Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting

by John Pilkington

  ‘It’s worth much,’ he replied. And he would have said more, but her hands were about his face, pulling him towards hers.

  In the grey light of a cold dawn, Marbeck took the first ferry across the Thames at Putney and walked briskly upriver to Barnes. He had made his plans, and would lose no time in implementing them. Within the hour he hoped to be on the road to Beaconsfield, which led thence to High Wycombe and on to Oxford.

  Now that he had a purpose he felt relieved, despite the grim warning contained in Gifford’s letter. The man had penned it a week ago; what surprised Marbeck now was the fact that, assuming its contents were correct, he himself was still at large and not languishing in a cell somewhere. Master Secretary Cecil had not merely been keeping him at arm’s length, he realized: he was suspicious of him, and may indeed have had him watched. It galled Marbeck that, as a loyal intelligencer, he should be doubted so swiftly. Moreover, it threw suspicion on those he had been in contact with of late: John Chyme, and the people at Croft House … He drew a breath, and dismissed such thoughts. His task was to gather his belongings and get Cobb out of the stable before anyone noticed.

  The household was astir, a thin line of smoke already rising from the kitchen chimney. Skirting the main buildings he passed through a wicket gate, crossed the vegetable garden and entered by the back door. Some of the wenches were about, but none paid him much attention; a man of his age and station coming in at such an hour, looking somewhat sheepish, was not unknown. He went through to the hallway, ascended the stairs and gained his small chamber, where he quickly set about making up his pack. His lute he thought of leaving behind, then decided against it; the role of Richard Strang, jobbing musician and tutor, might yet come in useful. Having taken a last look round, he left the room. The upper house was silent, the family still abed. But as he gained the stair-head there was a creak, and a voice stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Master Strang … where are you going?’

  He turned, to see a barefoot Lady Alice standing by the doorway to her chamber. She was in her shift, hair unbound. Her face was puffy from sleep, but her eyes were wide.

  ‘Your pardon, my lady …’ Marbeck threw her a smile. ‘I’m called away on urgent business … a family matter.’

  ‘You mean you’re leaving?’

  He nodded. ‘I wish I could stay for your lesson, but I cannot.’

  Her face fell, and for a moment he thought she would fly into one of her famous rages. But instead, she said: ‘You will return, won’t you?’

  He hesitated. ‘If I can … one day.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I know not.’

  They eyed each other, then she gave a sigh. ‘My father says the Queen may die soon, and everything will be different.’

  ‘Likely it will, my lady,’ Marbeck said.

  He turned away from her and hurried downstairs. A quarter of an hour later he was leading Cobb out by the stable gate. Having tightened the horse’s girth and checked that his belongings were tied securely, he placed foot in stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle. Then he was trotting along the path, while grey clouds scudded overhead. He did not look back.

  The day was breezy, but as yet there was no further rain. It was approximately ten miles to Uxbridge, where Marbeck made his first halt. Having watered and fed Cobb he was soon back in the saddle, and despite the muddy roads made good pace, reaching Beaconsfield by midday. In the afternoon he passed through High Wycombe without halting, spurring his mount against the fading light. But the horse ran well, eager for exercise after being stabled for too long. To his relief, as darkness fell, he saw the lights of Oxford ahead. He had covered sixty miles.

  The old city was quiet. Though Hilary term would draw to a close soon, he knew, and students would be restless in anticipation of the holidays. He neared the walls, half-expecting the gates to be shut. But the curfew was not yet in place, and Cobb’s hooves were soon clattering on cobbles as they entered St Aldates, with Christ Church on the right.

  Exeter College was to the north of the city, but Marbeck did not go there. Instead he found an inn and saw to the horse’s stabling. Then, having left his belongings, he set out on foot for a house close to Jesus College, whose whereabouts he had learned from Lady Celia. Here, she’d told him, Henry spent much of his time instead of in the shared chambers at his own college. Soon, in a narrow and gloomy street, he halted by a low door and knocked. After some delay, it was opened by a tousle-headed young man with a wispy beard.

  ‘I seek Master Henry Scroop,’ Marbeck said. ‘Is he here?’

  The young student was holding a small lantern, which he now raised. He blinked, then shook his head.

