Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting

by John Pilkington

  ‘Well, now I understand,’ Marbeck said. A somewhat guarded conversation had taken place around a table in the parlour. But he was relieved to find that Rowan knew nothing of his being under suspicion by Sir Robert Cecil. ‘And I’ll not trespass on your warrant,’ he added. He hesitated, then decided that in the matter of Henry Scroop, telling the truth was best. Briefly he outlined his difficulty, describing Henry as a foolish and impressionable youth, the son of a friend who had come under Gow’s influence. He wished to discover where the boy might have gone, and nothing more. In the matter of Gow’s activities beyond preaching and stirring up dissent, he had no knowledge. So having made his case, he fell silent.

  ‘There will be no coercion,’ Rowan said finally. ‘And I too must be present when you question him.’ When Marbeck nodded, he added: ‘The man’s wild with talk of the day of wrath, and God’s judgment on us all. Yet I think he lies as brazenly as any clapper-dudgeon.’

  He glanced at Lambert, who said: ‘I’ve no desire to hear what the fellow has to say – I merely wish to be rid of him.’ He eyed Marbeck. ‘My father was magistrate here before me. It’s not the first time this house has held felons – even murderers. But Gow would try the patience of a saint.’

  ‘I’ve observed that, Master Lambert,’ Marbeck said. ‘At my one meeting with him and his flock, I was told I bore the Mark of the Beast. Yet I would try him once more.’

  ‘Then so be it,’ Rowan said. He nodded towards the doorway. ‘We have him in a bed-chamber – shall we go up?’

  Marbeck drew a breath, and got to his feet.

  SEVEN

  The room was small, furnished only with straw pallets and stools. After Rowan had unlocked the door, he and Marbeck entered to find Gow and his companion seated by a window, Bibles in hand. At once Marbeck recognized the white-haired elder he had spoken with, at the farm by Gogmagog. The man gave a start as they came in: he was dishevelled, though unhurt. Gow had a bruise on one cheek and a bandage on his right hand. He remained seated, staring defiantly at the newcomers … then recognition dawned.

  ‘You!’ He pointed at Marbeck. ‘What treachery is this? You came before, bent on taking our brother from us …’ His gaze flew to Rowan, who stood by the door. ‘I’ll not have discourse with this man!’ he snapped. ‘Remove him – he’s steeped in wickedness …’

  ‘Be silent,’ Rowan ordered. ‘It’s not your place to say who comes and who goes. There are questions to be put, and it will go ill with you if you refuse to answer.’

  ‘Go ill with me?’ Gow glared at them both. ‘You should fall on your knees, and prepare for the tumult to come! You hold me captive without cause … you are as the—’

  ‘Cease your ranting,’ Rowan said irritably. Marbeck, familiar enough with such situations, remained calm. He found a stool and placed it deliberately in front of Gow.

  ‘Where would Henry Scroop go now?’ he asked, sitting close enough to make the man flinch. ‘I wish to help him, and return him to his college or his family. Otherwise he will end up a fugitive. Is that what you wish?’

  But Gow was recovering quickly. ‘You dare to question me?’ he retorted. ‘You are an enemy to the faithful – I saw it when you came to Gogmagog. There’s a pit prepared for you, where untold torments await! The boy saw through your wickedness – you came to corrupt an innocent youth, who has chosen the path of righteousness!’

  ‘The matter is,’ Marbeck said as if he hadn’t heard, ‘if I don’t find him, others might. And they’re likely to be far less gentle. I ask again, what do you wish?’

  ‘By all that’s holy, what devilry he spouts.’

  It was Gow’s companion who had spoken. Marbeck looked, and saw fear in his eyes. He glanced briefly at Rowan.

  ‘Perhaps you should come down and take some air,’ Rowan said to the older man. ‘We’ll leave my friend and your master …’

  ‘No – I will not go!’ the other cried. ‘You seek to divide us …’ But he broke off as Gow laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘Peace, Silas,’ he murmured. ‘They shall not part us, nor will they prevail in their cruelty.’

  ‘I use no cruelty,’ Marbeck told him. ‘If you refuse to help me, I’ll merely continue searching for Henry until I find him. I made a promise to his family.’

