Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (19 page)

‘What is it you see, Sir Roland?' Marbeck said gently. ‘Your death awaiting you?' He drew his sword sharply and levelled it at the knight, who froze.

‘Stop!'

Prout pushed forward through his men. As they made way he handed one the lantern and drew his own sword, his eyes sweeping the room. He and Marbeck exchanged looks: there was relief on the messenger's face. Meeres's eyes flew towards him, then back to Marbeck. But it was finished; both his followers were kneeling, apart from the one Marbeck had attacked. He sat on the floor, hands to his face. Blood oozed through his fingers …

But it was he who whimpered – and at the same moment both Prout and Marbeck realized it. With a curse Prout turned towards a corner, but Marbeck knew what had happened. With one eye on Meeres, he looked round … to see Burridge lying in a heap, blood welling from a wound in his chest. His grey-blue doublet, which Marbeck remembered handing him by a roadside in Kent, was soaked with gore. But his face was calm, the eyes open; briefly they flew upwards, towards Marbeck. Then without a sound, his life slipped from him.

But Marbeck saw his expression before his eyes closed, and understood; the paymaster's last emotion had been relief.

S
ome hours later Marbeck was slumped in a boat, being rowed up the Thames; and he was seriously drunk.

The riverbanks drifted by, dimly illuminated by the skiff's lantern, but he barely saw them. Images, along with fragments of speech, swam before him: Sir Roland Meeres being frog-marched out of the Dagger like a common criminal; his men following, their hands bound; Prout at his most officious, issuing orders … and above all the face of Thomas Burridge, gazing up as his eyes closed. Blearily Marbeck looked at the boatman, who was straining grimly at his oars.

‘If you're like to vent your guts, I'll ask you to lean over the side,' the man muttered. ‘I was a fool to take you … you should be sleeping that bellyful off somewhere.'

‘I said you'll have double your rate,' Marbeck answered. He fumbled in his doublet. ‘You want it now?'

‘When I get you to Chelsea,' the other said; then he grunted. ‘Bad news, was it? Money trouble, women …?'

But Marbeck was trying to focus. He remembered walking away from Prout, going back over Holborn Bridge and entering the Saracen's Head. After that, things became somewhat hazy.

‘Where did I hail you?' he asked, squinting at the boatman.

‘Bridewell Dock,' came the reply. ‘Do you not remember?'

There was a bailing can lying in the bottom of the skiff. Seizing it, Marbeck held it over the side until it filled up, then poured freezing-cold Thames water over his head. He shook himself, and took several deep breaths.

‘Feel better?' the boatman asked sourly.

‘I believe I do.'

‘Scroop House …' The man frowned at him. ‘Are you sure that's where you want to go?'

‘Quite sure,' Marbeck replied. ‘And I don't care for further conversation – can we settle on that?'

The other gave a shrug and lowered his head, while Marbeck leaned back against the stern. His eyes closed; he pictured Celia, sitting in her evening chamber playing at cards. It pained him to remember that he had neglected to write to her from Cambridge; as he had from Huntingdon, and even from London. She had trusted him to find her son, and he had done so – but then he had failed her. What had become of the boy he had no idea. His mouth tightened; of all the ways in which he had disappointed Celia over the years, this was the worst. He thought of going north again, of tracking down Isaac Gow and his followers, but feared it might be too late. As for further plots against James Stuart … he sighed. Others should look to the King's safety. After all, he had been an outcast as far as Sir Robert Cecil was concerned; his fists clenched at the mere thought. He opened his eyes, and saw the boatman eyeing him uneasily.

‘We're almost there,' the fellow said, jerking his head over his shoulder. ‘See?'

Marbeck looked, and saw the stone steps ahead. ‘What hour is it?' he asked.

‘Past midnight.' Quickening his stroke, the other began to pull towards the landing-stage. Marbeck watched him for a moment, then found his purse and tugged it open.

‘Will that repay you for your trouble?' he asked. The boatman turned, and his eyes widened: Marbeck was holding up a silver crown. ‘I ask pardon for being a tiresome passenger,' he added, and placed the coin on the seat beside him. Thereafter, neither of them spoke again. Soon Marbeck was walking unsteadily up the steps of Scroop House, and the boat was disappearing downstream.

