Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting

by John Pilkington

  ‘I heard your name once, in London,’ he said fiercely. ‘Ye serve the she-wolf at Whitehall … fashioning pageants and other frippery. She is a queen born of a harlot, and the harlot’s fornicating husband-king! We are engaged in God’s service, sir, and will not be challenged by such as ye! Go hence and beg forgiveness for your sins – leave the brethren to their work!’

  The other men murmured their approval. But when Marbeck looked at Henry Scroop, the youth avoided his gaze. He frowned – was there conflict in his mind? Drawing a breath, he eyed Gow again. ‘If the boy is unwilling to come with me, then I will leave,’ he said. ‘But I’ll speak with him first, and hear it from his own lips.’ He placed a hand lightly on his sword-hilt. ‘Or do you keep him here against his will?’

  Dark looks appeared, but none fiercer than that of Gow, whose face was as thunder. ‘How dare you fling accusations against those of sanctified cause!’ he cried. ‘We account unto the Saints, and thence to the one true God – you and your like have no dominion here!’

  ‘That’s odd,’ Marbeck observed. ‘I’ve heard Papists use those same words.’

  At that there was a collective gasp. ‘He has the Mark of the Beast upon him,’ one man said angrily. ‘The children of perdition are filled with pride … send him hence!’ And he would have advanced on Marbeck, had not an unexpected voice risen.

  ‘Wait – I’ll speak with him.’

  A hush followed, as all eyes turned to Henry Scroop, pale-faced but still hostile. ‘That is, if our pastor will allow it,’ he added.

  Isaac Gow turned to him. ‘You should not have discourse with this man,’ he said severely. ‘He will tempt ye with foul devices, using your family as a lever to prise ye from us.’

  ‘But in that he will not succeed,’ Henry replied. ‘I have made my choice: I remain with you.’

  There was a moment, before finally Gow gave a nod. ‘I stand here,’ he said, placing a protective hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘Call upon me, if you wish.’ With that he moved aside, throwing a look at Marbeck.

  The others stood and watched as Henry walked over to him. Wordlessly the two moved away, walking beside the paddock fence. After a while the youth would have halted, but Marbeck led him further until they were out of earshot. Then he turned abruptly, and startled Henry as he had intended to do.

  ‘Your mother is ill with worry,’ he said. ‘She’s had no news of you in months, save that Exeter College may refuse you your bachelor’s. Is that what you want?’

  The boy swallowed, but stood his ground. ‘It’s of no importance,’ he said. ‘I’ve found a cause – a true purpose. This country’s steeped in wickedness. I saw it at Oxford, where men flatter and vie for preferment, and debate only trivia … but a better day is coming. Our pastor Isaac works tirelessly towards that day.’

  ‘Does he?’ Marbeck eyed him. ‘What does he propose to do?’

  ‘What does it matter to you?’ Henry retorted. ‘You’re a man of no religion, I think. You merely wait upon the Queen – one of her army of flatterers …’ He hesitated, and a look of suspicion appeared. ‘And what, now, are you to my mother?’

  ‘I’m her friend,’ Marbeck said. ‘I knew your father too … he would be distressed to see what you have—’

  ‘You lie!’ Henry broke in, reddening quickly. ‘If you truly knew my father, you would know his reputation: that of a lecher and a drunkard. He was a varlet, who deserved to perish as he did in the Flanders bog! I always thought—’

  But he broke off then, as if he had said too much. He looked towards the farmhouse, where Gow and others stood watching them. Marbeck glanced at Gow too, and back at Henry … and in a moment he saw it. The boy was angry, of course: but from grieving, for the father he had rarely seen. And in Isaac Gow, he had found one who would stand in his place: one who seemed to be everything his own father was not. He waited, until Henry turned to him again.

  ‘That may be,’ Marbeck said, not unkindly. ‘Yet it’s a rare father that doesn’t wish a good life for his son – especially one as clever as you. What of your future? How will you spend your days, if you forsake the university? Meanwhile Lady Scroop frets at Chelsea, losing her appetite as well as her sleep—’

  ‘Enough!’ Henry threw up a hand as if to ward off such thoughts. ‘You speak to me as a child,’ he said, with some bitterness. ‘But I’m almost nineteen … do you think I didn’t hear rumours, when I was last at Chelsea? Servants’ gossip, behind half-closed doors, but its import was clear. You visited late at night, while my father was at war … you pretended legal business, yet you are no lawyer. I ask again – what are you to my mother?’

