Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting (6 page)

‘Well, I'm in agreement there,' Poyns replied. ‘But thwarted hopes will always drive some to desperation … you've said yourself Cecil fears an uprising, bringing soldiers into London …'

‘He's merely planning for any eventuality,' Marbeck put in. ‘You know him as well as I.'

Though conceding that with a nod, Poyns persisted. ‘I told you I've been closeted among the Papists. There's an undercurrent at Wisbech – and not merely the usual kind, of fantasy and hope woven into whole cloth. Some mutter of foreign gold. I overheard no names, save one: the Earl of Charnock. Do you know him?'

Marbeck thought, but found no memory of the man. ‘There's been talk of such plots before,' he said. ‘A flotilla from the Spanish Netherlands, a landing in Kent or Essex … Our people always found them to be without substance.'

‘What if the Papists had support from within?' Poyns demanded. ‘Small groups awaiting the command, who would band together the moment Elizabeth dies … before James Stuart could even come south to claim his throne?'

At that Marbeck frowned again. ‘Now you contradict yourself. A moment ago you spoke of James showing signs of Papist sympathies, in which case—'

‘Ah – now I've a confession to make,' Poyns interrupted, with one of his grins. ‘I don't believe a word of that.'

In spite of himself, Marbeck managed a smile of his own. ‘Then lay your thoughts bare, won't you?' he said. ‘You may as well … what powers do I have now, to act upon intelligence?'

‘King James a Protestant down to his boots – was that your phrase?' Poyns resumed. ‘Or down to his hose perhaps, which he seldom changes, I hear. The man smells bad, but we'll let that pass. No, Queen Anne's no Catholic convert – I'd wager sovereigns on it. Moreover, the two of them want a sweeter life in England than they've had in their cold little country, as well as a better future for their children. James is a wily monarch – cleverer than many realize. He's using the Papists, wooing them with promises in return for their support. He'll cast them aside once he's crowned – you may wager upon it.'

The man fell silent, and after pondering his words, Marbeck nodded. ‘That sounds likely,' he agreed. ‘And hence those at Wisbech are merely clutching straws.'

‘Perhaps.' Poyns drained his cup and set it down. ‘Yet there are some who'll see Elizabeth's death as an opportunity. And in the matter of religion, her attempts to tread the middle way made bitter enemies … both Papists and Puritans.'

‘Odd you should mention them,' Marbeck said. He gave Poyns a brief summary of his recent sojourn to Gogmagog, which unsettled the man somewhat.

‘Isaac Gow is one I would fear, more than the Jesuits,' he murmured. ‘They are prepared to die for their beliefs – one may even admire them for it. Yet they serve the Pope and their faith, and don't seek martyrdom for themselves. Whereas Gow …' He shook his head. ‘What truly drives that man, I do not know. Some say he should be in Bedlam.'

‘I think he's as sane as you or I,' Marbeck countered. ‘And cleverer than most. His followers adore him – they're like a family, and he the father.' He frowned. ‘Small wonder an unhappy young man like the one I went to find should seek solace in the fellow's company.'

‘But what do they do here, skulking in the hills?' Poyns wondered. ‘Gow was in London last year, spouting to any who would listen. He likes an audience – even craves it.'

Having no answer Marbeck remained silent, whereupon the other let out a long yawn. ‘Your pardon, my friend … I've had little sleep. I should find a chamber of my own.'

‘There's no need.' Marbeck stretched himself, then stood up; he needed to walk. Glancing through the window, he was relieved to see that the rain had eased off. ‘Take my bed,' he went on. ‘I'll return at supper-time … if you're asleep, I won't disturb you.'

‘Then you have my heartfelt thanks.' Poyns rose too, and eyed the narrow bed gratefully. ‘But if you hear any news – from Richmond I mean – you must awaken me.'

With a nod, Marbeck picked up his cloak and sword and went out. Within minutes he was walking the bank of the River Cam, pondering their conversation. It had thrown certain matters into sharp relief, one of them being the uncertain future they and other intelligencers faced. For almost fifteen years – since his recruitment at the age of eighteen in the Armada year, when Sir Francis Walsingham ran the network with ruthless efficiency – Marbeck had known no other life than serving the Crown. If that came to an end, what would he do: return to Lancashire, and live the dull life of a second son on his family's sleepy estate? The notion was as wearying as it was absurd.

