Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (12 page)

Instead of answering, Marbeck turned to Llewellyn and made signs, to which the old soldier nodded. The first part was over: they were all but accepted. The meeting with the colonel, however, promised a more stringent test, and Marbeck knew he must convince. Facing the young officer again, he expressed agreement. The other men relaxed, turned away and began talking. One came forward to show the newcomers where to take their horses. But as he led Cobb away, Marbeck's thoughts already raced towards the morrow. He had a good idea of the name of Follett's colonel; he could only hope that the man did not know who he was.

The next day was the Sabbath, which Marbeck had almost forgotten. Hence his surprise, when he awoke under canvas to the sound of men singing. The words of the hymn were familiar, and he sat up to listen. It struck him as odd that this mercenary army should bother to hold a service. But rebels or not, they were Englishmen, as far as he had observed; and old habits died hard. He stretched and looked round. He was in a circular tent, patched but serviceable. There were several pallets, spread out on ground still damp from the rains. All were empty save the one beside him, where Llewellyn dozed. After waking him he dressed quickly and went outside – only to stop in his tracks.

Two soldiers with calivers stood facing him. As he stared, a sergeant appeared with a sword, which he levelled at Marbeck.

‘Up at last … I was coming to get you,' he said. ‘Bring your friend out – you're both to come with me.'

They went unarmed, having been obliged to leave their weapons behind. Llewellyn was stolid, Marbeck tense but composed. In the morning light, they saw that the camp was small: no more than eight or nine tents on the edge of the wood, half-hidden among the trees. They passed a fire where a steaming cauldron of porridge hung on chains. Men gazed at them; there was no sign of Follett. Finally they reached a larger tent, in front of which stood a folding table. As they appeared, a man seated behind it looked up. He was black-bearded and heavy-browed, wearing a Brigandine coat of steel plates riveted onto canvas. His eyes took in Llewellyn, then went to Marbeck. Suddenly, they were prisoners … and in no doubt whom they faced: William Drax himself.

‘So you're Duggan,' he said. ‘Is it your real name?'

‘It is now,' Marbeck said.

‘Sir!' the sergeant snapped at him, from behind. ‘You're addressing the colonel.'

A moment followed, then to Marbeck's surprise Drax waved the sergeant away. Along with his escort he departed, leaving the two intelligencers alone. Between them, Marbeck thought fleetingly, they could have seized the colonel and taken him hostage, or worse. He was short, with a head too large for his body. But his face was a hard mask, the eyes pitiless. Marbeck recalled the man's nickname: the Basilisk. He had faced brutal killers before, and saw that Drax had no use for mercy.

‘I've heard your history from the lieutenant,' he said. His eyes went to Llewellyn. ‘He is a deaf mute, then?'

‘He understands some of what's said, if you face him,' Marbeck replied. ‘He watches how your mouth moves.' He did not look at the old soldier; Llewellyn knew his part.

Drax spoke loudly. ‘So you lost your tongue … Can I see?'

Llewellyn stepped forward, bent and opened his mouth. With grunts and signs, he made it known that the punishment had been inflicted long ago, in prison. After a moment Drax nodded and gestured him aside. ‘Whereas you, sir …' He eyed Marbeck. ‘You served under Bagenal, or so you claim, when the fool lost his life. What were his losses that day, would you say?'

‘Nine hundred dead,' Marbeck answered. ‘Not that I stayed to count them – sir.'

‘No – you were too busy saving your own neck,' the other said dryly. ‘So after turning tail you fought under O'Donnell – is that so?'

Briefly, Marbeck nodded.

‘What sort of commander was he?'

‘Good. His men loved him – they'd have followed him through the gates of hell.'

‘Well, many of them went there anyway, did they not?' Drax watched Marbeck closely. ‘I mean three years later, at Kinsale – were you there?'

‘I was not.' Marbeck remained calm, but in his mind he was sifting everything he knew about the Irish war. The man strove to trick him; his life, and that of Llewellyn, depended on the answers he gave.

‘What a day that was, eh?' Suddenly Drax smiled, but his teeth showed. ‘We paid the Irish back in 1601 … lost three thousand, if they lost a man. A Christmas Day gift.'

‘I believe our … I mean the Irish losses were nearer twelve hundred,' Marbeck said mildly. ‘On Christmas Eve that was, not Christmas Day. O'Donnell escaped to Spain afterwards. They treated him as a hero.'

