Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (25 page)

‘Save in the matter of his religion, and his cause,' Marbeck observed. ‘What if I were to address him, dwelling on the fate that awaits the Earl of Charnock? The prospect of a traitor's death, in all its detail, would chill any man's blood.'

‘He cares little for threats, from what I've seen,' Prout said. ‘He still has rank and influence. He demands a public trial before the Lord Chief Justice, when he'll have his say.'

‘Can we not be fanciful?' Marbeck suggested. ‘Tell him Drax is caught and has spilled everything; that his only chance of mercy is a full confession …' An idea struck him. ‘Or, what if we claim the Pope has denounced Meeres as an upstart who acted without sanction … that he may even be excommunicated?'

Prout looked sceptical. ‘He'd never swallow that.'

‘He might, if a priest were to take the news to him.'

They eyed each other. Marbeck had brightened, but Prout was shaking his head. ‘If you mean to take on another of your theatrical roles, it'll fail,' he said. ‘The man got a good look at you in that room over the Dagger – he'd see through such a ruse in no time.'

Marbeck thought – and the answer came at once. ‘Is Edward Poyns in London still?' he enquired.

‘Poyns? I saw him a few days back …' Prout stiffened. ‘Do you suppose he could carry it off?'

By the following morning it was arranged. Edward Poyns, whom Marbeck had last seen in Huntingdon, was tracked down by Prout to his lodgings in Silver Street. There the two intelligencers talked until late, constructing a small interlude to play before Sir Roland Meeres. Marbeck would maintain a role as Crown pursuivant, while Poyns would take that of a Catholic priest, released from prison on licence to visit Meeres. When that was at last decided, and news had been exchanged, both of them rested for what was left of the night. Marbeck had left the Gatehouse without ever seeing Meeres, but now as London sprang into life he met Prout again by the entrance. With Marbeck was a slight, stooped figure in a priest's hat and cassock. A pair of spectacles was perched on his nose, and there was a bruise on his cheek made by the skilful application of soot and walnut juice. Prout took one look at him and grunted.

‘You know what's required of you,' he muttered.

‘I do, goodman Prout,' Poyns replied, fingering a silver crucifix at his neck. ‘It would go better if I had an Agnus Dei, and a stole. But this was all I could get.'

Prout turned to Marbeck. ‘I can't be there, hence I must put my faith in you,' he said.

Marbeck merely nodded. And soon afterwards the two intelligencers were inside, walking behind a turnkey up a narrow stair. The door at which the man halted was unlocked; he even knocked politely, before a voice from within bade him enter. Marbeck and Poyns exchanged looks: noblemen often lived in high style in prison, provided their funds held out. Some had servants with them, and food and wine brought in daily, even enjoying the company of their wives at times. But the room which Marbeck and Poyns entered was small, furnished only with a bed, table and padded stool. There was a single occupant: well dressed, though somewhat haggard in appearance. As the turnkey stood back to let them enter, the man stood up – then recognition dawned.

‘I'll not speak with you,' he said to Marbeck. His eye fell on Poyns, and a frown appeared. ‘Who's this?' he demanded of the gaoler. ‘What trickery do they attempt now?'

‘No trickery,' Marbeck said. He looked round at the turnkey, who took the hint and disappeared. The intelligencers waited until his footfalls receded, whereupon Marbeck closed the door carefully.

‘I hear you need a priest, Sir Roland,' he said with some contempt. ‘Here's one they've let out for an hour, before he's returned to the Marshalsea. Will you receive him, or shall I take him away? It's a matter of indifference to me.'

He waited. So did Poyns, with a look of mingled fear and concern on his face; then he spoke – but in Latin.

‘
Loquemus lingua Romana
,'
he said in a reedy voice, fixing his eyes on the prisoner. ‘
Hinc grassator non comprehendabit.
'

Marbeck stiffened, and though he understood perfectly –
let us speak the Roman tongue
, Poyns had said,
so this ruffian won't understand
– he feigned incomprehension.

But Meeres gave a start. ‘
Es sacerdos, veramente?
'
he asked quickly, and received a nod in return.

‘
Sum … Te succereram—
'

‘Stop that!' Marbeck glared at them both. ‘Speak English, you devils!'