He halted, gazing across the swollen stream. It was mid-afternoon, and a pair of poor scholars in threadbare gowns were walking the opposite bank, heads down in conversation. He watched them for a while, memories of his own student days welling up. Even back then, he had known he would not return home … London beckoned, as it always would. But with Elizabeth gone, and a very different monarch in place …

Restlessly he turned away, and started for the town. Just now such speculation was pointless. He would walk off his energies, and if he were recognized, what did it matter? He would smile and bluff, as he had learned to do long ago. But as he walked – by Queens' College, then King's, then Trinity – another matter came to mind: that of Henry Scroop.

Now, he berated himself for abandoning the boy. For Celia's sake he would return to Gogmagog and try again – try harder. And having formed that resolve, he picked up his pace. Soon he had walked the length of the old city, not once but twice, threading his way through the crowds in streets and market. Finally, as twilight gathered, he arrived back at the Roebuck. Ascending to his chamber he found Poyns snoring loudly, and left him. Later he returned to the room, stretched out on the floor and wrapped himself in his cloak with a spare shirt for a pillow. As sleeping-places went he had known worse, he thought, as he drifted off into sleep … only to wake the following morning with a start.

He sat up, looked at the bed and saw it was empty. He had slept late. Stiffly he rose, and padded to the window. The town was astir. He glanced up at grey skies; somewhere a bell was clanging. From downstairs came loud voices … Frowning, he went to the door and opened it, just as feet pounded on the stairs. Poyns appeared, fully dressed and flushed with excitement – and at once, Marbeck knew what had happened.

‘The Queen …?' He stepped aside as his fellow intelligencer hurried into the room. With a nod, Poyns delivered the news.

‘She died this morning, between two and three of the clock. Already Robert Carey's riding north – he passed through St Neots a short while ago, and the word flies on the wind!'

He paused, breathless, while Marbeck stared. ‘And James?'

‘He is named successor after all. Elizabeth couldn't speak by the end, but she made signs. Carey carries the ring they forced from her finger, by which James will know it's true. He's already been proclaimed in London: James the First, King of England, France and Ireland.'

They were both silent. It was Thursday, the twenty-fourth of March: the last day of the reign of Elizabeth, and the first of James. It was also the eve of Lady Day – the start of the new year. The import was lost on neither of them.

‘Well, it may be early but I think I need a drink of something strong,' Poyns said at last. ‘Will you come down?'

‘I will,' Marbeck said.

From outside, there came the sound of cheering. Poyns went to the window and looked out. ‘Fools,' he muttered. ‘What do they think, that their lives will suddenly change for the better? There's another poor harvest likely to come – can the King of Scots banish the rain? Or fill our treasury's empty coffers, for that matter?' He turned to Marbeck. ‘Even if, as some say, he consorts with witches,' he added with a wry look.

‘And others say he thinks them charlatans,' Marbeck replied. ‘You and I, however, will have to deal with base metal.'

‘Indeed we shall,' Poyns said.

Sitting on the rumpled bed, Marbeck pulled on his shoes. While he did so his fellow wandered to the corner, picked up the lute and plucked a string or two.

‘A fine instrument,' he said. ‘Italian, is it not?'

‘It is. The back is hardwood: cherry and rosewood. The face is of spruce …' Marbeck threw him a wry look. ‘I suppose if nothing else, I may continue as a troubadour.'

Poyns put the instrument down. ‘I'll go south, to London, I think … though I confess I'm in no hurry. What about you?'

‘I may go north,' Marbeck said. ‘But first, I mean to pay Isaac Gow and his disciples another visit.'

At that, the other brightened. ‘Well then, why not let me come along too?'

T
hey did not leave Cambridge until the afternoon, having stayed to hear the news that came in on horseback throughout the day, not all of it reliable. One report spoke of the Queen's corpse being abandoned in the presence chamber at Richmond Palace; another that people had flocked to touch it, even to tear clothing from it. Marbeck discounted such tales, knowing that Cecil and the other councillors would have moved swiftly to maintain order. Further reports appeared to have more substance. Elizabeth's body was to be taken downriver to Whitehall, and plans laid for a state funeral. Meanwhile London would prepare to receive the King, when he eventually made his progress south from Edinburgh. The Queen's kinsman Robert Carey had indeed set forth for the Scottish capital, using a relay of post-horses, and was expected to arrive soon. But for the moment, it seemed as if the whole of the nation was in a kind of limbo. The childless Elizabeth was dead, after a reign so long that few could remember any other. There was a new king, but he was far away and not yet crowned … hence in the eyes of some, there was not even a government.

