Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Read online

  ‘Have you formed a strategy?’ he asked Marbeck. They were in their chamber after supper.

  ‘Several,’ Marbeck replied, ‘all of which I’ve since discounted. I’ll see how the land lies, and pick my moment.’

  ‘And if young Master Scroop won’t listen to you, what do you intend? Dragging him away by force?’

  ‘I’ll tell his mother I’ve done all that’s in my power.’

  ‘Well then, perhaps you require help,’ the other said after a moment. When Marbeck looked up, he added: ‘I’ll eschew my distaste and accompany you. I’m a traveller passing through here, merely one of the curious.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to come,’ Marbeck said.

  ‘Yet I will,’ came the reply. ‘Having endured the dogma of dyed-in-the-wool Papists at Wisbech, hearing those who dwell at the other end of the scale might be something of a relief.’

  So as dusk fell the two of them left the inn, walked through Huntingdon and crossed into Godmanchester. Here they found people making their way upriver, straggling in twos and threes. In a few minutes they were crossing a waterlogged meadow towards a dense wood – and soon, a single flame glowed ahead. It turned out to be a torch fixed to a post, beside a rough track. Several cloaked and hatted figures, both men and women, were heading into the trees. Marbeck and Poyns, also cloaked, without swords but with hidden poniards, followed until another torch appeared. Finally they emerged in a clearing where a small crowd was gathering. There was a fire blazing, and beside it a stump on which, they assumed, Isaac Gow would stand to speak. For the moment he was not to be seen, though his followers were standing around. The talk was low and subdued.

  Marbeck glanced about warily, keeping his distance from the fire. He wore his hat pulled low, fearing recognition after his confrontation with the company. Poyns however was at ease, wandering round with undisguised curiosity. He ignored Marbeck as if they were unacquainted. Meanwhile Marbeck worked his way across the clearing, keeping an eye out for Henry Scroop. At last he caught sight of him, standing near the fire with others of the company. In the glow, the boy’s face appeared flushed with excitement. Then a hush fell as quite suddenly Gow appeared, striding purposefully as always, bare-headed and stern-faced. Quickly he mounted the tree-stump, placed feet firmly apart, and addressed his congregation.

  ‘Brethren, I bid you welcome! In the name of the holy saints, peace to you all. And in anticipation of the rapture to come, I urge you to join the faithful in worship!’

  There was a murmur, while the little crowd gathered about him. Marbeck stepped aside as people brushed past. Gow’s own followers stood behind him in a tight body as if to defend him, but there was no threat. These soberly dressed townspeople, if not Puritans of the strictest kind, were at least a sympathetic audience. As they surged closer Marbeck peered over heads and saw Henry at Gow’s side, face upturned eagerly … then he stiffened, and whirled round.

  There was a rustling in the trees behind him, which became running footsteps. Then came shouts, as several men crashed into the clearing wielding sticks – and in a moment, panic broke out. Cries and screams followed, as the crowd fell back in alarm. One of the interlopers charged past Marbeck, swinging a billet. Dropping to a crouch, Marbeck looked round for Poyns, but saw no sign of him. People were running in all directions … he caught a glimpse of Gow, being hurried away by his followers. Then he too was running, towards the spot where he had last seen Henry Scroop … until he tripped over something hard, and landed flat in the grass. Winded, he got to his knees, while figures moved crazily about him in the glow of the fire.

  Then someone hit him, and the firelight became a galaxy of stars.

  SIX

  With confusion all about him, Marbeck struggled to clear his head. He had received a blow to the temple, but was not badly hurt. Looking round, he saw that the clearing was almost empty, the congregation having scattered into the wood. But there were shouts nearby, where several men were seemingly engaged in a scuffle. On his feet, he turned sharply as someone ran towards him, then saw it was Poyns.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘The boy …’ Marbeck began.

  ‘Forget him. Come away – quickly!’

  He hesitated, but seeing no sign of Henry, moved off with his companion. Someone shouted after them, but they were soon in the trees and away from the firelight. Stumbling in the dark, they eventually saw a glow from a torch and headed towards it. Others were doing the same: they heard footfalls, and a woman weeping as she ran. Soon they were on the track leading out of the wood. A few minutes later, their shoes soaking wet from crossing the meadow, they reached the Godmanchester bridge and halted.

