Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting

by John Pilkington

  But he broke off as Marbeck got abruptly to his feet. Breathing hard, he took a turn about the dingy chamber, then faced the other man. ‘What has Master Secretary to say about it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Master Secretary doesn’t know yet,’ Prout replied, without expression. ‘He’s gone from London, to meet King James on his journey south. He left on Sunday.’

  Suddenly Marbeck felt very tired. Turning away, he went to the bed and sat. The messenger, seated on a stool nearby, watched him uneasily.

  ‘What of Drax’s regiment?’

  ‘Melted away by now, I expect. There’s no news of the man himself.’

  Marbeck stared, and in his mind a suspicion arose. ‘You’re mighty well informed about it all, Prout,’ he murmured. ‘I only returned last night. This intelligence you’ve gathered …’

  ‘I had someone follow you,’ Prout admitted. ‘He was in Folkestone, Dover too …’ He met Marbeck’s gaze frankly. ‘Cecil would expect nothing less.’

  Marbeck was silent.

  ‘This matter goes far beyond you and me,’ the messenger went on. ‘The safety of the realm is at stake – and you and Llewellyn have played a part in preserving it. Drax’s army is in tatters … men turned on their officers, from what I hear. One was killed in the melee … a Captain Feaver. Did you know him?’

  After a moment Marbeck gave a nod. ‘But no word of Drax?’

  ‘Likely he escaped by ship. To France, perhaps.’

  ‘What about Burridge?’

  Prout gave a shrug. ‘We have him in the Gatehouse. I could bring Sangers in, put the fellow to the question. But I doubt there’s much more he can tell us.’

  ‘So it only remains to catch Sir Roland Meeres, and put him to the question too,’ Marbeck said. But at once a frown creased the other’s brow.

  ‘I’m uneasy about that,’ he said. ‘How can you be certain it’s Meeres? We’ve only the paymaster’s word – he could be lying, or simply mistaken.’

  ‘I’ve a strong feeling he is neither,’ Marbeck said.

  ‘A feeling?’ Prout’s frown deepened. ‘I need more than that. Meeres was seen as a force for good, in the Queen’s last days. Even Master Secretary trusted him, to a degree … the man has friends in the Council. I would need hard evidence before I lay charges.’

  Now Marbeck was frowning too. ‘I’ve already outlined my scheme,’ he said. ‘Burridge will do his part – you need only threaten him. A trap can be sprung, this very night …’

  ‘It might be too late,’ Prout argued. ‘News of the explosion near St Radigund’s, and of the mayhem that followed, has reached London. The plotters had their sources … they may have guessed more, and taken steps—’

  ‘All the more reason for us to go ahead,’ Marbeck persisted. ‘Whatever rumours Meeres has heard, he’ll be desperate for news. Burridge is his link with the events down in Kent.’

  ‘That’s true, but …’ The messenger looked uncomfortable. ‘I have no authority for this. Sir Roland Meeres is a Privy Councillor. If it came to a struggle and he were wounded, let alone killed—’

  ‘Damn you, Prout!’ Marbeck cried. ‘A pox on you and your caution – what is it you fear? Meeres getting a bump on the head, or you receiving a drubbing from Master Secretary?’

  The messenger bridled. ‘You know better than that,’ he retorted. ‘I’ve already taken risks, bringing you and the others together as I did. I care not for my own place – but the dangers are numerous—’

  ‘Indeed they are!’ Marbeck threw back. ‘One of your party’s dead, and I’m lucky not to have died with him. Meanwhile John Chyme’s gone north, perhaps into danger …’

  ‘Chyme will do his work!’ Prout said angrily. ‘You know the man well enough. And aren’t you forgetting the Earl of Charnock, and his part in all this? He’s been sighted near Berwick with a hundred Scots … they say he’s following in the King’s wake as he journeys south, gathering more followers by the day. Any danger to James Stuart comes from the north, not from phantom landings by Spanish princesses—’

  ‘What did you say, Prout?’

  There was a silence, in which Prout seemed to regret his words. Hasty speech was unlike him. He opened his mouth again, saw Marbeck’s expression and closed it.

  ‘Are you telling me all my efforts were wasted?’ Marbeck demanded, his voice ice-cold. ‘That Llewellyn died for nothing? That I almost lost my life too – for nothing?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Prout replied. ‘I’ve said you played a part – a heroic one—’

  ‘By the Christ!’