‘And a vacuum like this yearns to be filled,' Edward Poyns murmured. ‘This may prove to be England's most dangerous time … even graver than the year of the Armada.'

He and Marbeck were leading their horses through the crowded street, where people had gathered since morning. As the day wore on a festival mood had arisen: bonfires were being readied, while bells seemed to be ringing out to no particular purpose. Some people were drunk, cavorting like children given an unexpected holiday. Students were about in large numbers, spilling in and out of taverns. Through it all the two intelligencers – Marbeck leading Cobb, Poyns a hired mount – moved slowly, catching bits of gossip as they went, none of it newsworthy. Finally they gained the edge of the town, mounted, and rode out as Marbeck had done the day before, towards Gogmagog.

They said little during the ride. Poyns had no other motive than curiosity, but Marbeck's purpose was plain: this time he intended to be much firmer with young Henry Scroop. He rode swiftly, letting Cobb have his head, while Poyns on his piebald jennet struggled to keep up. Finally, having followed the same track as before, they descended the valley to the old farmstead. But even as they approached Marbeck sensed that something had changed – and soon the matter became clear: the place was deserted. He knew it when he saw the empty paddock where the mules had been penned, and the absence of smoke from the chimney. In silence, he reined in before the house.

‘What, have they flown the coop?' Riding up beside him, Poyns halted and looked about. ‘Perhaps you scared them away.'

‘I doubt that,' Marbeck said.

He glanced towards the barn: the door was open, swaying in the breeze. From the house there was no sound. After a moment he dismounted and walked to the door, found it unlocked and entered. He wandered from room to room, but there was nothing to see. Even the furniture, sparse as it was, looked forlorn. It was as if no one had lived here.

‘They've been burning papers – only this morning, I'd say.'

He returned to the main room, to find Poyns kneeling by the fireplace where there was a pile of ashes. Nearby stood a basket of newly cut firewood.

‘Left in a hurry, is how it looks to me,' he added, looking up. ‘And I think your visit occasioned it.'

‘I can't see why,' Marbeck replied. ‘They've broken no laws that I know of. They consider themselves devout men …'

‘Unless there's something they wish to keep secret,' the other interrupted. When Marbeck frowned, he added: ‘You may accuse me of seeing a conspiracy behind every bush, if you will. But something smells wrong here.' He stood up, dusting off his hands. ‘I've seen Gow preach, Marbeck. There's no fathoming a man such as he. He'd cut off his own hand to prove a point.'

Marbeck thought for a moment. ‘I've a mind to pick up his trail and go after him,' he said finally. ‘Whatever Gow intends, Henry Scroop shouldn't be a party to it. His mother would never forgive me if I let him get into trouble.'

‘You and she are close, I take it,' Poyns observed, and received a nod in return. ‘Well, I fear we must part company. I'd best go to London, see if I yet have a place in Master Secretary's service …' He glanced through a window. ‘But the day draws in. I'll pass another night in Cambridge, then leave tomorrow. You?'

‘I'll do the same,' Marbeck answered. ‘But first I'll poke about, see if I can find anything. Shall we share a supper?'

With a nod Poyns walked to the door. Marbeck heard him ride away. Then, after a last look round the empty house, he went outside and took up Cobb's reins. Once in the saddle, he began to make a slow sweep about the farm, looking for signs of Gow's departure. The meadow grass was flattened in places, but that meant little. He made a wider sweep, and finally his efforts were rewarded. The valley lay on a rough north–south axis, and at its northern end he found what he sought: mule droppings, quite fresh, along with hoof-marks. Leaving the valley, he followed the trail as well as he could in the fading light, and found that it bent north-west, away from the hills. It suggested that Gow and his company meant to pass Cambridge to the north, perhaps crossing the river at a village higher up. In that direction lay Huntingdon, which stood on the Old North Road, the ancient highway from London to York and beyond: Gateshead, Berwick-on-Tweed, and the Scottish border.