Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Page 9

  Having said his piece, Chyme sat back and took a gulp of wine. The others eyed him, then Llewellyn too broke into a smile. Prout looked glum, but Marbeck breathed a sigh.

  ‘Once again, John, you have my thanks,’ he said. ‘And if you can succeed where I failed, you will earn my gratitude, and that of the boy’s mother, for all eternity.’

  Embarrassed, the young man dismissed the compliment. But when he looked at Prout his face fell somewhat. Marbeck too eyed him, expecting some further rebuke. But finally the messenger sighed, and managed a nod.

  ‘So be it,’ he said tiredly. ‘Chyme may ride north and mingle with Precisians, while you two …’ He looked from Marbeck to Llewellyn. ‘You should go into Kent, and swear loyalty to the Infanta. That way the threat to England from two poles of hatred may at least be exposed, if not broken …’ He shook his head. ‘Great heaven, what times are these? I can only pray that one day, if it pleases God to let him live to be crowned, King James will learn what was done. Meanwhile I will attend Master Secretary, and sift reports, and wait.’ Then to the surprise of the other men, Prout looked round with an expression that was unlike him.

  ‘You go with my blessing, and my desire to see you all alive to witness that day,’ he added quietly. ‘I speak of the coronation: the end of the dynasty that’s ruled England for over a century, and the start of another.’

  With that he too drank, and pledged God speed to them all.

  Two days later, on another grey morning, Marbeck led Cobb across London Bridge, then waited in Long Southwark until Llewellyn appeared leading an old chestnut warhorse. The two men shook hands, climbed into their saddles and urged their mounts southwards, away from the smoke and haze of London. Soon they were at Blackheath, turning towards Dartford: the first stage in their journey into rural Kent.

  Llewellyn wore a battered helmet and a battle-scarred coat; fixed to his saddle were a sword and a Spanish caliver in a closed scabbard. Marbeck wore a padded doublet and tooled leather jerkin, along with his basket-hilt rapier. He also had a pistol, and certain other weapons that looked nothing of the sort: a tailor’s bodkin in his pocket, and a lute string sewn into his waistband.

  NINE

  The main camp of Drax’s small army, according to the scant intelligence Prout had pieced together, was said to be near the hamlet of Ewell, on the river Dour a few miles above Dover. This, however, turned out to be untrue. On arriving there that evening after their day-long ride, Marbeck and Llewellyn found only half a dozen men warming themselves round a fire, who claimed to be local villagers. Their leader was suspicious, although one look at Llewellyn was enough to convince anyone that he was an old soldier. Marbeck however, was obliged to work harder. He was Jack Duggan, he said, who had served in Ireland with Henry Bagenal. In fact he’d been a horseman at the Battle of the Yellow Ford, when that commander had lost his life. Now that the war was ended, he found himself at a loose end. But he’d heard from an old compatriot that officers were in need here, and that the pay was good. Would the corporal … he was a corporal, was he not? Would he send them on to the commander?

  Fortunately it worked. After some further questioning, Marbeck’s performance convinced the man he was a mercenary, as hard-nosed as they came. The two of them should ride on, they were told, to the ruined abbey of St Radigund, on a hill three miles west of Dover. They should seek out a lieutenant named Follett, who could answer their questions. But it grew dark – did they wish to rest for the night? Marbeck declined, saying they would travel in what twilight remained. Without further delay he and Llewellyn rode to a ford in the river, and having crossed over, soon found St Radigund’s. Leading their tired horses, the two of them approached the old abbey, its jagged ruins showing stark against the sky. Here they were challenged by a sentry, sword in hand. Once Marbeck had made his explanations, however, they were directed to a camp on the fringe of a nearby wood, where they would find the lieutenant. So at last they reached a cooking fire, with perhaps a dozen men seated around it. As they emerged from the gloom some got to their feet, whereupon Marbeck raised a hand.

  ‘We seek Lieutenant Follett. Is he here?’

  A man stepped into the firelight. ‘He is … Who are you?’

  ‘Two gamesters, looking for a game,’ Marbeck answered. ‘We heard there might be one here … Are we welcome?’

  There was silence as Follett came forward. He was young and belligerent, wearing a good corselet and sword. Indeed all the men, Marbeck saw, were well fitted out; it was no rag-tag company. At his side, Llewellyn regarded them without expression. His and Marbeck’s eyes met briefly, but when they faced the lieutenant again his words came as a disappointment.