  ‘Do you mind if I make certain?’ Marbeck persisted, placing a hand firmly against the door.

  The other drew back. ‘There’s no need,’ he replied. ‘Henry’s gone from here – left more than a fortnight ago.’

  ‘You mean he’s at his college?’

  ‘No – I mean he’s left Oxford.’

  Marbeck’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Well, who are you, sir?’ the other wanted to know. ‘Are you a kinsman of Henry’s, or …’

  ‘A family friend,’ Marbeck told him. ‘And you – are you a friend of his? May I know your name?’

  ‘Thomas Garrod,’ came the reply. ‘Yes, I’m a friend … or rather, I used to be.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Marbeck gazed at Thomas Garrod until he flinched. ‘How so?’

  ‘Let’s say that Henry has cast off his old acquaintances, in favour of other company.’

  ‘A rumour tells that he now follows Isaac Gow, and those of his persuasion,’ Marbeck said. But at that, unease showed in the young man’s eyes.

  ‘I care not for rumour,’ he said.

  ‘But you too, Master Garrod, are concerned for Henry’s welfare, I think.’ Marbeck lowered his voice. ‘As are we all – in particular his mother, Lady Scroop. He is in his final year, yet he risks losing everything he has worked for. I wish to find the lad and talk with him – nothing more.’

  Garrod hesitated. ‘Then I fear you may be too late, sir,’ he said finally. ‘The last speech I had with Henry was weeks ago. He was withdrawn, even hostile. He bade me wake up to what England is, and what it will soon become … then, he’s been wont to say such things for some time.’ The young scholar gave a sigh. ‘There’s no disputing with him any more. He’s a cauldron of anger … has been ever since his father died. What will become of him, I fear to think.’

  Marbeck considered. ‘Do you have any idea where he’s gone?’

  The other gave a nod. ‘Emmanuel College, or so I understand … Is that not the cradle of such philosophy as his?’

  ‘You mean he’s in Cambridge?’ Marbeck showed surprise.

  ‘Where he’ll no doubt find others of similar mind,’ Garrod answered in a dry voice. He stepped back and lowered the lantern. But before he could disappear, Marbeck stayed him.

  ‘Wait – answer me this,’ he said. ‘Did Henry go to Cambridge to follow Gow?’

  The young man gave a shrug. ‘Gow has a house there, I hear … Cambridge, or somewhere nearby. He preaches sometimes …’ He sighed again. ‘You may find Henry, sir, yet I doubt it will avail you much. His mind has become closed to all but the most dogmatic of Precisian views. A creed of the most rigid kind … and against such blind certainty, even the gods of ancient times were powerless.’

  Then he was gone, closing the door.

  Through near-deserted streets, Marbeck retraced his steps back to the inn. He had no choice now, he felt, but to ride to England’s other seat of learning: Cambridge, where he had once been a somewhat unruly student of St John’s. He had not been there in more than ten years; nevertheless, he was resolved. And at least his whereabouts would be unknown to anyone, save a dour Oxford student. None could have followed him here, he felt certain, if he had indeed been under surveillance at Barnes. So with resignation he went to his chamber and slept, rising to another mor
ning with the cloud lying as grey and thick as a horse-blanket.

  Within the hour he had breakfasted and was leaving Oxford, taking the road east towards Aylesbury. From there, he faced another fifty-mile ride to Cambridge. Then, for Lady Celia’s sake if no other, he would seek out Henry Scroop and try to reason with him.

  Just now, however, it looked like a somewhat difficult task.

  THREE

  Cambridge, his alma mater; a place Marbeck knew as well as his boyhood home, and better than he did London. With mixed feelings he rose the next morning in a hired chamber at the Roebuck Inn, close to Pembroke Hall. His own college, St John’s, was at the other end of the town, but he had no wish to be there. Some of his old friends might remain, as fellows or tutors. If recognized he would no longer be Richard Strang, or even John Sands: he would be Marbeck. And the tale he told his family in far-off Lancashire – his invented position, in a minor court role to do with arranging pageants – might ring somewhat hollow here. So, feeling somewhat conspicuous, he breakfasted and prepared to go forth, to discover if he could find the whereabouts of Isaac Gow.