For once, and somewhat to his surprise, Celia was abed when he arrived. But her servants admitted him, while looking askance at his condition. He was given a small chamber along the landing from hers, and left to himself. So with some relief he peeled off his wet clothes and crawled into the bed. Within minutes he was asleep, and did not awake until dawn … whereupon his first sight on opening his eyes was Celia bending over him wrapped in a morning-gown, her hair loose about her face.

‘Did you come to bring news?' she asked. ‘Or are you merely in hiding?'

‘Both, I think,' Marbeck said sleepily. He lifted the covers, but she did not move. Then his eyelids drooped; in a moment he was asleep again.

When he awoke for the second time the morning was advanced. He gave a start, and looked to see that he was alone in the bed. But sensing a presence, he sat up to discover Celia sitting nearby. She was clothed in a dark gown, her hair carefully dressed.

‘I know I should have sent you a report,' he said. ‘I've no excuse to offer.' When she made no reply, he added: ‘I saw Henry and spoke with him, but he wouldn't hear me. He said—'

‘I've heard from him,' Celia interrupted.

Marbeck fell silent.

‘He sent me a short letter; from where, I know not. It came some days ago … I waited, hoping you would send word, for I was at a loss what to do. I still am.'

‘What did he write?' Marbeck asked.

‘That he was on the verge of a great undertaking, and that one day I would be proud of him.'

‘Is that all?'

‘Not quite. He also said he would not use his father's lands or title. And he bade me search my heart, and look to my own future. He ended by owning his duty to me and to his sister, as a loving son and brother. Then there was only his signature …' She looked away. ‘I did not recognize it … even his handwriting looked odd. It was a letter from a stranger.'

Her voice was flat, as if feeling had been drained from her. Marbeck lowered his gaze, wondering what to tell her.

‘And yet you talked to him,' Celia went on. ‘When?'

‘Three weeks ago, in the countryside near Cambridge.'

‘What was he doing there?' But when he hesitated, her eyes narrowed. ‘You'd better tell me all,' she added. ‘And don't spare my feelings – not even a little.'

So he drew a breath and told her; though he left out the substance of his talk with Edward Poyns in the inn at Huntingdon. By the time he had finished the tale his mouth was dry; seeing a pitcher of water on the night-stand, he left the bed and went over to it. Having drunk thirstily, he turned and saw Celia slumped in the chair with a hand to her face. His instinct was to comfort her, but instead he crossed the room and picked up his clothes. Once in shirt and breeches, still damp from the previous night, he went to her.

‘I'll go and look for him,' he said. ‘I'll go today.'

‘Will you?' Celia raised her head. ‘And if you cannot find him?'

‘I will find him.'

‘This man Gow …' She hesitated. ‘You think he has bewitched Henry – that he's somehow in his power?'

‘To his followers Gow is priest, father and prophet too,' Marbeck said. ‘So in a manner he has power over Henry – or at least has clouded his thinking.'

‘And what do you think he wishes to do? Gow, I mean.'

Her eyes peered sharply into his: as he feared, she had guessed more than he'd told. He hesitated, whereupon suddenly she stood up.

‘I want the truth, Marbeck.'

‘I think he wishes to make an attempt on the King's life,' he answered after a pause. ‘And that his people – Henry included – deem it their duty to carry the scheme out.'

In silence they faced each other. He wanted to reach out, but held himself back. ‘Yes … that would make sense,' she said softly. ‘To make up for everything he sees wrong with England … to atone for his father's failings as well as his own, he wants to take part in this great undertaking, as he calls it. Now I understand his letter.'

‘But it may come to naught,' Marbeck said at once. ‘Our people are aware of the threat – as we stand here, despatches go north to Sir Robert Cecil. The King will be protected from any danger …'

‘As the Queen was,' Celia broke in. ‘Yet her saddle was smeared with poison, she was shot at, came within inches of a dagger-point—'

‘Yet she died in her bed, of old age,' Marbeck persisted. ‘And the King's a wily Scot, who's survived plots galore. Do you truly think Gow could get near him?'

