Marbeck and the Privateers by John Pilkington

was a postern gate here, which opened on to Bridewell Bridge. He crossed the foul-smelling Fleet Ditch, and having skirted Bridewell itself, was soon in a different world: the warren of ruined buildings and noisome alleys commonly known as Alsatia, which claimed old rights of sanctuary. The law held little sway here … One hand on his sword-hilt, he moved through ever-narrowing ways, sagging jetties closing above him so that sunlight was almost blocked out. Finally, with the noise of Fleet Street away to his right, he stopped outside a low doorway. Dogs barked, and though the closed yard was deserted, he felt eyes upon him.
    Drawing a breath he knocked, and at once there was a muffled sound within. He stepped back and looked about, but there could be no other egress from the hovel. Then he glanced up and sighed: at the upper storey a casement had opened, and a face peeped over the sill.
    â€˜There’s sickness in the house – get you gone!’
    â€˜Fitch?’ Marbeck shaded his eyes and peered upwards. ‘John Sands … I’m here on business.’
    The face had disappeared. A moment passed, then a voice called down: ‘I will not open. Depart, for this is a plague-house!’
    â€˜I don’t see any painted cross,’ Marbeck called back. ‘Might I come in?’ And before the other could reply he lifted the latch. The door was locked, but a single kick broke the fastening. He made his way inside, into a foul-smelling room with one small window and a ladder-stair in the corner. He pushed the door to, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the poor light. Above him was a thump of footsteps, then at last with much creaking and cursing a figure appeared, clambering downwards. As he reached the floor he turned jerkily, an old poniard in his hand … and faced Marbeck, who stifled a laugh.
    â€˜In God’s name, Fitch, what’s the matter?’
    Elias Fitch glared at him. Four feet tall and bald as an egg, he was dressed in a hand-me-down coat that reached to his knees. ‘Breaking in is construed as a felony!’ he cried. ‘I’ll call a constable!’
    â€˜Can we cease this tomfoolery?’ Marbeck said. ‘You know I’m not an enemy … I may even have work for you.’
    â€˜Indeed? Well, I think not,’ the other retorted. ‘You promise much, Sands – but you always leave having done little but ask questions. There’s nothing for you here.’
    With a sigh, Marbeck reached for his purse and tugged it open; a generous payment was called for this time. Finding a shilling, he placed it on the windowsill and stepped aside.
    â€˜That’s for the door – as a mark of my good will,’ he said.
    Slowly Fitch lowered his dagger, though his look of suspicion remained. Marbeck took in the details of the grim little chamber: a straw pallet in one corner, a broken press in another. But beneath the window was a cluttered work-bench … the man was still in business.
    â€˜Well then, what is it you want?’ Keeping his eye on Marbeck, he moved to the sill and scooped up the coin. ‘I’m a busy man … a scrivener. People hereabouts need me to write letters.’
    â€˜You’re a cunning man, who makes things to order,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘Trickster’s props, say … I won’t forget that dagger you made for the theatre folk. The blade disappeared inside the handle when a man was stabbed, squirted pig’s blood … very effective at the Globe, I remember.’
    The other said nothing. Despite his ways – for Fitch had been a party to many crimes – Marbeck rather liked him. He had been a blacksmith, a spurrier and a dozen other things in his time. If it could be made, the word went throughout London’s underworld, Fitch was the man who could make it.
    â€˜That was a while back.’ He had relaxed a little, and was looking Marbeck up and down. ‘Why do you seek