Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (20 page)

But that night, matters took an unexpected turn.

Having washed himself and eaten a welcome supper, Marbeck was in his chamber preparing to retire when someone knocked on the door. In breeches and shirt he went to open it, only to start in surprise. There stood a man he had almost forgotten; at first he could not even recall his name … then it dawned.

‘Rowan?'

The other barely nodded, leaning on the door-frame. He was more than merely tired: he was utterly spent. ‘Somehow, I thought you and I might cross paths again,' he said.

Marbeck stood aside to let him enter, and at once the man slumped down on the bed. Looking up, he managed a thin smile. ‘Where are you bound, northward?' he asked. ‘That's where half the country's heading, from what I see.'

Having looked him over, Marbeck went to a table, poured out a mug and took it to him. ‘This was mulled, though it's cooled now,' he said. ‘But it's wet, and well spiced.'

Rowan took it gratefully and drank almost to the dregs, while Marbeck found a stool and brought it over. ‘What do you do in Newark? he asked. ‘More, how did you know I was here?'

‘I didn't,' came the reply. ‘I've been using the town as a base these past days … following up scraps of what I would have called intelligence, but which always turn out to be false.' He wiped his mouth and gave a sigh. ‘It was a relief to see a face I recognized.'

‘I heard of your trouble with Isaac Gow,' Marbeck said, after a moment. ‘Are you still looking for him?'

‘Still looking.' The other sighed again. ‘Who'd have thought a man like that could give someone like me the slip – and with such ease?'

‘He had help,' Marbeck replied. ‘And he's cleverer than he looks. That coughing fit—'

‘Oh, that was real.' Rowan drained his mug and set it on the floor. ‘He's not a well man … even when I lost him on the way to Hitchin, he wasn't faking. His friend – that old scarecrow Silas. He seized the chance, and got him outside.'

‘And his people were following?' Marbeck asked sharply.

‘So it would seem.' The other peered at him. ‘I remember now – it was that boy you were trying to rescue, wasn't it? One who'd tagged along with Gow …'

‘Henry Scroop.' Marbeck stiffened. ‘Have you had any word of him?'

The other shook his head. ‘Gow's people scattered … the trail went cold almost at once.' He let out a sigh. ‘I'm done with it all. I'm not a man who likes to admit he's beaten, but …'

‘Your man – the guard who was with you …' Marbeck began, but Rowan merely grunted. ‘He's gone back to London. He said he'd make a fair report, but he'll just try to cover his back. That's what everyone's doing just now, is it not?'

Marbeck couldn't help a rueful smile. ‘Then it looks as though you and I are both outside the pale,' he said. ‘Though I won't bore you with my story just now … you look like a man who needs some rest.'

Rowan nodded. ‘Might I share your chamber? My purse is light – a corner will do.'

But Marbeck was already on his feet. ‘Take the bed,' he said. ‘I'll order a supper for you … things will look better tomorrow.'

He took up Rowan's mug and went to the door. But even as he opened it, a sound made him turn. The man had already stretched out, and was falling into an exhausted sleep.

‘I
knew you were Marbeck, as soon as I saw you,' Rowan said. ‘That day in the magistrate's house near St Neots. Perhaps it's meet you should learn my name – for you know it's not Rowan.'

They stood in a meadow outside Newark, letting their horses graze in the sunshine. It was the morning after the man had appeared at Marbeck's door in a sorry plight, but having slept and eaten he was much refreshed. The intelligencers had agreed to exchange news, for they soon realized they shared a common purpose: to find Isaac Gow and, so Marbeck hoped, Henry Scroop along with him.

‘Then who are you?' Marbeck asked.

‘I'm Barleyman.'

He recalled the name from years back, in the time of Sir Francis Walsingham. Barleyman had been under a cloud: it was believed he'd once sold intelligence to Spain. The slur was later found to be false, and the man entered Sir Robert Cecil's service, since which time he had served the Crown well. He was a man who needed to prove himself, it was said, time and again.

‘You'll recall last night, when I said you and I are both outside the pale,' Marbeck said after a moment. ‘Shall we trade confessions?'

‘You mean compare grudges?' the other asked wryly. ‘Or lay bare our guilt?'

‘I mean swap confidences. Though for policy's sake, I'll still call you Rowan.'

