Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (11 page)

‘He has none to speak of,' Prout countered. ‘The Scottish King's no military man. He's spent the pension Elizabeth allowed him on his court, and his pleasures. Besides he's yet in Edinburgh, and will not ride south for days. When he does set forth it will be a slow journey. I doubt he'll arrive before the Queen's funeral is over, by which time—'

‘It may be too late,' Marbeck finished. But he sympathized with Chyme; the young man was loyal and eager to serve. To Prout he said: ‘There's merit in what John says. We have troops here in London, do we not, for this very eventuality? They could move down to Kent – Drax's army would scatter.'

‘That's what I fear Master Secretary will say, once he learns of it,' Prout replied with some impatience. ‘But that may be what they want him to do. Once our troops are drawn away from London a landing may take place elsewhere, at any of half a dozen ports. Drax and whoever he's bound up with – even Charnock, perhaps – will have made plans for any counter-move. We've no time to explore all possibilities – my way is the only one, I'm sure of it.'

‘But what way is that?' Marbeck asked. ‘After Llewellyn and I have joined the rebels in Kent, how do you expect us to thwart them? Two of us against an army …' But he broke off. A grim smile had appeared on Prout's face.

‘The money,' he said phlegmatically.

Marbeck frowned. ‘You mean locate the source of their funds, and stop it?'

The messenger nodded. ‘Once Drax's troops find out they're not getting paid, they'll down weapons and desert within the hour. And if word got to the English Regiment, the same would happen there.'

He glanced at Chyme, who also saw the logic. Indeed, it was so simple any man could have guessed it.

‘It's the only way,' Prout said again. ‘The same purse, I believe, provides for both the English Regiment and the raising of Drax's force: their aim to restore this country to the Catholic faith.'

‘Well – one thing you may wager on: the source of this mysterious wealth isn't Spain,' Marbeck said after a moment. ‘The country's broken, ravaged with plague and tired of war. King Philip looks to make peace with James. Nor will ducats be flowing out of Rome … Pope Clement is as cautious as he's parsimonious. We must look closer to home.'

‘My thoughts too,' Prout said. ‘There are several rich men I might suspect, but I have no proof. This scheme has been in the planning for months, I fear – perhaps longer. It's a pity Master Secretary did not weave the shreds of intelligence together sooner, meagre as they were.'

Nobody spoke for a while. Then, taking the opportunity, Marbeck at last aired the other matter that weighed upon him. ‘We may face a Papist rising,' he said. ‘And I'll do my part in contending it. But though I've no wish to add to your troubles, Prout, I fear I must. For it's just possible that England faces another threat – from the opposite direction.'

At once all eyes were on him. ‘What do you mean?' Prout asked sharply. Whereupon Marbeck drew a breath, and gave a quick account of his activities since leaving for Oxford, just two days before the Queen's death. He said little about Celia, leaving the other men to draw their own conclusions. But when he spoke of interrogating Isaac Gow in Daniel Lambert's house at Offord, Prout sprang up.

‘Why did you not speak of this sooner?' he demanded.

‘I would have,' Marbeck said, in some surprise. ‘Yet since the matter you've set before us is so grave—'

‘But I could have told you more,' Prout interrupted, in some agitation. ‘Isaac Gow has not been brought to London for interrogation. He never got here – he escaped!'

‘Escaped?' Marbeck echoed. ‘How? He was under armed guard – besides, he's a sick man …'

‘Is he?' Prout grimaced. ‘According to the account I've seen, he feigned a coughing fit at a roadside inn near Hitchin, then disappeared through a back door. Some of his followers must have dogged the party – they had mounts waiting, and made their escape. It was near dark – by the time the escort had chased after them, they'd got clear away.'

‘Then what of Rowan?' Marbeck asked, with growing unease. ‘He seemed to know his business …'

‘Rowan's in disgrace,' Prout snapped. ‘He sent in a report two days ago, then disappeared. I believe he's gone looking for Gow in an attempt to make amends. But for the present, you may assume your Puritan friend is still at large …' He frowned at Marbeck. ‘Is that the real reason you returned to London? To hear Gow's confession, so you could hurry off again to rescue this foolish boy Scroop – the son of your paramour?'

There was silence, before Marbeck too got to his feet. ‘And if it was, will you condemn me for it?' he demanded. ‘I had little else to occupy me just then, being shut out of Master Secretary's service – or have you forgotten?'

