Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (24 page)

He smiled, though Marbeck barely noticed. He was gazing at Henry, who refused to meet his eye. But the boy was changed: he saw it at once. There was anger and sullenness in his expression, but there was shame there too.

‘Am I to escort a prisoner, too?' he asked Rowan.

‘Not quite; you're to take our friend here back to Oxford,' his fellow intelligencer answered. Reaching into his sleeve, he produced a sealed document. ‘This is a letter for the dean of Exeter College, instructing him to readmit Henry as a student by order of the Crown.'

In some disbelief, Marbeck took it. ‘Whom should we thank for this sudden mercy?' he wondered. ‘Not Master Secretary, surely …' Whereupon a memory arrived, of Lord Thomas Cecil's face as he had taken the purse from him; now, he understood.

‘That must remain a matter of confidence,' Rowan said.

He was holding the reins of his horse, which shifted its hooves, restless to be on the move. Marbeck turned again to Henry, and after a moment the young man raised his eyes.

‘I'll go with you,' he said in a dull voice. ‘I'll make no trouble, but I don't wish to talk.'

Rowan and Marbeck exchanged looks. Then with a nod Marbeck stretched out his hand, which was taken firmly by the other. ‘God speed you to London,' he said.

‘And you to Oxford,' Rowan answered. Then he mounted, and with a last glance at them both rode back across the bridge into the city.

Marbeck watched him go, before turning to Henry. ‘Have you got everything you need?' he enquired, and received a nod in return. ‘Then we'll try to make Gainsborough by nightfall … there's a passable inn I know. Thereafter we have a ride of more than a hundred miles ahead of us – can you manage that?'

Without a word the youth turned and put his foot in the stirrup. He had a good chestnut horse, which had no doubt been supplied by the same powerful man who had obtained his freedom. Marbeck recalled His Lordship's words, in the castle chamber: it seemed Lady Celia Scroop was known to him too. With a lightness born of relief, he too climbed into the saddle and grasped the reins. This day, which had started so badly, was ending in ways he would never have imagined.

And only then did he realize that Henry was no longer wearing his ragged disguise, nor the black garb of his former brethren, but a sober doublet and breeches of fawn. Wordlessly the two of them shook reins and rode out onto the Old North Road, heading south towards the fields of Lincolnshire.

Marbeck allowed two days for the journey from Gainsborough to Oxford, though he could have gone faster. Henry rode well, he saw, but he had no intention of forcing the pace. They said nothing throughout the entire first day, and Marbeck merely bided his time. He believed he understood the young man's feelings; but not until that night, when they were installed in the George Inn at Huntingdon, did he confront him.

He had chosen the resting-place deliberately. It was roughly halfway along their journey, but he would have stopped there anyway. Not far away, more than three weeks earlier, he had found Isaac Gow's company, and attended the meeting in the wood which had ended so abruptly. There was no need to remind Henry; the boy understood well enough. Having eaten supper, he was about to walk off to their shared chamber when, to his alarm, Marbeck steered him into the taproom and sat him down. The drawer appeared, and he ordered spiced ale for himself. Then he looked at Henry and waited.

‘I don't want anything,' he said. ‘I'm weary …' He glanced at the drawer who stood nearby. ‘Tell him so.'

‘Two mugs, then,' Marbeck said to the man, who started to go. Whereupon with a frown, Henry lifted his hand.

‘No, I'll take Canaries … sugared a little.'

The drawer looked at Marbeck, who nodded. But the moment they were alone, the youth turned on him. ‘What do you intend, to get me soused?' he demanded. ‘I'll have none of it – I drink to help me sleep, that's all.'

‘That's wise,' Marbeck said.

They sat in silence, while the room gradually filled with townsfolk. Someone started singing an old Yorkshire air, and someone else joined in. Marbeck drank a little, then stretched his feet out towards the fire, recalling that he had sat in this very spot with Edward Poyns. Henry tasted his cup of Canary wine and stared at the table. Finally he eyed Marbeck and said: ‘If you want gratitude, I shall disappoint you.'

‘I don't,' Marbeck told him. ‘All I want is for you to take up your studies again, and put away what's past.'

The youth made no reply.