Marbeck returned the other's smile, and soon they were talking. Rowan had indeed had his troubles, since losing Isaac Gow en route for London. He'd heard of sightings of the man, always further north. They had led him to Nottingham and Lincoln, and now to Newark. In turn Marbeck told his own tale of recent weeks, which surprised his companion. But when he mentioned John Chyme, of whom he'd had no news, Rowan nodded.

‘I heard rumour of a newcomer amongst them – a young man. The group you encountered at Cambridge and Huntingdon is much altered – I think some of them have deserted Gow. Though I believe the boy's still with him, as is Silas. Perhaps Chyme succeeded in worming his way into their company.'

‘We must find them, and quickly,' Marbeck said. ‘I'm told the King is nearing York. And if Gow's heading north …'

‘Yet I've been chasing shadows for the past fortnight,' Rowan said with a sigh. ‘They're more like a robber band than a company of zealots. Gow spreads false rumours of his whereabouts, he has sympathizers who provide shelter … he may even use disguise.'

‘So what brought you to Newark?' Marbeck wondered.

‘A piece of intelligence that's yet to be exhausted,' the other answered. ‘There's a doctor in this town, a barber-surgeon, who's been in trouble in the past for making angry pronouncements about the Queen, the bishops, indeed, anyone who isn't of the Calvinist persuasion like him. I thought he might know of Gow's whereabouts, so I visited him yesterday, but he claimed he'd never heard of the man. I mean to try him again.'

‘Then might I try instead?' Marbeck suggested.

The barber-surgeon's premises were in a narrow street close to Newark's market square. An hour later Marbeck presented himself in a guise he had not used before, that of a devout Puritan, seeking out a fellow devotee. At first however his plan almost stalled: the good doctor, who went by the name of Slowpenny, claimed he was setting out to visit a patient. Hence Marbeck was obliged to plunge into extempore.

‘By the good saints, sir – have you no heart?' he cried. ‘I've come fifty miles looking for tidings, and you say you're too busy to greet one of the faithful?'

The other blinked. He was a flinty little man, clean-shaven and clad from head to foot in dusty black. ‘Who are you, and what do you want with me?' he asked. They stood in the doorway of his home, Slowpenny with a high-crowned hat in his hand. Marbeck wore a plain black cloak and no sword and carried a similar hat, which he had managed to find on a stall. Twisting its brim in feigned nervousness, he bent closer.

‘I hoped you might have news of a friend,' he said. ‘I went to join him in the Gogmagog Hills by Cambridge, but he had gone … I've spent weeks trying to find him.'

The doctor gave a start, and a look of suspicion appeared. ‘There was someone else here yesterday, asking questions,' he murmured. ‘I told him I'd never heard of that man, and I'll say the same to you—'

‘What man?' Marbeck broke in. ‘I've named no names. I came here because I was told you were one of faith and soberness. One brave enough to challenge the squalid reign of Elizabeth Tudor – to speak the truth as written in scripture.'

The other hesitated, and a touch of pink appeared on his cheeks; he was not immune to vanity after all. ‘Yet I fail to see how I can help you,' he answered. ‘You're asking for news I cannot give …' And he would have moved to the door, had Marbeck not stayed him.

‘I merely wish to find him, and hear him preach,' he protested. ‘To converse with him, as I would have at Gogmagog – where's the harm? I believe you're a man of principle, but also of charity. Can you not at least send me away with some hope? Point me towards good Doctor Gow, that I may clasp his hand as I yearn to do!'

But Slowpenny remained stony-faced, and merely nodded towards the door. So with an effort, Marbeck produced his last card. It was a Ballard trick, of course: focus your mind upon a painful memory from childhood, the old player had once told him, and the tears will come. So screwing up his face, he forced himself, and was rewarded by his eyes filling and drops coursing down his cheeks. To his relief, the ruse worked.

‘Great heaven …' More in embarrassment than in sympathy, the barber-surgeon relented. ‘Brother, this will not do … you'd better come and take a restorative.' He led the way to the rear of his cramped premises. Marbeck sat on a stool, shaking his head and wiping his eyes, while the other fussed about, preparing a mix of powders and liquids.

‘You are most kind, doctor.' Marbeck took the cup from him and sipped the foul-tasting brew. ‘My weakness confounds me; our leaders of old, like the great Calvin, would be ashamed.'