‘Very well …' Poyns gulped. ‘I … I was merely soothing this man in his predicament.'

A moment passed; Meeres had asked Poyns if he was really a priest, and received an affirmative answer. Marbeck retained his angry look – until at last, to his relief, the prisoner sat down again. ‘Do you intend to stay?' he demanded in a surly tone. ‘Can't he and I have a minute to ourselves?'

‘Later, perhaps …' Marbeck eyed him stonily. ‘For now I'd like to ask you some questions – may I proceed?'

The other hesitated, then looked at Poyns in his cassock. ‘What's your name, Father?' he asked.

‘Tobias Marchant, sir,' Poyns answered, bobbing. ‘Newly removed from Wisbech Castle. I'm pained to see you in such straits … Will you not placate this man, so I may do my office?'

Meeres hesitated, then let out a sigh; as did Marbeck, in silence. His scheme was about to bear fruit.

‘Y
ou realize, Sir Roland, that you will be the last one to die,' Marbeck said. ‘William Drax is in flight, the Earl of Charnock is captured. In time they'll both be dragged to Tower Hill on hurdles, to be hanged at the gibbet and taken down alive. Then their privy parts will be cut off, their innards opened and their bowels pulled forth to be burned before their eyes …' He paused, with a look of mock concern. ‘Do you wish to meet that fate alone?'

There was no answer. Meeres sat rigid, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Nearby Poyns stood, his face transfixed in horror. To Marbeck he said: ‘May the Lord forgive you … you're no better than the wild beasts in the Tower—'

‘No doubt.' Marbeck threw him a bland look. ‘But remember your place here, priest. Any more insolence and you'll receive further treatment, of the kind you found in the Marshalsea.'

Poyns put his hand to his fake bruise and winced. Meeres looked shaken, but remained silent.

‘There's nothing to be gained by holding back now,' Marbeck went on. ‘All I want is the name of the man whose money allowed you to launch your venture, then I'll leave you. The entire scheme has failed – but you know that. Indeed, it was a fool's breakfast from the start. The Pope never sanctioned the enterprise – there's even talk of excommunication.'

‘Lies!' Poyns raised a trembling finger, pointing it at Marbeck. ‘I cannot keep silent at such falsehood … and you're a blasphemer, to speak of the Holy Father in such a manner! This man here will receive his due rites, as a courageous defender of our religion—'

‘A what?' Marbeck forced a scowl; for an instant, his admiration for Poyns's acting had almost thrown him. ‘I told you to keep silent, you Papist cur …' Stepping forward, he gasped his arm. ‘Perhaps we'll dispense with your services until it's time for those last rites you speak of—'

‘No!'

Suddenly Meeres was on his feet again. ‘This is a man of God, who's borne your savagery long enough!' he cried. ‘Let him alone, for I'll tell you nothing! But when it comes to my trial, I'll waste no time in naming those who've stepped beyond their office …'

He broke off; Marbeck had thrown Poyns a look, which his fellow understood even as he shrank from him. To the prisoner, he turned a face of anguish. ‘Sir Roland … I fear there may be no trial,' he muttered, shaking his head. ‘They'll slay you here on some pretext – attempting escape, perhaps …' He turned on Marbeck. ‘Why should I not speak the truth? You can do naught but separate me from my body – whereupon I will find joy everlasting, which you will never know!' Near to tears, he crossed himself. ‘Forbear to fight them, Sir Roland,' he begged. ‘It matters little now. Tell them what they want to know, for the man you will not name has forsaken you – can you not see it? He walks free, while those who put themselves in danger pay the price! I can do no more than pray for you – pray for us all!' And with that, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

A silence fell. Meeres looked aghast, his eyes going from Poyns to Marbeck and back. He sank down on his stool, while Marbeck put on another angry expression, as if Poyns had said too much. He placed his hand on his sword-hilt, threw a withering look at Meeres, and counted to ten …

‘His name's Spinola,' the man said hoarsely.

Marbeck froze, then raised his eyebrows.

‘Augusto Spinola, from Genoa … the
argentarius.
' Meeres sighed and lowered his gaze. ‘Now for the love of God, will you let me make my confession? For my life's done, and there's naught to keep me on this earth.'