  The old man lowered his eyes, clutching his Bible to his chest. But Gow threw a look of contempt at Marbeck.

  ‘I will not aid you,’ he said, making it plain that was his final word. From the doorway Marbeck heard Rowan sigh, but kept his eyes on Gow.

  ‘In which case,’ he replied, ‘I will swear out a warrant for the arrest of all your followers still at large on a charge of sedition – or perhaps treason. The punishment is death.’

  It was a bluff, and almost at once he thought better of it. He sensed Rowan’s disapproval, as the man shifted his feet. But watching Gow, he saw a look of dismay flicker across his features. It was soon replaced, however, by one of rage.

  ‘You pagan devil!’ Suddenly the man leaped to his feet, startling everyone. ‘You dare speak of treason? I’m a man of God, who walks a straight path!’ He lifted the Bible in his bandaged hand, as if it were a weapon. ‘You serve the forces of Antichrist – the scarlet Elizabeth, who gives way to the bastard James Stuart, born of a Papist whore! Yet your days are numbered in the book of reckoning – and yours too!’ He turned on Rowan, his hand shaking. ‘You may do what you will – burn me or break me, you cannot prevail. Matters are in motion, as unstoppable as a tide – the tide of God’s wrath!’

  All at once, Gow was almost frothing. His companion plucked at his sleeve, but he shook him off. His anger, once roused, was unquenchable. Marbeck saw it, and tried at once to turn it to his use.

  ‘Matters in motion?’ he echoed, raising his brows. ‘What might they be?’ But there was a footfall, and Rowan came up beside him. Glancing round, Marbeck read the man’s expression: these were things for him to uncover, once Gow was taken to London. Meanwhile, the man ranted on.

  ‘You’ll learn nothing here!’ he cried. ‘Torment is naught to us, in light of the rapture to come! Even the boy has his task appointed … He is as the holy lamb, and will find bliss when his mission is fulfilled! Praise him, and all who serve. While you …’ He pointed at each of them. ‘Your time draws short. Take heed, and beg mercy of your maker. He may forgive – I do not! This land – my country – is become a fount of evil that must be cleansed! Death awaits your new master, by means none will foresee …’

  Then to the surprise of all Gow gave a great gasp, bent double and fell into a fit of violent coughing. His face was dark, and sweat stood on his brow. He sank back on to his stool, even as his companion jumped up. The fit continued, Gow taking wheezing breaths between coughs, until slowly it began to subside.

  With a muttered curse, Rowan went to a pitcher that stood by the wall and carried it over, along with a wooden cup. He poured water and held it out, whereupon Silas put it to Gow’s lips. He drank, then waved it away.

  ‘Why don’t you leave us?’ the old man said, turning to Rowan. ‘Can’t you see what you do – what this man suffers?’

  A moment followed, in which Marbeck and Rowan exchanged glances. Then with a sigh Marbeck stood up. ‘Your pardon,’ he said. ‘You should—’

  ‘Go!’ Silas glared at them both. ‘We’ll tell you nothing. We cannot in any case, for we’ve no knowledge of where our brethren have fled. But be assured their faith is unbroken, as is their resolve. And I know the boy will stay true. Do what you will – you have failed, as your King will fail. A thunderbolt comes, and there will be no means of escaping it!’

  With that he turned his back and, pulling a kerchief from his clothing, proceeded to mop Gow’s face. The two of them spoke low, as if they were alone. Rowan was already leaving, and the look on his face spoke clearly enough.

  But as he went out Marbeck took a backward glance, and stiffened. Gow, his chest heaving, was looking steadily at him over his companion’s shoulder. There was an odd lig
ht in his eyes, but his expression did not suggest madness; it was more like one of triumph.

  In the afternoon, Poyns having returned to the inn, the two intelligencers talked in their chamber. Marbeck told his tale, which his companion heard with growing unease.

  ‘There’s some scheme afoot,’ he said finally. ‘I knew it … Gow’s mad enough for anything, and his fellows are bewitched by him.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You need to find that boy and get him away from them, or it’ll end badly.’

  Marbeck said nothing. What had begun as a promise to Celia to speak with her wayward son, he thought, had turned into something more serious. On his ride back to Huntingdon he had turned the matter over, and disliked what he saw. Poyns’s instincts, it seemed, had been right all along.

