Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting

by John Pilkington

  It was only a short distance, though Marbeck wished it were longer; he was in no hurry to get back. Not only was he bored with Sir Thomas: he had begun to dread the attentions of his wife, Lady Margery. Two more nights at most, he thought, and he would seek somewhere else to stay. By then he would have decided what to do about his present predicament: whether to try sending one more message to Sir Robert, or to take himself away from the south-east. The Queen’s demise, it appeared, would come soon enough … though it also seemed clear that whatever followed, Marbeck would be unable to play any real part in it. That was what hurt most: ingratitude, hostility, even contempt, he had endured before and could again. But to be shut out by his spymaster without a word – not merely as if he were no longer trusted, but as if he no longer mattered … it was hard to bear.

  Suppressing the thought, he set his face to the driving rain and began to walk downriver, along the path towards the hamlet of Barnes. But when he entered the broad hallway of Croft House, he found himself confronted by someone who, more than anyone he knew, made him feel quite defenceless.

  ‘Richard Strang! I waited all morning, yet you didn’t come!’

  Lady Alice Croft, ten years old but with the will of someone twice her age, stood by the stairwell scowling at him. Her flame-coloured hair was elaborately dressed, she wore her best kirtle, and in one hand was the lute which Marbeck was attempting to teach her to play. Her puny chest heaving with indignation, she brandished the instrument like a weapon.

  ‘My lesson was for ten of the clock!’ Alice fumed. ‘And I was eager to show you the scale of G, which I have practised in my chamber ever since breakfast!’

  Dripping with rainwater, Marbeck put on a contrite look and made his bow. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady,’ he said. ‘I was detained on some trivial business … but we’ll work now, if you will. I’m keen to see the fruits of your labours—’

  ‘That sounds like mere soft soap, sir!’ The child wore a prim expression, exactly like the one seen often on the face of her mother. But while Marbeck had realized some time ago that Lady Margery Croft’s pious ways were but a mask for her true nature, her daughter had not yet learned such duplicity. Marbeck liked her for it; and now, he was ashamed.

  ‘I swear it is not soft soap,’ he said. ‘And I’ll make up for my failure in any way I can. Shall we to your lesson, or—’

  ‘Well … if you’re truly sorry, perhaps we might.’ Lady Alice’s anger never lasted long. Under his new alias, Richard Strang, Marbeck had been engaged to tutor the girl a fortnight ago, on the strength of a forged recommendation. It enabled him to be close to Richmond Palace during the crisis, yet far enough away to escape notice. Though he was fast becoming something of a fixture at Croft House, he knew, which made him uncomfortable. He smiled at his pupil, and gestured to the stairway.

  ‘Then let’s to the music room, my lady,’ he said brightly. ‘You may prepare yourself, while I fetch my own lute from my chamber.’

  ‘Oh … but you’re soaked to the skin!’ Alice broke in, having only just noticed.

  ‘I will change my attire, too,’ Marbeck told her. ‘Then I will be ready, and eager to see how you’ve mastered the difficult scale of G.’

  At that the child nodded and turned to go upstairs, whereupon Marbeck’s smile faded. Leaving Lady Alice’s company, he knew, would be his one regret.

  At supper he was subdued, his mind busy, though he made an effort to converse. The Croft household was large, and bluff Sir Thomas made a point of advertising his goodwill to all, regardless of their station. Thus the more important servants ate in the hall with the family, Marbeck among them. He sat at the end of the top table with the murmur of voices about him, trying to ignore the looks aimed at him by Lady Margery. Having finished a dish of raisin pudding, he was on the point of excusing himself when the lady leaned forward, turned and called to him across people who sat between them.

  ‘Master Strang, Lady Alice tells me you were absent this morning, and so missed her lesson.’

  Forcing a smile, Marbeck faced her. ‘Indeed, madam, it was remiss of me,’ he said. ‘Yet Lady Alice and I resumed our studies as soon as I returned. She has forgiven me – and as always, she makes excellent progress.’

  But tonight the lady of the house was not to be placated. Fixing Marbeck with a brazen stare, she said: ‘My daughter may have forgiven you, but I haven’t. I wonder what took you away – in the direction of Mortlake, was it not?’

