Marbeck and the Double Dealer (12 page)

That night, in a run-down hostelry at Alençon, Marbeck borrowed pen and ink from his host and wrote a report for Sir Robert Cecil. During the long ride, he had pondered the sequence of events that had marked his time in Brittany – an experience he did not care to repeat. Sitting up late in his chamber with sounds of revelry below, he set down what he had learned, mentioning in particular the name of Juan Roble. This man, whoever he was, appeared to be the source of false intelligence that had found its way via the Comtesse de Paiva to poor Louis Orme in Brittany, and hence across the Channel to Edmund Trigg. Like all such reports, it was designed to sow confusion in the minds of the English. It would irritate Master Secretary, Marbeck knew. He had no means of sending the despatch before he reached Paris, but hoped this account might serve to justify what had become a lengthy sojourn in France.

There was an English embassy in the capital, of course: Sir Henry Neville, the ambassador, had a house on the Quai de Tournelle. But Marbeck would not announce his presence: Neville was an officious man, he had heard, who might want explanations that would slow him. Instead, he planned to seek out Cecil's agent, one who used the name George Ingle. He had never seen Ingle and knew little of him, yet he needed to share intelligence with someone who knew the territory. Ingle might know of Juan Roble too, he reasoned: if not, it was time he did.

Having finished the report, he folded it and secreted it in the lining of his coat. He had already threaded his lute string into it. He had one regret: that when the Spaniards searched him, back in Brittany, they had taken his tailor's bodkin. It was a tool that had proved useful more times than he cared to remember. He even thought about purchasing a new one, then dismissed the idea: his money was almost gone. He hoped Ingle could loan him enough to find his passage home.

With that thought, he went to bed and was asleep within minutes. When he awoke, he thought for a moment he was back in his room at the Dolphin by Bishopsgate. Then he arose, stiff in every limb, and resigned himself to one more gruelling ride.

Paris may have been bigger than London, and fairer too, but one thing the two cities shared, Marbeck thought, was the smell.

With the sun sinking at his back, he passed via the West Porte into noisy streets, and a familiar odour assailed him. It was made up of many things: the smells of ordure, offal and wood smoke, mingled with that of the river; Thames or Seine, it made little difference. Soon, however, Marbeck paid it no heed; like the horse plodding beneath him, he was close to exhaustion. The last part of his journey had taken longer than he expected: at Dreux he had been stopped by soldiers and asked to account for himself. Only quick thinking had saved him: he was a traveller, he said, who had come by Cherbourg and Caen, meaning to visit Paris by a scenic route. He was expected at the embassy on the Quai de Tournelle – the
messieurs
could check, if they wished. The name was John Sands, Marbeck added, having decided to leave Thomas Wilders behind. It was something of a relief; though not so great a relief as when he was finally believed and sent on his way.

Now he walked Chacal along the teeming thoroughfare that crossed the great city from west to east, all the way to the Bastille. He had a few small coins left, which would barely buy a supper; he needed to find George Ingle, ideally before nightfall. He had a half-remembered street name in mind: the Rue de Braque, which he thought was in the north-east part of Paris. So, with the distant sound of the huge bells of Notre Dame in his ears, he rode as far as the Rue des Haudriettes, before finally coming to a halt.

Here he dismounted and looked about. People hurried past, all of them seemingly men in hats and dark robes. Then the penny dropped: he was in the Jewish quarter. Some eyed him suspiciously, but at his request one old man stopped. Yes, he said, the Rue de Braque was nearby, but he knew of no Englishman living there. There was one who looked like a Turk . . . a foreigner, anyway. He gave directions, whereupon Marbeck thanked him and led the horse away.

Dusk was falling as he stooped outside a low, narrow-fronted house in a dark street. The window was shuttered, but a light showed through cracks. Half prepared for disappointment, he banged on the door and waited; already he was pondering how he might get Chacal fed and stabled. Then came the noise of a bolt being drawn, and the door opened a few inches.

‘Master Ingle?'

The person carried neither candle nor lantern. Marbeck looked closer and realized he was addressing a woman: blowsy and overweight, with long greasy hair. She stared back at him with a sullen expression.

‘I seek George Ingle,' he told her. ‘I'm a friend from England – the name is Sands.'

