Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting

by John Pilkington

  He dismounted, and after removing Burridge’s bonds, led Cobb through the gateway into bustling streets, the paymaster dragging behind. The inn was near, and they were soon installed. The landlord, used to dusty and weary travellers, barely looked at them as Marbeck detailed his needs: hot water and a good supper sent up. Once upstairs in a chamber overlooking St George’s Gate, Burridge almost collapsed on the truckle-bed beside the four-poster. He looked like a man who would never rise again. Marbeck decided to let him sleep.

  But later, when the paymaster had rested and eaten ravenously of a now-cold supper, he found himself seated against the wall of the room facing his captor. He was in shirt sleeves, grim-faced and sullen. Night had fallen, and Marbeck had lit candles.

  ‘We’ll have our discourse now,’ he said. ‘And if you harbour any notion of calling for help, I’d advise against it. I’ve told the innkeeper you’re my poor, distracted uncle. You’ve become unhinged after the death of your wife, and are in need of confinement. In short, I said I’m taking you to Bedlam.’

  Burridge was aghast. ‘By the heavens,’ he muttered, ‘what further torments have you in store?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Marbeck replied. ‘For now you must spill your tale. Who instructs you, who provides the money, and so forth.’ He glanced at the pay chest, which stood on the floor near the master bed. Having relieved Burridge of the key, he had looked inside and satisfied himself of its contents. The chest contained not merely angels, half-angels and silver coin but gold ducats too: intended, or so he guessed, for the Spanish Infanta’s party. Fixing the paymaster with a cold eye, he waited. But when the man’s answer came, it was an attempt at resistance.

  ‘I won’t talk to you,’ he said bitterly. ‘If I’m to die, then I’ll make my testimony to the proper authorities. And I want a priest to hear my confession.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Marbeck said. ‘Just now, I am the authority. I serve the Council, who care not a fig how I obtain my intelligence.’ He touched the dagger he had taken from Burridge’s escort, which was now at his belt.

  ‘Then God forgive you,’ the other threw back. ‘You’re a knave – one who does their bloody work. What will you do, stab me as you did my companion?’ Wincing at the memory, he looked away. ‘You’re naught but a murderer.’

  Calmly Marbeck reached into his doublet and drew out a tailor’s bodkin, letting it rest on his palm. ‘Making a noise will avail you naught,’ he said. ‘You’re a madman, remember? I’ll say I had to restrain you when you tried to injure yourself.’

  It was a bluff; he loathed the means by which the Crown’s servants obtained confessions, though he had been obliged to witness them more often than he cared to remember. As for murder: he forced aside the image of Burridge’s escort, back in the stable at Dover. Instead he thought of Llewellyn, wounded but defiant, blowing himself to pieces.

  ‘Then damn you, Sands!’ the paymaster exclaimed. ‘And in any case you’ll learn little – do you think they confide in me? You cannot prevail. A sum far greater than that’ – he indicated the chest – ‘can be raised within days. You’re but a sprat in a lake full of pike!’

  ‘I like the conceit,’ Marbeck murmured. ‘I wonder what it makes you … a bloated newt, perhaps?’

  The other was breathing hard, fear in his eyes. He wet his lips, then changed tack. ‘Whatever your masters pay you, it’s but chaff compared to that, isn’t it?’ He nodded towards the chest. ‘Why don’t you take it? This country’s finished – can you not see? You could make a new life elsewhere …’

  ‘Enough!’ Marbeck snapped. ‘I’ll not debate my future with you. Start by telling me who commands you, and where you go to receive your orders. Quickly – my patience runs short.’

  A moment passed. Burridge’s eyes blazed, but his rage was short-lived. Marbeck had often watched men pass through such stages: anger, defiance and finally resignation. The paymaster had seen Marbeck fight, and knew his chances were nil. He sighed heavily and lowered his eyes.

  ‘I only know Drax and his people,’ he said in a sullen tone. ‘The ones who hold the purse are …’ He shrugged. ‘There’s no word for men like them. They live by money as others live by their toil. They buy and sell nothing, yet their fortunes multiply as if by sorcery.’

