Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Page 8

  At that Prout frowned. ‘Did he speak of his mission?’

  ‘He did. We talked a good deal … he’s one other, at least, who places his trust in me.’

  They eyed each other, then Prout looked away. Marbeck sensed that the man was troubled, engaged in some debate within himself. Keeping expression from his face he waited, until the other turned to him again.

  ‘Master Secretary is as taut as a wand,’ he murmured. ‘I never knew him so on edge … he is terse with everyone. He sees treason behind every greeting. He keeps to Burleigh House like a fox gone to earth.’

  Marbeck made no reply; he could imagine it well enough.

  ‘Meanwhile, reports whirl about us like leaves in the autumn,’ Prout went on. ‘The Council meet and argue, part and whisper, then meet again, their faces full of suspicion. While England lies open to a gale, from any direction …’ He sighed. ‘I do not welcome the coming of the King of Scots. I’ve heard little that’s good about the man. He will drive the people of this country apart, as the Queen tried to draw them together.’

  Raising his brows, Marbeck let him know that he understood, even shared the sentiment. Never, he thought, had Prout been so open with him before. And like Lady Celia, he too seemed to have aged a good deal in a few short months.

  ‘So when intelligence arrives, as it has of late, tainted with prejudice, even panic,’ he continued, ‘it’s doubly hard to sift grain from chaff. Especially when some seek to report what they think our master wishes to hear. And, I’ve heard it said, our new King is a man’s man, and not subject to the whims and caprices of the woman who ruled us until a week ago.’ He lowered his gaze. ‘You follow me, I think.’

  ‘Perhaps I do,’ Marbeck said, after a pause.

  ‘Hence at times like these, loyal men may need to step back, and act as their consciences dictate. Would you not agree?’

  ‘I suppose I would.’

  Prout said nothing further. A moment went by, and an unspoken current of thought passed between them.

  ‘Well then, I’m glad I sought you out,’ Marbeck said at last. ‘And how might I serve Master Secretary, without him knowing of it?’

  EIGHT

  That evening, in the parlour of the Boar’s Head, Marbeck ate the best supper he’d had in days. He did so because Nicholas Prout had given him a small sum and bade him spend it as his needs dictated. Afterwards he returned to his chamber and waited until twilight, before buckling on sword and poniard and leaving the inn. Aldgate was still open, and he was soon passing along Fenchurch Street before turning down Mincing Lane, towards the church of St Dunstan’s in the East.

  As he walked the wet streets he ran over his conversation with Prout, as he had done all afternoon. Suddenly, from being almost an outcast he found himself an intelligencer again – though one without the authority of his spymaster Sir Robert Cecil. It was a role he had neither sought nor imagined, but his talk with the messenger had made something clear: just now, there were matters that must take priority. The loyal Prout, for better or worse, was calling upon men he could rely upon, without Master Secretary’s knowledge. Cecil was cold and distant, preoccupied with the King’s accession; but a small circle of intelligencers, working in secret, might act independently of him. The notion excited Marbeck, though it also made him uncomfortable. Somewhat warily he halted, as Prout had instructed him, outside a small house opposite the church, on the bend of St Dunstan’s Hill. The street was quiet, the place in darkness. He glanced about, then knocked in a prearranged pattern. Soon the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman in workaday garb, who smiled in greeting.

  ‘Master Sands?’

  He was admitted, and followed her down a passage to a half-open door. But when he entered the candlelit room, he stopped in surprise. Three men rose from a table. One was Prout, another was a stranger with the look of an old soldier, but the third was a handsome young man in good clothes, wearing a wry smile: John Chyme, his informant of a fortnight ago, when the Queen was dying at Richmond. There was a brief silence, before Prout spoke.

  ‘Here is the last of our party. He uses the name Sands, though some of us know him by another …’ He turned to Chyme, who gave a nod.

  ‘I’m glad to see you well.’

  ‘And I you, John …’ Marbeck’s eyes strayed to the other man.

  ‘He is Llewellyn, whose house this is,’ Prout went on. ‘Or rather it’s that of his sister, who admitted you. He will not speak, because he cannot.’

  By way of explanation, Llewellyn opened his mouth. Marbeck looked, and understood. At some time in the past this man’s tongue had been cut out: a harsh punishment.

