Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Page 5

  ‘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?’

  FIVE

  They 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.

  In the gathering gloom he made his plans. There was no sense going to London; Master Secretary had shunned him, and in any case would be so occupied that Marbeck would be the least of his concerns. Whereas at Huntingdon, in the days to come, he might get news from messengers riding up and down the highway. Perhaps it would be best to head then for Scotland, as Gifford had advised. But he still wanted to find Gow and his followers, and speak once more with Henry. Having settled on his course, he rode back to Cambridge.

  At supper he and Poyns ate in silence. They sat in the crowded parlour of the Roebuck, among loud-talking townsfolk. On all sides there was only one topic for gossip: the death of the Queen, and the coming of a new king. Having finished their meal, the two intelligencers spoke low.

  ‘I’ve heard further news,’ Poyns began. ‘All eyes look north, as we’d expect. They say James will confirm members of the Privy Council in their present posts – in other words, just now Cecil reigns as if he were in the monarch’s place.’

  ‘Hasn’t he always done?’ Marbeck observed wryly.

  ‘In recent years, perhaps,’ Poyns allowed. ‘But in James Stuart, he’ll find someone less amenable than Elizabeth. They say he means to bring a great party of Scots south with him. He’s laid his plans well, in expectation of succession – almost as if he were certain of it.’

  ‘It was always believed he and Cecil were corresponding in secret,’ Marbeck said. ‘Indeed, our master’s too shrewd not to have smoothed the way. He looks to his own future as much as to England’s.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should do the same,’ Poyns murmured.

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘That, having mulled it over, I may not go to London after all. I think it wise to get to James before Master Secretary does. Cecil’s a poor horseman … he’d hate the thought of a long ride. Whereas you and I have a head start.’

  Marbeck eyed him. ‘I’d thought of going to Huntingdon,’ he said. ‘It straddles the north road … and I think Gow’s gone in that direction.’

  ‘Why? To await the new King, and preach at him?’ Poyns put on a sardonic look. ‘Yet on reflection, going there might be a better course. Indeed, if you decide to continue as a musician, perhaps I’ll join you.’

  ‘You?’ Marbeck raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know you played an instrument.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Poyns replied. ‘But I have a fair singing voice – will that serve?’

  So it was decided quickly. The following morning the two intelligencers left Cambridge, taking the road north-west and crossing the county border into Huntingdonshire. The distance to Huntingdon was a little over fifteen miles, and though the way was still muddy their journey was done by midday. With the church bells clanging, they rode through Godmanchester and crossed the Great Ouse by the stone bridge, entering the county town whose streets were as busy as those of Cambridge. Both men had passed through Huntingdon before, and soon got their bearings. While Poyns went to hire a room at the George Inn, Marbeck chose to look round. Taking leave of his fellow he rode upriver a short distance, at last finding himself at the great house of Hinchingbrooke, where he halted.

  He could not help but admire it. Hinchingbrooke, a country mansion, looked even grander than when he had last seen it. It belonged to the wealthy Cromwell family; Queen Elizabeth had stayed here on one of her progresses, the guest of Sir Henry Cromwell. He gazed at the house, with its fine stonework and tall windows, standing in its own park. It struck him that here was a likely place for King James to stay on his eventual procession south. Indeed, all along the North Road and close to it, he guessed prominent noblemen would be readying their homes in hopes of a royal visit. Offering hospitality to the monarch and his train, though a costly business, could lead to preferment, even titles; and by all accounts the Scottish King was generous with gifts that cost him nothing to bestow. Musing on that, Marbeck turned Cobb about and made his way back to the town. Having seen the horse stabled, he entered the George and discovered Poyns in the taproom nursing a mug.

  ‘The chamber’s adequate,’ he said as Marbeck approached. ‘We’re lucky to get it – the place is almost full. Sit – I have further news.’

  With a glance round at the drinkers, Marbeck found a stool. But as he sat down, he remembered. ‘I forgot to pen a letter to Lady Scroop. I must do it today—’

  ‘I wouldn’t, just yet,’ Poyns interrupted. ‘This news I spoke of concerns our friend Gow.’ When Marbeck looked sharply at him, he added: ‘There’s a lad works here, who’s a ready informant. He’s heard talk, he says, that Isaac Gow will preach in secret to any who will hear him, this very night. The location is a wood outside the town.’

  ‘He got here quickly,’ Marbeck observed, in some surprise.

  ‘So it would appear. My young friend doesn’t know where Gow and his followers lodge – they’re not in any of the inns, needless to say. But he’s preached here before, it seems, and it will likely be at the same spot. Hence …’

  ‘Hence, I’ll have a chance to speak with Henry again,’ Marbeck finished.

  ‘I thought it would content you,’ Poyns said. ‘Though I won’t accompany you to hear Gow prate – he makes my hackles rise.’ He tipped his mug, peering into it. ‘Ah, I seem to be empty …’

  With a sigh, Marbeck looked round for the drawer.

  But that evening, having been about the town through the afternoon, he returned to their hired chamber disappointed, to find Poyns sprawled on one o
f the beds.

  ‘Gow’s nowhere to be found,’ he said, sinking on to the other bed. ‘Your informant may not be so reliable after all. Nobody I spoke to knew of any meeting in a wood.’ He sighed. ‘Tomorrow I’ll venture further afield, find out what I can …’

  But his only reply was a grunt; Poyns was asleep.

  Saturday, the last one of March, dawned grey once again. Marbeck rose early leaving his friend abed, and after a breakfast of bread and porridge ventured out to the stables. Having saddled Cobb he rode from the town, across the bridge into Godmanchester. Then on an impulse, he decided to continue south towards St Neots.

  Two days ago Robert Carey had raced northwards along this highway, carrying news of the Queen’s death. With luck the man might reach Edinburgh in another day, and take word to James Stuart at the palace of Holyrood. Thinking over the events, Marbeck couldn’t avoid a sense of foreboding. If there were indeed people who sought to forestall the accession of the King of Scots, now was their hour. He was pondering the matter as he approached the tiny hamlet of Offord, perhaps four miles from Huntingdon. There was a horse-trough by the roadside, so he dismounted to let Cobb drink … then he glanced across the broad river, and gave a start.

  In a meadow beside a copse, a dozen mules stood in a huddle.

  Instinctively Marbeck turned his back and moved behind the horse. Beyond the small herd he had glimpsed a tent, and figures moving. He seemed to have stumbled upon Gow’s party, but for the moment he was unsure what to do. The notion of confronting Henry Scroop here and now seemed unwise – but he could at least keep the group under surveillance. Raising his head above Cobb’s saddle, he gazed across the river again. There was no mistake: they were the same men he had seen at Gogmagog. He saw no sign of Henry, but had no doubt he was there. So, the horse having drunk his fill, he took up the reins, mounted quickly and rode back to Huntingdon.

  A long day of waiting followed, and by the time evening drew in he was tense. During the day Poyns too had ventured out to gather news. Being unknown to Gow and his company, he had even ridden down to Offord and, finding them encamped where Marbeck had told him, made bold to observe them. From local villagers he had learned that Gow would preach this night near Godmanchester, so that townspeople from Huntingdon could easily attend. There was a wood to the west; people should look for torches that would light the way.