  Heads turned in Marbeck’s direction, among them that of the steward, who was seated on Lady Margery’s left. On her right, her husband was in conversation and unaware of their discourse. But at once Marbeck saw it: the steward, an officious man, had made no secret of his dislike for him from their first meeting. It was he, of course, who had learned where Marbeck had gone that morning. Silently he cursed the man, as he cursed himself for his carelessness.

  ‘So it was, my lady, and thence to Richmond,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll confess the reason: it was to get news of the Queen. But there was such a press of folk about the palace I could not get near, and came away having heard naught but gossip.’

  ‘Then your journey was not only undertaken without thought for your duties, it was also fruitless,’ the steward said, with a smirk at his mistress. ‘And I wonder that any man would wish to go out in this rain … do you tire of us so soon?’

  Marbeck met the man’s gaze. ‘Far from it,’ he replied. ‘Tutoring Lady Alice is a pleasure …’

  ‘I am glad to hear that.’ Lady Margery watched him, willing him to keep his eyes on hers. Coolly she half-turned to her steward, who took the hint and quickly gave his attention to his supper. Sighing inwardly, Marbeck waited.

  ‘Our son Thomas reaches his ninth birthday soon,’ the lady continued. ‘I had a mind that he might take lessons upon the lute. Lady Alice, perhaps, should learn the virginals instead. That is more becoming to a young lady – would you not agree?’

  For a moment Marbeck was lost for words. The thought of young Thomas becoming his pupil in place of Lady Alice filled him with alarm; the boy was as unpleasant as any he’d had the misfortune to meet. But the notion crystallized his resolve: he would go, and soon. He inclined his head to Lady Margery.

  ‘As you wish, madam.’

  ‘Good …’ The lady kept her eyes on his. ‘It will mean engaging another tutor, but I believe Sir Thomas will be agreeable.’ She paused, and delivered the killing blow. ‘And of course, Master Strang, your duties will then be somewhat lighter, since the boy has other lessons to fill his waking hours. I will have to think of other ways to keep you occupied.’

  At that Marbeck had to make an effort not to wince. The look in Lady Margery’s eye might have been enough, had he not received earlier hints of her intentions too: in particular the time, but a few days back, when she had stopped him in a corridor and made it plain that she would come to his chamber one night, and expect certain services of him. The memory evoked dismay, if not dread. With an effort he smiled again.

  ‘Your ladyship is kind.’

  The steward gave a snort, and stabbed at his pudding.

  Later that night, Marbeck decided to take a risk and absent himself from Croft House for a second time. The rain had finally ceased, and though the roads were muddy he had thought of taking his horse out of the stables the next morning. Lady Alice’s lesson was not until the afternoon. But he was restless, and would not wait for the morrow. He resolved therefore to walk downriver to Putney, take the ferry across the Thames and make his way to the house of Lady Celia Scroop in Chelsea.

  Relations between Marbeck and Lady Scroop, widowed for more than two years now, had grown somewhat strained of late. Since the death of her husband in the Low Countries, a change had come over the woman. Though somewhat relieved by his death (had she not secretly wished for it?) she had become withdrawn, even towards Marbeck. Indeed, she had appeared almost to discourage his visits, rare though they were; his sorties as a Crown intelligencer often took him far afield. O
n returning from Derbyshire he had sent a message, however, and was relieved to receive a reply bidding him come to her soon. Now, he thought, was as good a time as any. In the light of this evening’s conversation, he had resolved not to remain under the Crofts’ roof a moment longer than necessary. So while most of the household were preparing to retire for the night, he slipped out through a side door and left by the stable yard. Within the hour he had crossed the river on the last ferry, and a short while later arrived at the door of Scroop House, where as always he was admitted.

  Lady Celia was up, of course. Her habits, forged during the long years of her late husband’s absences, had not changed. She often sat with her waiting-woman until the small hours, even until dawn. Marbeck found her in a small but comfortable chamber with a good fire burning, and made his bow. But as he straightened up, he received a shock.