  ‘You were misinformed,’ he said, looking Marbeck up and down. ‘I’m holding a muster here, gathering levies for the King. I’m not recruiting strangers.’

  ‘No?’ Marbeck looked sceptical. ‘You’ve no need of veterans, then?’

  The young man paused, gazing at each of them. Finally he pointed at Llewellyn. ‘Where did you serve?’

  ‘Garth can neither hear nor speak,’ Marbeck said, using Llewellyn’s assumed name. ‘He has no tongue, and was deafened by cannon-fire. He served in the Low Countries under Bostock.’

  One or two men stirred at mention of the former leader of the renegade regiment. But Follett kept his eyes on Llewellyn, who met the gaze unflinchingly. Finally he looked to Marbeck.

  ‘I was in Ireland,’ Marbeck said. ‘One of the lucky ones, who came through Yellow Ford alive …’ But he broke off when the other turned and spoke over his shoulder.

  ‘Robbins – over here.’

  Another man, who had remained seated, got up and came to stand at the lieutenant’s side. ‘You were in Ireland,’ Follett snapped. ‘Why don’t you ask him a few questions?’

  Robbins, a fighting man down to his boots, gave a nod. ‘So you were at Yellow Ford,’ he said to Marbeck. ‘That would be September, 1598 …’

  ‘August,’ Marbeck corrected. ‘The fourteenth, to be exact.’ He gave the man a hard stare, and waited.

  ‘Who was your commander?’

  ‘Bagenal, of course,’ Marbeck answered tartly. ‘I was an officer of horse … and I’d watch your tongue if I were you, fellow.’ The soldier stiffened, but with a nod Follett bade him continue.

  ‘So … were you close to Bagenal when he fell?’ he asked.

  ‘Too close,’ Marbeck replied. ‘I saw him shot through the head. He was too far forward – he would never heed advice.’

  ‘And who took command after that?’

  ‘Thomas Maria Wingfield … not that it did much good.’ Marbeck gave a snort. ‘And before you ask, in the rout that followed I changed sides, as others did. Thereafter I fought for the rebels under Red Hugh O’Donnell.’ Deliberately he faced Follett, who looked surprised. ‘There now, Lieutenant,’ he added. ‘I’ve given you reason to have me arrested and hanged as a traitor, if you wish. My name’s Duggan – do you require any further testimony from me?’

  All eyes were upon him. Taken aback, Robbins lowered his gaze, but the lieutenant was frowning. ‘Who told you where to come?’ he asked.

  ‘A compatriot,’ Marbeck said. ‘I’ll not give his name. But he spoke of good pay and victuals, for men who were prepared to earn them. Men who asked no questions, but looked to a new future – perhaps not a Scottish one. Do I hit the target?’

  Another silence followed, though it was short-lived. Follett dismissed Robbins, who rejoined his comrades. When he eyed Marbeck again, he wore a different expression.

  ‘You may rest here tonight,’ he said finally. ‘Eat, and see your horses fed. Tomorrow I’ll send you to the colonel, who will question you further. If you are who you claim to be, he might find a place for you. But if you are not …’ He paused for emphasis. ‘If you are not he will know, and the consequences will be grave. Do you follow?’

  Instead of answering, Marbeck turned to Llewellyn and made signs, to which the old soldier nodded. The first part was over:
they were all but accepted. The meeting with the colonel, however, promised a more stringent test, and Marbeck knew he must convince. Facing the young officer again, he expressed agreement. The other men relaxed, turned away and began talking. One came forward to show the newcomers where to take their horses. But as he led Cobb away, Marbeck’s thoughts already raced towards the morrow. He had a good idea of the name of Follett’s colonel; he could only hope that the man did not know who he was.

  The next day was the Sabbath, which Marbeck had almost forgotten. Hence his surprise, when he awoke under canvas to the sound of men singing. The words of the hymn were familiar, and he sat up to listen. It struck him as odd that this mercenary army should bother to hold a service. But rebels or not, they were Englishmen, as far as he had observed; and old habits died hard. He stretched and looked round. He was in a circular tent, patched but serviceable. There were several pallets, spread out on ground still damp from the rains. All were empty save the one beside him, where Llewellyn dozed. After waking him he dressed quickly and went outside – only to stop in his tracks.

