Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (2 page)

M
arbeck ducked under the dripping eaves, pushed open the door and stepped into the smoky interior of the Angel tavern in Mortlake village. He shook the rainwater from his hair, glanced round and quickly found the person he was looking for.

‘I thought we said Sunday,' he murmured, taking a stool and seating himself. ‘I spent much of yesterday waiting for you …'

‘Your pardon,' John Chyme said quickly. ‘I couldn't leave the palace. You cannot know what it's like there, just now.'

‘I can guess,' Marbeck replied. He looked up as the drawer arrived to ask his pleasure. Having called for the best ale he turned to Chyme, who put a hand over his own mug and shook his head. ‘I cannot stay,' he said.

‘Very well …' Marbeck waited for the tapster to depart, then eyed his informant: young and handsome, and somewhat well dressed for a riverside tavern like the Angel. Under his keen gaze Chyme hesitated, then said: ‘It's worse than I thought.'

Marbeck raised an eyebrow.

‘I'm not certain, but I think someone's trying to smear your name – to paint you in the darkest of colours.' The young gentleman, who was in the Earl of Nottingham's service but also served, without His Lordship's knowledge, as a sometime intelligencer for the Crown, gave a sigh.

‘It's no secret you've made enemies, Marbeck,' he went on. ‘Perhaps one who has the ear of Master Secretary himself is taking the opportunity to wield the knife, to your detriment.'

‘It may be so,' Marbeck allowed. The drawer having arrived, he took his mug and drank. He set it down and gazed through the latticed window at the Thames swirling by, murky and swollen with the rains. It had been a grim winter.

‘What news of the Queen?' he asked abruptly.

Chyme shrugged. ‘None are admitted to her rooms, save her ladies and her closest councillors. The archbishop will come again soon, they say. Physicians go in and out, but there's little change.'

‘Has anyone dared to put a forecast on it?'

The other shook his head. ‘It could be days, or weeks. But death comes – most are resigned to it. I hear she merely lies on a pile of cushions, and will not eat or drink. It's as if she has lost her desire to live …' Suddenly there was a catch in Chyme's voice. ‘That great heart, sunk to this,' he muttered. ‘I was at Whitehall for the Christmas Revels – she laughed and danced like a maid. Now see what change has come.'

He looked up, and with an effort mastered himself. ‘This will avail us naught,' he said. ‘And you have troubles of your own …' But Marbeck put a hand on his arm.

‘Elizabeth's in her seventieth year,' he said. ‘Yet her chaplains pray and her Council hope for miracles, as they have always done. Why, when she was almost fifty they still tried to arrange a marriage for her, as if she could have borne an heir at that age. Hope may often drive reason from the field.'

A frown creased Chyme's delicate features. ‘None dare talk of the succession yet – indeed, it seems it's forbidden even to think of it – but the Papists' hopes remain high. Master Secretary has put all our people on the alert …' He looked embarrassed. ‘That is, I meant to say—' but he broke off as Marbeck laughed.

‘All the intelligencers – except me,' he said. ‘But what you've told me may point at the reason. It also explains why my messages to Sir Robert have gone unanswered. He's keeping me at arm's length … perhaps he even has me watched.' He levelled a gaze at Chyme, who gave a start.

‘Surely you don't think that I—'

‘Of course not.' Marbeck shook his head. ‘There are few I trust; Gifford, and the God-fearing Prout of course. But rest assured, you too are among them.'

The young man sighed and took a drink. ‘I fear I can be of little help to you now,' he said.

‘Have you spoken with Cecil yourself?'

‘Barely a word. He's preoccupied and says little … but he watches everyone, as keenly as one of his own hawks. Unease fills the palace. Robert Carey, my lord's nephew, waits to take word to the King of Scots – if he is named successor of course, as we expect.'

Chyme fell silent, and for a while Marbeck almost forgot his presence. He thought of Derbyshire, where he had spent a tiresome few months passing himself off as a lutenist in the household of Bess of Hardwick, the Countess of Shrewsbury. Since that formidable woman's granddaughter, Lady Arbella Stuart, was next in line to the English throne after her cousin the King of Scotland, attention had naturally focused on the twenty-seven-year-old spinster. But Arbella, wayward and fanciful, was unlikely to pose a threat to the country's stability, Marbeck had decided. Even if she were used by others more determined than she, and married off to a Papist as some wished, he had still dismissed the notion. Any threat to the Crown would come from elsewhere, he was certain. He had sent in his report on his return to London, but was struck by the way everything had changed, once the Queen had moved upriver to Richmond Palace. Not only had Marbeck since failed to get an audience with Sir Robert Cecil: Master Secretary had ignored his every approach. Which his best intelligencer found somewhat alarming …

‘I must leave you now.'