  ‘If those Precisians have hatched a plot, whether it be directed at the King or not, Gow will confess to it in the Marshalsea,’ Marbeck said finally. ‘Even he couldn’t stand up to questioning at the hands of an interrogator like Sangers …’ He grimaced. ‘I should be there too, if only for Henry’s sake.’ He looked at Poyns, who was pacing the room. ‘Yet I’m out in the cold, as far as Master Secretary’s concerned. How am I to move? Going to Scotland’s out of the question now …’

  ‘Is it?’ Poyns broke in. ‘Might it not be better for you to go there at once, and warn the King of a plot against his life? Even if it proved groundless, you could be rewarded for your service. In any case it’s no idle fancy – think how many were directed at Elizabeth during her reign. She could have been murdered several times over …’

  ‘I remember,’ Marbeck said. ‘But what evidence would I carry? We know nothing of when and where, or how it might be played out … there’s naught but our suspicions, and Gow’s ranting.’

  ‘The boy … it may be mere fancy on my part, but hear me,’ Poyns said. ‘What if Gow means to use him – make him his instrument? It’s not unknown for plotters to employ an innocent dupe … sacrificing him like—’

  ‘A lamb?’ Marbeck gave a start. ‘Gow talked of his mission …’

  ‘We’ve heard of such practices,’ Poyns went on. ‘A fair youth may easily draw close to the King, on pretence of making a speech or presenting a gift …’ He frowned. ‘And if Gow has it in his head that James leans towards the Papists, he may be desperate enough to attempt the worst.’

  ‘Indeed, it fits,’ Marbeck agreed with a sigh. ‘Henry’s green as a young shoot; loyal, dependable …’

  ‘And expendable,’ Poyns finished. He went to the window and sat, gazing out at the street below.

  ‘I have only one course open,’ Marbeck said finally. ‘Riding to Scotland offers too many uncertainties. Time may pass before I even see the King – if I’m allowed near him at all. For all I know, Cecil’s suspicions may have run ahead of me – I may not be believed. Besides, what could I offer but hearsay and speculation? Meanwhile Gow’s followers are free to continue with their plans, at least until their master buckles under questioning. I must try to discover whatever he spills.’

  He looked at his fellow, who stared back. ‘I hope you’re not asking me to be your ears in the Marshalsea,’ Poyns said. ‘This is Rowan’s warrant … he won’t want me poking in.’

  ‘I ask no such thing,’ Marbeck said. ‘But do you know Rowan? I never saw him before.’

  ‘I do not. No doubt he uses other names …’ Poyns shrugged. ‘Master Secretary has always kept his intelligencers apart. The less we know of each other’s activities, the better. Meanwhile the Toad sits upon his stool in the Strand, and keeps everything hidden beneath it.’

  ‘Well, I’ve made my resolve,’ Marbeck told him. ‘For better or worse I ride for London tomorrow … what of you?’

  ‘I’ll linger another day,’ Poyns answered. ‘Then I’ll follow, and deliver my report. It’s best we remain at a distance … but if you find yourself in need, I’ll speak for you. Whatever our master may think, I believe you’re loyal.’

  Marbeck threw him a grateful nod, then rose and began packing his belongings.

  Three days later he was installed at the Boar’s Head Inn, outside the city walls by Whitechapel.

  The Boar’s Head – a large, rowdy inn that doubled as a theatre for the Earl of Derby’s players – was not one of his regular haunts. Hence, for a time at least, he was confident he could remain unrecognized. He kept the persona of Richard Strang, a musician who had come to the capital on hearing of the Queen’s death. The King of Scots, it was known, enjoyed music and plays as much as Elizabeth had, and a lutenist would not be alone in seeking opportunities.

  After settling in he ventured into the city, and found it peaceful enough. The Queen’s body, he learned, was lying in state at Whitehall, having been brought downriver by night on a torchlit barge. The funeral would not be for some weeks, by which time the new King should have arrived. Gossip was rife on the subject of James’s impending journey. It was known that Robert Carey had reached Holyrood Palace on the Saturday night, less than three days after Elizabeth’s death: a remarkable ride that had exhausted the man. Now, news flew back and forth between Edinburgh and London by the day. A large number of Scottish nobles was expected to come south, the prospect of which was causing unease among the Council. Queen Anne, however, was pregnant and unable to travel. It was believed that James would make a leisurely progress through his new kingdom, stopping to meet prominent citizens and noblemen along the route. To Marbeck’s ears, he sounded like a man who intended to enjoy every moment of his journey.

