Marbeck and the Privateers Read Online Free

directed not at the figure of Machiavelli, but upwards: towards the private box where the Spanish party sat. And the next moment, he realized who it was.
    â€˜Well?’ Levinus Monk demanded.
    â€˜Solomon Tye …’ Marbeck spoke a name he had not uttered in years. Turning, he added: ‘He was one of our people … it was said he’d gone to France, even that he’d turned traitor. I thought he was dead. But if he’s here it’s not by chance, I’d wager – see the way he regards the ambassador.’
    â€˜Well then, he’s suspect,’ Monk said sharply. ‘I want to know what the fellow’s up to.’
    With a nod Marbeck raised the ale-bottle and drained it. Whereupon in silence the other went out, leaving him alone in the booth. From the stage, Machiavelli leered at the crowd:
    Might first made kings, and laws were then most sure
    When like the Draco’s they were writ in blood …

TWO
    T hat night was Marbeck’s last in the shabby bed-chamber at the Three Cups. Having eaten a supper and taken a potion given him by his landlord, he slept soundly and awoke feeling stronger. By midmorning he had paid the reckoning, left the inn and the persona of Thomas Fowler with it, and was walking Cobb through the din of Candlewick Street and Budge Row into Watling Street. His belongings were in a saddle-bag, and he wore his old scholar’s gown, his sword and poniard beneath it. Skirting St Paul’s and its crowds, he passed by Bowyer Row through Ludgate and out into Fleet Street, fetching up at last in the Strand before the gates of Salisbury House. He gave his new name to the porter, and having seen his horse stabled, entered the great marbled hallway. Here, Giles Blunt presented himself to the steward.
    â€˜You’ll be aware my master’s not yet in residence,’ the steward murmured, looking the newcomer up and down. He was aged, white-haired and clad in dusty black. ‘But his private room is unlocked … I’ll have one show you.’ He paused, then: ‘I trust you do not take tobacco – my lord forbids it.’
    Politely Marbeck reassured him, and was soon following a liveried servant up an ornate staircase, into a small but pleasant chamber overlooking the river.
    â€˜So you’re secretary to the Lord Secretary – sir ,’ the servant said. ‘You’ll have naught to do, will you? Some folk have it easy, right enough.’
    Marbeck turned to the fellow, but in his new role as the scholarly Giles Blunt, merely put on a prim smile. ‘My lord’s papers will no doubt arrive in due course,’ he said. ‘And I have letters to write …’
    The other sniffed and turned away. ‘You’re to sleep here too,’ he muttered over his shoulder. ‘They’ll put a pallet down … aught else, ask in the kitchens.’
    He went out, whereupon Marbeck closed the door on him and looked around. The room was empty save for a small table with writing materials on it, a stool and a chest which, when opened, proved to contain old books. Going to the window where there was an oak seat, he threw the casement wide to let in the sounds and smell of the Thames. The river was busy as always, craft of various sizes moving about while gulls flew above. He gazed across to Lambeth Marsh, and the distant towers of Lambeth House. The shouts of watermen rose in the still air: Eastward Ho! Eastward for a penny!
    He glanced down at the waterfront with its wooden jetty, which looked newly built. The garden was yet to be landscaped: he recalled that Cecil’s new house was unfinished. There was no boat tied up. Leaning out as far as he could, he looked downriver towards the city, but the great bulk of the Savoy blocked his view of Somerset House: one of the royal residences, destined for Queen Anne’s use but now made ready as a venue for the treaty talks. He would, however, be able to see boats that came