‘I know that,' Drax snapped, as if angered by his argument. ‘He's still in exile, I suppose?'

‘No, he returned to Ireland,' Marbeck told him. ‘Died last year, and is buried at Simancas Castle.'

There was a moment, in which Llewellyn's stomach could be heard rumbling with hunger. Rigidly he stared ahead, whereupon as suddenly as it had appeared, Drax's anger vanished.

‘Mayhap you did know him,' he said finally. ‘A soldier never forgets a good leader, and even an illiterate rebel may command respect in the field. I'll admit he fought well for a man of his advanced years – wouldn't you?'

For a second, Marbeck was almost fooled: his instinct had been to agree, and bow his head in feigned remembrance. He had all but exhausted his knowledge of Hugh O'Donnell, the clan leader – apart from one fact, which now saved him.

‘Advanced years?' he echoed. ‘You're mistaken, sir. He was little more than a boy: thrown into prison at fifteen, taking the battlefield as a youth. He was barely thirty when he died …'

He trailed off. Beside him Llewellyn stirred, as Drax stood up behind his table. He glanced at each of them, then to the relief of both said: ‘If you join me, you'll sign a paper and swear allegiance.'

As one man, they nodded.

‘Nor may you turn tail, if things go badly,' he added briskly. ‘My officers have orders to shoot deserters …' He eyed Marbeck. ‘You will do the same; in other words, you would be obliged to shoot your friend here – not to wound but to kill. Is that clear?'

‘Of course,' Marbeck said. On impulse he added: ‘I don't have friends. Garth's one who travelled with me … nothing more. It's best he and I now part, and he's posted elsewhere.'

Drax seemed to approve. ‘We'll find a place for him,' he said. ‘You, Duggan, will remain here. You'll dine with the other officers tonight, and receive your orders. In the meantime, you may both go and take breakfast.'

With that he sat down, drew a paper towards him and ignored them. In silence they turned to walk back towards the cooking fire, and the aroma of hot porridge.

And after that, the day went somewhat better. For later the same morning, while grooming Cobb, Marbeck made a discovery: in Drax's army, a soldier told him, the Sabbath was welcomed for other reasons than those of religion. It was also payday.

The paymaster was named Thomas Burridge. He was bald and moon-faced, with the look of a harassed clerk. He arrived with an armed guard at midday, and set up his station at the table outside Drax's tent. There the entire company assembled, numbering perhaps forty men. Others, Marbeck knew, were scattered about the area in smaller camps, but he asked no questions; for the present he would watch and listen. He stood aside as soldiers were called – by names that, he was certain, were all as false as his and Llewellyn's – to receive their pay from a small iron-bound chest. He soon discovered that the daily wage was one shilling and sixpence: a generous sum. What the officers received he could not guess.

The last soldier to be paid was Llewellyn, the newest recruit. Skilfully feigning deafness, he waited until he was waved forward. Men watched as he took the coins, then walked off without looking at Marbeck. Soon all the men dispersed leaving only the stout sergeant, Marbeck's escort from earlier, and the officers: Lieutenant Follett, a beanpole of a man known as Captain Feaver, and Drax himself. Then to his surprise Marbeck heard his own name called, so unhurriedly he walked over. The other leaders eyed him coolly, especially Drax. For a moment Marbeck feared the man was having second thoughts about hiring him, until he said: ‘Your pay will come later, Duggan. You've yet to prove yourself to me.'

Concealing his relief, Marbeck gave a nod.

‘So you're a seasoned horseman, sir …' Feaver peered down his long nose at him. ‘We must decide how best to use you. You'll answer to me, by the way.'

Politely Marbeck acknowledged his place. Questions rose in his mind, but were held back. Follett was looking tense, he thought; perhaps relations among the commanders were less than cordial. The impression was reinforced when Drax suddenly turned on his heel, strode past the paymaster and entered his tent without a backward glance. Marbeck was about to move away, when Burridge spoke up from his table.

‘Is there a dinner for me?' he asked in a high-pitched voice. ‘I have a busy afternoon ahead.'

‘Of course …' Feaver waved a hand vaguely. ‘See the quartermaster.' He turned to go, but the paymaster stayed him.