  Marbeck hesitated. ‘I’m her lover,’ he said after a moment. ‘And I would do anything in my power to help her, as I would you …’ But he too fell silent, regretting his words. Suddenly, Henry looked close to tears.

  ‘I knew it!’ he shouted. ‘You prey upon her – you’re a vile sinner, like most of the population of this cess-pit! Pastor Isaac saw through you at once. You’ll perish in the fires prepared for you – for you are too late to join the appointed brethren. You’re no friend to me, and you’re not wanted here!’

  Cursing silently, Marbeck opened his mouth, but it was too late. The boy was backing away, and at the sound of his raised voice the others of the sect had started forward. Marbeck saw Gow advancing, striding through the grass like an angry lion.

  ‘Henry, wait …’ He moved towards the youth, who veered away. Then the others drew close, surrounding him like a bodyguard. At their head Isaac Gow stopped, and proceeded to direct his wrath against Marbeck.

  ‘I know ye, fellow!’ he roared, raising his fist. ‘Ye were sent here to snoop – to beguile us with feigned concern for this boy, who is tender and in need of protection. Men of evil purpose always come in disguise, like the minions of Satan himself. Ye seek to entice him away – but I forbid it. Leave us, and do not return!’

  The others gathered round, and in their faces Marbeck saw only fear and hatred. He looked at Henry, and saw a similar expression; but at least, he thought he understood the boy’s emotions. Then there were hoof-beats: someone was leading Cobb up. Swiftly, Marbeck stepped forward and snatched the reins from the man’s hand.

  ‘Have a care, sir – he is particular who handles him,’ he said softly. Startled, the man fell back, whereupon Marbeck mounted. Turning the horse in a rapid half-circle, he gazed down at Gow and his followers, knowing further words were useless. His last look was directed at Henry Scroop, but the boy had turned his back and was walking towards the house.

  With a sigh, he shook the reins and rode away.

  At the Roebuck, having stabled Cobb he went to the taproom and ordered mulled ale flavoured with spices. There was a good fire, and he sat down before it to drive the chill from his bones. On his way back to Cambridge the rain had started up again; now it fell in sheets, splashing against the windows.

  Grimly he gazed into the flames. His mission to rescue Henry Scroop from the clutches of a crazed Precisian having stalled, he was at a loss. He could write to Lady Celia, but there was no way to embroider the news. Thereafter, his choices were few. Go north, Gifford had advised, meaning to Scotland and the court of James Stuart: the man most people supposed to be England’s King-in-Waiting. He pondered the notion, not liking the prospect of several days’ ride to an uncertain welcome. But it was true that others had gone already … He breathed a sigh. Elizabeth’s long reign would soon be over, and much would be swept aside with it. What the coming years would bring, nobody knew.

  He finished his drink, left the taproom and walked up the stairs. He would pen the letter, then leave Cambridge. Though it would appear as if he had given up too easily, he thought … should he make one further attempt to talk to Henry? The prospects of success looked bleak. With such thoughts in mind, he threw open the door to his chamber – and stopped in mid-stride. A sword-point had appeared, its point directly above his heart.

  ‘Well now,’ someone purred. ‘So it i
s you, after all … grown somewhat careless, have you not?’

  FOUR

  Marbeck stared at the diminutive, ferret-faced man who stood before him wearing a sly grin; then recognition dawned.

  ‘Poyns …’ He breathed out in relief. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’

  ‘Do you mean in your chamber, or in Cambridge?’ Lowering his sword, Edward Poyns took a step back and looked Marbeck up and down. ‘The first is easily answered: I saw you in the street. You looked somewhat fierce, so I kept my distance. Later you made for the Roebuck …’ He shrugged. ‘As for my presence in this town, that’s a longer tale.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Can we talk over dinner? I’m rather hungry.’

  His spirits rising, Marbeck took a long look at his fellow intelligencer, a man he had not seen in years. A lapsed Catholic and a quick-witted shape-shifter, Poyns could pass himself off as knight or beggar. Even Sir Robert Cecil had been known to express grudging admiration for him.