  ‘Shall we sit?’ Prout looked somewhat embarrassed; he was unused to playing host. As they sat down the woman, who had disappeared after showing Marbeck in, re-entered bearing a tray with cups of wine and a dish of sweetmeats. She set it on the table, then departed again. As she went she laid a hand on Llewellyn’s shoulder.

  ‘These people have my trust,’ Prout said, his eyes on Marbeck. ‘Llewellyn served in France and the Low Countries – he has knowledge that’s of value to us. As do you all,’ he added, with a glance at Chyme. ‘Along with your courage. For what I will ask you, is of grave import …’ He hesitated, then: ‘To come quickly to the nub of the matter, there’s a scheme being set forth, that threatens England’s very heart. Confronting it may tax you to your limits – even to loss of life. Hence, before we proceed, I offer you the chance to go now and take no further part. And this gathering, you will understand, never took place.’

  A silence followed. Chyme merely lowered his eyes, while Marbeck glanced at the others. He saw the tension in Prout, but he sensed determination too. While Llewellyn … he met the man’s gaze, and saw plain courage; the kind that only those who have faced death and defied it would understand.

  ‘I congratulate you, Prout,’ he said at last. ‘This company you have assembled may accomplish much – and I’m eager to hear more. As are we all, I think?’

  Another moment passed; then Llewellyn smiled, and began passing round the cups.

  The conversation that followed was long. And by the end of it, the plot Prout had spoken of filled the minds of all. It alarmed both Marbeck and John Chyme, as it had the others. The matter had come to Prout’s notice via a written report from Llewellyn that, poorly spelled as it was, spoke eloquently enough. It lay before them now on the table. The man had penned it on his return from Holland after a hard campaign, and passed it to Prout as the only man he knew who might act upon it. For its implications were as momentous as could be: a scheme was in train to seize the English throne, before James Stuart was crowned King. Prout laid it forth to the intelligencers, though details were frustratingly scant. But when the name of the Earl of Charnock was mentioned, Marbeck looked up sharply.

  ‘Poyns heard him spoken of, among the Papists at Wisbech Castle,’ he said. ‘He should have made report of it by now to Cecil …’ But he broke off as Prout shook his head.

  ‘Intelligencers’ reports go through a new clerk just now,’ he said. ‘He will show it to me first, before it reaches Master Secretary. Indeed, it may not do so … not yet, anyway.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Things get lost or misplaced, at times … you understand.’

  Marbeck and Chyme exchanged glances, and the latter showed his surprise. ‘I never knew you to take such risks before, Prout,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve not found myself in this position before,’ the messenger admitted. To Marbeck he said: ‘Will you tell us the gist of what Poyns told you?’

  He did so, though there was little to add. When he finished Prout was fingering Llewellyn’s letter, squinting at the man’s fearful scrawl.

  ‘The Earl of Charnock’s a hothead,’ he said, laying it down again. ‘An old-style Papist, who’s never forgiven his countrymen for hounding the Queen of Scots. He and a few others like him burn for revenge as much as for a restoration of their faith … and now, I believe they see their chance. The last I heard the man was in Sc
otland, but I cannot be sure.’

  Llewellyn made a sound in his throat, and pointed to the paper. When Prout held it out he jabbed at a passage with his forefinger.

  ‘My friend here often passes for a deaf mute,’ Prout said. ‘Hence at times, he overhears matters that men would otherwise forbear to speak of.’ He looked at Marbeck, then at Chyme. ‘He heard private talk in Holland of the English Regiment … that rabble of traitors who fight for Spain against our own troops. They’re abuzz with new purpose – they talk of going home, even of claiming their birthright. I think we can guess what that means: a full-blown Papist rising at last. And to my mind, we may guess at the woman they propose as England’s new Queen.’

  ‘The Spanish Infanta,’ Marbeck said at once. When the others turned to him he added: ‘I was contemptuous of the notion, when Poyns spoke of it in Cambridge. Even when he voiced the suspicion that someone might finance such a scheme. Yet from what Llewellyn has heard, I may have dismissed it too readily …’ He frowned. ‘Perhaps someone needs to go to Holland and infiltrate the traitors’ regiment; someone with knowledge of the country.’

  He fell silent, for he was the obvious person for such a mission. Both he and Prout knew it, though the thought of returning to that war-torn land filled Marbeck with dismay. But instead Prout shook his head.