  He looked up. ‘I take my instruction from one man – I don’t know his name. He meets me in a private room over a tavern, with armed men standing by, in near-darkness. I never see his face … I bring the chest with me, and they fill it. They also give me letters to carry. I take ship at the Custom House in disguise, and my escort meets me. We skirt the coast to Dover … if storms or winds delay the ship we put in, though I’ve seldom missed a Sunday. At the port Drax’s soldiers meet us dressed as farm folk, with horses. After performing my duties to the regiment, I return and take ship again.’ He gave another shrug. ‘The rest is known to you.’

  ‘You don’t know this man’s name?’ Marbeck echoed.

  Quickly Burridge shook his head. ‘He found me … I was secretary to Bartolomeo Renzi, in Gracious Street.’

  Marbeck thought about that. All London knew of Renzi, a financier whose influence was felt in every corner of Europe. At last a picture was emerging.

  ‘They must have a hold over you, Burridge,’ he said after a moment. ‘I wonder what it is? The promise of mere gold sits somewhat ill with you, I think. You haven’t the courage to be a fully-fledged traitor, Papist or no.’

  At that the man looked uncomfortable. ‘You’re mistaken. My agreement is purely financial …’

  ‘I think there’s more to it,’ Marbeck told him.

  ‘And I swear there isn’t,’ Burridge insisted, but his hands fluttered nervously. ‘I’m but a secretary … the man knew my station.’ He raised his eyes, and an imploring look appeared. ‘Ask no more – I’m small fry, in the scheme of things.’

  ‘Yes, the scheme.’ Marbeck eyed him coolly. ‘To support an invasion that would topple England’s rightful King, and replace him with a usurping Spaniard. A princess of Philip’s lineage, the people we’ve been fighting for seventeen years …’ He shook his head. ‘That’s treason, Burridge. I said you’ll die a traitor’s death – you know it’s true.’

  The paymaster swallowed. ‘What will this avail you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘The regiment will already be in disarray. Without their pay the soldiers may mutiny – and what will follow I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Without their pay, and without arms and powder, they’ll certainly find it difficult,’ Marbeck said dryly. ‘Did I not mention that the armoury was blown up last night?’ He eyed the other man grimly. ‘A friend of mine died carrying out that task. So I’m not inclined towards mercy just now, Burridge – do you follow me?’

  Wide-eyed, the paymaster stared at him. ‘You destroyed the armoury?’ When Marbeck nodded, a sickly expression came over his face. ‘Then the rising cannot take place …’ He gazed downwards, as the import sank in. ‘We are undone!’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to you,’ Marbeck said patiently. ‘So the best thing you can do now is tell me the name of the man who gives you your orders – for I think you know who he is.’

  After a moment Burridge raised his eyes. His expression was bleak, but there was a glimmer of something else. ‘Is it truly beyond hope, for you and I to strike some manner of bargain?’ he asked finally.

  Marbeck gave him a withering look. ‘You’ve naught to stake,’ he answered. ‘And I hold the cards.’

  ‘But …’ The man’s mind was working. ‘What if I told you where I meet my superior? News may not have reached him yet …’

  ‘You said they had good intelligence,’ Marbeck countered.

  ‘They do, but …’ The paymaster was desperate now. ‘He will expect me to return by Tuesday. The same night I go to the meeting-place and make my report. I may be able to bluff – tell him all has gone to plan, and any rumours to the contrary should be discounted. And more …’

  Marbeck was nodding. �
�Plausible,’ he allowed. ‘Though the risks are many. But if you were to give me the man’s name …’ He raised his eyebrows and waited.

  Another moment passed. Burridge looked away: at the flickering candles, at the pay chest, and finally back to Marbeck. ‘If I tell you, what will you do?’ he asked finally. ‘My life will likely be forfeit – do you understand? Mine, and perhaps that of my wife …’ Suddenly, as on the journey, the man was in tears again. ‘You may as well kill me here!’

  But Marbeck merely waited; and at last, as he expected, Burridge gave way. ‘See now … I cannot be certain. But I believe he is Sir Roland Meeres.’

  In spite of himself Marbeck was taken aback. ‘Meeres – one of the Queen’s councillors? I should say one of the King’s councillors …’ He frowned. ‘I’d have thought he had too much to lose … but now I think on it, it was always believed the man was a Papist in secret.’