  ‘It’s no weather for venturing out.’ Marbeck nodded to the window. ‘Will the Roebuck’s fare do? I could have a roast fowl sent up …’

  ‘And a jug of something?’ Poyns’s grin widened. Having laid aside his rapier, he sat down on the window seat.

  ‘So … who do I address just now?’ he enquired. ‘John Sands, or Thomas Wilders perhaps?’ He used the alias Marbeck sometimes employed on the Continent.

  ‘I’ve put them aside,’ Marbeck told him. ‘Lately I’ve been Strang, a music-maker …’ He indicated his lute, which stood in a corner. ‘You’re looking at a man without purpose – or even position. Have you not heard?’

  Poyns shook his head. ‘I’ve been buried alive for the past two months,’ he said, his smile fading. ‘I’ve seen no one … that’s why I’m in Cambridge, and mighty glad of it. I came down yesterday, from the Isle of Ely. Master Secretary, in his wisdom, saw fit to send me to Wisbech Castle. In short, Marbeck, you’re the first man I’ve conversed with in what seems like an age who isn’t a rabid Jesuit.’

  His tone was dry, and Marbeck saw the strain about the man’s eyes. Wisbech Castle, the remote holding-prison for militant Catholics and captured Jesuit priests, was a difficult posting. ‘Few have infiltrated that place and kept their cover,’ he said after a moment. ‘But if any man could achieve such, it’s you.’

  ‘I don’t know that I achieved anything,’ Poyns said. ‘I sat through masses, heard debates, saw the anger of those who yearn for the return of their faith … and in the end I caught a whiff of conspiracy. It’s probably naught, yet it was enough, I thought, to give myself an excuse to leave … but see, I prate too much. I’m eager for news – have you tidings of the Queen?’

  ‘First let me go downstairs and bespeak our dinner,’ Marbeck said. ‘Then we’ll prate all afternoon if you like … unless you’re in haste to travel on?’

  For answer Poyns made a bow. ‘You’re the host, sir, and I’m your honoured guest.’

  The dinner – a roast pullet with sauce, and cheese tarts – was more than adequate. So was the wine, and soon the two had done justice to both. They pushed aside the table the inn servants had brought, and Poyns raised his cup.

  ‘To Sir Robert Cecil, known as the Toad. May he enjoy the favour of England’s new monarch, as he did that of the old – when the day comes, of course.’

  Marbeck drank with him and set his wine down. Having passed on such news as he carried, there was little to add. They had talked at length throughout the meal: of the Queen’s decline at Richmond, and of the anticipation that kept all England on tenterhooks, and all Scotland too. Now, when Poyns pressed him, Marbeck told his own tale of what had befallen him these past weeks. He trusted the man enough to know that he was not a party to any suspicions he might be under. By the time he was done, his fellow intelligencer looked grave.

  ‘I’d ask if you suspected anyone,’ he said. ‘One who holds a grudge, perhaps … but for you and I, the question’s foolish. There are men in half a dozen English counties – in Ireland too, for that matter – who’d stab me in the lights without a second thought.’

  ‘I can’t deny it either,’ Marbeck replied. ‘I’m only glad Gifford kept his ear to the ground at Richmond … though I suspect it matters little in the long run. Our new King James – if indeed he becomes such – may have other plans for us. I hear he’s no liking for espionage … prefers diplomacy and negotiation.’

  ‘And boys to women, from what I hear,’ Poyns said, eying him over his cup. ‘It will be a very different sort of court.’

  ‘Yet there may be less war-mongering in the Council,’ Marbeck said, ‘now that the Irish struggle’s over. They say James favours an early peace with Spain. And since that nation’s all but bankrupt, I suspect Philip will have little objection to a treaty.’

  ‘True enough.’ Poyns glanced out of the window, then turned to Marbeck again. ‘You’ll have heard the whispers, that the Scottish Queen is secretly a Papist?’ he asked, in a different tone.

  Seeing his expression, Marbeck frowned. ‘There were rumours she converted in secret, back in 1600,’ he answered. ‘Though James is a Protestant down to his boots …’

  ‘Yet he’s been seen with certain Scottish nobles who are of the other persuasion,’ Poyns countered. ‘And rumour also speaks of a softening on his part towards English Catholics …’

  He trailed off. Marbeck paused, then said: ‘This whiff of a conspiracy you detected, at Wisbech …’

  ‘Indeed.’ The other nodded. ‘I heard talk of the Spanish Infanta – the fair lady of the Low Countries, and her Austrian husband. She does have a claim to the throne, you know.’