He looked up to see Chyme draining his mug. Having set it down he got to his feet, adding: ‘I cannot promise to discover more. But if you wish me to try …'

‘I thank you, John,' Marbeck said quietly.

The young man nodded, walked to the doorway and stepped out into the rain. Marbeck watched him go, then waited a few minutes before rising and making his own way out. He had some thinking to do, but hadn't time for a long walk by the river, which he would have preferred. Standing under the Angel's sagging eaves, he resigned himself to returning to his current place of residence, the house of Sir Thomas Croft in Barnes.

It was only a short distance, though Marbeck wished it were longer; he was in no hurry to get back. Not only was he bored with Sir Thomas: he had begun to dread the attentions of his wife, Lady Margery. Two more nights at most, he thought, and he would seek somewhere else to stay. By then he would have decided what to do about his present predicament: whether to try sending one more message to Sir Robert, or to take himself away from the south-east. The Queen's demise, it appeared, would come soon enough … though it also seemed clear that whatever followed, Marbeck would be unable to play any real part in it. That was what hurt most: ingratitude, hostility, even contempt, he had endured before and could again. But to be shut out by his spymaster without a word – not merely as if he were no longer trusted, but as if he no longer mattered … it was hard to bear.

Suppressing the thought, he set his face to the driving rain and began to walk downriver, along the path towards the hamlet of Barnes. But when he entered the broad hallway of Croft House, he found himself confronted by someone who, more than anyone he knew, made him feel quite defenceless.

‘Richard Strang! I waited all morning, yet you didn't come!'

Lady Alice Croft, ten years old but with the will of someone twice her age, stood by the stairwell scowling at him. Her flame-coloured hair was elaborately dressed, she wore her best kirtle, and in one hand was the lute which Marbeck was attempting to teach her to play. Her puny chest heaving with indignation, she brandished the instrument like a weapon.

‘My lesson was for ten of the clock!' Alice fumed. ‘And I was eager to show you the scale of G, which I have practised in my chamber ever since breakfast!'

Dripping with rainwater, Marbeck put on a contrite look and made his bow. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady,' he said. ‘I was detained on some trivial business … but we'll work now, if you will. I'm keen to see the fruits of your labours—'

‘That sounds like mere soft soap, sir!' The child wore a prim expression, exactly like the one seen often on the face of her mother. But while Marbeck had realized some time ago that Lady Margery Croft's pious ways were but a mask for her true nature, her daughter had not yet learned such duplicity. Marbeck liked her for it; and now, he was ashamed.

‘I swear it is not soft soap,' he said. ‘And I'll make up for my failure in any way I can. Shall we to your lesson, or—'

‘Well … if you're truly sorry, perhaps we might.' Lady Alice's anger never lasted long. Under his new alias, Richard Strang, Marbeck had been engaged to tutor the girl a fortnight ago, on the strength of a forged recommendation. It enabled him to be close to Richmond Palace during the crisis, yet far enough away to escape notice. Though he was fast becoming something of a fixture at Croft House, he knew, which made him uncomfortable. He smiled at his pupil, and gestured to the stairway.

‘Then let's to the music room, my lady,' he said brightly. ‘You may prepare yourself, while I fetch my own lute from my chamber.'

‘Oh … but you're soaked to the skin!' Alice broke in, having only just noticed.

‘I will change my attire, too,' Marbeck told her. ‘Then I will be ready, and eager to see how you've mastered the difficult scale of G.'

At that the child nodded and turned to go upstairs, whereupon Marbeck's smile faded. Leaving Lady Alice's company, he knew, would be his one regret.

At supper he was subdued, his mind busy, though he made an effort to converse. The Croft household was large, and bluff Sir Thomas made a point of advertising his goodwill to all, regardless of their station. Thus the more important servants ate in the hall with the family, Marbeck among them. He sat at the end of the top table with the murmur of voices about him, trying to ignore the looks aimed at him by Lady Margery. Having finished a dish of raisin pudding, he was on the point of excusing himself when the lady leaned forward, turned and called to him across people who sat between them.

