Free Marbeck and the Double Dealer by John Pilkington

member of the nobility. He scanned the walled gardens and outbuildings. Cattle grazed the surrounding fields, while on the river beyond he saw a landing stage, with small boats drawn up. It was a scene of tranquillity. Why, then, Marbeck asked himself, this feeling of foreboding?
    For unease had come upon him the moment he left the tree-line. Alert, despite his weariness, he eased the pony forward and rode down the slope until he struck a road which approached the château from the south. By the time he neared the gates, which stood open, dusk was falling. Nobody challenged him, so he passed under an archway into an enclosed courtyard and halted.
    There was no one about. The only sound, a soft cooing, came from a dovecote that stood in the centre of the yard. The surrounding windows were dark – save for one on the upper storey, where a light showed. He glanced round in the saddle. The main entrance was ahead of him, approached by a broad flight of steps. After a moment he called out in French. There was a brief silence, then to his left a door clattered open. He swung round, to see a figure stumble out.
    â€˜Monsieur . . . c’est vous?’
    The servant was elderly, with long white hair. Torchlight spilled from the doorway behind him. Marbeck stayed in the saddle as the old man hurried towards him, bowing obsequiously. But when he drew close, squinting upwards in the gloom, he gave a start.
    â€˜Non – c’est un autre! Qui va lá?’
    At once Marbeck assumed the manner of a man of status addressing a lackey. In clipped tones he announced himself as a merchant who had business with la Comtesse de Paiva. Then, without waiting for reply, he dismounted and held out the pony’s reins. ‘I’ve had a long ride – see my mount’s well cared for,’ he said. ‘Will someone conduct me to la Comtesse?’
    The servant stared, then took the reins automatically, whereupon another figure appeared in the doorway.
    â€˜Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
    The voice was female. Marbeck strode past the old man to greet one he assumed was a woman-in-waiting. He gave his name and business, and mentioned a message he carried. It was private, for
la Comtesse
, he went on . . . then he looked into the woman’s face, and fell silent.
    â€˜I’m Marie-Clothilde, Comtesse de Paiva.’
    She said it in English. Marbeck gazed at her, concealing his surprise, and made his bow.
    â€˜Your pardon, madame,’ he said. ‘I thought—’
    â€˜So I surmise.’ The lady peered at him with large eyes, though her expression gave nothing away. Then she glanced at the elderly servant, who was still standing beside Marbeck’s horse. In a few words she instructed him, whereupon he led the animal away.
    â€˜Matthieu has poor eyesight,’ she murmured. ‘He thought you were my husband.’
    Marbeck inclined his head. Sugared phrases rose to his lips, but he held them in. This woman, he sensed, would not be susceptible to flattery. Instead, he said: ‘Then perhaps I arrive at the right hour. For the words I carry are for your ears alone, madame. I have brought them from the convent of La Madeleine in Brest . . . from the bedside of a dying man. He begs to be remembered to you; his name is Louis Orme.’
    The Comtesse continued to gaze at him, and, in spite of himself, he was impressed. She was rather beautiful.
    â€˜Wilders,’ she murmured. ‘Is that a Dutch name?’
    â€˜Anglo-Dutch, madame,’ Marbeck said. ‘Yet my loyalties are to none but myself.’ He was hungry and thirsty, his body sore from riding. Yet he watched her and waited – and all at once the woman frowned.
    â€˜He’s dying . . . Louis is dying?’
    â€˜I fear so,’ Marbeck answered. ‘I was at his side . . . He had but days to live.’
    Only now had the news struck home, he realized. ‘But that is terrible . . .’ The Comtesse looked