He looked up with a bleakness born of despair. ‘England is broken, and the forces of evil are at her gates,' he mumbled. ‘James Stuart will betray us, and burn one day in the pit that's prepared for him – as will you and your kind. Now leave me – and may God have mercy on you!'

Another moment passed; then to Meeres' dismay, Poyns got abruptly to his feet. The prisoner stared – and saw at once how he'd been outwitted. Words failed him; all he could do was gaze at the bogus priest, as he removed his cassock to reveal an unwashed shirt and a pair of striped breeches.

‘Well, that wasn't so difficult,' Poyns breathed, wiping his brow with a sleeve. ‘Shall we leave Sir Roland in peace?'

Prout was waiting on the ground floor of the Gatehouse. As soon as the two appeared, he started towards them.

‘Well, have we a name?' he demanded.

‘We do, thanks to a fine performance on Poyns's part,' Marbeck answered. Suddenly, he felt elated. He gave the gist of what had happened, whereupon the messenger's jaw dropped.

‘Spinola? Surely not … why, he lent gold to the Queen's Council.' He frowned. ‘Meeres has spun you a tale.'

‘I think not,' Marbeck said. ‘I know the truth when I hear it.'

Poyns nodded. ‘I too believe it,' he said.

‘Well, likely it will be a formality in any case,' Prout said, after a moment. ‘If it was Spinola, he'll surely have fled by now.'

‘But you at least will know it was he,' Marbeck said. ‘You may search his home – he might have left evidence. Something to tell Master Secretary when he returns, isn't it?'

Despite himself, Prout was looking relieved. ‘I suppose … Spinola has a great house in Broad Street, as I recall.' He was rapidly becoming his former self. ‘I'll gather an escort, force an entry …' He was about to go, then checked himself. ‘And you'd better come along too – both of you.'

By noon the party had assembled by the pump in Threadneedle Street, a short distance from the Royal Exchange. Before them was Broad Street, where stood the town house of one of the richest men in London. Yet Augusto Spinola, who claimed acquaintance with some of the crowned heads of Europe, had always been a shadowy figure, rarely seen outside his well-guarded residence. He was frequently abroad, and had other properties outside the city, rumour said. The man did business in many fields: wool, lead, timber and alum – yet there was one commodity in which he dealt above all else: money. He was an
argentarius
, Meeres had said: one who managed silver and gold for others, and somehow made it work in his favour. There was no word in the English language for such men, as yet; but it was well known that in Italy and Germany certain powerful figures were forging new ways of doing business. Several times throughout the morning, Thomas Burridge's words had echoed in Marbeck's head:
Men like them live by money as others live by their toil … their fortunes multiply as if by sorcery …

‘Bartolemeo Renzi,' Poyns was saying. ‘He's foremost among moneylenders, is he not? I'd have laid odds he was our man – I'd barely heard of Spinola before Meeres named him.'

He and Marbeck stood apart from the group: three armed pursuivants were being given their instructions by Prout. They all carried swords, and the messenger had a pistol. The intelligencers wore their rapiers and poniards, and the party had already attracted attention. But it was too late for a dawn intrusion, and being impatient for results, Prout would not wait until nightfall.

‘I'd barely heard of the man either,' Marbeck replied. ‘But Drax's paymaster said he was hired through Renzi. He would know Spinola, and could have recommended the man to him – one who was easily bought.'

‘But then, what man doesn't have his price?' Poyns asked.

Marbeck touched his arm: Prout was nodding at them. So in broad daylight the six men moved off up the street, to stop outside the iron gate of Spinola's residence. The front was deceptively narrow, someone said: the house stretched back a long way, as far as the gardens of Gresham House. Nobody was certain whether there were other entrances to the property, so Prout despatched one man to look. Then he tried the gate, which to his surprise was unlocked, and they were soon nearing the front door. But already, disappointment threatened.

‘The courtyard's unswept,' Marbeck observed. ‘There's nobody here … we would have seen servants by now.'

‘I care not,' Prout said shortly. ‘I want the place ransacked, every closet turned out, floorboards lifted.' But for propriety's sake, he banged on the door before trying the latch. It was locked, so the guards would force it. Meanwhile Marbeck and Poyns stood back to survey the shuttered windows.