  In a matter of months, he saw, his lover and friend had aged. Not only had the spark in her eye dimmed: her face was drawn, even gaunt. More, the smile with which she usually greeted him was absent. Instead she nodded and remained seated, while her woman rose and, having thrown a brief look at Marbeck, left the room without a word.

  ‘I ask your pardon for not coming sooner,’ was all he could say.

  She did not reply, merely beckoned him forward. He took the seat left by her servant, but first he bent forward and kissed her on the lips. To his relief she returned the kiss, then gestured to a jug that stood on the small table between them. Marbeck poured wine into two cups, but Lady Celia waved hers away.

  ‘I have drunk enough today,’ she said. ‘But take what you will.’

  He took a sip, searching for the words. But before he could speak, she forestalled him.

  ‘There’s a message for you. A boy brought it, then hurried away. I’ve kept it a week.’

  He frowned. ‘Here? But from who—’

  ‘I know not,’ she broke in. ‘Perhaps someone who knew where you would be, sooner or later. As they knew to trust me to deliver it, with my usual discretion.’

  Suddenly his mind was racing. Had there been word from Cecil after all – was he fretting over nothing? A week … his frown deepened. He had already informed Master Secretary of his whereabouts by then; why send word here, instead of to Croft House?

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked.

  ‘In my chamber, under lock and key.’

  He met her gaze in silence. His affection for her was as great as ever, but it was now mingled with pity. What had happened to her? He longed to ask questions, but felt he must tread carefully.

  ‘Shall I wait here while you fetch it?

  At that she smiled, though somewhat wanly. ‘Why this sudden delicacy? In times past you’d have had your hands on my person by now.’

  ‘Your person?’ Marbeck managed a smile of his own. ‘Now who’s being delicate?’

  As quickly as it had appeared, her own smile faded. ‘I’ve things to tell you,’ she said after a moment. Somewhat relieved, he gave a nod. At the same moment he noticed a thin streak of silver in her hair, caught by the candlelight.

  ‘It’s my son Henry,’ Lady Celia went on. ‘He’s eighteen now, as you know. He failed to come home from Oxford at Christmas time. Now I hear troubling things about him …’ She looked away briefly, then met his eye again.

  ‘You are the only man I can turn to, Marbeck. Indeed, I think you are the only one who might help me.’

  TWO

  Their coupling that night surprised Marbeck. He had expected Celia to be unwilling, wanting merely to talk. Instead, when they went to her bed she quickly became passionate, as if, now that she had confessed herself in need of his help, she could be as free with him as they had once been. It brought joy and relief, but it left him uneasy. When they were spent, lying in their sweat between her fine sheets, he turned to look at her. And almost at once she began to speak.

  ‘I’ve had correspondence with the dean of Henry’s college,’ she said. ‘Exeter, that is.’ She lay on her back, gazing up at the canopy of the great bed. ‘It seems he’s been absent without permission, many times, and the college is displeased. They talk of refusing him his bachelor’s degree. Worse, he appears to have got into company I dislike.’

  At last Marbeck started to form a picture; his own student days were not so distant, after all. ‘It’s common enough for young men to run wild, both at Oxford and Cambridge,’ he said. ‘Why should Henry be any different?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Celia answered. ‘If it were mere youthful behaviour on his part, I would welcome it. It’s rather …’ She hesitated. ‘This company he keeps – I speak of their religion.’

  ‘You mean Papists? That too is not unknown. He’s exploring other ways of thinking … or it may be a form of rebellion on his part.’

  ‘It’s not even that. If Henry had become attracted to the Church of Rome, I would at least try to comprehend it, and to dispute with him. Even his father, at one time, claimed to understand why some are drawn to their liturgy …’ She turned on her side, and faced him. ‘It seems he’s become close with a Puritan sect … Precisians, of the harshest kind. The sort who demand reform of the Church, who think wearing vestments is a sin, and that all books are frivolous save the Geneva Bible.’

  It was a surprise. Though it had been some years since Marbeck had set eyes on Henry Scroop, he remembered him as a lively youth, who enjoyed the company of his friends. Yet people changed, once away from home …

  ‘That too may be naught but experiment on his part,’ he said after a moment. ‘He could alter his views in a trice …’

  ‘Their leader is Isaac Gow.’