  He eyed Burridge, who merely hung his head; he had told all he could. For a moment Marbeck almost pitied him. ‘You’d better rest,’ he went on. ‘I regret I must bind you again. Tomorrow …’ He glanced at the pay chest, and a thought struck him. ‘Tomorrow, why don’t we both ride? We’ll buy another horse – no, a mule. Then with luck we’ll make London by nightfall. Does that not cheer you a little?’

  There was no answer. Burridge had closed his eyes, and leaned against the wall as if he were asleep.

  The next morning Marbeck was in better spirits. The paymaster, however, was in despair; even after they had been to a horse-courser and Marbeck had purchased a mule for him, along with a comfortable saddle. Thereafter they left Canterbury by St Dunstan’s Street, and clattered onto the London road. Marbeck rode behind Burridge, whose hands were no longer tied. He knew that flight was impossible, the mule being no match for Cobb. They travelled in silence; not a word had passed between them since rising. The man seemed to have resigned himself to the journey, and was lost in his own thoughts. Marbeck however, used the time to think – and on this fair spring day, he found his hopes rising.

  Two days earlier, things had looked very bleak indeed; now, armed as he was with intelligence, possibilities loomed. By the time they broke their journey at Gillingham, midway along the route, a strategy was taking shape. By evening, as they walked their tired mounts by Blackheath, it was almost complete.

  ‘Do you visit the theatre, Burridge?’ he asked, turning to his prisoner. When the other merely gave him a blank stare, he added: ‘I’ve learned a great deal from watching players work. The nub of my question is: if your life depended on it, how well could you pretend?’

  ‘If my life were truly at stake, I suppose I could do well enough,’ the paymaster replied morosely. They were the first words he had spoken all day.

  ‘Good …’ Marbeck peered ahead. Already the spires of the city were rising in the distance.

  ‘You mean to set a trap of some kind,’ Burridge added, frowning. ‘But if you require my help, I’ve decided to refuse you. There’s nothing left for me, except for …’

  ‘Your family,’ Marbeck finished. ‘Where do they reside?’

  The other wouldn’t answer.

  ‘No matter …’ Marbeck considered. He needed to find Nicholas Prout and acquaint him with everything that had occurred. One of them would also have to break the news of Llewellyn’s death to his sister … He sighed. Prout would have to go to Sir Robert Cecil, too.

  ‘How many men-at-arms does Meeres bring, when you meet with him?’ he asked. ‘Assuming that it is him, of course.’

  Burridge shrugged. ‘Two or three …’ Lifting his head, he threw Marbeck a baleful look. ‘You may plot all you like – I’ll not play.’

  ‘The matter is,’ Marbeck said, ‘once inside the Marshalsea you’ll see things differently. There’s an interrogator there who can make you tell everything you know. I only hope they don’t insist on my watching it …’ He gave a theatrical shudder.

  With a curse Burridge turned away, tugging the reins of his plodding mule. Even the animal looked unhappy, Marbeck thought. ‘But if you were to turn King’s evidence,’ he went on, ‘perhaps an arrangement might be made. For your wife and children, I mean.’

  His tone was casual, though he felt somewhat guilty; Sir Robert Cecil regarded pacts with traitors as invalid, and would break his word without a second thought. They walked on in silence, passing Deptford now. Lights showed in the distance; already the hum of the great city was rising. Southwark was not far. If Burridge refused to take part in the entrapment Marbeck had in mind, he would have no choice but to deliver him forthwith to the Marshalsea prison. However, though he knew the paymaster was sick with fear, he also knew that he was debating within himself. And despite his plight, Burridge was still holding something back. Marbeck sensed it, as he detected a final stir of hope within the man. All at once, he stopped.

  ‘I have no children,’ he said heavily. ‘And I know you cannot offer me freedom. You would lie if you claimed that.’

  Marbeck said nothing.

  ‘My wife knows nothing of this,’ the other went on, somewhat hurriedly. ‘She thinks I travel on an errand each week, for Signor Renzi. She’s a well-born woman, the daughter of a rich man. It’s for her, I …’ He trailed off; but for Marbeck, it was as if a curtain had been drawn aside.

  ‘So that’s it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Poor fellow. Then, you’re not the first man to take a wife he cannot keep in the manner she expects. It’s not Meeres or Drax who have a hold over you, is it? They knew your weakness, and how to buy you. But it’s not them you risk everything for – it’s your spouse.’ He gazed at the man, whose expression was enough. He refused to meet Marbeck’s eye, but plodded on.

