Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (27 page)

Drax looked up, his eyes bloodshot. ‘End it,' he said, in a voice drained of emotion. Marbeck held his gaze … then frowned. Though aware of noises across the room, he had been so intent on his own struggle he had barely listened. Now he risked a sideways glance – and drew a sharp breath.

Poyns was on his knees, blood everywhere, his sword arm hanging uselessly; even as Marbeck looked, the weapon slipped from his hand. Follett, his face livid with rage and triumph, loomed over him. His arm rose, blade shimmering in the sunlight. Poyns gazed up helplessly; three other pairs of eyes were riveted upon the scene: a grim tableau of execution. Marbeck heard his fellow gasp – but in that second he acted. His left arm flew up, launching his poniard like a dart; with a soft thud it embedded itself in Follett's side.

There followed an odd sound; neither cry nor gasp, but a collective groan from the mouths of three men: Poyns, giving vent to his relief; Drax, because he saw that all was lost; and Follett because he was in pain, and numb with shock.

But the young lieutenant stayed on his feet. His sword arm dropped and a puzzled frown appeared, as he gazed down at the dagger protruding from his ribs. Blood stained his shirt: once an expensive garment, with bands of fine lace at cuffs and neck, now torn and soiled. He regarded the wound, his eyes went to Marbeck … then his knees buckled, and he sank to the floor. There he remained, his and Poyns's positions reversed. Shakily, the little man got up.

‘Yield – this is my last warning. We have ladders – we'll force entry!' Prout shouted from below.

Marbeck didn't look round, but kept his sword pressed to Drax's throat; and for the first time he saw fear in the man's eyes. ‘End it now, for Jesu's sake,' he repeated; though it was a plea rather than a threat.

But Marbeck shook his head slowly. Eyes still on Drax, he spoke to Poyns. ‘Will you unbolt the door? Then call to our friend outside, and tell him to come in.'

Crunching on broken glass, Poyns crossed the room, slid the bolt back and threw the door wide. From downstairs, voices sounded. He turned round, his eyes on Follett, who had slumped to a sitting position. Then the little man winced with pain, pressing a hand to his wound; blood dripped from his sleeve.

‘Where did they get the ladders?' he muttered weakly. He peered down at Drax. But Marbeck leaned over his victim and spoke low.

‘I met Sir Roland Meeres today. I was obliged to remind him how traitors are executed; to focus his mind, you understand. If the King's Council is merciful, perhaps they'll allow you a soldier's death – but I wouldn't wager on it.'

Hatred filled Drax's eyes. His gaze went to his sword lying nearby … but Poyns stepped forward and kicked it beyond his reach. He went to Follett too and kicked his away, though the man was in no condition to move. Blearily he looked up at the two intelligencers, and then an odd smile appeared. Marbeck frowned – then suddenly understood.

‘Stop him!' he cried.

Poyns looked round. ‘Stop what …?'

But he was too late: Marbeck knew it even as Poyns saw what was happening. He started towards Follett, but the man's hand was at his mouth. As Poyns grabbed it he threw his head back and swallowed the poison. In his hand was a glass phial, but it was empty. He let it fall to the floor, a grim smile on his face. Then he fell backwards, his body twitching. The intelligencers could only watch until he died.

A moment passed; then Poyns went to the broken window and leaned out. ‘We're done here,' he called. ‘Will you come up?'

When evening fell, Marbeck was back at the Boar's Head.

He was exhausted, though not too tired to indulge himself in a bath. Such a request was unknown at the inn, but when he named a price the place sprang into life. A half-butt was found, scoured hastily and carried up to his chamber, while servants laboured to bring pails of heated water. Finally, stiff and sore, he peeled off his sweat-stained clothes and lowered himself into the glorious brew. Herbs had been strewn in the tub, and a ball of scented soap provided. A feeling of bliss descended on him. Even the Queen had rarely indulged herself in such a manner, he remembered; perhaps now that James Stuart was King, such occasions would be rarer still.

‘Will there be aught else, Master Strang?'

Summoned from his reverie, Marbeck looked round to see one of the inn's regular wenches standing there, regarding him with a brazen smile; for a moment, he was tempted.

‘Most kind, Bridget,' he answered, leaning back in the tub, where a cloth was placed on the rim for a headrest. ‘I'll pass this time … but if you'd care to hand me my belt, I may find you something for your trouble.'