‘I require a bigger escort,' he went on, squinting through a pair of thick spectacles. ‘I've come to dislike these woods … two men hardly seems enough, in view of what I carry.' He tapped the pay chest, which was now locked.

In some irritation Feaver looked to Follett. ‘You'll see to that, won't you?'

The lieutenant sighed, and waited for him to walk off. To Burridge he said: ‘I'll have men waiting, after you've dined. Then you should make haste … the paths are muddy.'

‘I'm aware of that,' Burridge retorted. ‘Yet I made good speed this morning from Dover …' but he broke off, as Follett threw him a warning look. Marbeck pretended not to notice, though he understood: he, of course, was not trusted. He wondered, in view of the purpose of this regiment, whether anyone here trusted his fellow. With a glance at the other men he walked away, thinking fast. Burridge had come up from Dover: that suggested the pay chest was not carried overland, as he had thought it might be, but arrived by ship. Head down, he strolled towards the commissary tent where men were assembling for their midday mess, then gave a start as someone blocked his way. It was Llewellyn.

‘Have they put you in a file?' Marbeck asked, drawing close. The other jerked his head, towards a tent at the far end of the encampment. By now Marbeck had been told that he would share quarters with Captain Feaver; perhaps that worthy had been instructed to keep an eye on him.

‘The money comes in through Dover.' Marbeck lowered his voice, and Llewellyn bent to listen. ‘I'll try and find out where from.'

Llewellyn patted his jerkin. They had agreed on the journey that he would write down anything of importance on a scrap of paper, and leave it at an arranged spot; to this purpose he kept an inkhorn in his baggage. Marbeck nodded quickly.

‘At the end of the picket rope, where the horses are tethered, is a log of beech,' he said. ‘Hide any missive under it – I'll pass there every few hours.'

After signalling agreement, Llewellyn suddenly gripped his sleeve. Marbeck followed his gaze and stiffened: Drax had emerged from his tent, and was gazing across the camp towards them. Without a second thought, he acted.

‘See – you must look to yourself now, Garth,' he said loudly. And with an angry movement, he tore his arm from Llewellyn's grip and faced him. ‘I've helped you all I will – follow orders, and leave me be!' And with that he stalked off.

Alone in the middle of the camp, he drew breath. Somehow he must discover the route by which Burridge arrived each week, before he travelled to the various billets to distribute money. And, he surmised, there were likely other payments made to the commanders, for perishables and equipment. He had already seen that the horses were well supplied with fodder, along with a farrier to look after them. He had also noted an old barn on the path that led to St Radigund, which seemed to be guarded day and night: likely a store for powder and arms. There was an unspoken sense of purpose in the company, if not of haste. How long they would remain here before being called upon to take part in the planned landing of the Spanish Infanta, he did not know.

But that very evening, at supper, he found out; and the news forced him into action.

T
he officers dined in some comfort, around a table under an awning, sheltered from the night breeze and waited on by Drax's own servants. The food was good: broth, fish brought fresh from the coast, and loin of pork. During the meal there was little conversation, but as soon as he had finished eating Drax turned his attention to Marbeck.

‘You've pledged allegiance, Duggan,' he said, eyeing him from under his heavy brows. ‘And you may now share our confidence. For you will be called upon sooner than you think.'

The others – Feaver and Follett – were silent. Marbeck inclined his head.

‘Our total strength is two hundred,' Drax went on. ‘Mostly pikemen, with forty harquebusiers – eight ranks of five. They're capable of maintaining continuous fire, rank by rank. Not that we expect to engage in a pitched battle – but I think you know that already.' He paused, then: ‘Indeed, perhaps you should tell us what it is you think we're doing here.'

Inwardly Marbeck tensed. All three men were watching him: it was a further test. Unhurriedly he wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned forward.

‘I believe you're preparing to welcome a certain noblewoman to our shores,' he said, speaking low. ‘To provide an escort, and see her safely to London. Is that so?'

‘If it is so, would you be content to see that lady become our Queen?' Drax asked at once.

Marbeck raised his brows. ‘Quite content, sir. Especially as she has a rightful claim to the throne, as I understand it. And especially if – as I've been given to expect – the rewards for those who help bring about a coronation should prove generous.' He hesitated, then in an embarrassed tone added: ‘Must I lay my cards before you? I have certain debts, which prove difficult to discharge. There's also a small manor in the north that would provide a good living for a man of modest needs like myself …'