‘Master Strang, Lady Alice tells me you were absent this morning, and so missed her lesson.'

Forcing a smile, Marbeck faced her. ‘Indeed, madam, it was remiss of me,' he said. ‘Yet Lady Alice and I resumed our studies as soon as I returned. She has forgiven me – and as always, she makes excellent progress.'

But tonight the lady of the house was not to be placated. Fixing Marbeck with a brazen stare, she said: ‘My daughter may have forgiven you, but I haven't. I wonder what took you away – in the direction of Mortlake, was it not?'

Heads turned in Marbeck's direction, among them that of the steward, who was seated on Lady Margery's left. On her right, her husband was in conversation and unaware of their discourse. But at once Marbeck saw it: the steward, an officious man, had made no secret of his dislike for him from their first meeting. It was he, of course, who had learned where Marbeck had gone that morning. Silently he cursed the man, as he cursed himself for his carelessness.

‘So it was, my lady, and thence to Richmond,' he admitted. ‘I'll confess the reason: it was to get news of the Queen. But there was such a press of folk about the palace I could not get near, and came away having heard naught but gossip.'

‘Then your journey was not only undertaken without thought for your duties, it was also fruitless,' the steward said, with a smirk at his mistress. ‘And I wonder that any man would wish to go out in this rain … do you tire of us so soon?'

Marbeck met the man's gaze. ‘Far from it,' he replied. ‘Tutoring Lady Alice is a pleasure …'

‘I am glad to hear that.' Lady Margery watched him, willing him to keep his eyes on hers. Coolly she half-turned to her steward, who took the hint and quickly gave his attention to his supper. Sighing inwardly, Marbeck waited.

‘Our son Thomas reaches his ninth birthday soon,' the lady continued. ‘I had a mind that he might take lessons upon the lute. Lady Alice, perhaps, should learn the virginals instead. That is more becoming to a young lady – would you not agree?'

For a moment Marbeck was lost for words. The thought of young Thomas becoming his pupil in place of Lady Alice filled him with alarm; the boy was as unpleasant as any he'd had the misfortune to meet. But the notion crystallized his resolve: he would go, and soon. He inclined his head to Lady Margery.

‘As you wish, madam.'

‘Good …' The lady kept her eyes on his. ‘It will mean engaging another tutor, but I believe Sir Thomas will be agreeable.' She paused, and delivered the killing blow. ‘And of course, Master Strang, your duties will then be somewhat lighter, since the boy has other lessons to fill his waking hours. I will have to think of other ways to keep you occupied.'

At that Marbeck had to make an effort not to wince. The look in Lady Margery's eye might have been enough, had he not received earlier hints of her intentions too: in particular the time, but a few days back, when she had stopped him in a corridor and made it plain that she would come to his chamber one night, and expect certain services of him. The memory evoked dismay, if not dread. With an effort he smiled again.

‘Your ladyship is kind.'

The steward gave a snort, and stabbed at his pudding.

Later that night, Marbeck decided to take a risk and absent himself from Croft House for a second time. The rain had finally ceased, and though the roads were muddy he had thought of taking his horse out of the stables the next morning. Lady Alice's lesson was not until the afternoon. But he was restless, and would not wait for the morrow. He resolved therefore to walk downriver to Putney, take the ferry across the Thames and make his way to the house of Lady Celia Scroop in Chelsea.

Relations between Marbeck and Lady Scroop, widowed for more than two years now, had grown somewhat strained of late. Since the death of her husband in the Low Countries, a change had come over the woman. Though somewhat relieved by his death (had she not secretly wished for it?) she had become withdrawn, even towards Marbeck. Indeed, she had appeared almost to discourage his visits, rare though they were; his sorties as a Crown intelligencer often took him far afield. On returning from Derbyshire he had sent a message, however, and was relieved to receive a reply bidding him come to her soon. Now, he thought, was as good a time as any. In the light of this evening's conversation, he had resolved not to remain under the Crofts' roof a moment longer than necessary. So while most of the household were preparing to retire for the night, he slipped out through a side door and left by the stable yard. Within the hour he had crossed the river on the last ferry, and a short while later arrived at the door of Scroop House, where as always he was admitted.