Marbeck and the Double Dealer (6 page)

‘Us'll teck your baggage, sir . . . find 'ee a tavern, if you wish it. Say, a halfpenny?'

‘I seek a friend,' Marbeck said after a moment. ‘Scholarly fellow, bald as an egg. Keeps a little shop hereabouts—'

‘Name of Trigg?' the lad broke in. When Marbeck gave a nod, he put on a sad expression.

‘Lost his shop, Trigg did. Couldn't make a fist of it . . . Heard he took a lodging over by St Andrew's church.' He brightened. ‘But I can take 'ee there, maister – for a penny?'

Marbeck appeared to think about it. It may have been Sunday, but two or three vessels were being loaded. ‘Where are those ships bound for?' he asked, pointing. ‘Ireland? Supplies for our troops is it, or reinforcements?'

‘Mayhap, sir,' the boy answered. ‘There's been a deal of toing and froing these past years. Soldiers billeted in town. They fight sometimes – folks are mighty sick of it.'

There was movement nearby. More people from the Dover boat had disembarked, and now an official-looking figure approached them. Marbeck glanced at the harbour waif, who gave a nod.

‘That's the mayor's man,' he said helpfully. ‘They always question travellers nowadays.'

The church bell had ceased tolling. With a swift look at the distant spire, Marbeck asked. ‘Is that St Andrew's?'

‘Aye, maister.' The boy grinned. ‘Does you want to go and find your friend?'

‘I does,' Marbeck said. ‘And if you want to earn that penny, you'd best step lively.'

The other nodded eagerly. Soon the two of them had ducked into an alley, left the harbour and skirted the city's south wall, to come by twists and turns to a narrow street near the church. There Marbeck paid off his guide, finding himself outside a tumbledown house, then in a passageway that smelled of mildew. Having taken the boy at his word, he walked to the end door and knocked.

‘By the Saints . . . Marbeck!'

Edmund Trigg stood in the doorway of the dimly lit room. He was stooped, lowering his tall frame by several inches. His old gown, spattered with stains Marbeck didn't care to speculate about, hung loosely on him. He looked like a man who hadn't had a proper meal – or a wash – in weeks.

‘Trigg.' Marbeck nodded a greeting. ‘Forgive the intrusion. I was going to beg a night's lodging . . .' He broke off, for at once the other grew animated.

‘Of course – pray you, come in! I get so few visitors.'

The man's eagerness was genuine. Excitedly, he drew Marbeck inside the untidy chamber and fussed about, clearing a stool for him to sit. The place stank of unwashed clothes and bedding, and of mouldy paper. Books and documents lay scattered in corners, on a tiny table, on the floor. Eyebrows raised, Marbeck looked round.

‘I hear you've given up your shop,' he said finally.

‘Oh, that!' Trigg dismissed it. ‘Too much trouble – I've no bent for commerce. I've returned to my true muse: poetry. I'm tutor to an alderman's son – there are some who value real scholarship, even here beyond the pale of civilization!' He forced a smile through his beard, which was in need of trimming. ‘But please, seat yourself . . .' He paused. ‘You're on, ah . . . London business, I expect?' When Marbeck shrugged, he ran a hand over his bald pate. ‘And how fares Master Secretary? I hear he's still at loggerheads with that popinjay Essex.'

‘There are other matters to occupy him just now,' Marbeck said, stifling a yawn. He sat down heavily upon the stool. The voyage along the coast had been uneventful, but he never slept well on board ship. He glanced up and found Trigg gazing at him.

‘Saints above,' the scholar muttered. ‘It's pleasant to see a face from the old days. What joys once, eh?' But the words caught in his throat – and the next moment, to Marbeck's embarrassment, the man was close to tears. He sniffed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, then threw his arms out helplessly.

‘As you see, this is no place to converse,' he said. ‘But a few pennies will buy pilchards at an ordinary. If perhaps you could . . .' He trailed off. To his relief, Marbeck was nodding.

‘Away with your pilchards,' he said. ‘Does a beef dinner not tempt you, with a pint of claret beside it?'

Trigg's mouth fell open, and something like a shudder passed through him. ‘
Ecce Aurora!
' he said, and opened his hands as if in benediction. ‘
Ecce Aurora, fide amice!
'

Marbeck sighed and got to his feet.

