Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  The Martin Marbeck Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  The Martin Marbeck Series

  MARBECK AND THE DOUBLE-DEALER*

  The Thomas the Falconer Series

  THE RUFFLER’S CHILD*

  A RUINOUS WIND *

  THE RAMAGE HAWK*

  THE MAIDEN BELL*

  THE MAPMAKER’S DAUGHTER*

  THE JINGLER’S LUCK*

  THE MUSCOVY CHAIN*

  *available from Severn House

  MARBECK AND THE KING-IN-WAITING

  John Pilkington

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by John Pilkington

  The right of John Pilkington to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Pilkington, John, 1948 June 11- author.

  Marbeck and the king-in-waiting. – (A Martin Marbeck

  mystery ; 2)

  1. Great Britain–History–Elizabeth, 1558-1603–

  Fiction. 2. Great Britain–History–James I, 1603-1625–

  Fiction. 3. Great Britain–Kings and rulers–Succession–

  Fiction. 4. Spy stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8294-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-450-8 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  PROLOGUE

  Augusto Spinola’s house stood in Broad Street, a short walk from the Royal Exchange. From the outside it appeared a fairly modest dwelling, until the visitor passed through an iron gate, crossed a paved courtyard and entered what the owner called his sala. From there, and throughout the rest of the house, the opulence became breathtaking. Gilt mirrors, marble statues and rich hangings were everywhere, along with ornately carved furniture displaying the finest plate. At the rear of the house Spinola had caused a colonnade to be built, overlooking a well-tended garden where his children had played, and where his grandchildren might follow. Here, had it not been for the noise and bustle beyond the high walls, visitors could imagine themselves in some Italian villa instead of in the heart of London. The only thing which might spoil the effect was the cold, and on this particular day in March, the heavy rain that fell. Not that it troubled the three men who arrived discreetly at the house in late afternoon, to be conducted by a servant to Signor Spinola’s private chamber.

  Here, in a room without windows, the newcomers were greeted by the financier himself, wearing a black silk doublet, gold chain and immaculate ruff. Soon they were seated around a table covered with a Turkey carpet, being served with sugared sack in silver cups. By now the host’s smile had given way to a shrewd, penetrating gaze. In silence he regarded his guests, until the last servant departed. Whereupon Sir Roland Meeres, the oldest man, spoke up.

  ‘You know why we’ve come, Signor Spinola.’

  ‘I do, Sir Roland.’

  ‘Do you have tidings for us?’

  ‘I?’ The Italian raised his eyebrows. ‘I was expecting you to bring news for me.’

  ‘If ye mean have we fulfilled our part of the undertaking, sirrah, then ye may consider yerself assured of that,’ the second man said, in a broad Scots accent. The only one who bore a high-sounding title – the Earl of Charnock – he was also the worst dressed of the three. He sniffed, rubbed his thick beard, and looked to Meeres to elaborate.

  ‘There are troops in the Netherlands under Sir Henry Flood, who merely await the order,’ Meeres put in. ‘You may know that he succeeded Bostock as commander of that regiment … loyal followers of the true faith. They’re eager to set their feet on English soil.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Spinola glanced at the third man, who had yet to speak, then eyed Meeres again. ‘I confess I have heard otherwise: that the so-called English Regiment is merely a rabble of renegades and malcontents who follow the one who offers the fattest purse. The Spanish consider them more of a nuisance than anything else.’

  The visitors bridled; or rather, Meeres and the Earl did. The other man coughed slightly, then said: ‘Does that matter?’

  They turned to him: William Drax, veteran soldier, who levelled his gaze at Spinola. ‘When a surgeon must deal at speed with a patient who’s gravely hurt, he cannot afford to fret about the quality of instruments at his disposal,’ he went on. ‘England is that patient, sir – her very soul in danger, if another Protestant succeeds to the throne. As he likely will – and sooner than you may think.’

  ‘Then it’s true that the Queen is dying?’ Spinola said, after a moment. ‘I only returned from the Continent two days ago, but I heard she was in better spirits, and responding well to the treatment of her physicians.’

  Charnock gave a snort. ‘Stuff and lies, put about by yon whoreson devil Robert Cecil!’ he snapped. ‘There are post-horses stationed at every stopping place from London to Edinburgh, and messengers ready to ride the moment Elizabeth breathes her last. Why, there’s an exodus already – men slipping away northwards by road and by sea, eager to be first to kneel before James Stuart and swear their loyalty. Then there’ll be knighthoods flying about, like chaff in the wind.’

  ‘That may be,’ Meeres broke in, clearly finding the Scot’s outburst distasteful. ‘But let us not leap so far. It’s plain the Queen lies sick at Richmond … she’s not been seen in public for over a week. Yet she may rally …’

  ‘I think not – not this time.’

