Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting

by John Pilkington

  ‘Folkestone …?’ The word was out before Marbeck could stop it. But when the others eyed him, he managed a shrug. ‘I always thought we would march to Dover,’ he added. ‘Since nobody told me otherwise … Not that it matters.’ He met Follett’s gaze, whereupon the young lieutenant spoke sharply.

  ‘With a castle sitting above the town, and a garrison inside it?’ he snapped. ‘That would be somewhat foolhardy, would it not?’

  ‘I suppose it would,’ Marbeck admitted, cursing inwardly. ‘It’s merely that Dover’s near, while Folkestone is – what, six or seven miles away …’

  ‘Nearer five,’ Drax corrected. ‘And as I told you on your first day here, Duggan, the way is paved. New orders have already gone out to the other camps, to muster here. Advance riders will mark our every step, while others will go into the town to guard the harbour. The moment the lady’s ship is sighted, a beacon will be lit. You think I haven’t planned for this moment?’

  ‘Then … we march tonight?’

  Marbeck struggled to appear excited by the prospect; but in his mind, he saw his plans crumbling to dust. More, he read suspicion in the other men’s faces, particularly Follett’s. While making an announcement like this was not unlike Drax, he couldn’t help feeling that he was the last to be told the details. But at the man’s next words, it was all he could do not to sigh with relief.

  ‘Of course not!’ The commander threw him a scathing look. ‘I mean we leave early in the morning, not the evening. My intelligence is that the ship will likely come in before midday. When it does, we will be ready.’

  ‘Capital!’ In some relief himself, Feaver seized his cup. ‘Then the Queen-in-Waiting will be ashore, and our first part is done. It’s on to Westminster, and to our destiny!’

  He grinned, drank deeply, then raised the cup; and his look of satisfaction was such, even Drax cracked a smile. Follett drank too, and gave a nod of approval.

  ‘Morning’s best for a march,’ he said. ‘I’d no relish for kicking my heels all day – nor had the men. We can be in the port before noon, and post a watch on every road out.’

  Forcing a smile, Marbeck too drank … then it hit him.

  ‘The paymaster,’ he said, more sharply than he intended. ‘He’s supposed to come here tomorrow, isn’t he?’

  There was a moment’s silence – but it was broken by Feaver giving a yelp of laughter. ‘Good Christ, so that’s why you’re looking so glum!’ he exclaimed. ‘You haven’t been paid yet, have you?’ He turned to Drax. ‘I pray you, sir, put our friend out of his misery. Tell him he’ll get what’s due to him – then he can stand us all a dinner in Folkestone!’

  With a glassy look Marbeck turned to face Drax … and for the second time, had to conceal his relief.

  ‘There’s no need to soil your breeches, Duggan,’ the commander said dryly. ‘Burridge will come. His orders are to journey on to Folkestone and meet us there, after he lands at Dover as usual. I cannot be certain the man isn’t watched, hence all must appear normal …’ He frowned at Marbeck. ‘Indeed, I cannot be certain that any of us isn’t watched,’ he added. ‘But you’ll get your pay. Now, have you any other fears you wish to air, before the evening’s over?’

  But Marbeck shook his head, and in his relief allowed a genuine smile to appear. ‘None, sir,’ he replied. ‘Now that I know, I’ll get a good night’s sleep …’ He lifted his cup, and raised it. ‘May I pledge success to our enterprise – and good health to England’s new monarch.’

  After a moment, the others too drank. Feaver drained his wine to the last drop, whereupon Marbeck seized his chance. Taking up a flagon, he refilled the man’s cup to the brim.

  But his mind raced ahead to the night and his plan to spoil Drax’s entire enterprise with the help of just one man. Try as he might, he could not help thinking that it now looked like sheer madness.

  ELEVEN

  Marbeck stood by the path and waited for Llewellyn.