  ‘They were hired men,’ Poyns said. ‘Sent to break up the meeting …’ He bent to regain his breath. ‘They’ve taken Gow prisoner.’

  ‘What of Henry – did you see him?’ Marbeck asked.

  The other shook his head. ‘It was a melee. Some people got hurt, but most ran away. Gow might have done so too – his followers tried to resist, but they were scared off.’

  They started walking, but as they crossed the bridge both slowed down. On the Huntingdon side there were torches, and several men standing to bar their way. At sight of them one called out.

  ‘Come forward and show yourselves!’

  Marbeck turned to Poyns. ‘Can you sing O Mistress Mine?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you in jest?’ Poyns retorted. But seeing Marbeck’s expression, he gave a nod. They walked on until they found themselves facing three or four townsmen in plain garb, who looked ill at ease.

  ‘State your names and your business.’ The leader, a morose fellow, held a stave which he levelled at Marbeck.

  ‘Richard Strang, player upon the lute,’ Marbeck said. ‘This is my friend … Wisbech. We’re entertainers—’

  ‘Do you trifle with me?’ The constable glowered at him. ‘You’ve been at the meeting in the woods – you went to hear the separatist devil Gow.’

  ‘We did,’ Marbeck admitted. ‘But out of curiosity … it was an idle notion, nothing more. I thought to make a ballad of it. Let me assure you, we’re not of his persuasion.’

  The men exchanged looks, but their spokesman remained sceptical. ‘Entertainers, you say?’ He surveyed them in the torchlight. ‘Where do ye lodge?’

  ‘At the George,’ Poyns replied, before Marbeck could. ‘If you search our chamber you’ll find my friend’s lute. He’s a fine player … favoured by many of the gentry.’

  ‘Then what do ye here, in Huntingdon?’

  ‘I thought to call at Hinchingbrooke,’ Marbeck said, silencing Poyns with a glance. ‘I would present myself to Sir Henry Cromwell – he’s sheriff of this county, is he not?’

  At that the other men shifted their feet. ‘He was,’ the leader answered. ‘Not any longer …’ He hesitated. ‘See now, I’ve a mind to let you go, if you’re what you claim to be,’ he said finally. ‘Even though I—’

  But he broke off as, without warning, Marbeck launched into the opening of O Mistress Mine. It was Feste’s song from the play of Twelfth Night, which he had seen only the year before, at the Globe Theatre in Southwark.

  O Mistress Mine, where are you roaming? he sang. Oh stay and hear, your true love’s coming … Whereupon Poyns joined in, in a passable tenor:

  That can sing both high and low,

  Trip no further, pretty sweeting;

  Journeys end in lovers meeting,

  Every wise man’s son doth know …

  ‘Enough!’

  They stopped, eyes on the constable, who looked embarrassed. His fellows, however, seemed to have enjoyed the recital. ‘Let ’em pass,’ one said. ‘They’re harmless.’

  After a moment the other gave a nod. But as he moved aside, Poyns, having recovered his wits, seized the opportunity.

  ‘That prating fellow, Gow,’ he said, jerking his thumb back in the direction they had come. ‘I heard he’s taken prisoner – what’ll become of him?’

  ‘He’ll go to
the lock-up, what do you think?’ the constable retorted. ‘But then, it’s not my warrant …’ He broke off, looking past them: other people had appeared on the bridge. Without waiting Marbeck tapped Poyns on the arm and moved off.

  A short while later the two of them were back in the George’s taproom, where Poyns lost no time in calling for strong sack. ‘It’s a good thing you chose that theatre ditty,’ he muttered, as they warmed themselves by the fire. ‘It’s one of the few songs I know.’

  But Marbeck wasn’t listening. Once again, he had failed with Henry Scroop. Now the boy might be anywhere, fleeing with other members of Gow’s company. Though at least, he thought, if their leader was in custody he would no longer have a hold over him … He sighed. What could he do now, search the entire county? He glanced up as Poyns nudged him, and accepted a cup.

  ‘You remember what I said, back at that farmhouse in the hills?’ his fellow said. ‘That something didn’t smell right?’