  Two soldiers with calivers stood facing him. As he stared, a sergeant appeared with a sword, which he levelled at Marbeck.

  ‘Up at last … I was coming to get you,’ he said. ‘Bring your friend out – you’re both to come with me.’

  They went unarmed, having been obliged to leave their weapons behind. Llewellyn was stolid, Marbeck tense but composed. In the morning light, they saw that the camp was small: no more than eight or nine tents on the edge of the wood, half-hidden among the trees. They passed a fire where a steaming cauldron of porridge hung on chains. Men gazed at them; there was no sign of Follett. Finally they reached a larger tent, in front of which stood a folding table. As they appeared, a man seated behind it looked up. He was black-bearded and heavy-browed, wearing a Brigandine coat of steel plates riveted onto canvas. His eyes took in Llewellyn, then went to Marbeck. Suddenly, they were prisoners … and in no doubt whom they faced: William Drax himself.

  ‘So you’re Duggan,’ he said. ‘Is it your real name?’

  ‘It is now,’ Marbeck said.

  ‘Sir!’ the sergeant snapped at him, from behind. ‘You’re addressing the colonel.’

  A moment followed, then to Marbeck’s surprise Drax waved the sergeant away. Along with his escort he departed, leaving the two intelligencers alone. Between them, Marbeck thought fleetingly, they could have seized the colonel and taken him hostage, or worse. He was short, with a head too large for his body. But his face was a hard mask, the eyes pitiless. Marbeck recalled the man’s nickname: the Basilisk. He had faced brutal killers before, and saw that Drax had no use for mercy.

  ‘I’ve heard your history from the lieutenant,’ he said. His eyes went to Llewellyn. ‘He is a deaf mute, then?’

  ‘He understands some of what’s said, if you face him,’ Marbeck replied. ‘He watches how your mouth moves.’ He did not look at the old soldier; Llewellyn knew his part.

  Drax spoke loudly. ‘So you lost your tongue … Can I see?’

  Llewellyn stepped forward, bent and opened his mouth. With grunts and signs, he made it known that the punishment had been inflicted long ago, in prison. After a moment Drax nodded and gestured him aside. ‘Whereas you, sir …’ He eyed Marbeck. ‘You served under Bagenal, or so you claim, when the fool lost his life. What were his losses that day, would you say?’

  ‘Nine hundred dead,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Not that I stayed to count them – sir.’

  ‘No – you were too busy saving your own neck,’ the other said dryly. ‘So after turning tail you fought under O’Donnell – is that so?’

  Briefly, Marbeck nodded.

  ‘What sort of commander was he?’

  ‘Good. His men loved him – they’d have followed him through the gates of hell.’

  ‘Well, many of them went there anyway, did they not?’ Drax watched Marbeck closely. ‘I mean three years later, at Kinsale – were you there?’

  ‘I was not.’ Marbeck remained calm, but in his mind he was sifting everything he knew about the Irish war. The man strove to trick him; his life, and that of Llewellyn, depended on the answers he gave.

  ‘What a day that was, eh?’ Suddenly Drax smiled, but his teeth showed. ‘We paid the Irish back in 1601 … lost three thousand, if they lost a man. A Christmas Day gift.’

  ‘I believe our … I mean the Irish losses were nearer twelve hundred,’ Marbeck said mildly. ‘On Christmas Eve that was, not Christmas Day. O’Donnell escaped to Spain afterwards. They treated him as a hero.’

  ‘I know that,’ Drax snapped, as if angered by his argument. ‘He’s still in exile, I suppose?’

  ‘No, he returned to Ireland,’ Marbeck told him. ‘Died last year, and is buried at Simancas Castle.’

  There was a moment, in which Llewellyn’s stomach could be heard rumbling with hunger. Rigidly he stared ahead, whereupon as suddenly as it had appeared, Drax’s anger vanished.

  ‘Mayhap you did know him,’ he said finally. ‘A soldier never forgets a good leader, and even an illiterate rebel may command respect in the field. I’ll admit he fought well for a man of his advanced years – wouldn’t you?’

  For a second, Marbeck was almost fooled: his instinct had been to agree, and bow his head in feigned remembrance. He had all but exhausted his knowledge of Hugh O’Donnell, the clan leader – apart from one fact, which now saved him.