  Drax was shaking his head. ‘There’s a black cloud hanging over that place that has naught to do with the weather. And why else would Cecil be bringing boats upriver, filled with troops? He plans for the worst, as well he might. None are admitted to the palace now without his approval. I fear time is short, sirs – hence, we must set things in motion.’

  A silence fell. Augusto Spinola glanced at each man, before tu
rning aside. On the table by his elbow was a small box, beautifully enamelled. Producing a key, he opened the casket and drew out a folded document.

  ‘This is a bill of exchange,’ he said. ‘Issued by my associates in Florence … it may be drawn on parties in London, or in Brussels, or Antwerp. The sum is equal, in approximate terms, to twenty thousand English crowns.’

  There was a stir. The Earl, unable to conceal his glee, slapped a hand on the table. ‘By heaven, Spinola, I was told if any man could do it, ’twas you!’ he exclaimed. He turned to Meeres, who smiled; only Drax remained impassive.

  ‘Another bill may follow in time,’ Spinola added, unfolding the paper and spreading it out carefully. It was in Latin, covered with text in a neat Italianate hand. ‘Though my friends would no doubt want proof that matters are proceeding apace before issuing it. Hence my earlier question, sirs: apart from the apparent readiness of troops in Holland, what further assurances can you give me?’

  Eagerly now, Meeres leaned forward. ‘Many,’ he answered. ‘Why, in every county, loyal believers stand ready. The Infanta’s claim to the throne is their beacon of hope – they will flock to her banner the moment she lands on our shores. For almost forty-five years they have endured the Protestant yoke – but now that the end draws near, they strain like hounds at the leash. Let Cecil keep his troops cooped up in their rotting ships; it will avail him naught, the moment our forces appear. If you ask me the matter will be settled within days – and a Catholic monarch shall once again be crowned in Westminster. Then all those who’ve striven to bring it about shall reap their just rewards!’

  ‘Amen, sir …’ Visibly moved, Charnock gave a sigh. Drax showed no emotion, save a trace of irritation.

  ‘Fine words, Sir Roland,’ he murmured. ‘Yet we cannot rely on mere goodwill. The Earl of Essex learned that lesson two years ago, and paid for it with his head.’ He faced Spinola; a look of understanding passed between two realists. ‘I’m raising a small troop in Kent,’ he went on. ‘Picked men, seasoned and well armed – some have served under me in the past. They’ll provide the bridgehead, if you will: an escort for Isabella Clara, to see her safely ashore and guard her in those first, crucial hours. Once it’s known that she marches on London, others, as Sir Roland says, will rally to her cause. But of course, some of the population are likely to resist. Hence I propose that the English Regiment land elsewhere – perhaps at Gravesend. Once the people of London learn that forces are approaching from two directions, they will panic. They haven’t forgotten the Armadas … it takes little to spread alarm.’ He glanced at the Earl. ‘Perhaps you can assist us there, my lord?’

  ‘Well, I’ve not been idle,’ Charnock retorted. ‘I too have people ready. But as you know, my task lies north … to prevent the Stuart bastard getting any further south than Berwick!’ His lips curled in a sneer. ‘It won’t be the first time the wretch has been taken prisoner – only this time shall be the last!’

  There was a moment, before Spinola gave a nod. ‘I liked your words, my lord,’ he said gently. ‘Particularly the mention of knighthoods … The new Queen Isabella will no doubt wish to reward those who have helped bring about her succession. And should men of noble birth wish to put my own name forward …’ He gave a thin smile. ‘I believe I have dwelled in your country long enough to merit consideration … would you not agree?’

  Charnock opened his mouth, but again Meeres was quicker. ‘You may have few doubts about that,’ he said smoothly. ‘I can already imagine an escutcheon bearing the arms of Sir Augusto Spinola … and perhaps in time, men may have cause to address you too as My Lord.’

  Spinola acknowledged the compliment graciously – whereupon, wearing a sardonic look, Drax broke in.

  ‘Before we fall to rewarding ourselves with titles just yet,’ he observed dryly, ‘I believe there are details to discuss – shall we begin?’

  His fellow conspirators sat up, their faces suddenly grave, which prompted a chuckle from Spinola. ‘But first, let us drink to success,’ he said. ‘Or should I say victory – to His Holiness the Pope?’

  Smiling, he lifted his chased silver cup; while outside, the rain fell in torrents.

  ONE

  Marbeck ducked under the dripping eaves, pushed open the door and stepped into the smoky interior of the Angel tavern in Mortlake village. He shook the rainwater from his hair, glanced round and quickly found the person he was looking for.

  ‘I thought we said Sunday,’ he murmured, taking a stool and seating himself. ‘I spent much of yesterday waiting for you …’

  ‘Your pardon,’ John Chyme said quickly. ‘I couldn’t leave the palace. You cannot know what it’s like there, just now.’