‘Perhaps,' Celia said. ‘Many flock round the King, from what I hear. He rides about his new domain as if it were a country park, dubbing new knights as fancy takes him. What if Henry …'

Suddenly she caught his eye: for a moment, he had betrayed his own fears. The look in his eyes was gone in an instant, but she had seen it.

‘You think Henry could be the one to do the deed,' she said. ‘As the son of a nobleman who lost his life on the field of battle, he could approach the King and be welcomed …'

‘He would be stopped,' Marbeck said firmly. ‘Now we know of the danger, people will watch for him. You must not dwell upon this – you'll drive yourself to madness.'

‘I am mad already – do you not see it?!' Suddenly she was shouting, turning her fear into rage. ‘Mewed up like a Bedlamite, waiting for news and getting none! Meanwhile all of London looks north, while the Queen's body rots at Whitehall. The past is dead – Scots plaid is the new fashion!'

‘That's true,' Marbeck said. And now he did reach out, to take hold of her arms. ‘Yet Master Secretary will keep his head, as he will keep order.' He drew a breath, then: ‘I'll ride to him myself, and see him face to face.'

She said nothing, but nor did she push him away. They stood in silence; outside he heard gardeners at work mowing. ‘And I'll track Henry down,' he added. ‘I will bring him here to you, or take him back to Oxford – whatever you wish.'

‘Oxford?' Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I fear it's too late for that; the dean of his college will refuse him re-admission.'

Marbeck shook his head. ‘He will reconsider. There are men of substance I can call upon, who'll speak for Henry.'

‘If he wishes to go back.' Celia sighed. ‘His letter reads like a last testament … a farewell to us all.' Then she sagged at last, and let her head fall on his chest.

But now his resolve was firm. Once again he had a purpose, that mattered more than foiling hare-brained plots in Kent, or snaring traitors like Meeres. Uppermost in his mind was not preserving the life of the new King of England, France and Ireland; but that of a confused boy, who happened to be the son of a woman he loved.

By midday he was back in London; an hour later he was in the saddle, riding the North Road to Highgate and beyond.

The roads were busy, but that was to be expected. At first Marbeck cantered, then he galloped, letting Cobb have his head. He passed groups of riders going in the same direction; some were noblemen with substantial trains, others rode alone. By late afternoon he had covered the distance to Hitchin, where he stopped to feed his horse and take a hasty supper. The town was bustling, and as with every other settlement he passed through, all eyes looked northwards. King James had left Gateshead, the gossips said, and was moving down to York, where he would be a guest of the Council of the North. As he pressed onwards, Marbeck recalled that the Council's President was Lord Thomas Cecil, Sir Robert's half-brother; likely that was where Master Secretary would go, to meet the King.

Now he forced himself to consider his strategy. He knew Prout had sent a despatch to Cecil, by fast courier. Before Marbeck even arrived, the spymaster would at least know that he had acquitted himself well as a loyal servant of the Crown. Surely he would not deny him an audience? The ruin of William Drax's rebel army and the capture of Sir Roland Meeres would add weight to his case. He had seen Prout briefly before leaving London, and learned with relief that Meeres had confessed to being part of the group of Catholic plotters which included Drax – and, as they had suspected, the Earl of Charnock. What Meeres refused to do, however, even under threat of torture, was name the source of their funds: the one whose wealth had driven the scheme, even made it possible. It seemed even the ringleaders were in awe of him. The matter rankled with Prout, as it did with Marbeck. That was a trail yet to be uncovered, but for now it must wait.

As the light began to fail he spurred Cobb to greater effort, and to his satisfaction reached Huntingdon that same night. He had covered more than sixty miles. In the short time since he was here, however, it seemed the town had swollen in size. There was no room at the George, or indeed any other inn. Travellers thronged the streets and taverns, while some were even camped outside the town. Finally Marbeck recrossed the river to Godmanchester where he was able to get oats for Cobb, though no stabling. Having gathered what news he could, he walked the horse out of the town and found a ruined barn where he spent the night. In the morning, stiff and cold, he was back in the saddle, riding on to Newark-on-Trent, where he was lucky enough to find an inn. There both horse and rider rested, in preparation for the last stage of their journey; tomorrow they would reach England's second city, York.