  ‘Twelfth in line, through her father?’ Marbeck looked sceptical. ‘Not another threat of Spanish invasion – that’s preposterous.’

  ‘Unless someone were to finance it,’ Poyns said. ‘Someone with deep coffers – and a vested interest, of course.’

  ‘That would be hazardous, not to say foolhardy,’ Marbeck objected. ‘More immediate is the claim of Arbella Stuart, who has a stronger case. Yet having met the maid, I believe the chances of her becoming Queen are even less likely. Besides, do you truly think Elizabeth would name anyone else but her cousin James? Only weeks ago she was overheard saying who should succeed her but another monarch – meaning a king.’

  ‘Well, I’m in agreement there,’ Poyns replied. ‘But thwarted hopes will always drive some to desperation … you’ve said yourself Cecil fears an uprising, bringing soldiers into London …’

  ‘He’s merely planning for any eventuality,’ Marbeck put in. ‘You know him as well as I.’

  Though conceding that with a nod, Poyns persisted. ‘I told you I’ve been closeted among the Papists. There’s an undercurrent at Wisbech – and not merely the usual kind, of fantasy and hope woven into whole cloth. Some mutter of foreign gold. I overheard no names, save one: the Earl of Charnock. Do you know him?’

  Marbeck thought, but found no memory of the man. ‘There’s been talk of such plots before,’ he said. ‘A flotilla from the Spanish Netherlands, a landing in Kent or Essex … Our people always found them to be without substance.’

  ‘What if the Papists had support from within?’ Poyns demanded. ‘Small groups awaiting the command, who would band together the moment Elizabeth dies … before James Stuart could even come south to claim his throne?’

  At that Marbeck frowned again. ‘Now you contradict yourself. A moment ago you spoke of James showing signs of Papist sympathies, in which case—’

  ‘Ah – now I’ve a confession to make,’ Poyns interrupted, with one of his grins. ‘I don’t believe a word of that.’

  In spite of himself, Marbeck managed a smile of his own. ‘Then lay your thoughts bare, won’t you?’ he said. ‘You may as well … what powers do I have now, to act upon intelligence?’

  ‘King James a Protestant down to his boots – was that your phrase?’ Poyns resumed. ‘Or down to his hose perhaps, which he seldom changes, I hear. The man smells bad, but we’ll le
t that pass. No, Queen Anne’s no Catholic convert – I’d wager sovereigns on it. Moreover, the two of them want a sweeter life in England than they’ve had in their cold little country, as well as a better future for their children. James is a wily monarch – cleverer than many realize. He’s using the Papists, wooing them with promises in return for their support. He’ll cast them aside once he’s crowned – you may wager upon it.’

  The man fell silent, and after pondering his words, Marbeck nodded. ‘That sounds likely,’ he agreed. ‘And hence those at Wisbech are merely clutching straws.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Poyns drained his cup and set it down. ‘Yet there are some who’ll see Elizabeth’s death as an opportunity. And in the matter of religion, her attempts to tread the middle way made bitter enemies … both Papists and Puritans.’

  ‘Odd you should mention them,’ Marbeck said. He gave Poyns a brief summary of his recent sojourn to Gogmagog, which unsettled the man somewhat.

  ‘Isaac Gow is one I would fear, more than the Jesuits,’ he murmured. ‘They are prepared to die for their beliefs – one may even admire them for it. Yet they serve the Pope and their faith, and don’t seek martyrdom for themselves. Whereas Gow …’ He shook his head. ‘What truly drives that man, I do not know. Some say he should be in Bedlam.’

  ‘I think he’s as sane as you or I,’ Marbeck countered. ‘And cleverer than most. His followers adore him – they’re like a family, and he the father.’ He frowned. ‘Small wonder an unhappy young man like the one I went to find should seek solace in the fellow’s company.’

  ‘But what do they do here, skulking in the hills?’ Poyns wondered. ‘Gow was in London last year, spouting to any who would listen. He likes an audience – even craves it.’

  Having no answer Marbeck remained silent, whereupon the other let out a long yawn. ‘Your pardon, my friend … I’ve had little sleep. I should find a chamber of my own.’