether from exhilaration, hunger or cold – or perhaps all three – he didn't know. But swiftly he remounted and pointed the animal's head to the north. He would ride up the valley of the Scorff, then cross the river and turn eastwards, in the direction of Rennes.

How long it would take him to reach Paris, he did not know; hundreds of miles lay ahead – half the width of France – but reach it he would. He was without weapons, apart from a lute string; but he had a mount, he spoke the language, and he had money. The Spaniards had taken his purse, but failed to make a thorough search of his clothing: the lining of his doublet held enough ducats, he believed, to see him through.

His task now was to put enough distance between himself and the Château des Faucons. Then he needed food and rest, a change of clothes and a sword, but such things could be purchased easily enough. What had been harder to purchase was information – that and his freedom. He tasted it now, drawing in lungfuls of air, and a smile tugged at his mouth: the first real smile he had allowed himself in days. At the same time, he became aware that the night was ending: through the trees to his right, a grey light showed.

He gazed down at the château, the seat of the Comte and Comtesse de Paiva. Briefly, he thought about the name: surely it was not French but Italian? Now, however, he had a new name to ponder – a Spanish name: Juan Roble. It intrigued him, and not least because of the way the Comtesse had spoken of the man: a match for him, she had said.

‘We'll see, shall we?' he said to himself. Then he dug his heels into Chacal's flanks and urged the horse forward into the trees.

T
he journey to the capital took three long days.

The first was the hardest, for Marbeck could not be certain he was not being pursued. Though hungry and weary from lack of sleep, he forced himself to keep riding, pausing only at streams to wash the blood from his face and to water his mount. By afternoon the horse was tiring, and he was forced to slow his pace. He was tempted to beg fodder from a farm, but knew his appearance might attract unwelcome attention, as his lack of a saddle did. That, Marbeck decided, was his worst discomfort; he would have to obtain one soon.

Yet, despite everything, the journey passed without incident. The sun dried his clothes, as he rode north-east through wood and pasture until he struck the main highway that led from Brittany to Paris. Travellers on foot and on horseback stared at him, but he avoided their gaze, his eyes on the horizon. Finally, as evening drew in, he walked his exhausted mount into the great cathedral city of Rennes. They had covered more than eighty miles.

In Rennes, he moved through bustling streets, leading Chacal by the halter. Mercifully, it proved easy enough to find an
auberge
with stabling. Having seen the horse bestowed, he took to his chamber, ordering a supper to be brought up along with a pail of hot water. Thereafter, after bathing and feeding himself, he fell into a sleep that lasted until morning.

Once up and breakfasted, stiff in limb but restored, Marbeck set about improving his lot. His clothes were ruined and drew many odd looks. So he purchased a plain costume from a dealer in hand-me-downs – blue coat and breeches, grey hose, shoes and belt – and discarded his black doublet. He also bought a cheap sword and, after some hard bargaining, a poniard to go with it. Finally, he found a saddler and, after more bargaining, bought a well-worn saddle with stirrups. Thus equipped, he paid his reckoning at the inn and left Rennes by mid-morning.

Now, travel was easier. Fougères, with its ancient castle, marked the boundary of Brittany, and Marbeck could not help feeling relieved as he passed into Normandy, where the terrain grew hilly. Now and again he saw signs of the long years of civil war: ruined houses and bridges, devastated fields. The road, however, was good; by afternoon he was in Mayenne, crossing the river of the same name. Alençon was less than forty miles further, or so he learned when he stopped to water the horse. By nightfall he had reached the old town, pleased with his progress. One more day, he told himself, as he clattered through cobbled streets; one more day and he would reach Paris.