Marbeck and the Double Dealer Read Free Page B

‘do people still call me the Toad? I’ve seen what’s chalked on walls, about the city.’
    â€˜Some do, sir,’ Marbeck answered, straight-faced. ‘Though I suspect they’re of the Earl of Essex’s party.’ He would not have admitted to knowing the Queen’s nickname for his master:
Elf
; let alone the more sinister one he had earned: that of
Roberto il Diavolo.
    Cecil allowed himself a trace of a smile. He picked up a paper, glanced at it and tossed it back on to the table. ‘Just now, the Earl of Essex isn’t uppermost in my thoughts,’ he said. ‘A mountain of work lies ahead. My clerks and I will have to sift through everything – cross-referencing, double-checking . . .’ He paused. ‘Several recent despatches concern but one thing; a business that weighs heavily on me. I think you know what I speak of: the new ships the Spanish are constructing at Lisbon.’
    â€˜And at Corunna, or so I’ve heard,’ Marbeck put in.
    â€˜Assuming such reports can now be believed,’ Cecil said dryly. ‘Though my man in Lisbon I’ve always found reliable.’
    Marbeck considered. ‘Do you truly think King Philip would repeat the follies of his late father? Send another Armada against us?’
    â€˜Why would he not?’
    â€˜Because, from what I’ve heard, Spain’s almost bankrupt – not to mention racked with plague,’ Marbeck replied. ‘They say the new king has no stomach for the war. He’s a pious young man, who spends half his time at prayer.’
    â€˜Indeed – leaving things to his favourite, the Duke of Lerma,’ Master Secretary said. ‘Who, like most of the Hotspurs of Spain, has unresolved business with us. Do you follow me?’
    Marbeck followed only too well. In the last decade, the word
Armada
had acquired a near mystical power in England: enough to strike fear into every heart. It was twelve years since Francis Drake and the English seamen had seen off the huge Spanish fleet of Medina Sidonia, but since then no less than two others had been sent by the embittered King Philip II. Only luck and foul Channel weather had saved the English, it was said – which was why panic had broken out only a year ago, when rumours of yet another Armada, sent by the late king’s young successor, threw the country into turmoil. Rumour had sped in upon rumour: the Spanish had landed at Southampton – or was it the Isle of Wight? Trained bands were mustered, troops readied, chains strung across London streets . . . all to no purpose.
The Invisible Armada
, many now called it – a figment of someone’s fevered imagination. Yet the words had a hollow ring, and no one could be sure whether the next rumour might turn out to be true.
    â€˜There’s little doubt that another fleet is being readied,’ Cecil said. ‘Though it appears small, compared with those of the past. Hence we must discern its true purpose – and with good intelligence we will. But in the meantime –’ he met Marbeck’s eye – ‘in the meantime, I need you to relieve me of my most immediate difficulty.’
    â€˜You want me to find out who Mulberry is?’
    â€˜I do. I’ll instruct Weeks to pay you an advance. Fifty crowns.’ He waited; the meeting was over. But Marbeck had another question.
    â€˜Those suspicions you mentioned . . .’
    â€˜Ah yes.’ The spymaster frowned. ‘There are two that come to mind just now. Men I’m unsure of, shall I say? Neither is known to you, I think. Their names are Saxby and Ottone – Prout will know where they may be found. I’ll leave the manner of approach to you – and now, if you’ll allow me, I need to do some thinking.’
    That night, in his chamber at the Dolphin, Marbeck did some thinking of his own. He had no relish for the task that faced him: that of questioning two fellow