They eyed each other: the pious Crown servant, and the intelligencer whose behaviour had always been a source of friction between them. Then Llewellyn gave a grunt, causing them both to look his way. The man raised both hands, urging calm: this was his home, he seemed to say, and he wished no imbroglio. Whereupon Prout gave a sigh, and sat down heavily.

‘By all that's holy,' he muttered.

After a moment Marbeck too sat. ‘If our positions had been reversed, Prout,' he said, ‘I don't believe you would have acted differently.' When the other made no answer, he looked across the table. ‘I ask your pardon, Llewellyn.'

The man nodded, but suddenly John Chyme spoke up. ‘
Now
there's something I can do,' he said. When the others turned, he added: ‘You must go to Kent, Marbeck. I'll admit I'm not suited to such a mission, whereas you and Llewellyn may achieve much. But if there's indeed a crack-brained plot being hatched by Gow and his flock, I may make progress among them. The man doesn't know me, but I've known enough people of his ilk. I'll find them, see if I can attach myself to their little band.' He grinned, apparently warming to his idea. ‘As soon as I hear a whisper about Henry Scroop, I'll be on his neck. If necessary I'll return him to Oxford tied across my saddle. As a Magdalene man, I've small patience with students of Exeter.'

Having said his piece, Chyme sat back and took a gulp of wine. The others eyed him, then Llewellyn too broke into a smile. Prout looked glum, but Marbeck breathed a sigh.

‘Once again, John, you have my thanks,' he said. ‘And if you can succeed where I failed, you will earn my gratitude, and that of the boy's mother, for all eternity.'

Embarrassed, the young man dismissed the compliment. But when he looked at Prout his face fell somewhat. Marbeck too eyed him, expecting some further rebuke. But finally the messenger sighed, and managed a nod.

‘So be it,' he said tiredly. ‘Chyme may ride north and mingle with Precisians, while you two …' He looked from Marbeck to Llewellyn. ‘You should go into Kent, and swear loyalty to the Infanta. That way the threat to England from two poles of hatred may at least be exposed, if not broken …' He shook his head. ‘Great heaven, what times are these? I can only pray that one day, if it pleases God to let him live to be crowned, King James will learn what was done. Meanwhile I will attend Master Secretary, and sift reports, and wait.' Then to the surprise of the other men, Prout looked round with an expression that was unlike him.

‘You go with my blessing, and my desire to see you all alive to witness that day,' he added quietly. ‘I speak of the coronation: the end of the dynasty that's ruled England for over a century, and the start of another.'

With that he too drank, and pledged God speed to them all.

Two days later, on another grey morning, Marbeck led Cobb across London Bridge, then waited in Long Southwark until Llewellyn appeared leading an old chestnut warhorse. The two men shook hands, climbed into their saddles and urged their mounts southwards, away from the smoke and haze of London. Soon they were at Blackheath, turning towards Dartford: the first stage in their journey into rural Kent.

Llewellyn wore a battered helmet and a battle-scarred coat; fixed to his saddle were a sword and a Spanish caliver in a closed scabbard. Marbeck wore a padded doublet and tooled leather jerkin, along with his basket-hilt rapier. He also had a pistol, and certain other weapons that looked nothing of the sort: a tailor's bodkin in his pocket, and a lute string sewn into his waistband.

T
he main camp of Drax's small army, according to the scant intelligence Prout had pieced together, was said to be near the hamlet of Ewell, on the river Dour a few miles above Dover. This, however, turned out to be untrue. On arriving there that evening after their day-long ride, Marbeck and Llewellyn found only half a dozen men warming themselves round a fire, who claimed to be local villagers. Their leader was suspicious, although one look at Llewellyn was enough to convince anyone that he was an old soldier. Marbeck however, was obliged to work harder. He was Jack Duggan, he said, who had served in Ireland with Henry Bagenal. In fact he'd been a horseman at the Battle of the Yellow Ford, when that commander had lost his life. Now that the war was ended, he found himself at a loose end. But he'd heard from an old compatriot that officers were in need here, and that the pay was good. Would the corporal … he was a corporal, was he not? Would he send them on to the commander?