  ‘Well now, perhaps we might lay some plans after all,’ Marbeck resumed. ‘For it may be your wife can be left out of the picture – if, as you say, she has no knowledge of the design.’

  He waited, eyes forward, as they tramped the Kent Road. Bermondsey was falling behind, and in the fading light the tower of St Saviour’s could be glimpsed. Suddenly Burridge stopped, bringing his mount to a halt. Marbeck stopped too.

  ‘How can I trust you?’ the paymaster demanded. ‘You despise me … you could promise the earth, and lie with every breath.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Marbeck agreed.

  A pause, then: ‘What would I have to do?’

  ‘Merely play yourself. Deliver your report … it would help if you appeared overjoyed at the apparent success of the enterprise. In any case, it wouldn’t be for long. Our people will be close by.’

  At that the other blanched. ‘I’m not a fighting man. If weapons are drawn, I—’

  ‘You’ll be protected,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘But I make no promises.’ He waited, then as an afterthought added: ‘The inn: you haven’t told me where it is.’

  ‘It’s the Dagger, in Holborn.’

  Having made his decision, Burridge looked up and met his eye. It was the last piece of information Marbeck needed; the paymaster knew that he could now be surplus to requirements. His fate was in his captor’s hands.

  ‘Is it, indeed?’ Marbeck allowed his surprise to show. ‘I confess it’s the last place I would expect … but that makes it a good choice. Then, one nest of rogues and thieves is as good as another. No wonder Meeres takes armed guards with him … I didn’t think it was to protect himself from you.’

  With that he turned, gave Cobb’s reins a tug and walked him on towards Southwark. Ahead, a train of packhorses ambled towards them, heading out of the city. Burridge drew his own mount forward, hurrying to catch up.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ he demanded. ‘What will—’

  ‘I do with you?’ Marbeck broke in. He thought for a moment. ‘I think we’ll go to church.’

  The other stared. ‘Do you jest?’

  ‘Not at all. We’ll go to St Andrew Undershaft, by Aldgate. I hope evensong isn’t over before we arrive.’ Straight-faced, he turned to Burridge. ‘There’s no need to look so dismayed; we won’t go inside. We’ll mer
ely wait for someone.’

  He would have turned away, but a thought struck him. ‘I’ll tie your mule’s reins to my horse’s tail,’ he added. ‘Merely as a precaution, you understand. For dignity’s sake you may remain unbound … I’m counting on you not to make any difficulty. Is that fair play?’

  Burridge barely nodded. But then, Marbeck had to admit, the idea of the man attempting to escape now was somewhat absurd. He looked the very image of defeat.

  FOURTEEN

  In Marbeck’s old chamber at the Boar’s Head by Whitechapel, he and Nicholas Prout sat in silence. Below them the inn roared and roistered, while a breeze rattled the window-panes. A single candle flickered, almost went out, then recovered.

  ‘By the saints, what a farrago this has been,’ the messenger said at last.

  Marbeck said nothing. It was the day after his return to London, and of turning his prisoner over to Prout. They had spoken only briefly outside the church: the man had agreed to meet him the following evening, after he had gathered news. Now, having heard Marbeck’s account in full, he was subdued.

  ‘Llewellyn was more than a good intelligencer,’ he went on, his eyes downcast. ‘He was a friend.’

  ‘I came to regard him as one, too,’ Marbeck said.

  ‘Yet you achieved much together.’ Prout looked up, and there was respect in his gaze. ‘The news is not all dire … indeed, I believe the Papists’ scheme has failed utterly.’

  ‘Then the landing of the Infanta did not take place?’

  Prout hesitated, then said: ‘It seems her ship never sailed. She never even left the Low Countries.’

  Marbeck gave a start, and a look came over his face which Prout didn’t like. Drawing a breath, the messenger began to speak quickly. ‘I’ve spent the day gathering reports, from several sources. You couldn’t have known – Drax and his people couldn’t have known either. The voyage was aborted … I don’t know why. Perhaps the Archduke reassessed the risks of invasion, and forbade it. Perhaps even the Pope forbade it …’