  After a moment Marbeck nodded.

  ‘Well, it still doesn’t.’ Poyns took a drink, then put his cup on the floor. ‘I’ve rarely heard of a gathering being broken up in that way,’ he went on. ‘Gow may be a fanatic, but what’s his offence? Why is he arrested – and on whose orders?’

  ‘Perhaps the town fathers are edgy,’ Marbeck said. ‘All along the route from Edinburgh to London, it’ll be the same. If word were to reach the King that they couldn’t keep order in their parishes, when he travels south …’

  ‘But that may not be for weeks,’ Poyns objected. ‘Though I can understand they won’t want men like Gow waylaying James, presenting petitions and the like …’ He broke off, pondering the matter.

  ‘I mean to find out where they’ve taken Gow,’ Marbeck said. ‘I’ll go and see him, ask him where Henry might have gone.’

  Poyns frowned. ‘You’ll get nothing out of that man – he’d ward you off as if you were Beelzebub himself.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I must try.’

  ‘And what if you do find the boy? Do you still have a mind to drag him back to Oxford, or to his mother?’

  ‘Oxford,’ Marbeck said. ‘Before it’s too late.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow’s the Sabbath …’ Poyns stretched out his legs towards the fire. ‘I suppose I could attend a church, tune my ears to any gossip. If there’s a gaol …’

  ‘I’ll find it,’ Marbeck finished.

  The next morning brought disappointment, however. There was a small lock-up in Huntingdon, but Gow wasn’t there. Nor, it seemed, did anyone know what had become of him. There was talk of a gathering of Separatists being disrupted, but little beyond that. The town was quiet, its people spending Sunday in their usual manner. So in early afternoon Marbeck walked alone across the bridge into Godmanchester again, to take a look round the village. And here, in a tavern near St Mary’s church, he made a discovery. The Puritan Isaac Gow, it seemed, was being held in the magistrate’s house on the road to St Neots, close to where Gow had originally made his encampment. He overheard this from two men talking idly by the doorway, quaffing ale between sentences. He had been about to make his way out, but stopped to speak with them.

  ‘I too heard the man was arrested last night, masters,’ he said in a casual tone. ‘But why is he held there, instead of in the constable’s charge?’

  The men eyed him, saw he was a stranger and hesitated. ‘Mayhap because he’s a troublemaker,’ one said finally. ‘And we’ve no gaol here.’

  ‘Is the house at Offord?’ Marbeck enquired.

  ‘Close by …’ The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Merely curious … I’ve friends thereabouts.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The other peered at him over his mug. ‘Best tell ’em to keep clear of the Lambert house, then. Gow’s voice is as the serpent’s, that draws folk to their doom.’

  With a nod, Marbeck clapped him on the shoulder and left.

  Back at the George Inn, he found Poyns absent. So without delay he buckled on his sword, went to the stable, saddled Cobb and rode out again. Within the half-hour he was approaching the hamlet of Offord, stopping by the water-trough as he had done the day before. But now there were neither mules nor tent in the meadow across the river. Pressing onwards down the highway, he drew rein at a cottage where an old man was at work in the garden. On enquiry he learned that the Lambert dwelling was south of the village, set back from the road. So after a ride of only a few minutes more, he found himself before a large, well-built house, protected by a stout fence and gate.

  During his ride he had considered several cover stories, but none seemed satisfactory. Now, thinking fast, he decided on a bold approach. If Gow was being held here, he would need a strong excuse for visiting him. Having dismounted, he approached the gate and was about to lift the latch when someone hailed him.

  ‘Stop there … what’s your business?’

  Looking towards the house, Marbeck saw the front door was open. Down the garden pathway, walking smartly, came a tall man in russet clothes. As he drew near, Marbeck saw that he too wore a sword.

  ‘Master Lambert?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ The man looked him up and down, quickly assessing his status.

  ‘John Sands,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Servant of Sir Robert Cecil. I would like to see your prisoner, if I may.’

  The man blinked. ‘What prisoner?’