Fortunately it worked. After some further questioning, Marbeck's performance convinced the man he was a mercenary, as hard-nosed as they came. The two of them should ride on, they were told, to the ruined abbey of St Radigund, on a hill three miles west of Dover. They should seek out a lieutenant named Follett, who could answer their questions. But it grew dark – did they wish to rest for the night? Marbeck declined, saying they would travel in what twilight remained. Without further delay he and Llewellyn rode to a ford in the river, and having crossed over, soon found St Radigund's. Leading their tired horses, the two of them approached the old abbey, its jagged ruins showing stark against the sky. Here they were challenged by a sentry, sword in hand. Once Marbeck had made his explanations, however, they were directed to a camp on the fringe of a nearby wood, where they would find the lieutenant. So at last they reached a cooking fire, with perhaps a dozen men seated around it. As they emerged from the gloom some got to their feet, whereupon Marbeck raised a hand.

‘We seek Lieutenant Follett. Is he here?'

A man stepped into the firelight. ‘He is … Who are you?'

‘Two gamesters, looking for a game,' Marbeck answered. ‘We heard there might be one here … Are we welcome?'

There was silence as Follett came forward. He was young and belligerent, wearing a good corselet and sword. Indeed all the men, Marbeck saw, were well fitted out; it was no rag-tag company. At his side, Llewellyn regarded them without expression. His and Marbeck's eyes met briefly, but when they faced the lieutenant again his words came as a disappointment.

‘You were misinformed,' he said, looking Marbeck up and down. ‘I'm holding a muster here, gathering levies for the King. I'm not recruiting strangers.'

‘No?' Marbeck looked sceptical. ‘You've no need of veterans, then?'

The young man paused, gazing at each of them. Finally he pointed at Llewellyn. ‘Where did you serve?'

‘Garth can neither hear nor speak,' Marbeck said, using Llewellyn's assumed name. ‘He has no tongue, and was deafened by cannon-fire. He served in the Low Countries under Bostock.'

One or two men stirred at mention of the former leader of the renegade regiment. But Follett kept his eyes on Llewellyn, who met the gaze unflinchingly. Finally he looked to Marbeck.

‘I was in Ireland,' Marbeck said. ‘One of the lucky ones, who came through Yellow Ford alive …' But he broke off when the other turned and spoke over his shoulder.

‘Robbins – over here.'

Another man, who had remained seated, got up and came to stand at the lieutenant's side. ‘You were in Ireland,' Follett snapped. ‘Why don't you ask him a few questions?'

Robbins, a fighting man down to his boots, gave a nod. ‘So you were at Yellow Ford,' he said to Marbeck. ‘That would be September, 1598 …'

‘August,' Marbeck corrected. ‘The fourteenth, to be exact.' He gave the man a hard stare, and waited.

‘Who was your commander?'

‘Bagenal, of course,' Marbeck answered tartly. ‘I was an officer of horse … and I'd watch your tongue if I were you, fellow.' The soldier stiffened, but with a nod Follett bade him continue.

‘So … were you close to Bagenal when he fell?' he asked.

‘Too close,' Marbeck replied. ‘I saw him shot through the head. He was too far forward – he would never heed advice.'

‘And who took command after that?'

‘Thomas Maria Wingfield … not that it did much good.' Marbeck gave a snort. ‘And before you ask, in the rout that followed I changed sides, as others did. Thereafter I fought for the rebels under Red Hugh O'Donnell.' Deliberately he faced Follett, who looked surprised. ‘There now, Lieutenant,' he added. ‘I've given you reason to have me arrested and hanged as a traitor, if you wish. My name's Duggan – do you require any further testimony from me?'

All eyes were upon him. Taken aback, Robbins lowered his gaze, but the lieutenant was frowning. ‘Who told you where to come?' he asked.

‘A compatriot,' Marbeck said. ‘I'll not give his name. But he spoke of good pay and victuals, for men who were prepared to earn them. Men who asked no questions, but looked to a new future – perhaps not a Scottish one. Do I hit the target?'

Another silence followed, though it was short-lived. Follett dismissed Robbins, who rejoined his comrades. When he eyed Marbeck again, he wore a different expression.

‘You may rest here tonight,' he said finally. ‘Eat, and see your horses fed. Tomorrow I'll send you to the colonel, who will question you further. If you are who you claim to be, he might find a place for you. But if you are not …' He paused for emphasis. ‘If you are not he will know, and the consequences will be grave. Do you follow?'