‘I spoke to someone you know,' Marbeck added. ‘Thomas Garrod. He was saddened at the way you shunned your friends.'

Henry gave a start. ‘You'd no right to delve into my affairs.'

‘I went at Lady Celia's behest. Had she no right either?'

‘A pox on you – you're determined to treat me as a fool!'

The words came in a burst of anger. One or two people looked round, but since Marbeck appeared unruffled they lost interest. To Henry he said: ‘I don't think you're a fool. I think you were restless and unhappy, not knowing what to believe or whom to trust. Gow appeared, and—'

‘Yes – now it comes!' Henry stared fiercely at him. ‘I was a lamb, led by the nose and destined for sacrifice. I was drunk with love and friendship … my new family!'

‘Some families are by nature worm-riddled, and bound to destroy themselves.' Marbeck eyed the boy grimly. ‘I went to the farmhouse at Brampton, with Rowan. We found the bodies of Silas and another man – and John Chyme's, too. Likely you knew him by another name; but he was a brave man, and a friend.'

At that Henry frowned. ‘John … the newcomer?' A bleak look came over his pale features. ‘He came to betray us … Isaac said so.' When Marbeck said nothing, he added: ‘Yet if he was a friend to you …'

‘He worked for the Crown,' Marbeck said sharply. ‘And in doing so he lost his life. As others have done, because of that man you venerated – and what was his aim? What was it for, will you tell me that?'

‘He swore he would be a martyr for England,' Henry said, after a pause. ‘Those who followed him would share his rapture, on that great day …'

‘And you would be one of them,' Marbeck said. ‘I saw the letter you sent your mother … anyone who read it would know you were prepared to die. Can you not guess what torment it caused her?'

Quickly Henry picked up his cup and drank. Breathing hard, he put it down … and Marbeck saw his hand shake. ‘I was ready to die,' he said finally. ‘Yet not in the way you think … Isaac told me we were going to denounce the King before a crowd, so they would know him for a secret Papist who would turn the country towards Rome.' He spoke rapidly, his face taut. ‘I didn't know he meant to kill him; nor did I know his staff had a blade inside – I swear it. Yet no one believes me.'

‘I believe you,' Marbeck said.

Henry eyed him, but did not answer.

‘And you stopped him – thereby saving the King's life. But you shouldn't be surprised if those serving His Majesty see it differently. They're afraid for their own positions, and their own necks.' Marbeck wore a wry look. ‘They allowed an assassin to get close, hence they want to see you executed along with Gow. I'd expect nothing else of them … You're fortunate that one important man showed mercy, and set you free.'

The youth picked up his mug again; but without drinking he set it down. ‘You serve the Crown too …' He looked away, unwilling to meet Marbeck's eye. ‘I'll admit I owe you much, yet it comforts me not. I see nothing before me but an empty plain, filled with dead things. You can return me to Oxford, present that letter and see me readmitted, but it matters little. I come from brutal stock … the son of a liar and a rakehell.'

‘Yet one who died bravely on the battlefield, fighting alongside his men,' Marbeck said after a moment. When Henry made no reply he added: ‘Now you have assumed his lands and his title … and you have the chance to use them differently. Is that nothing – or is it that you deem yourself unworthy?'

The boy stared down at the table. ‘You know I am,' he said.

But Marbeck shook his head. ‘I've yet to form a judgement on that. I'll wait until you've completed your degree and returned to your family. It's what you do in the coming years that matters …'

He broke off; Henry looked so forlorn, he half-expected him to weep. But instead the youth looked up suddenly. ‘Isaac poisoned the wine at Brampton,' he said. ‘He didn't tell me – he left my cup untainted. Even Silas, who was always loyal, he no longer trusted. I thought I was honoured – that he valued me above the others, to be with him at the end. But I see I was merely his instrument, to help him to the King.'

A moment passed. The singers had ended their song, and were arguing about what to sing next. For now, Marbeck thought, all seemed to have been said. Looking away from Henry he drained his mug, whereupon the boy stood up.

‘I'll go to bed now. I'm unused to riding so far in a day.'

Marbeck nodded. He watched him walk from the taproom towards the stairs, then leaned back as the drawer appeared.

‘Will you take another, master?' he enquired.

‘I believe I will,' Marbeck said.