  ‘The separatist, Isaac Gow. I hear you’re holding him. My master’s had the man watched in recent times. I was one of those ordered to observe him.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The tall man eyed him. ‘Then perhaps you didn’t observe him closely enough. And who told you he’s here?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge, in Godmanchester and Huntingdon,’ Marbeck told him, giving his voice an edge. ‘If you wish for discretion, perhaps you too have been somewhat lax. The meeting last night turned into a riot, from what I heard.’

  The other bristled. ‘What proof have I that you’re Cecil’s man?’ he demanded. ‘I haven’t heard of you …’

  ‘Nor I of you,’ Marbeck said. ‘I would ask on what charge you imprison Gow – and indeed, on what authority.’

  ‘I’ve not admitted to holding anyone,’ the other threw back. ‘And I dislike your tone, Sands.’

  A moment followed, before Marbeck decided to bluff. ‘Very well,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll return to London this very day, and go to Richmond where Master Secretary awaits my report. I fear it will be somewhat short, and lack the details I hoped to obtain from questioning Gow. Yet I’ll not fail to describe the manner in which I was treated by you.’

  With that he turned and walked to where Cobb stood, taking his time. But as he caught up the reins, he was called back. ‘Come inside,’ the householder said shortly. ‘But I still require proof of your station.’

  Calmly Marbeck drew Cobb to the fence, and gave the reins a few turns about it.

  Once inside the house, he found that the man had company. Two other men, who had apparently witnessed their exchange through a window, watched him as he entered a large, well-furnished room. Noting that these two were also armed, he turned to the one who had escorted him.

  ‘I asked if you were Lambert,’ he said, and received a curt nod.

  ‘Daniel Lambert, gentleman and loyal servant of the King. Now, Master Sands – give me proof that you’re Cecil’s man.’

  ‘His clerk, Weeks,’ Marbeck said after a moment. ‘He fell sick at Christmas … another deputized for him at Whitehall. In the matter of private disbursements, that is. His name is Williamson.’

  At that the other two men stiffened, and one of them took a step forward. Marbeck looked into a heavily bearded face.

  ‘Sands?’ The man wore a basket-hilt sword like Marbeck’s, on which he had casually placed a hand. ‘I know that name …’ He frowned. ‘Would you care to expose your right arm?’

  Marbeck hesitated. Then he unbuttoned his doublet, took it off and rolled back his shirt sleeve to reveal the livid scar: the powder b
urn he had received in Flanders three years before, which had faded but would never heal.

  ‘You got that wound escaping the Spanish, did you not?’ the other went on. ‘Yet your companion was not so lucky, I heard … what was his name?’

  ‘Moore.’ Marbeck met his eye, as if daring him to continue. But instead the man nodded. ‘He’s who he says he is,’ he said to Lambert, who let out an audible sigh of relief.

  ‘Then it’s likely you work to the same ends,’ he murmured.

  ‘Indeed?’ Marbeck glanced from him to the other, before rolling his sleeve down again. All the men had relaxed somewhat. As he put his doublet back on, he took a longer look at each. The third was a subordinate, here to serve and keep his mouth closed. While the leader, he now saw, was not Lambert but the one who had recognized him for what he was: a Crown intelligencer.

  ‘May I know your name?’ he enquired.

  ‘Rowan,’ came the reply. A smile followed, to show that it was no more his real name than John Sands was Marbeck’s.

  ‘Well, Master Rowan …’ As he buttoned his coat, Marbeck raised his brows. ‘Is Isaac Gow here, or not? And if he is, may I speak with him?’

  But it was some time before his request was granted, and by then he had learned several things. One was that Gow was indeed here under guard, and one of his companions with him. Another was that Rowan had orders to take him to London, where the man would be held at the King’s pleasure. They would have left today, it transpired, had Gow not been slightly hurt in the fracas in the wood, and allowed a day in which to rest. And now Marbeck understood the words of the constable on the bridge the previous night. Those who broke up the meeting in the wood, he realized, were bullies hired by Rowan. It was he who carried the Council’s warrant, about which he would say little. But in the end he gave Marbeck to understand that Gow was suspected of plotting against the Crown. And whether the man truly posed a threat or not, at this time no chances could be taken. Malcontents of every stamp and stripe, it seemed, were being rounded up and confined until the new King took the throne and made known his wishes.