  He had heard the night-birds calling, and knew his comrade would have done so too. He squinted into the gloom: the clouds had cleared, and there was a half-moon to see by. Two hundred yards away, the dying embers of the cook’s fire still showed faintly. But there were no stragglers this night; in readiness for the morrow, the camp slept. To his relief, it had been easier to get away than he had expected. Feaver lay like a dead man, muttering in his sleep; no lights showed at the other tents. The sentries were spread beyond the edges of the camp, and a man of Marbeck’s skills could avoid them. Stalking the guards at the picket had been more difficult. The first one Marbeck had downed at once, knocking him unconscious before he hit the ground. The other had jumped up and would have shouted, had he not seized his throat. They had struggled, whereupon Marbeck had used his lute-string. As he throttled his victim, the man fell and thrashed about before lying still. His fear was that the struggle had alarmed the horses; a dozen in number, they fretted at the picket-rope until Marbeck was able to calm them. He had then untied Cobb and led him through the trees. Llewellyn was to wait a little longer, to make sure all was quiet before he untethered his own mount.

  Now at last he appeared: a bulky shape looming out of the dark. Marbeck gave a low whistle, and the old soldier came towards him leading his warhorse. He tied it to a sapling some yards away from the path, alongside Cobb.

  ‘The other horses – are they at ease?’ Marbeck asked. Llewellyn nodded, then pointed towards their destination … and now Marbeck sensed his alarm.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  The old soldier held up two fingers, shook his head rapidly, then held up three and pointed again. His meaning was clear: there were not two guards at the armoury, but three.

  ‘I’ll take the first,’ Marbeck said quickly. ‘You round the barn and take another – with luck the third will be confused. Whichever of us is nearest must despatch him …’ He gripped the other’s shoulder. ‘Ready?’

  Llewellyn merely touched his arm, before hurrying off. Marbeck counted to ten, then started along the path that led to the ruined abbey. Soon he saw a light ahead, with the outline of the barn beyond. Drawing a breath, he straightened himself, strode forward and was challenged at once.

  ‘Who’s there? Stand and be seen!’

  He halted. The light came from an iron brazier, where the guards warmed themselves. Two came towards him: one was Robbins, the veteran of the Irish War Marbeck had encountered on his first arrival. The other man was somewhat nervous. They had tucked pistols into their belts, and wore swords.

  ‘It’s Duggan,’ Marbeck said. ‘I’ve new orders from the colonel …’ He glanced round. ‘Where’s the other sentry?’

  ‘At the rear, sir …’ Robbins eyed him. ‘What new orders are those?’

  Marbeck fumbled in his doublet. ‘They’re written down,’ he replied. ‘Let’s move into the light, shall we?’

  He stepped towards the brazier, and the others followed. He fumbled again, produced a rolled paper tied with cord. He tugged at the knot and muttered a curse.

  ‘Here, take it,’ he said to Robbins. The man hesitated, then turned to his companion. ‘You read better than I do,’ he said. The other soldier nodded and took the paper. Both men bent to look at it … whereupon Marbeck struck.

  His fist shot out, cracking Robbins on the jaw. As he reeled away, Marbeck was already drawing his dagger. A sharp thrust in the other soldier’s side, and the man went rigid, his eyes bulging. But as he fell he gave an agonized cry – which was answered by a shout from some distance away. Marbeck, however, had no time to look round: Robbins had recovered in an instant and was bearing down upon him, drawing his sword.

  ‘By the Christ … the lieutenant was right about you!’ he breathed. ‘Drop your poniard!’

  They faced each other. Marbeck wasn’t wearing his sword: it would have hampered his movements, and was fixed to Cobb’s saddle. Dropping to a crouch, he held the dagger forward. Where was Llewellyn? he wondered. Then came a shriek from behind the barn: the other sentry had been despatc
hed.

  ‘You’ve a simple choice, Robbins,’ he said. ‘Submit, and be tied and gagged. Resist, and we’ll kill you.’

  ‘We?’ Robbins glared. ‘You mean your tongueless friend? Where is the whoreson bastard – I’ll spike the pair of you!’

  ‘He’s there,’ Marbeck said. Calmly he straightened up, and pointed past the other’s left shoulder.

  But Robbins wouldn’t turn. ‘He may be,’ he muttered. ‘Yet I have you in my grasp … and it’d be worth it, to take you down!’ He let out an oath, and his sword arm flew up. Marbeck stiffened, preparing to dodge. His gaze was on Robbins … then at the last moment, his eyes flicked to the man’s left – whereupon he reacted as Marbeck had hoped. With a rapid movement he swept his weapon around, ducking as he did so, but met only thin air. Too late, he saw the trick: Llewellyn had come up on his right. There was a caliver in his hands, which he had taken from the other guard. As Robbins whirled about, Llewellyn struck him on the head with the butt; the thud was enough to make even Marbeck wince. Without a sound the man toppled over and lay still.

