Once, when Marbeck was a boy, he had been bold enough to challenge his fencing master on a point of honour. ‘You didn’t give me time to ward, Master Ralph,’ he had said indignantly. ‘Didn’t you say a gentleman would signal when he was ready to begin the bout?’
‘I did, sir,’ Ralph had replied. ‘Yet suppose the one you’re fighting isn’t a gentleman, but a ruffian who means to spike you and take your purse … what would you do then?’
In the years since, Marbeck had recalled his teacher’s words many times, though seldom as vividly as now. He had fought for his life before, but rarely against an opponent like William Drax. The man was not only desperate; he was a murderer, as cunning as he was cruel. Marbeck had seen it at their first meeting, in a forest in Kent. And as soon as the two engaged, he knew he was locked in a duel to the last.
At first it was routine fencing: thrusts and parries, each probing for the other’s weaknesses. Drax attempted a few bolder strokes, which Marbeck warded easily. But the man was a fine swordsman, he saw, which sharpened his mettle. Drax soon manoeuvred him to a position where the sunlight might dazzle him; but by jabbing and feinting, Marbeck forced the other round. Then the two veered back and forth, their breath coming faster. Words had ceased to be of use. The Shade of Death hovered in the room; it would be but a short time, Marbeck knew, before it decided where to alight.
He tried not to think about Poyns, though he couldn’t help hearing him. The little man and Follett were engaged in a terrible struggle at the other end of the dusty room, gasping and snarling like fighting-dogs. It was no fencing bout, but a feral struggle. Poyns was not a skilled swordsman like Marbeck; the thought troubled him. Follett was enraged and, like Drax, a man with nothing to lose. Poyns had been right about intruders: the forced shutter was explained. How long the two fugitives had been hiding here Marbeck didn’t know, but it made sense: Drax had come to Spinola seeking the means to leave England – only to find that his sponsor had fled.
These thoughts flew through his mind as he fought, darting across the bare boards, neither man yet gaining the upper hand. But both were tiring: Marbeck’s hope, albeit a slim one, was that he could disguise his weariness enough to trouble his opponent. Soon he might need to pull a Ballard trick from his repertoire … he was running over the notion, when Drax tried a ruse of his own. He stumbled suddenly, putting his free hand out to steady himself. Marbeck hesitated, but only for a half-second: Drax’s blade flew up, missing his face by a whisker. Ducking aside, he slashed the man’s exposed arm, and was rewarded by a hiss of pain. But at once Drax was up, blood on his sleeve, thrusting as before.
Grimly Marbeck set to again. Swords clashed and rang in the room; a scene of carnage already, with the guards’ bodies piled by the doorway. Then he grew aware of a thudding, and realized it had been there from the start: Prout was shouting and pummelling the door, but the stout bolt held. Marbeck ignored him, narrowly avoiding another lunge from his opponent. He smelled the man’s breath, sour and sharp …
A cry from across the room. He gritted his teeth, but dared not look. He knew Poyns had been hit; it only surprised him that it hadn’t happened sooner. He heard a raucous laugh: Follett scented victory, and was going for the kill. His anger stirring anew, Marbeck struck Drax’s next thrust aside savagely, and at the same time reached for his poniard. The other man had none, he saw: why had he not noticed? But the thought had barely occurred, when there came another cry that jarred his nerves. A helpless anger welled up in him: Poyns was about to die, and he could do nothing for him …
There was a crash of breaking glass that startled all of them. Shards sparkled and flew across the room, whereupon there was a shout from outside, through the broken window.
‘Yield, by order of the Crown! There can be no escape … throw down your weapons!’
‘For pity’s sake, Prout,’ Marbeck muttered, gripping the handle of his poniard. Inside the room four figures gasped and staggered in the sunlight, swords flailing, narrowly avoiding the bodies of the guards. Blood ran across the floor, dark and shiny. One of the men was still alive; Marbeck heard him wheezing. He dodged another thrust from Drax, after which the fellow attempted a crosswise sweep – and in that fleeting moment Marbeck saw his chance. He parried the man’s blade, and at the same time brought his poniard up – whereupon his right foot slid from under him, and to his dismay he found himself flat on the floor.
He lay there for what seemed seconds. There was time to notice the ceiling, painted blue and dotted with stars; a common enough conceit, in imitation of the famous Star Chamber. There was also time to feel something wet seeping through his breeches: he had slipped in blood, of course. Winded, but still holding rapier and dagger, he looked up and saw his opponent standing over him. There was an ugly grin on Drax’s features, which were streaked with sweat and grime. Marbeck saw his blade, shining and deadly. He braced himself to roll away – when there was a grunt, and a sudden movement to his left. But even as it registered he saw the look of surprise on Drax’s face … and the next moment the man was falling, his hands grasping empty air. His sword whistled by Marbeck’s ear, then clattered to the floor.