  ‘That should not be necessary.’

  The intelligencers eyed him, sensing further revelations. Llewellyn was nodding, and again he pointed to the report.

  ‘There’s a name here that’s not unfamiliar to me,’ Prout added, after a moment. ‘Mayhap you know it – William Drax?’

  Marbeck raised his brows. ‘Drax … the one they used to call the basilisk?’

  ‘I’ve heard of the man,’ Chyme said with a frown. ‘As wily a rogue as ever drew sword. He was once tried as a traitor, but walked free.’

  ‘That he did,’ Prout agreed. ‘It was said he had help from important men … nobles for whom he’d done private service. He’s a man for hire, without scruples.’ He paused, then added: ‘And he’s here, raising an army in Kent.’

  There was a sudden silence.

  ‘A small army perhaps,’ Prout went on. ‘Billeted in villages and outlying farms, so as not to arouse too much attention. Well armed and well fed, and within a short march of Dover …’ He gave a shrug. ‘Do I need to say more?’

  Chyme was aghast. ‘But surely Master Secretary is aware of these activities, right under his nose? He could not – he would not, ignore such reports …’

  ‘Providing they’ve reached him,’ Marbeck broke in. A picture was forming that troubled him. ‘If this army you speak of is well organized enough to maintain secrecy – and moreover, to have intelligence of its own …’

  ‘Indeed,’ Prout nodded. ‘It’s the reason we’re here.’

  Each man was silent, as the import of his words sank in. Suddenly it seemed that England was indeed in peril – not merely from without, but from within too. Marbeck threw a look of approval at Llewellyn. ‘Our nation might have cause to be grateful to you one day, my friend,’ he said quietly.

  Llewellyn made more signs, the meaning of which was unclear. But Prout nodded and said: ‘There’s a mission for you, Marbeck – not in the Low Countries, but a mere sixty miles away: to attach yourself to Drax’s force. Llewellyn can offer his services as a mercenary soldier for hire, pretending only greed as his motive. But if he were accompanied by one who could move among officers as well as men …’ He trailed off, whereupon Marbeck gave a nod.

  ‘Then what part do I play?’ Chyme spoke sharply. ‘I’m as eager to know what Drax and his rabble are up to as you are—’

  ‘I know.’ Prout turned to him. ‘But I need a courtier. One who may mingle with the Council, as I cannot. One who will—’

  ‘Hang about Whitehall with the gossips?’ Chyme retorted. ‘The notion appals me. My lord has no need of me just now – I may as well ride north towards Scotland, to fawn upon our new King as others do. Indeed,’ he added, as a thought struck him, ‘could I not take word to him of this treason, so he may send troops to meet it?’

  ‘He has none to speak of,’ Prout countered. ‘The Scottish King’s no military man. He’s spent the pension Elizabeth allowed him on his court, and his pleasures. Besides he’s yet in Edinburgh, and will not ride south for days. When he does set forth it will be a slow journey. I doubt he’ll arrive before the Queen’s funeral is over, by which time—’

  ‘It may be too late,’ Marbeck finished. But he sympathized with Chyme; the young man was loyal and eager to serve. To Prout he said: ‘There’s merit in what John says. We have troops here in London, do we not, for this very eventuality? They could move down to Kent – Drax’s army would scatter.’

  ‘That’s what I fear Master Secretary will say, once he learns of it,’ Prout replied with some impatience. ‘But that may be what they want him to do. Once our troops are drawn away from London a landing may take place elsewhere, at any of half a dozen ports. Drax and whoever he’s bound up with – even Charnock, perhaps – will have made plans for any counter-move. We’ve no time to explore all possibilities – my way is the only one, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘But what way is that?’ Marbeck asked. ‘After Llewellyn and I have joined the rebels in Kent, how do you expect us to thwart them? Two of us against an army …’ But he broke off. A grim smile had appeared on Prout’s face.

  ‘The money,’ he said phlegmatically.

  Marbeck frowned. ‘You mean locate the source of their funds, and stop it?’

  The messenger nodded. ‘Once Drax’s troops find out they’re not getting paid, they’ll down weapons and desert within the hour. And if word got to the English Regiment, the same would happen there.’

  He glanced at Chyme, who also saw the logic. Indeed, it was so simple any man could have guessed it.