  ‘I can guess,’ Marbeck replied. He looked up as the drawer arrived to ask his pleasure. Having called for the best ale he turned to Chyme, who put a hand over his own mug and shook his head. ‘I cannot stay,’ he said.

  ‘Very well …’ Marbeck waited for the tapster to depart, then eyed his informant: young and handsome, and somewhat well dressed for a riverside tavern like the Angel. Under his keen gaze Chyme hesitated, then said: ‘It’s worse than I thought.’

  Marbeck raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m not certain, but I think someone’s trying to smear your name – to paint you in the darkest of colours.’ The young gentleman, who was in the Earl of Nottingham’s service but also served, without His Lordship’s knowledge, as a sometime intelligencer for the Crown, gave a sigh.

  ‘It’s no secret you’ve made enemies, Marbeck,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps one who has the ear of Master Secretary himself is taking the opportunity to wield the knife, to your detriment.’

  ‘It may be so,’ Marbeck allowed. The drawer having arrived, he took his mug and drank. He set it down and gazed through the latticed window at the Thames swirling by, murky and swollen with the rains. It had been a grim winter.

  ‘What news of the Queen?’ he asked abruptly.

  Chyme shrugged. ‘None are admitted to her rooms, save her ladies and her closest councillors. The archbishop will come again soon, they say. Physicians go in and out, but there’s little change.’

  ‘Has anyone dared to put a forecast on it?’

  The other shook his head. ‘It could be days, or weeks. But death comes – most are resigned to it. I hear she merely lies on a pile of cushions, and will not eat or drink. It’s as if she has lost her desire to live …’ Suddenly there was a catch in Chyme’s voice. ‘That great heart, sunk to this,’ he muttered. ‘I was at Whitehall for the Christmas Revels – she laughed and danced like a maid. Now see what change has come.’

  He looked up, and with an effort mastered himself. ‘This will avail us naught,’ he said. ‘And you have troubles of your own …’ But Marbeck put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Elizabeth’s in her seventieth year,’ he said. ‘Yet her chaplains pray and her Council hope for miracles, as they have always done. Why, when she was almost fifty they still tried to arrange a marriage for her, as if she could have borne an heir at that age. Hope may often drive reason from the field.’

  A frown creased Chyme’s delicate features. ‘None dare talk of the succession yet – indeed, it seems it’s forbidden even to think of it – but the Papists’ hopes remain high. Master Secretary has put all our people on the alert …’ He looked embarrassed. ‘That is, I meant to say—’ but he broke off as Marbeck laughed.

  ‘All the intelligencers – except me,’ he said. ‘But what you’ve told me may point at the reason. It also explains why my messages to Sir Robert have gone unanswered. He’s keeping me at arm’s length … perhaps he even has me watched.’ He levelled a gaze at Chyme, who gave a start.

  ‘Surely you don’t think that I—’

  ‘Of course not.’ Marbeck shook his head. ‘There are few I trust; Gifford, and the God-fearing Prout of course. But rest assured, you too are among them.’

  The young man sighed and took a drink. ‘I fear I can be of little help to you now,’ he said.

/>   ‘Have you spoken with Cecil yourself?’

  ‘Barely a word. He’s preoccupied and says little … but he watches everyone, as keenly as one of his own hawks. Unease fills the palace. Robert Carey, my lord’s nephew, waits to take word to the King of Scots – if he is named successor of course, as we expect.’

  Chyme fell silent, and for a while Marbeck almost forgot his presence. He thought of Derbyshire, where he had spent a tiresome few months passing himself off as a lutenist in the household of Bess of Hardwick, the Countess of Shrewsbury. Since that formidable woman’s granddaughter, Lady Arbella Stuart, was next in line to the English throne after her cousin the King of Scotland, attention had naturally focused on the twenty-seven-year-old spinster. But Arbella, wayward and fanciful, was unlikely to pose a threat to the country’s stability, Marbeck had decided. Even if she were used by others more determined than she, and married off to a Papist as some wished, he had still dismissed the notion. Any threat to the Crown would come from elsewhere, he was certain. He had sent in his report on his return to London, but was struck by the way everything had changed, once the Queen had moved upriver to Richmond Palace. Not only had Marbeck since failed to get an audience with Sir Robert Cecil: Master Secretary had ignored his every approach. Which his best intelligencer found somewhat alarming …

  ‘I must leave you now.’

  He looked up to see Chyme draining his mug. Having set it down he got to his feet, adding: ‘I cannot promise to discover more. But if you wish me to try …’

  ‘I thank you, John,’ Marbeck said quietly.

  The young man nodded, walked to the doorway and stepped out into the rain. Marbeck watched him go, then waited a few minutes before rising and making his own way out. He had some thinking to do, but hadn’t time for a long walk by the river, which he would have preferred. Standing under the Angel’s sagging eaves, he resigned himself to returning to his current place of residence, the house of Sir Thomas Croft in Barnes.