  The messenger fell silent; he knew better than to argue. He sat rigid as Marbeck leaped up. But instead of starting towards Prout he seized the nearest object – a rickety table, on which stood the remains of his supper – and threw it against the wall. There was a crash of splintering wood, while dishes flew everywhere. Turning furiously he caught up another object, then saw it was his lute. His chest heaving, he put it down again and turned on the messenger.

  ‘Do your worst,’ Prout said. ‘I’ll not draw blade against you.’

  They eyed each other, as they had done a short time ago, though to Marbeck it felt like weeks: the grizzled messenger in his sober clothes and Marbeck in black, his eyes blazing. ‘Or … perhaps you’d care to wait a while,’ Prout added quietly. ‘For I would go now to St Dunstan’s Hill, and tell Llewellyn’s sister what’s happened to her brother. Also that, since nothing’s left of him, there’s no body for her to bury.’

  A moment passed, then it was over; Prout knew it before Marbeck slumped down. But when he raised his eyes again, there was a look in them that brooked no refusal.

  ‘I will go to the Dagger in Holborn this night,’ he said. ‘If you want no part in the business, well and good. I merely need two or three good men, well armed. And a warrant from you, to have Burridge released into my charge.’

  Prout made no reply.

  ‘When this man is taken – whether it’s Meeres or someone else – you can convey him in secret to wherever you choose,’ Marbeck went on. ‘The Council need know nothing of it, nor need Master Secretary, until the prisoner’s been questioned. Then you may take the whole tale to him. It will be Cecil’s choice as to how he deals with him, and with Charnock too – or King James’s choice, perhaps. He’s well used to plots being hatched by his own countrymen, is he not?’

  Calmer now, he waited. He knew Prout would see the sense of the argument. But when the man spoke at last, his words came as a surprise.

  ‘I’ll have Burridge released,’ he said. ‘But into my custody – and I will set the snare. The men can be found, but they’ll be under my orders – are we agreed?’ Receiving a curt nod, he let out a sigh. ‘Well then – how long do we have?’

  ‘Two hours, perhaps,’ Marbeck answered. ‘It’s long enough.’

  Slowly, the other got to his feet. ‘But not long enough for me to visit Mistress Llewellyn first. Unless I were to deliver my news in haste, and leave her in her grief …’ He looked away. ‘I won’t do that. The task must wait.’

  ‘If you wish me to visit her instead …’ Marbeck began, but the other shook his head. He started to go, then paused. ‘I want this man taken alive. Will you give me your word upon that?’

  But Marbeck was barely listening. Without another word, he got up to take his sword from under the bed.

  They assembled in the dark on Holborn Bridge, with the murky waters of the Fleet River below. From thirty yards behind them, by the corner of Snow Hill, sounds of revelry floated from one of the notorious inns of the Ward of Farringdon Without, the Saracen’s Head. But the eyes of Marbeck, Prout and their fellows were fixed on Holborn Hill, and on the lights of a tavern of even worse repute. The Dagger was a gambling-house, a haunt of coggers, foists and others of unsavoury reputation. Marbeck could hardly wait to enter it.

  Three soldiers of the Crown accompanied them, armed with pistols; men whose discretion Prout trusted. He himself wore a sword and poniard, as did Marbeck. The sixth
member of the party was Thomas Burridge, white-faced and tense as a whip. He remained silent as the intelligencers spoke together, finalizing plans they had already laid. He knew his part, as he knew that his fate depended upon what followed. He was to enter the inn and take the back stairs, to the private room where Meeres awaited him. He was dressed in outdoor clothes and carried the pay chest, which was now empty. He would behave normally: how much the plotters had learned of the events down by the Kent coast, nobody knew. The gamble was, Burridge would have Marbeck with him.

  Prout had been against the idea, but Marbeck was deaf to his arguments. He was dressed as a soldier, and would pose as one of Drax’s men who had accompanied the paymaster to London. While he distracted Burridge’s superior, Prout’s men would take their stations. Then at Marbeck’s signal – three heavy blows on the door – they would burst in with pistols ready. There would be no time for those inside to ready their own weapons. Though what might follow, neither Marbeck nor Prout cared to discuss. Prout feared a pitched battle, and suspected that Marbeck privately relished the notion. The look on his face suggested he was in no mood for restraint.