  ‘Advanced years?’ he echoed. ‘You’re mistaken, sir. He was little more than a boy: thrown into prison at fifteen, taking the battlefield as a youth. He was barely thirty when he died …’

  He trailed off. Beside him Llewellyn stirred, as Drax stood up behind his table. He glanced at each of them, then to the relief of both said: ‘If you join me, you’ll sign a paper and swear allegiance.’

  As one man, they nodded.

  ‘Nor may you turn tail, if things go badly,’ he added briskly. ‘My officers have orders to shoot deserters …’ He eyed Marbeck. ‘You will do the same; in other words, you would be obliged to shoot your friend here – not to wound but to kill. Is that clear?’

  ‘Of course,’ Marbeck said. On impulse he added: ‘I don’t have friends. Garth’s one who travelled with me … nothing more. It’s best he and I now part, and he’s posted elsewhere.’

  Drax seemed to approve. ‘We’ll find a place for him,’ he said. ‘You, Duggan, will remain here. You’ll dine with the other officers tonight, and receive your orders. In the meantime, you may both go and take breakfast.’

  With that he sat down, drew a paper towards him and ignored them. In silence they turned to walk back towards the cooking fire, and the aroma of hot porridge.

  And after that, the day went somewhat better. For later the same morning, while grooming Cobb, Marbeck made a discovery: in Drax’s army, a soldier told him, the Sabbath was welcomed for other reasons than those of religion. It was also payday.

  The paymaster was named Thomas Burridge. He was bald and moon-faced, with the look of a harassed clerk. He arrived with an armed guard at midday, and set up his station at the table outside Drax’s tent. There the entire company assembled, numbering perhaps forty men. Others, Marbeck knew, were scattered about the area in smaller camps, but he asked no questions; for the present he would watch and listen. He stood aside as soldiers were called – by names that, he was certain, were all as false as his and Llewellyn’s – to receive their pay from a small iron-bound chest. He soon discovered that the daily wage was one shilling and sixpence: a generous sum. What the officers received he could not guess.

  The last soldier to be paid was Llewellyn, the newest recruit. Skilfully feigning deafness, he waited until he was waved forward. Men watched as he took the coins, then walked off without looking at Marbeck. Soon all the men dispersed leaving only the stout sergeant, Marbeck’s escort from earlier, and the officers: Lieutenant Follett, a beanpole of a man known as Captain Feaver, and Drax himself. Then to his surprise Marbeck heard his own name called, so unh
urriedly he walked over. The other leaders eyed him coolly, especially Drax. For a moment Marbeck feared the man was having second thoughts about hiring him, until he said: ‘Your pay will come later, Duggan. You’ve yet to prove yourself to me.’

  Concealing his relief, Marbeck gave a nod.

  ‘So you’re a seasoned horseman, sir …’ Feaver peered down his long nose at him. ‘We must decide how best to use you. You’ll answer to me, by the way.’

  Politely Marbeck acknowledged his place. Questions rose in his mind, but were held back. Follett was looking tense, he thought; perhaps relations among the commanders were less than cordial. The impression was reinforced when Drax suddenly turned on his heel, strode past the paymaster and entered his tent without a backward glance. Marbeck was about to move away, when Burridge spoke up from his table.

  ‘Is there a dinner for me?’ he asked in a high-pitched voice. ‘I have a busy afternoon ahead.’

  ‘Of course …’ Feaver waved a hand vaguely. ‘See the quartermaster.’ He turned to go, but the paymaster stayed him.

  ‘I require a bigger escort,’ he went on, squinting through a pair of thick spectacles. ‘I’ve come to dislike these woods … two men hardly seems enough, in view of what I carry.’ He tapped the pay chest, which was now locked.

  In some irritation Feaver looked to Follett. ‘You’ll see to that, won’t you?’

  The lieutenant sighed, and waited for him to walk off. To Burridge he said: ‘I’ll have men waiting, after you’ve dined. Then you should make haste … the paths are muddy.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Burridge retorted. ‘Yet I made good speed this morning from Dover …’ but he broke off, as Follett threw him a warning look. Marbeck pretended not to notice, though he understood: he, of course, was not trusted. He wondered, in view of the purpose of this regiment, whether anyone here trusted his fellow. With a glance at the other men he walked away, thinking fast. Burridge had come up from Dover: that suggested the pay chest was not carried overland, as he had thought it might be, but arrived by ship. Head down, he strolled towards the commissary tent where men were assembling for their midday mess, then gave a start as someone blocked his way. It was Llewellyn.