  Having judged the mood, he made a decision. Early on the Wednesday evening he left the inn and walked through the city’s east gate into Aldgate Street, to the church of St Andrew Undershaft. Here he watched the small congregation arriving, until at last the man he sought appeared in a doublet and old-fashioned breeches of sombre grey. Whereupon Marbeck stood in his way, causing him to stop dead.

  ‘Prout …’ He nodded a greeting. ‘Forgive my abruptness, but this was one place I knew you’d be.’

  Nicholas Prout, former intelligencer and Crown messenger, gazed at him in surprise, then in consternation. ‘Marbeck …’ He gave a sigh. ‘What in the name of heaven do you want?’

  ‘To talk to you. There’s no one else I trust enough …’

  ‘No – save your sugared words.’ Prout waved a hand. ‘Your name’s besmirched, do you not know it? I’ve heard tales …’

  ‘No doubt – and I would like to know who spread them,’ Marbeck replied. ‘But answer me this: do you, in your heart, suspect me of treachery?’

  The other eyed him, but made no answer.

  ‘You’ve known me since I entered the Queen’s service – a cocky youth who thought he knew everything,’ Marbeck persisted. ‘I’ve heard I’m denounced as a traitor. But you know me – as you know such accusations may often be made against men like me. So I ask again – do you think the charges valid, or false? Please answer me.’

  A moment followed. People brushed by them, one or two greeting Prout as they went. The man’s gaze strayed to the church entrance, then back to Marbeck. Finally he drew a breath and shook his grey head.

  ‘I think them false,’ he murmured. ‘Indeed, I believe in his heart Master Secretary does too.’

  Marbeck showed his surprise. ‘I thought he had me watched,’ he said. ‘Even followed …’ But Prout silenced him with a look of impatience.

  ‘I won’t speak with you – not here,’ he said. ‘If you wish, we may meet tomorrow. Though it may be to little purpose.’

  ‘I do wish,’ Marbeck answered. ‘I lodge at the Boar’s Head without Aldgate. But I’ll attend you where you choose.’

  ‘The Boar’s Head must serve,’ Prout said, with some distaste. ‘I’ll come tomorrow at noon.’ And with that he moved off to the church. Marbeck watched him go in, then with relief turned round and walked out of the city.

  Their meeting, however, started badly. The following day was wet, and Prout was late. When he arrived, hatted against the drizzle, he found Marbeck waiti
ng, looking uneasy. His reason was that the Earl of Derby’s men had arrived to hold a rehearsal on the open stage in the inn-yard. But because of the weather they had called a halt and were milling about, sheltering under the galleries and fortifying themselves with bottled ale. The strait-laced Prout, as pious a man as Marbeck knew, regarded them frostily.

  ‘Do you have a chamber to yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘I do,’ Marbeck said. ‘But being short of money, I had to make concessions. I must vacate it at times. It’s … a delicate business.’

  ‘You mean it’s used by whores?’ Prout snorted. ‘Then where will we go?’

  Marbeck looked about. He knew Prout disliked inns, indeed seldom drank anything stronger than watered ale. Then his gaze lifted towards the galleries, where spectators paid extra to sit. Eyeing the messenger, he received a nod. So the two of them climbed a staircase and sat down in the best seats, overlooking the empty stage. It was likely, Marbeck mused, that this was the only time Prout had entered a theatre.

  ‘I’m obliged to you for coming,’ he began, then stopped short as the other raised a hand.

  ‘I cannot stay,’ Prout said, pulling his hat low against the drizzle. ‘But if we’re trusting one another, Marbeck, you should know that Master Secretary has no knowledge of our meeting. As far as is known you left Croft House in a hurry – to the displeasure of Sir Thomas and his wife, I hear – and rode off to none knew where.’ He paused. ‘Does anyone else know you’ve returned?’

  ‘Edward Poyns,’ Marbeck answered. ‘I met him in Cambridge, where he’d come from the fen country.’