  And now at last, the talking was done. Marbeck and Burridge started forward while the others hung back – and suddenly the paymaster began to shake. Stifling a curse, Marbeck half-turned to him.

  ‘You’re not in danger. Our men know what to do – you’ll be bundled out of the door as soon as they’re in the room.’

  Burridge wet his parched lips. ‘You don’t know my master,’ he said plaintively. ‘If he thought I’d betrayed him—’

  ‘He won’t have chance to do anything,’ Marbeck broke in.

  To that the other said nothing; and in any case, the time for delay was over. They were at the inn door, whence noise spilled into the street. Two young men brushed past them and hurried inside, allowing a reek of beer and tobacco fumes to flow out. Marbeck caught the door and stepped in after them. Close on his heels, Burridge followed.

  As expected the place was crowded. Easing their way through the press of drinkers and gamblers, Marbeck and the paymaster passed from the main room to a passageway, and thence to a flight of stairs. There was a rear door, which was bolted. Marbeck glanced about to ensure no one was about, and quickly unbolted it. Then he was ascending, allowing Burridge to go ahead.

  On the landing were several doors, dim light showing under them. But Burridge, swallowing audibly, indicated a door at the end where no light showed. At Marbeck’s prodding he walked forward and gave a complex series of knocks: two sets of three, one set of four, then two of two. Finally he opened the door and entered, Marbeck close behind. But the moment they were inside the darkened room, both of them froze. Burridge gasped as a shape loomed up, grabbed him and thrust him forward. Marbeck remained motionless: another figure had appeared from behind the door, and was pressing something sharp into his back.

  ‘Who’s that with you, Burridge?’

  A voice from the gloom … Marbeck glimpsed someone seated at a table, his face in shadow. The window of the chamber was curtained; there was no other furniture. He sensed another man, standing near the seated one. Three guards altogether …

  ‘He’s one of Drax’s men.’ Shakily Burridge moved forward, clutching his pay chest. Placing it on the table, he stepped back. ‘He came with me to deliver the tidings. There’s …’ He gave a cough, then ploughed on. ‘There have been momentous events …’

  ‘Have there?’ The voice was cold, yet apparently calm. ‘Do you mean to tell me that all went smoothly in Folkestone?’

  ‘I do, sir,’ Burridge answered quickly. ‘The regiment performed well – the colonel is most pleased. There will be despatches to follow … I hurried back as soon as my work was done—’

  ‘Liar!’

  The word cut Burridge off in mid-flow. With a gulp he began to step back further, then thought better of it. Marbeck remained still … but one hand was in his pocket. Slowly, with an imperceptible movement, his fingers closed round the tailor’s bodkin.

  ‘Bring the other one here,’ the shadowed man said, whereupon Marbeck received a shove. Unhurriedly, he moved towards the table. His night vision was better than they would have expected: he could see the seated figure, muffled in heavy clothing. On the table before him, beside Burridge’s pay chest, lay a poniard with a jewelled handle.

  ‘You are …?’ the man enquired.

  ‘Duggan, officer of horse.’ Glancing about quickly, Marbeck saw the men shifting position. Apparently disregarding Burridge as a threat, they were closing in on him instead. His pulse quickened.

  ‘Have you tidings for me, too?’

  ‘That depends who I’m addressing,’ Marbeck said.

  There was a stir, but nobody spoke. His hand gripping the bodkin, he added: ‘If you’re Sir Roland Meeres, I will speak. However, since I cannot see you—’

  But he broke off, wincing; the guard had stuck his dagger through doublet and shirt to prick Marbeck’s spine.

  ‘The explosion, and the fire …’ Suddenly, the man’s voice was shaking. ‘Tell me what happened by St Radigund’s,’ he went on. ‘And quickly!’

  His men had formed a rough semicircle about Marbeck. A few feet away he could almost hear Burridge trembling. He paused, then said: ‘You mean when the armoury was destroyed?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘That was unfortunate,’ Marbeck went on. ‘A spark igniting some spilled powder … the guards were careless. Yet the colonel refused to let that spoil his plans. Why would he?’