Bridget didn't hesitate. Going to the bed, she picked up his belt and saw the purse tied to it. But when she hefted it expertly, her mouth fell open. ‘Jesu! You're a bold one to let anyone see a bung as heavy as this, especially at the Boar's Head …' A wicked grin appeared. ‘Why, I could cut it and be off before you got out of that barrel.'

‘You could,' Marbeck said. ‘But what would they say downstairs, when you fled into the yard with a naked man in pursuit? They'd think you'd tried to cozen him.'

‘You'd not be the first to give chase in such a manner,' Bridget retorted. ‘And who cares what they think?'

But when he smiled, she couldn't help return it. She brought him his purse, which he unlaced. Coins fell on to his hand, from which he selected a half-angel. The woman gave another start – but when he looked up, she was pointing not at the money but at his arm.

‘How did you get such scars?' she asked.

‘A long story,' Marbeck replied, and proffered the coin.

With a nod she took it. ‘I know what's the cause of all this,' she said suddenly. ‘You mean to go to the Queen's funeral, do ye not? Thursday next, they say.'

‘All this?' Marbeck looked blank, then realized she meant his taking a bath.

‘Lords and gentlemen will follow the hearse,' Bridget went on. ‘And half of London will stand and gawp … not me, though.'

‘No?'

‘Nay – it's naught to me who sits on the throne. Nothing will change, save there'll be more men about the Court than ladies …' She frowned. ‘But you're a lute-player, are you not? Has someone important hired you, or some such?'

‘You might say so,' Marbeck told her. ‘Now, no affront intended, but will you leave a man to enjoy his soak?'

She went out, whereupon he exhaled and closed his eyes. The sweet-scented water enveloped him like warm silk. Images flew up: Poyns walking unsteadily from Augusto Spinola's house and sitting down in the courtyard, the shock of his ordeal only now striking home. Guards bearing the bodies of their dead comrades out into the sunshine and laying them in a row, grim-faced at the sight. Prout wandering about, his face filled with shame. The body of Lieutenant Follett had also been brought out, to be dumped unceremoniously on a handcart. Lastly came the prisoner William Drax, bound and hemmed in by Crown officers. The man had kept his eyes down, his face expressionless. Only once had he looked up, to meet Marbeck's eye before he was bundled away. But in that second Marbeck saw the man's dismay, and was reminded of a similar look on the face of Sir Roland Meeres, in his cell at the Gatehouse.

He had walked away then, to stand by the gate. Here, in the splendid house in Broad Street, the Papist plotters might have met with their purse-holder: a Genoese whom few people had seen, yet who had financed a scheme that might have handed England to a foreign power. Now the place stood empty and abandoned, used in the final turn as a refuge for one of those same plotters. The three men who had put the scheme into action faced a terrible death; yet he who had made it possible was gone. Then, such people generally got themselves clear, Marbeck mused; that slippery commodity, justice, often favoured the richest, if not the fleetest of foot.

He breathed deeply, hearing the sounds of revellers gathering in the inn downstairs. Briefly he opened his eyes, his gaze falling on his lute in the corner. He planned to dispose of it soon, along with the identity of Richard Strang; a man who would soon become notorious, he suspected, for being the only person in memory to take a bath at the Boar's Head.

Slowly a smile formed; he leaned back again, water lapping his body, and thought of Celia; but his eyelids drooped. As he drifted into sleep an odd notion occurred: that he might become the only man in England who had ever drowned in a bed-chamber. But the notion passed, and in minutes he was snoring.

He never heard Bridget, when she stole into his room later and found him sleeping peacefully. With her was another woman, painted, perfumed and wearing a very low-cut gown sprinkled with fake jewels. The two stared.

‘I fear to wake him,' the newcomer muttered. ‘I thought you said he'd be out of that tub by now, and open to persuasion? There's few men can say no, when they get a sight of my dugs.'

‘We'd best go,' Bridget said after a moment. ‘He's a tired fellow, anyone can see.'

‘Yet did you not speak of a full purse?' the other said. ‘I'll look if you won't …'

But Bridget was tugging at her sleeve. ‘You blowsy old callet,' she said sharply, ‘are you grown deaf? I said he gave me sixpence. He's but a lute-player, can't you see?' She pointed to the instrument, whereupon her companion gave a sigh of impatience.