  At mention of that name, he fell silent. Gow was a notorious Puritan agitator. Sir Robert Cecil had had him watched many times, something of which Gow was not only aware, but deemed a badge of merit. Half a century ago, under the bloody rule of Queen Mary, he was the kind of man who would have gone willingly to the Smithfield fires, shouting defiance to Popery with his last breath. To him and others like him even the regime of Elizabeth was one of decadence, if not wickedness. Marbeck found himself frowning.

  ‘What would you like me to do?’ he enquired.

  ‘Confront Henry,’ was her reply. ‘He has no father now to talk sense into him … not that he was ever here to do so. His uncles are no use … they shun me, since their brother’s death. Some people believe I willed it – even that I arranged it.’

  They gazed at each other. In this very bed, Celia had once confided to Marbeck that she wished her husband would never return from the war in the Netherlands.

  ‘Sir Richard died in battle at Breda, along with many of his troop,’ he said. ‘How can anyone deny that?’

  ‘Yet they know what sort of man he was, and how I grew to despise him. My children know it, too.’

  He considered. ‘Do you think the boy would listen to me?’

  ‘I don’t know that he will, Marbeck,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘But you can at least ferret about – is that not the phrase you use? Find out why Gow is in Oxford, and how far Henry has become embroiled with him and his followers. Unless …’ She put on a questioning look, to which Marbeck shook his head.

  ‘I’m not busy at present.’

  Celia showed surprise. ‘Even now, when we hear naught but tales of the Queen’s decline, and what may follow? I thought every servant of the state was at Richmond.’

  ‘Let’s say I’m being held in reserve.’

  She hesitated, then: ‘I’ve little right to ask your help. Save for enjoyment of my body, which is freely given, you—’

  ‘And the loans of money you’ve made me over the years, not to mention the trust we’ve always placed in each other,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘In short, you have every right to ask. And I’ll do whatever’s in my power – do you doubt that?’

  Her gaze softened. ‘I do not …’ Suddenly, she gave a start. ‘The message – I’d almost forgotten.’ She saw his expression, and put on a wry look. ‘But you, of course, had not.’
/>   ‘I thought we would get to it in good time,’ he answered.

  She lifted the coverlet and rose naked, her body shining in the light of the candles. Marbeck watched her go to the table where her tortoiseshell casket stood, unlock it and take out a paper. She returned and handed it to him.

  ‘Shall I look away while you read it?’ she asked.

  He didn’t answer. As Celia got back into bed he sat up, peering at the seal, which bore no device. The handwriting was familiar, however. Bringing the letter nearer the light, he read the name: it was addressed to John Sands – his usual alias. And then, even before he tore it open, he knew who the sender was.

  This is in haste, before I go to Flushing. By the time you read it you may be in fear, and you are right to be. I know little, except that someone’s denounced you to our crookback master for a servant of Spain. And since Roberto is dizzy with looking every way at once, his vision grows blurred. My advice: leave London and go north while you can. James Stuart will be king within the month, and if you get to him before others do you may yet save your neck. God speed!

  It was signed with a name Marbeck knew was false: Edward Porter. But had he been in any doubt, two tiny initials were squeezed inside the loop of the letter P: J.G. His friend and fellow intelligencer, Joseph Gifford.

  He lowered the paper, and saw Celia resting on her elbow watching him. ‘Troubling news,’ she observed. When he made no reply she added: ‘You know now who it is from?’

  Absently, he nodded.

  ‘So … you are called to duty after all.’ Her tone was suddenly dry. ‘My difficulties can wait … how paltry they must seem, compared with the affairs of state that bind you …’

  But he turned quickly to her. ‘You’re wrong. I must leave, and soon … but I see no reason why Oxford should not be my first destination.’

  She sat up abruptly. ‘You will seek out Henry?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll do what I can, and write to you.’

  She gave a long sigh. ‘Then you carry my hopes,’ she said. ‘And my heart too, for what it’s worth.’