  ‘It’s the only way,’ Prout said again. ‘The same purse, I believe, provides for both the English Regiment and the raising of Drax’s force: their aim to restore this country to the Catholic faith.’

  ‘Well – one thing you may wager on: the source of this mysterious wealth isn’t Spain,’ Marbeck said after a moment. ‘The country’s broken, ravaged with plague and tired of war. King Philip looks to make peace with James. Nor will ducats be flowing out of Rome … Pope Clement is as cautious as he’s parsimonious. We must look closer to home.’

  ‘My thoughts too,’ Prout said. ‘There are several rich men I might suspect, but I have no proof. This scheme has been in the planning for months, I fear – perhaps longer. It’s a pity Master Secretary did not weave the shreds of intelligence together sooner, meagre as they were.’

  Nobody spoke for a while. Then, taking the opportunity, Marbeck at last aired the other matter that weighed upon him. ‘We may face a Papist rising,’ he said. ‘And I’ll do my part in contending it. But though I’ve no wish to add to your troubles, Prout, I fear I must. For it’s just possible that England faces another threat – from the opposite direction.’

  At once all eyes were on him. ‘What do you mean?’ Prout asked sharply. Whereupon Marbeck drew a breath, and gave a quick account of his activities since leaving for Oxford, just two days before the Queen’s death. He said little about Celia, leaving the other men to draw their own conclusions. But when he spoke of interrogating Isaac Gow in Daniel Lambert’s house at Offord, Prout sprang up.

  ‘Why did you not speak of this sooner?’ he demanded.

  ‘I would have,’ Marbeck said, in some surprise. ‘Yet since the matter you’ve set before us is so grave—’

  ‘But I could have told you more,’ Prout interrupted, in some agitation. ‘Isaac Gow has not been brought to London for interrogation. He never got here – he escaped!’

  ‘Escaped?’ Marbeck echoed. ‘How? He was under armed guard – besides, he’s a sick man …’

  ‘Is he?’ Prout grimaced. ‘According to the account I’ve seen, he feigned a coughing fit at a roadside inn near Hitchin, then disappear
ed through a back door. Some of his followers must have dogged the party – they had mounts waiting, and made their escape. It was near dark – by the time the escort had chased after them, they’d got clear away.’

  ‘Then what of Rowan?’ Marbeck asked, with growing unease. ‘He seemed to know his business …’

  ‘Rowan’s in disgrace,’ Prout snapped. ‘He sent in a report two days ago, then disappeared. I believe he’s gone looking for Gow in an attempt to make amends. But for the present, you may assume your Puritan friend is still at large …’ He frowned at Marbeck. ‘Is that the real reason you returned to London? To hear Gow’s confession, so you could hurry off again to rescue this foolish boy Scroop – the son of your paramour?’

  There was silence, before Marbeck too got to his feet. ‘And if it was, will you condemn me for it?’ he demanded. ‘I had little else to occupy me just then, being shut out of Master Secretary’s service – or have you forgotten?’

  They eyed each other: the pious Crown servant, and the intelligencer whose behaviour had always been a source of friction between them. Then Llewellyn gave a grunt, causing them both to look his way. The man raised both hands, urging calm: this was his home, he seemed to say, and he wished no imbroglio. Whereupon Prout gave a sigh, and sat down heavily.

  ‘By all that’s holy,’ he muttered.

  After a moment Marbeck too sat. ‘If our positions had been reversed, Prout,’ he said, ‘I don’t believe you would have acted differently.’ When the other made no answer, he looked across the table. ‘I ask your pardon, Llewellyn.’

  The man nodded, but suddenly John Chyme spoke up. ‘Now there’s something I can do,’ he said. When the others turned, he added: ‘You must go to Kent, Marbeck. I’ll admit I’m not suited to such a mission, whereas you and Llewellyn may achieve much. But if there’s indeed a crack-brained plot being hatched by Gow and his flock, I may make progress among them. The man doesn’t know me, but I’ve known enough people of his ilk. I’ll find them, see if I can attach myself to their little band.’ He grinned, apparently warming to his idea. ‘As soon as I hear a whisper about Henry Scroop, I’ll be on his neck. If necessary I’ll return him to Oxford tied across my saddle. As a Magdalene man, I’ve small patience with students of Exeter.’