  He spoke as calmly as he could, though his ear was cocked towards the doorway. He thought he heard a creak – and one of the armed men heard it too. The fellow half-turned; it was the only chance Marbeck would get, so he seized it. Ducking aside, he drew out his bodkin and struck at the guard who had prodded him. The fellow let out a yelp and staggered, whereupon Marbeck lunged for the door and banged his fist on it three times – then everything happened at once.

  The door flew open, and everyone was shouting. Bodies crashed into the room; there were grunts and oaths – but when a pistol thundered, its flame a vivid flash in the semi-darkness, there was a sudden hiatus. Someone fell with a cry – but from the doorway, Prout’s voice rang out.

  ‘Hold, in the name of the King! Our firearms are primed! Fall to your knees and lay down your weapons, or face the consequences!’

  A silence followed, filled with possibilities. Men breathed heavily in the gloom … Marbeck glimpsed the leader, on his feet behind the table. But Prout’s men pushed forward, forcing the others back. Nearby, someone was whimpering. Then mercifully came a blaze of light: Prout had brought in a lantern, and all was revealed.

  Two of the guards were on their feet, glaring at the interlopers. One held a dagger, the other a smoking pistol … but seeing firearms pointed his way, he dropped it at once. The other one fell to his knees, his face ashen. Their commander had fallen back – and now Marbeck recognized him. Once a much-feared performer at the Queen’s birthday tilts, Sir Roland Meeres had become a pinched, white-haired old man. Eyes blazing, he crouched by the wall like a cornered wolf, one hand gripping his jewelled dagger. For a moment he looked as if he would protest … then he looked into Marbeck’s face, and blanched.

  ‘What is it you see, Sir Roland?’ Marbeck said gently. ‘Your death awaiting you?’ He drew his sword sharply and levelled it at the knight, who froze.

  ‘Stop!’

  Prout pushed forward through his men. As they made way he handed one the lantern and drew his own sword, his eyes sweeping the room. He and Marbeck exchanged looks: there was relief on the messenger’s face. Meeres’s eyes flew towards him, then back to Marbeck. But it was finished; both his followers were kneeling, apart from the one Marbeck had attacked. He sat on the floor, hands to his face. Blood oozed through his fingers …

  But it was he who whimpered – and at the same moment both Prout and Marbeck realized it. With a curse Prout turned towards a corner, but Marbeck knew what had happened.
With one eye on Meeres, he looked round … to see Burridge lying in a heap, blood welling from a wound in his chest. His grey-blue doublet, which Marbeck remembered handing him by a roadside in Kent, was soaked with gore. But his face was calm, the eyes open; briefly they flew upwards, towards Marbeck. Then without a sound, his life slipped from him.

  But Marbeck saw his expression before his eyes closed, and understood; the paymaster’s last emotion had been relief.

  FIFTEEN

  Some hours later Marbeck was slumped in a boat, being rowed up the Thames; and he was seriously drunk.

  The riverbanks drifted by, dimly illuminated by the skiff’s lantern, but he barely saw them. Images, along with fragments of speech, swam before him: Sir Roland Meeres being frog-marched out of the Dagger like a common criminal; his men following, their hands bound; Prout at his most officious, issuing orders … and above all the face of Thomas Burridge, gazing up as his eyes closed. Blearily Marbeck looked at the boatman, who was straining grimly at his oars.

  ‘If you’re like to vent your guts, I’ll ask you to lean over the side,’ the man muttered. ‘I was a fool to take you … you should be sleeping that bellyful off somewhere.’

  ‘I said you’ll have double your rate,’ Marbeck answered. He fumbled in his doublet. ‘You want it now?’

  ‘When I get you to Chelsea,’ the other said; then he grunted. ‘Bad news, was it? Money trouble, women …?’

  But Marbeck was trying to focus. He remembered walking away from Prout, going back over Holborn Bridge and entering the Saracen’s Head. After that, things became somewhat hazy.

  ‘Where did I hail you?’ he asked, squinting at the boatman.

  ‘Bridewell Dock,’ came the reply. ‘Do you not remember?’

  There was a bailing can lying in the bottom of the skiff. Seizing it, Marbeck held it over the side until it filled up, then poured freezing-cold Thames water over his head. He shook himself, and took several deep breaths.