  The place to start was Emmanuel College, which as Thomas Garrod had said was a centre of Puritan thought, founded for the training of preaching ministers. Emmanuel was on the edge of the city, almost in the fields, and only a short walk from Pembroke Hall. Soberly dressed in a black cloak, and minus his sword, which he had left at the inn, Marbeck fell into intelligencer’s habits. Walking a roundabout route, he turned in by Corpus Christi and skirted St Andrew’s, to approach from the direction of the town. Finally he arrived at the college and made his way to the porter’s lodge where, with luck, he might engage in some gossip. But in that matter he was disappointed: the porter was a taciturn fellow, who barely responded to his casual questions. So in the manner of a sightseer he strolled down a side street beside the college, which gave on to its gardens and orchard. Here his luck improved when a grizzled gardener in fustian, pushing a wheelbarrow close to the low fence, stopped to look at him.

  ‘The entrance is round there, master,’ he announced, pointing with his chin. ‘You must knock and wait.’

  ‘I thank you,’ Marbeck said. ‘I’m a stranger here. Yet I wasn’t seeking admittance, so much as news.’

  The other set his barrow down. ‘News of what?’

  Marbeck paused, uncertain whether or not this man would be sympathetic to his enquiry. It was hard to know nowadays where some people stood. The gardener might be a Puritan himself, or an unreformed Papist, or one who trod the broad path between as most tried to do. He decided to take a risk.

  ‘There’s a preaching man … one of severe habits, who dwells somewhere about the town, or so I’ve heard,’ he began. ‘I’ve come a long way to see him … his name is Gow. Do you know him?’

  The gardener regarded him for a moment. Finally he pushed back his battered straw hat and gave a sigh.

  ‘I know of him. But you won’t find him in Cambridge … not here at Emmanuel, or even at Sidney Sussex.’ He named the other Puritan college, founded only a few years back and already known as a hotbed of dissent.

  ‘That’s a pity.’ Marbeck put on a disappointed look. ‘As I said, I’ve come far …’ He watched the older man, and now detected a look of disapproval. Thinking fast, he added: ‘I’m here on behalf of my father. It’s my younger brother … the boy’s gone off with this Gow, and we’re at our wits’ end wondering what’s become of him. I wish to find him, and see he’s in no harm …’

  ‘Harm, you say?’ the gardener echoed, growing animated. ‘Well, he may indeed come to it if he takes up with a man like Gow. Even Emmanuel is too tame for such as he. He came back from exile, in Germany or some such place, burning like a firedrake – like most of his kind. I will name them: separatists. He’s been travelling the country. But he has a lair hereabouts, so I heard … too close, I might add.’

  ‘Where is that, master?’ Marbeck asked. ‘Where should I go?’

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ the other grunted. ‘But if you must it’s a farm you seek, or it used to be. It lies south-east, by Gogmagog Hill … have you heard of that?’

  ‘I’m unsure,’ Marbeck lied. ‘But I will find it … is there more you can tell me?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘Go swearing death to the Antichrist,’ he said dryly. ‘Or go with your ears stopped up … Gow is a man filled with rage. Then, mayhap you’ve heard that already.’ Signalling the end of the conversation, he picked up his barrow. With a word of thanks, Marbeck took leave of him and walked back to St Andrews Street.

  Outside the church he stopped to think. He knew the chalk downs of Gogmagog well enough: students were forbidden to go there, on penalty of a fine. It was a strange place, where old ruins could be seen and where legends abounded. But it wasn’t far: three or four miles. And it ought not to be difficult, Marbeck thought, to discover this farm where Isaac Gow dwelled. Here at last he might find Henry Scroop, and keep his promise to Celia.

  In better spirits, he returned to the Roebuck and collected his sword. A short while later he was riding out of Cambridge by Grantchester, taking the road that led towards the hamlet of Cherry Hinton. After a while he veered southwards, where a range of hills appeared above the flat terrain. The Winterbury Hills, they had once been called. But to the folk of this region they were known as Gogmagog, named somehow after the giant of Albion. Soon the ground rose under Cobb’s hooves, and the meadow grass grew longer. There were gulleys lined with trees, and here and there a glimpse of a hut or cottage. Finally, emerging on a slope dotted with sheep, Marbeck slowed down to take his bearings. There was a fold of withies at the far end of the field, and signs of movement; it was lambing time, of course. Walking his mount slowly so as not to scatter the flock, he found a shepherd at work. Fortunately the man was cordial enough, if phlegmatic. Yes, he knew the farm where Isaac Gow lived … the owner had died leaving it in a poor condition, and Gow had taken it at a low rent. There were several people living there, the shepherd thought. It was no more than a mile further, close to the big hill where the giants slept.