They ate quickly; Marbeck because he'd taken nothing since the previous night, Trigg simply because he was ravenous. Finally, the scholar leaned back from the table, drained his cup of wine and eyed his host. ‘Now we may talk, if you wish,' he said.

The ordinary was quiet, and they sat in a corner booth. Marbeck took a drink and eyed him. ‘What's afoot here?' he asked. ‘I know fear when I smell it – and I smelled it the moment I came off the boat.'

Trigg looked surprised. ‘You must have heard the rumours, surely? The place is on tenterhooks – sentries posted, patrol boats manned. Everyone keeps an eye out for the Spanish.'

‘Will you elaborate?' Marbeck asked, after a moment.

‘By the Saints!' Trigg frowned. ‘Have you forgotten what happened down here, five years ago? Galleys sweeping inland, villages burned – even Penzance was aflame!'

‘That was in Cornwall,' Marbeck said. ‘A small raid – four ships, wasn't it? Plymouth's well fortified.'

‘Not many troops now,' Trigg said, with a shake of his head. ‘This isn't the main departure point for Ireland – Chester fills that duty. Levies get sent to Barnstaple. Plymouth's a supply port now – surplus grain, mostly.'

‘So what's the source of these rumours? You know invasion scares are common as fleas – have been since eighty-eight.'

‘Ah, but there's intelligence, too.' Trigg leaned forward. ‘I've a report for Cecil back at my lodgings, half written. I've set it all down.' Suddenly, his face twitched. ‘I know he thinks me a third-rate informer – perhaps that's why he seldom pays me. But my eyes are as sharp as yours, Marbeck – my ears, too. And I can still tell the difference between gossip and fact!'

Drink had enlivened the man, but Marbeck let him talk. Soon, flushed and animated, Trigg was holding forth about a Spanish plan to invade England from the west. This time, he was certain, they wouldn't attempt to sail the length of the Channel. Instead, they would land at Cornish ports like Falmouth and Fowey, then send troops inland while other vessels made for Plymouth.

‘They could have done it in ninety-five!' he exclaimed. ‘If they'd crossed the Peninsula, Bristol would have been threatened. And Welsh renegades would have joined them to attack us! Don't you see?'

‘I didn't think the Welsh posed a serious threat,' Marbeck observed dryly. ‘Some of them are fighting for us in Ireland.'

But his words only aroused Trigg further. ‘What matters that?' he exclaimed. ‘Why, it's but fifty years since the Cornish rebelled against the Crown, back in King Edward's time. Meanwhile, a hundred miles west – as you say yourself – the Irish are at our throats!' He seized the wine jug and poured himself another cupful. Then, taking a slurp, he levelled a finger. ‘Never trust a Celt, Marbeck – they're as bad as the Spanish, and as wily as the French!'

A sigh escaped Marbeck's lips. ‘Is that the substance of your next despatch to Master Secretary?' he enquired.

‘What – do you scoff at me?'

There was a moment, then Trigg set down his cup. ‘Pray forgive me . . . I've made free with your hospitality,' he said, with an attempt at dignity. ‘Yet poor as I am, I've not lost my reason. I fed on logic at Oxford – just as you did, at the other place.'

‘Very well.' Marbeck met his eye. ‘Then let's apply reason and logic, shall we? These rumours of a Spanish landing in the west – where do they stem from?'

‘I've said I had intelligence,' Trigg replied. ‘It was no idle boast. My informants are few, but trustworthy. The fishermen go far afield – to the Bay of Biscay, even. And there are pinnaces out at sea, ready to board Breton boats.' He grew animated again. ‘Papists sneak in by the back door, you know. Think of the Bretons – they're Celts too, aren't they? What did I tell you?'

‘Your source,' Marbeck said wearily, ‘for this talk of a Spanish landing?'

‘The source? It's in Brest,' Trigg told him. ‘A hundred miles south of us. Cecil has a man in Brittany . . . but you'll know that, I expect.'

Marbeck nodded briefly. And seeing he would add nothing, Trigg talked on. ‘He's a merchant, I think,' he said. ‘Or something else . . . Anyhow, he uses the name Cyprien. Two weeks ago he sent word to me that—'

‘Two weeks?' Marbeck had lifted his cup; now he put it down with a thud. ‘And you've not yet penned your despatch?'

‘It's almost finished,' Trigg said quickly. ‘I've a lot to do here, you know. My mind's seldom still . . .' But as the other's impatience showed, he lowered his gaze.