  In grim satisfaction Marbeck eyed his companion. ‘The other sentry?’ he enquired, and for reply received a sharp gesture across the throat.

  ‘The keys …’ Marbeck looked towards the barn. ‘There’s a padlock …’ Then he heard it. Llewellyn heard it too: running feet, coming from the direction of the camp. They both span round, whereupon a shout came out of the dark.

  ‘Hold still! Any man that moves will be fired upon!’ The voice was unmistakeable: that of Lieutenant Follett.

  Llewellyn moved fast: bending double, he began searching Robbins by the brazier’s light. Marbeck glanced, then saw the glint of a steel ring at the belt of the other soldier. He squatted beside him, hearing the man groan: he was alive, but fading. As he wrenched the keys clear, he looked up to see Llewellyn busy with the carbine.

  ‘Can you hold them off for a minute?’

  For answer, Llewellyn dropped to one knee and raised the gun to his shoulder. There was a crackle as flint ignited match, a spurt of flame and then a roar. Twenty yards away he heard a cry of alarm, then silence.

  ‘I’ll get inside,’ Marbeck breathed. His plans were collapsing, but he refused to think about it. In a moment he was at the barn door, fitting the key to a heavy padlock. It turned, and the shackle sprang free. Tearing it from the hasp, he seized the latch and swung the heavy door open; he was in.

  For a moment he could see nothing. Then he saw a lantern by the doorway, found his tinder-box and struck a light. There was an eerie silence outside, which troubled him; he doubted Llewellyn had the means to reload the gun. Then the lantern’s flame rose, and he almost gasped.

  Against the rear wall, kegs of powder were stacked. Nearby were stout chests which would contain balls and fuses. By another wall lay long boxes: carbines and harquebuses. Shields were piled up, along with helmets, steel corselets and wrapped bundles which he guessed contained swords. Pikes by the dozen stood upright, their points reaching the apex of the roof …

  A shot from outside, closer than he had expected, was quickly followed by another. Then came a hissing: Llewellyn had found a pail of water and was dousing the brazier. A third shot came, and a fourth; Marbeck heard a ball slam into the barn wall. Gritting his teeth, he went to work.

  There were no tools to hand, so he used his poniard – but when he tried to open a keg, it snapped in two. Throwing it aside he took down a pike and, struggling to manoeuvre in the cramped space, attempted to break its twelve-foot shaft. The tough ash pole resisted, so he was forced to swing the weapon round so that one end was outside the door. Resting it on a box, he jumped on it and was rewarded with a loud crack. Then he was at the powder kegs again, forcing the pike’s head into the nearest one. Soon he was able to prise the lid open, whereupon he tipped the keg over. Even as the contents spilled he was attacking another barrel – then at a sound from the door he whirled round, to see Llewellyn stagger in: and one look at him was enough.

  ‘You’re hit!’ Dropping the pike, Marbeck started towards him – but the old soldier waved him back. Rasping sounds came from his throat; he wheezed and stumbled, but kept his balance.

  ‘Get out – make for the trees!’ Marbeck hissed. ‘They can’t follow you in the dark. I’ll set the fuse—’ He broke off. Llewellyn was shaking his head vehemently. He still held the carbine, which he now dropped. In his other hand he clutched a pistol … but as Marbeck glanced down, the weapon slipped from his hand. Its butt was covered with blood, glistening in the lantern light.

  ‘Aah!’ Struggling to make himself understood, Llewellyn struck Marbeck on the chest with his fist. He jerked his head towards the doorway, shook it, then nodded to the barrels of powder.

  ‘Have you lost your senses?’ Marbeck demanded. ‘You couldn’t hold a troop of boys at bay … go while you can!’

  But his answer was a shake of the head. With his unblooded hand Llewellyn shoved Marbeck away, towards the door.

  ‘I won’t.’ Marbeck shook his head too. ‘I won’t leave. We may not be able to stop the paymaster, but we can blow this place to the heavens!’ He indicated the barrel he had opened, from which powder ran on to the earth floor.

  ‘Daah!’ Llewellyn glared, his breath coming fast. He raised his hand as if to push Marbeck again, then thought better of it. Instead, moving clumsily, he went over to the powder kegs and dropped to one knee. Marbeck started after him – then stiffened: there was noise, alarmingly near. He peered out into the darkness, but saw nothing.