‘Then why do you waste my time?' she demanded. ‘I'm for downstairs – are you coming or not?'

Q
ueen Elizabeth's funeral took place on the twenty-eighth day of April, some five weeks after her death. A great host followed her body, on a chariot drawn by four horses caparisoned in black. On the coffin was a wax effigy of the monarch, splendidly dressed and wearing a crown. The way from Whitehall to Westminster Abbey was short, and not all those who witnessed the procession were sorrowful; the last years of the Queen's reign had been hard, and many looked to a new beginning. Marbeck, standing with Edward Poyns near the entrance, had few strong feelings either way.

‘I thought the King would keep clear until this was over,' Poyns observed. ‘I hear he's at Hinchingbrooke by Huntingdon, as guest of the Cromwell family. Do you know the place?'

‘I remember it,' Marbeck said. His memory went back to when he sat on Cobb, gazing at the fine manor house; it seemed an age ago. He and his fellow were standing among the onlookers, watching black-clad nobles and servants pass. Poyns's right sleeve was empty, his arm strapped to his body beneath his doublet. After a moment he gave a sigh, and turned to Marbeck.

‘I'm away. Since no one appears to need me now, I mean to pay visits.'

‘As do I,' Marbeck answered.

So with a brief embrace they parted. Marbeck watched the slight figure disappear into the throng, then walked off in the other direction. He skirted the crowd, the abbey and the great huddle of buildings that made up Whitehall Palace, to emerge a short while later on Millbank. Here he took the ferry across to Lambeth, where Cobb was waiting, saddled and laden with his pack, and his lute in its case. He had paid a boy to hold him; as he appeared the lad handed him the reins and doffed his cap.

‘So the Queen is laid to rest now, master,' he said. ‘Were many tears shed?'

But Marbeck merely shrugged, and got himself mounted. Soon he was riding leisurely upriver, reaching Barnes within the half hour. Some distance from Croft House he dismounted and tied the horse to a fence. Then he made his way to the wicket-gate, to pass through the vegetable garden into the kitchen as had once been his habit. Servants were about, and the wenches recognized him at once.

‘Master Strang – what do you here?' one asked in surprise. ‘We heard you were dismissed.'

‘So I am,' he said with a smile. ‘I came to see the Lady Alice – is she here?'

The women exchanged looks. ‘I believe she's in the rose garden,' another said. ‘Yet do you think you should be there …?' But she broke off, for Marbeck was already going.

He found the girl sitting on a bench, under a cherry tree laden with blossom. To his relief there was neither nurse nor maid present, only a gardener at work some distance away. As Marbeck approached Alice gave a start, and leaped to her feet.

‘Richard Strang … Where have you been? I waited, yet you never returned!'

Drawing close, Marbeck halted and made his bow. ‘I came to tender you my apology for that, my lady,' he said. ‘And to enquire whether you still study the lute, or the virginals as your mother wished.'

The girl stared at him, as if deciding whether to be angry or not. Finally she put on her prim look.

‘I learn the virginals. My teacher is old, and sour as a green plum. My brother has a teacher upon the lute, but I'm not allowed. They have taken my instrument and put it away, I know not where.' She brightened suddenly. ‘Do you wish to return as my tutor? I could ask my father …'

‘I regret I cannot,' Marbeck told her. ‘But I had a notion you might like to have a gift; a token of our days together. Will you honour me by accepting it?'

Her eyes widened: until now she hadn't noticed the case strapped across his back. When he unslung it and held it out, her hand went to her mouth. ‘You wish me to have your lute?'

‘I do,' Marbeck answered. ‘There's no one in England to whom I would rather give it.' He waited, until finally the girl stepped forward and took it in both hands.

‘You are a true friend,' she said quietly.

‘As you are to me, my lady,' Marbeck replied.

A moment passed. The gardener was regarding both of them curiously, while from the direction of the house came voices.

‘Now I must leave again,' Marbeck said, summoning a smile. ‘Please present my respects to your father and mother.'

But Alice's face fell. ‘Oh … I cannot,' she said. ‘Or at least, I can to my father, when he returns from the north country. But my mother is gone into Essex, to her family's estate. Palmer is gone with her.'