From somewhere in the house came a shout. The woman turned and yelled back, to receive another shout in reply – whereupon a torrent of abuse followed. To Marbeck, it sounded like the continuation of a running battle. With a sigh, he put a hand on the door and shoved it inwards.

‘Does he live here or not?' he asked wearily. ‘If not just tell me, and I'll be gone.'

‘He does. What do you want?'

The words were in English. Marbeck looked past the blowsy woman at a shambling figure, who lurched forward, pushing her aside. With an oath, she squeezed past him and vanished.

‘I'm John Sands, from London,' Marbeck said. He looked into a dark, heavily bearded face and saw why some might think this man a Turk. ‘Roger Daunt sent me.'

The other sniffed. ‘Jesu, what's afoot?' he asked sourly. Marbeck smelled strong drink on his breath.

‘You're Master Secretary's man?' he asked. ‘I confess I expected—'

‘What?' Ingle interrupted with a scowl. ‘What did you expect – a hearty welcome?' He looked Marbeck up and down. ‘By the Christ,' he added. ‘Fought your way here, did you? Where have you come from?'

‘A long way off.' Marbeck eyed him blearily. ‘I'm on Crown business. I need a place to sleep and stabling for my horse. And money, too. Can you aid me, or not?'

Ingle hesitated. Through eyes heavy-lidded under black brows, he squinted past Marbeck to where Chacal stood, a picture of weariness. Then he fumbled in his clothing.

‘Here.' He found a purse and shook out some coins. ‘There's an inn two streets away –
La Chèvre
. Get a room and see to your nag. Come back tomorrow . . .' But he broke off, for Marbeck was shaking his head.

‘I'll stable the horse,' he said, taking the money. ‘But then I'll return. I've things to ask you – and I don't want to stay here longer than I must.'

Ingle swore under his breath. Spreading his hands, he said: ‘The house is unfit. There's nowhere for you to sleep, save the floor – and others won't like it.' He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, leaving no doubt who was meant. But already Marbeck was turning away.

‘I'll be back within the half-hour,' he said.

And so he was. Having unsaddled Chacal and seen him made comfortable at
La Chèvre
, he returned to the Rue de Braque and knocked again on Ingle's door. This time, however, the man was ready for him. He was admitted and found himself inside the most noisome dwelling he had entered since that of Thomas Saxby, in Clerkenwell. There too, he recalled, he had been greeted by a hostile woman. But the ex-soldier's wife, he thought, was a gentlewoman compared with the one who shared Ingle's company.

‘There's bread and cheese . . . it's all we have.' Ingle, in shirt sleeves, stood in the middle of the single downstairs room and pointed to a table. ‘Apart from the burgundy,' he added, indicating a jug. ‘It's poor, but drinkable.'

Marbeck moved towards the table. The house stank; it hadn't been cleaned, or even aired, in months. As he sat down, he threw a glance at the woman, who sat in a corner glowering at him. She had needlework in her hand, though the light was so poor he could barely see it. But he marked the loose, low gown she wore, and guessed how she earned a living.

‘Berthe will make up a pallet later.' Ingle waved a hand vaguely, then shuffled over and sat down facing him. ‘Are you known here?' he asked. ‘I mean, are you in flight, or—'

‘The answer's no, to both questions.'

Somewhat gingerly, Marbeck broke a crust off the hard loaf and bit it. Finding it passable, he took some cheese and found that better. Soon he forgot his surroundings and ate hungrily, fortifying himself with the watered wine. His host and hostess watched him in silence, until finally he paused.

‘Does she speak English?' he asked, without looking up.

‘Not a word,' Ingle replied. ‘That's why I keep her.'

‘You keep
her
?' Marbeck couldn't help looking sceptical.

‘That's what I said,' the other retorted. ‘I pay my way. I give lessons in rhetoric, to the children of a seigneur. I have to,' he added. ‘Master Secretary, bless his crooked little frame, barely sends me enough to pay the rent!'

He lifted the jug and poured wine into a second cup, and as he did so, Marbeck saw his hands tremble. Inwardly, he sighed; Ingle was a drunkard, of the kind that is beyond saving.

‘I've come from Brittany,' he told him. ‘The Spanish are gone – most of them, anyway. But there are rumours, some of them conflicting. You might know of the new fleet they're building, in Lisbon. We need to discover its true purpose . . .'