Panting, Marbeck forced himself to a sitting position and saw what had happened. The guard lying nearest – the one who still lived – had seized Drax’s heel with his hand and tripped him. The rebel commander, out of breath, was lying on his back turtle-fashion. Half-dazed he looked round, then struck out savagely. But the blow was wasted: the guard – the one Marbeck had almost collided with at the stair-head – was in his death throes. With a sigh the fellow went limp … but he had saved Marbeck’s life. And in a moment Marbeck was on his feet, the point of his sword at Drax’s throat.
‘Lie still,’ he breathed.
Drax looked up, his eyes bloodshot. ‘End it,’ he said, in a voice drained of emotion. Marbeck held his gaze … then frowned. Though aware of noises across the room, he had been so intent on his own struggle he had barely listened. Now he risked a sideways glance – and drew a sharp breath.
Poyns was on his knees, blood everywhere, his sword arm hanging uselessly; even as Marbeck looked, the weapon slipped from his hand. Follett, his face livid with rage and triumph, loomed over him. His arm rose, blade shimmering in the sunlight. Poyns gazed up helplessly; three other pairs of eyes were riveted upon the scene: a grim tableau of execution. Marbeck heard his fellow gasp – but in that second he acted. His left arm flew up, launching his poniard like a dart; with a soft thud it embedded itself in Follett’s side.
There followed an odd sound; neither cry nor gasp, but a collective groan from the mouths of three men: Poyns, giving vent to his relief; Drax, because he saw that all was lost; and Follett because he was in pain, and numb with shock.
But the young lieutenant stayed on his feet. His sword arm dropped and a puzzled frown appeared, as he gazed down at the dagger protruding from his ribs. Blood stained his shirt: once an expensive garment, with bands of fine lace at cuffs and neck, now torn and soiled. He regarded the wound, his eyes went to Marbeck … then his knees buckled, and he sank to the floor. There he remained, his and Poyns’s positions reversed. Shakily, the little man got up.
‘Yield – this is my last warning. We have ladders – we’ll force entry!’ Prout shouted from below.
Marbeck didn’t look round, but kept his sword pressed to Drax’s throat; and for the first time he saw fear in the man’s eyes. ‘End it now, for Jesu’s sake,’ he repeated; though it was a plea rather than a threat.
But Marbeck shook his head slowly. Eyes still on Drax, he spoke to Poyns. ‘Will you unbolt the door? Then call to our friend outside, and tell him to come in.’
Crunching on broken glass, Poyns crossed the room, slid the bolt back and threw the door wide. From downstairs, voices sounded. He turned round, his eyes on Follett, who had slumped to a sitting position. Then the little man winced with pain, pressing a hand to his wound; blood dripped from his sleeve.
‘Where did they get the ladders?’ he muttered weakly. He peered down at Drax. But Marbeck leaned over his victim and spoke low.
‘I met Sir Roland Meeres today. I was obliged to remind him how traitors are executed; to focus his mind, you understand. If the King’s Council is merciful, perhaps they’ll allow you a soldier’s death – but I wouldn’t wager on it.’
Hatred filled Drax’s eyes. His gaze went to his sword lying nearby … but Poyns stepped forward and kicked it beyond his reach. He went to Follett too and kicked his away, though the man was in no condition to move. Blearily he looked up at the two intelligencers, and then an odd smile appeared. Marbeck frowned – then suddenly understood.
‘Stop him!’ he cried.
Poyns looked round. ‘Stop what …?’
But he was too late: Marbeck knew it even as Poyns saw what was happening. He started towards Follett, but the man’s hand was at his mouth. As Poyns grabbed it he threw his head back and swallowed the poison. In his hand was a glass phial, but it was empty. He let it fall to the floor, a grim smile on his face. Then he fell backwards, his body twitching. The intelligencers could only watch until he died.
A moment passed; then Poyns went to the broken window and leaned out. ‘We’re done here,’ he called. ‘Will you come up?’
When evening fell, Marbeck was back at the Boar’s Head.
He was exhausted, though not too tired to indulge himself in a bath. Such a request was unknown at the inn, but when he named a price the place sprang into life. A half-butt was found, scoured hastily and carried up to his chamber, while servants laboured to bring pails of heated water. Finally, stiff and sore, he peeled off his sweat-stained clothes and lowered himself into the glorious brew. Herbs had been strewn in the tub, and a ball of scented soap provided. A feeling of bliss descended on him. Even the Queen had rarely indulged herself in such a manner, he remembered; perhaps now that James Stuart was King, such occasions would be rarer still.
‘Will there be aught else, Master Strang?’
Summoned from his reverie, Marbeck looked round to see one of the inn’s regular wenches standing there, regarding him with a brazen smile; for a moment, he was tempted.