‘By heaven, Edmund,' Marbeck breathed. ‘These are dangerous times. Cecil's desk is awash with reports of Spanish activity. All intelligence is valuable – perhaps yours more than most! Have you forgotten that?'

‘Of course not!' The scholar gulped. ‘See now, I'll finish my report today – this very evening. Perhaps you can take it back with you, when you leave for London?'

But Marbeck shook his head. ‘You must use other means. I'm not going back – not just yet.'

The other swallowed. There was a dullness in his eyes as he stared down at the table. He not only looked tired: Marbeck saw a man clinging to the remnants of his self-respect. He spoke again, in a gentler tone.

‘Send your despatch, and make mention of my visit,' he said. ‘Tell our master I was en route – he knows where. Say I'll report when I can. Will you do that?'

‘I will.' Trigg nodded, then lifted his gaze. ‘I . . . I won't ask where you're going. I'll merely say
cave, fide amice
. You've not forgotten your Latin, I hope?'

‘I've not forgotten.' Marbeck raised his cup and drained it. ‘I'll not trouble you for a bed for the night, after all. I have arrangements to make. Perhaps you can point me to someone who'll sell me some ducats?'

‘Of course.' The scholar showed his disappointment. ‘I'll walk as far as the port with you.' He reached out suddenly and caught Marbeck by the sleeve. ‘Speaking of money, has Master Secretary provided you with a goodly purse? I hate to raise the matter, only . . .'

‘Save your breath,' Marbeck replied. ‘Would five crowns be of any use to you?'

The other's face lit up briefly. He looked away and mumbled a quotation, adding: ‘Cicero.'

‘I know,' Marbeck said, and called for the reckoning.

A day later, and the wind had risen; as he had feared, the sea journey was somewhat rough.

He had sailed the English Channel often enough, but his crossings had been at its eastern end, where the distance was mercifully short. The voyage from Plymouth to the Breton coast was of a different nature: a hundred miles of dangerous water, open to the great Atlantic. And for the first time in years Marbeck felt the threat of seasickness.

To allay it, he ventured on to the open deck. The seamen were busy at their work, hurrying about the little vessel, and paid him no attention. She was a fishing smack, bound for the waters of Finisterre, but for a price her captain had agreed to put Marbeck ashore on the western tip of Brittany. A Devonshire sea-dog, heavily bearded, he stood behind the wheel, gazing at Marbeck who was clutching a stay for balance. Finally, he beckoned, so Marbeck ventured over to him unsteadily. The captain stifled a laugh.

‘I advise 'ee to get below, sir,' he said, raising his voice against the spray. ‘We've more than a day's sail before we strike Ushant – that's an isle off Point St Matthew. Another hour or two more, to get you to Conquet.'

‘I fear a flux of the stomach,' Marbeck told him. ‘I believe it's best to stay in the open air.' He staggered to the rail again and quickly found a place to steady himself.

To occupy his mind, he ran over recent events. It was several days since he had sent his last despatch to Cecil, from Dover. Now Trigg would send his; he was confident of that, despite the man's laxity. They had parted as friends, yet he was uneasy: he would have no choice, once he returned to London, but to speak to the spymaster about his agent in Plymouth. The times allowed no room for sentiment.

He thought of Gifford, and then of Saxby and Ottone. A short while ago he had been charged with unmasking a traitor called Mulberry; now he was about to set foot in France, to another purpose. He wondered what he might find. It was two years since the French and Spanish kings had signed their peace accord at Vervins, after decades of strife. Now the Spaniards were supposed to have left, yet reports still spoke of ships criss-crossing the Bay of Biscay, and Spanish voices heard in the coastal villages. His mouth tightened. Once ashore, he must move swiftly. From Conquet he would travel east to Brest, and make contact with Cecil's agent.

He had chosen not to discuss Cyprien with Trigg. He had never met the man, but, thanks to coded information in Cecil's letter, he knew how to find him. The fellow was said to be reliable; hence intelligence that came from him must be taken seriously. But a Spanish invasion in the west?

To Marbeck that made no sense. It would mean a two-hundred-mile march to London, giving Elizabeth's commanders time to prepare defences, and the Spanish generals were too clever for that. There must be more to the matter; had Trigg misunderstood? Or was it misinformation? His thoughts leaped back to his conversation with Cecil.
Every scrap of intelligence that has crossed my desk
, Master Secretary had said,
might be false . . . a storm has broken about our heads . . .