He paused, for Ingle was staring at him. ‘You rode from Brittany on that broken-down nag?' the agent muttered. ‘It's more than a hundred French leagues.'

‘I know,' Marbeck replied. ‘And the horse isn't broken-down – he served me well.' Having eaten his fill, he pushed the plate aside. Weariness surged through him; he needed rest badly. ‘I got a name, while I was there,' he went on. ‘Juan Roble. Spanish, I assume. Do you know it?'

An odd look came over Ingle's face. ‘Yes . . . I know it.' He was silent for a moment, then: ‘You're not Sands, are you? You're Marbeck.'

Receiving neither confirmation nor denial, he shrugged, took another drink and wiped his mouth with the cuff of his dirty shirt. ‘So, what else have you heard?' he asked.

‘About Roble? Nothing.' Marbeck eyed him unfavourably. ‘I was hoping you could tell me more.'

There was a sound from the corner. Berthe had got up from her stool and was looking pointedly at him. Her habitual scowl seemed to have given way to a lopsided grin, and for the first time he noticed a bruise on her cheek. Frowning, he met the woman's eye, before swinging his gaze to Ingle, whereupon he blinked.

‘You can go upstairs with her, if you like.'

The man had put on a leery smile. ‘I'm content to lie down here,' he added. ‘She's not poxed, by some miracle. She foins well enough . . . afterwards, you'll sleep like an infant.'

In the guttering light, Marbeck regarded him stonily. ‘I'll sleep here, Ingle – alone,' he said. ‘But first you'd better tell me all you know about Juan Roble, and any other intelligence you've bothered to gather of late. At first light I'll be gone. I'll ask Master Secretary to reimburse you for the loan. Does that sit well with you?'

There was a brief silence, as Ingle's smile vanished. Then, abruptly, he slapped a hand on the table. ‘Don't you judge me, sir!' he snorted. ‘You know naught of what I put up with in this city! Lied to and threatened, surrounded by people who despise me – never knowing if I can rest safely at night—'

‘Enough!' Marbeck's patience was spent. ‘You're here to serve, as I am,' he went on. ‘I need any intelligence you have on Roble. Then I'm leaving – tomorrow. So send your woman off to bed, and we'll talk. Will you do that?'

Ingle blinked at him, then all at once the man's anger seemed to melt away. With a sigh, he turned to his companion and muttered a few words. Berthe stared at him, then at Marbeck, who braced himself – but there was no retort. Instead of going upstairs, however, she took a shawl down from a peg and went out. The house door banged behind her.

Without comment, Marbeck faced his host, but the man wouldn't meet his eye. Eyebrows knitted, he gazed down at the table. Finally, Marbeck said: ‘This man Roble . . .'

‘He's a fable.'

At last Ingle looked up, a thin smile on his lips. ‘You've been spun a yarn, my friend,' he went on. ‘Roble's a bogeyman . . . or if he exists, no one's set eyes on him. I've heard a dozen tales about him, none of them worth a cannikin of spit.'

Marbeck leaned back slowly. Suddenly, he saw the face of the Comtesse de Paiva, and recalled how she had cried out the name of the man he'd assumed to be her lover. Had she lied? Well – the name existed, at least. Fighting disappointment, he said: ‘Will you tell me what you've heard, in any case?'

Ingle shrugged and poured more wine into his cup. He waved the jug at Marbeck, who brushed him aside.

‘He's said to run intelligencers here in France.' He took a gulp, then sniffed. ‘Don't let that treaty the Spanish have signed fool you,' he muttered. ‘They don't trust the French, any more than we do. King Philip's people have eyes and ears in every province, especially in Paris and the ports. Juan Roble – if he exists – serves Juan de Velasquez, Spain's chief spymaster.'

‘Well, I've another name for you,' Marbeck said. ‘The Comtesse de Paiva.'

‘Ah,
la Comtesse volage
– the flighty contessa.' Ingle gave a nod. ‘We think she's linked to Velasquez's man in Brittany. Breton ships are carrying English traitors to Spain, through La Rochelle and San Sebastian.' He shook his head. ‘It's a maelstrom here, Marbeck – you should trust no one.' He drank again, then gave a snort. ‘How's this for a jest? I've heard that Roble gives his men the names of fruits!
Uva
for a grape, say,
Higo
for a date . . .'

‘And
Morera
for Mulberry?'