‘Most kind, Bridget,’ he answered, leaning back in the tub, where a cloth was placed on the rim for a headrest. ‘I’ll pass this time … but if you’d care to hand me my belt, I may find you something for your trouble.’
Bridget didn’t hesitate. Going to the bed, she picked up his belt and saw the purse tied to it. But when she hefted it expertly, her mouth fell open. ‘Jesu! You’re a bold one to let anyone see a bung as heavy as this, especially at the Boar’s Head …’ A wicked grin appeared. ‘Why, I could cut it and be off before you got out of that barrel.’
‘You could,’ Marbeck said. ‘But what would they say downstairs, when you fled into the yard with a naked man in pursuit? They’d think you’d tried to cozen him.’
‘You’d not be the first to give chase in such a manner,’ Bridget retorted. ‘And who cares what they think?’
But when he smiled, she couldn’t help return it. She brought him his purse, which he unlaced. Coins fell on to his hand, from which he selected a half-angel. The woman gave another start – but when he looked up, she was pointing not at the money but at his arm.
‘How did you get such scars?’ she asked.
‘A long story,’ Marbeck replied, and proffered the coin.
With a nod she took it. ‘I know what’s the cause of all this,’ she said suddenly. ‘You mean to go to the Queen’s funeral, do ye not? Thursday next, they say.’
‘All this?’ Marbeck looked blank, then realized she meant his taking a bath.
‘Lords and gentlemen will follow the hearse,’ Bridget went on. ‘And half of London will stand and gawp … not me, though.’
‘No?’
‘Nay – it’s naught to me who sits on the throne. Nothing will change, save there’ll be more men about the Court than ladies …’ She frowned. ‘But you’re a lute-player, are you not? Has someone important hired you, or some such?’
‘You might say so,’ Marbeck told her. ‘Now, no affront intended, but will you leave a man to enjoy his soak?’
She went out, whereupon he exhaled and closed his eyes. The sweet-scented water enveloped him like warm silk. Images flew up: Poyns walking unsteadily from Augusto Spinola’s house and sitting down in the courtyard, the shock of his ordeal only now striking home. Guards bearing the bodies of their dead comrades out into the sunshine and laying them in a row, grim-faced at the sight. Prout wandering about, his face filled with shame. The body of Lieutenant Follett had also been brought out, to be dumped unceremoniously on a handcart. Lastly came the prisoner William Drax, bound and hemmed in by Crown officers. The man had kept his eyes down, his face expressionless. Only once had he looked up, to meet Marbeck’s eye before he was bundled away. But in that second Marbeck saw the man’s dismay, and was reminded of a similar look on the face of Sir Roland Meeres, in his cell at the Gatehouse.
He had walked away then, to stand by the gate. Here, in the splendid house in Broad Street, the Papist plotters might have met with their purse-holder: a Genoese whom few people had seen, yet who had financed a scheme that might have handed England to a foreign power. Now the place stood empty and abandoned, used in the final turn as a refuge for one of those same plotters. The three men who had put the scheme into action faced a terrible death; yet he who had made it possible was gone. Then, such people generally got themselves clear, Marbeck mused; that slippery commodity, justice, often favoured the richest, if not the fleetest of foot.
He breathed deeply, hearing the sounds of revellers gathering in the inn downstairs. Briefly he opened his eyes, his gaze falling on his lute in the corner. He planned to dispose of it soon, along with the identity of Richard Strang; a man who would soon become notorious, he suspected, for being the only person in memory to take a bath at the Boar’s Head.
Slowly a smile formed; he leaned back again, water lapping his body, and thought of Celia; but his eyelids drooped. As he drifted into sleep an odd notion occurred: that he might become the only man in England who had ever drowned in a bed-chamber. But the notion passed, and in minutes he was snoring.
He never heard Bridget, when she stole into his room later and found him sleeping peacefully. With her was another woman, painted, perfumed and wearing a very low-cut gown sprinkled with fake jewels. The two stared.
‘I fear to wake him,’ the newcomer muttered. ‘I thought you said he’d be out of that tub by now, and open to persuasion? There’s few men can say no, when they get a sight of my dugs.’
‘We’d best go,’ Bridget said after a moment. ‘He’s a tired fellow, anyone can see.’
‘Yet did you not speak of a full purse?’ the other said. ‘I’ll look if you won’t …’
But Bridget was tugging at her sleeve. ‘You blowsy old callet,’ she said sharply, ‘are you grown deaf? I said he gave me sixpence. He’s but a lute-player, can’t you see?’ She pointed to the instrument, whereupon her companion gave a sigh of impatience.
‘Then why do you waste my time?’ she demanded. ‘I’m for downstairs – are you coming or not?’