The following evening, having delivered Henry Scroop safely to the doors of Exeter College, he found an inn on the other side of Oxford and took his first proper rest in days. In the morning he called for inkpot, quill and paper and penned a letter to Celia telling her that all was well, and that Henry was a student again. He left out the details, letting her know he would tell more later. Then he stowed it in his pack, intending to have it delivered as soon as he reached London. Soon afterwards he was in the saddle once more, with time to collect his thoughts.

In the final moment by the college doors, he and Henry had had little to say to one another. The youth was subdued, but no longer as hostile. When Marbeck asked if he wished him to convey any words to Lady Celia, Henry said he would write to her with a promise to return home at the end of the term. Thereafter they parted, without any words of farewell. Yet despite everything, Marbeck sensed some stirring of purpose in him; or had he merely wished it? With a sigh he put the matter aside, and turned his thoughts towards London.

He was back by afternoon, walking Cobb down Bishopsgate Street with the din of the city ahead. Carts rumbled by, there were shrieks from Bedlam hospital and beggars shuffling out of the gatehouse. With a full purse at his belt for once, he thought of finding a good chamber in a good inn, instead of returning to the Boar's Head. Then he remembered his lute was there; so he drew rein, dismounted and turned into Houndsditch. The street was crowded, with people pressing about the fripperers' stalls. He led Cobb past the gun-foundry, turned by St Botolph's into Whitechapel, then stopped. Walking towards him, head down in a reverie, was a figure he could never mistake. He waited until the man was abreast of him, then stood in his way.

‘Were you looking for me, Prout?'

Nicholas Prout started as if someone had pulled a dagger on him. ‘By the heavens,' he began, ‘I thought you were …'

‘Dead? Not yet … though I had something of a scrape in York. Have you ever been there?'

The other shook his head. ‘I wasn't looking for you, though I'm relieved … Are there tidings?'

‘Indeed there are,' Marbeck replied. ‘Where shall we talk, at the Boar's Head?'

Prout waved the question aside. ‘Have you seen Master Secretary?'

‘I have.' Marbeck put on a frown. ‘He's most displeased with you.' The other flinched, and he almost laughed. ‘I expect he'll forgive your recent lapses, though I'm not certain he'll excuse your taking so many matters upon yourself. I was strong in your defence, I should say.'

‘To the devil with you, Marbeck,' Prout muttered.

‘Let me go to my chamber,' Marbeck said amiably. ‘Once I've stabled my horse and made sure my belongings haven't been filched, I'll tell all. Are you still holding Sir Roland Meeres at the Gatehouse prison, by the way?'

‘I am – for I can do naught else,' Prout retorted. ‘He should be taken to the Tower, yet I've not—'

‘The authority,' Marbeck finished.

The other frowned. ‘Why do you ask – do you wish to question him? Is there a warrant from Sir Robert?'

‘Tonight after supper,' Marbeck said. ‘If you'll meet me at Westminster, we'll converse. Will that serve?'

And without waiting he tugged the reins and led Cobb away.

The old gatehouse of Westminster Abbey had been a prison for centuries, and was in a poor state of repair. Yet here some of the most celebrated prisoners of the Crown had been held, including Sir Roland Meeres, who was now confined in an upper chamber. Marbeck and Prout passed down a gloomy passage to a tiny room used by the turnkeys, where they were left alone. Whereupon the messenger, who'd had time to think since their meeting by St Botolph's, put on a hard look. ‘I've waited long enough,' he said. ‘Tell me what's occurred since you and I last parted – the whole of it.'

So Marbeck drew a breath, and told him. By the time he had finished, Prout was seated on a bench with his back to the wall, and an expression that was glum even for him.

‘By all that's holy,' was all he could say.

‘So, we're in something of a quandary,' Marbeck said. ‘Neither of us has the power to interrogate Meeres, as a Privy Councillor, unless we find some means to persuade him to talk willingly. Yet one thing that would restore both you and me to Master Secretary's good favour would be to get him to name this financier who put up the money for Meeres and Drax to hatch their little enterprise.'

‘I'm aware of that, Marbeck,' Prout muttered. ‘Yet short of putting the man to hard question, I see no means to make him spill anything. He's a widower, his children grown and scattered. There's little leverage.'