  ‘The building is surrounded! Come out unarmed!’

  Follett’s voice came from some distance away, but his men were closer. Marbeck thought he heard voices: he had no idea how many were there, but all chance of surprise was gone. The whole camp would be awake … With a curse, he turned to Llewellyn. The old soldier was seated on the floor, working at another keg. The lid split with a crack, whereupon he dropped the pike and struggled to his feet. Seizing the keg in both hands he scattered the contents over other barrels and onto boxes. When it was empty, he threw it aside and turned to Marbeck.

  They eyed each other, and the moment seemed long. Words were useless: the look on Llewellyn’s face was enough. With a final jerk of his head, he made it plain what must be done. Marbeck was unhurt and had a chance, albeit a very slim one, while Llewellyn was weakening fast. Blood soaked his sleeve and ran to the floor. It was needless for them both to die here: Marbeck knew it, even as his throat tightened in near despair. Once before, in a house in Flushing, he had escaped, leaving a friend to his doom; the face of Giles Moore rose before him now, yelling at him to go. Feebly, he shook his head. He made as if to walk towards Llewellyn, but his companion had already turned away. Instead of returning to the kegs, however, he caught the lantern by its handle. Then with a grim look at Marbeck, he lifted it.

  Follett’s voice rang out again. ‘Last warning – then we storm the building!’

  It was followed by a shout: Marbeck thought he recognized the sergeant’s voice. For a second he hesitated – then all at once his instinct took over. A coldness welled up in his vitals; a feeling that on this occasion had almost failed him. Suddenly he was calm: he had things to do, things more important than his life or Llewellyn’s. He gave his comrade a last look, saw him poised to throw the lantern.

  ‘If I live, your sister shall know how you died,’ he said.

  Llewellyn nodded briefly, then turned away. Whereupon, using a move he had learned from his old mentor, the player Ballard, Marbeck dropped to the floor. Making himself into a ball, he rolled out through the barn doorway.

  There was an immediate crash of carbine fire; he heard a ball whistle past, but did not attempt to get up. Instead he kept rolling, using his hands like paddles: past the rigid bodies of Robbins and his companion, past the steaming brazier. Shapes rose in the gloom, and another shot roared out. This one was closer: he felt a tug at his sleeve, but no impact. Shouts came and were answered, he was unsure from which direction.
Like a snowball he kept rolling, through long grass, then bushes. Darkness enveloped him: he had lost his bearings, but kept moving. Brambles tore his arms and legs, and from somewhere a bird shrieked in alarm. Another shout: it sounded like he comes your way!, but he wasn’t certain. Not yet he told himself, and kept going even though he was weakening. Then another shot, but it was far off: he heard no patter from the bullet. Finally, his breath coming in rasps, he stopped and lay motionless … whereupon at last, Llewellyn blew up the barn.

  The explosion shook Marbeck to the bones, and temporarily deafened him. From an unexpected direction – for he had rolled far from his intended route – there followed a great roar. Then the night sky blazed, noon-bright. Panting, sore in a dozen places, he got to his knees and stared at the sight: the building, barely thirty yards away, covered in flames. But half of it, he now saw, was gone: where the roof should have been was a gaping hole. Timbers cracked, while powder, ball and weapons were consumed in the inferno. Now there were screams: some of the soldiers had been close. Peering through undergrowth, Marbeck saw a terrible sight: a man engulfed from head to foot in flame, moving crazily. Figures danced against the light, lurching about in panic. There was a crash as more of the building collapsed … more cries, more cracking of timbers … then at last, somewhat shakily, he got to his feet. A swift look round, then he was running.

  Away from the blazing barn he ran, until he regained the path some twenty yards away. Voices came towards him, and boots thudded: at once he ducked into the bushes, heard men running past. Shouts were everywhere: the camp was in uproar. He waited, then got up again and ran to untether Cobb – only to stop in dismay.

  There was a whinny of fear, and a horse raced out of the trees towards him, reins and stirrups flying. Seeing him in its path it screamed again and swung aside – but with relief, he saw it wasn’t Cobb. Frightened by the explosion, Llewellyn’s mount had torn itself free. Marbeck caught a glimpse of the old soldier’s pack and scabbard, before the horse galloped away.