  Marbeck nodded his thanks, shook Cobb’s reins and urged the horse onward. A short time later, having followed a rough track uphill, downhill and up again, he emerged from a copse and halted. He was looking across a shallow valley, at a collection of thatched buildings that seemed to huddle together for comfort. Smoke rose from a chimney, and there were what looked like mules penned beside the house. Slowly he rode down the track, allowing anyone inside full view of him. Finally he drew rein before the doorway, where he waited.

  He waited, but nobody came out. The mules gazed at him over their fence, lost interest and moved off. Smoke continued to curl from the chimney, but there was no sound … until Marbeck turned to a dilapidated barn that stood close by. He listened, and at last understood. There were voices in unison, all of which seemed to be male. Soon the murmuring stopped, and the same voices rose in song. A service was in progress.

  He dismounted, released Cobb’s reins and allowed him to walk away and graze. Then he stationed himself before the barn entrance, where he would be seen by those emerging. Here he waited a further few minutes, until the hymn had ceased and another prayer had been said, or so he imagined. Finally the door swung open and several figures garbed in black came out. The moment they saw him, they stopped dead.

  ‘Good morning, sirs,’ Marbeck said in a clear voice. ‘Have I come to the right place? I seek Isaac Gow.’

  There was a silence, while others emerged from their makeshift chapel. Soon nine or ten unsmiling men stood before Marbeck in a body. He glanced briefly at each, then his pulse quickened: on the edge of the group was the unmistakable figure of Henry Scroop; the young man and his mother were very alike. But there was no sign of recognition on Henry’s part. Coolly, he stared at Marbeck as the rest of them did.

  ‘Why do you seek our brother?’ someone asked finally.

  The speaker was a crabbed, white-haired man. ‘In truth, it’s not Mas
ter Gow himself I seek,’ Marbeck answered. ‘I came to find a friend … a student who should be at his studies.’ Deliberately he looked at Henry. ‘Master Scroop, is it not?’

  At once the boy stiffened, and a wary look came over his youthful features. ‘Who has sent you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Lady Celia asked me to come,’ Marbeck told him. ‘She is most concerned about you … as are all your family.’

  There was a stir among the group, and heads turned towards Henry. ‘I know you,’ he said, frowning. ‘I know him,’ he repeated, turning to his fellows. ‘His name’s John Sands. He’s a servant of the Crown – one of the Great Whore’s lackeys.’

  A sound went up: a murmur, almost of outrage. As if by instinct the members of the sect moved closer together.

  ‘This boy is one of us,’ the white-haired man snapped, glaring at Marbeck. ‘He has abandoned foolish and idolatrous study to join the faithful. Whatever be your mission here, John Sands, it has failed. You should go.’

  But to the consternation of them all, Marbeck took a pace forward. ‘In my own time, sir,’ he said calmly. ‘First, I would speak alone with this young man …’ He threw a stern look at Henry. ‘He is a student of Exeter College, Oxford, and is here without permission. He’s on the brink of forfeiting his degree, and his mother is distressed that he appears to have forsaken her and all his family …’

  ‘And if he will not leave – what then?’

  The voice came sharp as a whipcrack, and it came from the rear of the group. At once they parted, to reveal someone who had apparently been standing by the barn door, hidden from Marbeck’s view. As he looked, the man came forward swiftly, to halt a few yards away. There could be no mistake: he was face to face with Isaac Gow.

  His first thought was that the man was the image of the Scottish Puritan, John Knox: once a scourge of the established Church, dead these thirty years but never forgotten. Marbeck recalled the portrait – Gow wore his grey beard long, as Knox had done. Moreover there was the same dour face that never cracked a smile; the fervid look of the zealot who is a stranger to doubt. And to cap it all, this man was also a Scot. Raising a finger, he pointed it at Marbeck as if to condemn him.