‘No doubt.' Slowpenny looked uncomfortable. ‘See, I must go soon. You may rest here a while – but with regard to the other matter …' He shook his head. ‘I deem you a believer, yet I fear to aid you. Our brother Isaac – yes, I will name him – has been sore pressed in recent weeks. Arrested for no good reason, pursued after he bravely escaped—'

‘Arrested?' Marbeck looked horrified. ‘No … that is too hard to bear! But can I not join him, and share his tribulations? At least tell me in which direction I should go, dear friend – will you not do that?'

A moment passed; he held his expression, of earnestness mingled with deep concern, until at last the barber-surgeon sighed and pointed through the window. ‘You'd best journey north,' he said. ‘There's a house on the edge of Brampton village that belonged to a friend of his – the Tyrrell house. I know not if he is there still, for he moves about a great deal. But you may get news …' He shook his head again. ‘I pray you're in time, for our poor brother is sick … yet one day he shall be raised in rapture. God preserve him!'

‘Amen …' With a sigh, Marbeck stood up. ‘I'll go at once.'

He placed the cup of medicine in Slowpenny's hand; the man took it absently, then saw that it had hardly been touched. He glanced up, but all he saw was Marbeck's back disappearing through the doorway.

Brampton was fifteen miles away. On Cobb, Marbeck could have reached it by noon, but he was obliged to go slowly, Rowan's horse being as wearied by recent exertions as its rider. The two reached the village by mid-afternoon, and after watering their mounts, obtained directions to the Tyrrell house. But as they left the main road and turned onto a track that led through fields, they slowed down instinctively.

A large timbered house had appeared ahead. This had been a farmstead, Marbeck saw, but it was run-down, and he was reminded of the place at Gogmagog; there was the same silence, the same air of watchfulness. There were no mules, however, nor smoke from the chimney. He and Rowan walked their horses to the front of the house and halted. No one appeared, so they dismounted and approached the door; both sensed that something was wrong.

‘Let me go first,' Rowan said, and drew his sword. Marbeck loosened his in the scabbard, his eyes sweeping the house. They mounted a step, Rowan lifted the latch and threw the door wide. It opened with a creak … and as one, they stopped dead. Stretched out across the hallway was a man who appeared to be in the throes of agony. As they stared, he raised his head and gazed imploringly at them.

‘Help me … for the love of Christ …'

Sheathing his sword, Rowan went forward. Marbeck followed – and recognition dawned. ‘This man was with Gow at Gogmagog,' he said.

The front of the man's doublet was covered with vomit. ‘It works through me!' he gasped. ‘I'm slain, like the others …' His hands clawed his stomach. ‘It burns … horrible!'

‘He's been poisoned,' Rowan said, but Marbeck gave a start. ‘Others?' he echoed. ‘Henry …'

He listened, but there was no sound. Quickly he moved along the hallway, peering through open doorways. Rowan came after. At the end was a wide chamber, lit by the afternoon sun; they hurried in – and froze.

Two men were sprawled by a large table, where the remains of a meal lay. One Marbeck recognized immediately: the oldest of Gow's company, white-haired Silas, whom he had last seen in the house by St Neots. The other … he breathed out in relief: it wasn't Henry Scroop. Then dismay overcame him.

The man was John Chyme.

‘By heaven … what foul business was done here?'

Rowan stood beside Marbeck, dumbfounded. Silas had seemingly expired where he sat, half-drooped across a bench. His eyes were open, while his hands clutched his stomach, like those of the man in the hallway. Chyme had apparently got up from the table and staggered several feet before collapsing on the floor. There were traces of vomit about his mouth.

‘All poisoned?' Marbeck looked at the table, noticing several overturned cups from which red wine had spilled. Then he knelt beside Chyme, feeling the great artery in his neck. There was no pulse, but the body was barely cold. The young man – handsome still, but clad in the plain clothing he had donned to infiltrate the company – looked as if he were merely asleep. With a heavy heart, Marbeck bent his head.

‘What in God's name was this – a last supper?'

Rowan was sniffing one of the wine cups. He gestured to the dishes, some of which were untouched. ‘The food's cold,' he said. ‘I'll wager it happened hours ago …' He gave a start, as a cry came from the hallway. Marbeck turned, tearing his gaze from the body of his friend.