‘Feel better?’ the boatman asked sourly.
‘I believe I do.’
‘Scroop House …’ The man frowned at him. ‘Are you sure that’s where you want to go?’
‘Quite sure,’ Marbeck replied. ‘And I don’t care for further conversation – can we settle on that?’
The other gave a shrug and lowered his head, while Marbeck leaned back against the stern. His eyes closed; he pictured Celia, sitting in her evening chamber playing at cards. It pained him to remember that he had neglected to write to her from Cambridge; as he had from Huntingdon, and even from London. She had trusted him to find her son, and he had done so – but then he had failed her. What had become of the boy he had no idea. His mouth tightened; of all the ways in which he had disappointed Celia over the years, this was the worst. He thought of going north again, of tracking down Isaac Gow and his followers, but feared it might be too late. As for further plots against James Stuart … he sighed. Others should look to the King’s safety. After all, he had been an outcast as far as Sir Robert Cecil was concerned; his fists clenched at the mere thought. He opened his eyes, and saw the boatman eyeing him uneasily.
‘We’re almost there,’ the fellow said, jerking his head over his shoulder. ‘See?’
Marbeck looked, and saw the stone steps ahead. ‘What hour is it?’ he asked.
‘Past midnight.’ Quickening his stroke, the other began to pull towards the landing-stage. Marbeck watched him for a moment, then found his purse and tugged it open.
‘Will that repay you for your trouble?’ he asked. The boatman turned, and his eyes widened: Marbeck was holding up a silver crown. ‘I ask pardon for being a tiresome passenger,’ he added, and placed the coin on the seat beside him. Thereafter, neither of them spoke again. Soon Marbeck was walking unsteadily up the steps of Scroop House, and the boat was disappearing downstream.
For once, and somewhat to his surprise, Celia was abed when he arrived. But her servants admitted him, while looking askance at his condition. He was given a small chamber along the landing from hers, and left to himself. So with some relief he peeled off his wet clothes and crawled into the bed. Within minutes he was asleep, and did not awake until dawn … whereupon his first sight on opening his eyes was Celia bending over him wrapped in a morning-gown, her hair loose about her face.
‘Did you come to bring news?’ she asked. ‘Or are you merely in hiding?’
‘Both, I think,’ Marbeck said sleepily. He lifted the covers, but she did not move. Then his eyelids drooped; in a moment he was asleep again.
When he awoke for the second time the morning was advanced. He gave a start, and looked to see that he was alone in the bed. But sensing a presence, he sat up to discover Celia sitting nearby. She was clothed in a dark gown, her hair carefully dressed.
‘I know I should have sent you a report,’ he said. ‘I’ve no excuse to offer.’ When she made no reply, he added: ‘I saw Henry and spoke with him, but he wouldn’t hear me. He said—’
‘I’ve heard from him,’ Celia interrupted.
Marbeck fell silent.
‘He sent me a short letter; from where, I know not. It came some days ago … I waited, hoping you would send word, for I was at a loss what to do. I still am.’
‘What did he write?’ Marbeck asked.
‘That he was on the verge of a great undertaking, and that one day I would be proud of him.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not quite. He also said he would not use his father’s lands or title. And he bade me search my heart, and look to my own future. He ended by owning his duty to me and to his sister, as a loving son and brother. Then there was only his signature …’ She looked away. ‘I did not recognize it … even his handwriting looked odd. It was a letter from a stranger.’
Her voice was flat, as if feeling had been drained from her. Marbeck lowered his gaze, wondering what to tell her.
‘And yet you talked to him,’ Celia went on. ‘When?’
‘Three weeks ago, in the countryside near Cambridge.’
‘What was he doing there?’ But when he hesitated, her eyes narrowed. ‘You’d better tell me all,’ she added. ‘And don’t spare my feelings – not even a little.’
So he drew a breath and told her; though he left out the substance of his talk with Edward Poyns in the inn at Huntingdon. By the time he had finished the tale his mouth was dry; seeing a pitcher of water on the night-stand, he left the bed and went over to it. Having drunk thirstily, he turned and saw Celia slumped in the chair with a hand to her face. His instinct was to comfort her, but instead he crossed the room and picked up his clothes. Once in shirt and breeches, still damp from the previous night, he went to her.
‘I’ll go and look for him,’ he said. ‘I’ll go today.’
‘Will you?’ Celia raised her head. ‘And if you cannot find him?’
‘I will find him.’
‘This man Gow …’ She hesitated. ‘You think he has bewitched Henry – that he’s somehow in his power?’
‘To his followers Gow is priest, father and prophet too,’ Marbeck said. ‘So in a manner he has power over Henry – or at least has clouded his thinking.’
‘And what do you think he wishes to do? Gow, I mean.’
Her eyes peered sharply into his: as he feared, she had guessed more than he’d told. He hesitated, whereupon suddenly she stood up.
‘I want the truth, Marbeck.’
‘I think he wishes to make an attempt on the King’s life,’ he answered after a pause. ‘And that his people – Henry included – deem it their duty to carry the scheme out.’
In silence they faced each other. He wanted to reach out, but held himself back. ‘Yes … that would make sense,’ she said softly. ‘To make up for everything he sees wrong with England … to atone for his father’s failings as well as his own, he wants to take part in this great undertaking, as he calls it. Now I understand his letter.’
‘But it may come to naught,’ Marbeck said at once. ‘Our people are aware of the threat – as we stand here, despatches go north to Sir Robert Cecil. The King will be protected from any danger …’
‘As the Queen was,’ Celia broke in. ‘Yet her saddle was smeared with poison, she was shot at, came within inches of a dagger-point—’
‘Yet she died in her bed, of old age,’ Marbeck persisted. ‘And the King’s a wily Scot, who’s survived plots galore. Do you truly think Gow could get near him?’
‘Perhaps,’ Celia said. ‘Many flock round the King, from what I hear. He rides about his new domain as if it were a country park, dubbing new knights as fancy takes him. What if Henry …’
Suddenly she caught his eye: for a moment, he had betrayed his own fears. The look in his eyes was gone in an instant, but she had seen it.
‘You think Henry could be the one to do the deed,’ she said. ‘As the son of a nobleman who lost his life on the field of battle, he could approach the King and be welcomed …’
‘He would be stopped,’ Marbeck said firmly. ‘Now we know of the danger, people will watch for him. You must not dwell upon this – you’ll drive yourself to madness.’
‘I am mad already – do you not see it?!’ Suddenly she was shouting, turning her fear into rage. ‘Mewed up like a Bedlamite, waiting for news and getting none! Meanwhile all of London looks north, while the Queen’s body rots at Whitehall. The past is dead – Scots plaid is the new fashion!’
‘That’s true,’ Marbeck said. And now he did reach out, to take hold of her arms. ‘Yet Master Secretary will keep his head, as he will keep order.’ He drew a breath, then: ‘I’ll ride to him myself, and see him face to face.’
She said nothing, but nor did she push him away. They stood in silence; outside he heard gardeners at work mowing. ‘And I’ll track Henry down,’ he added. ‘I will bring him here to you, or take him back to Oxford – whatever you wish.’
‘Oxford?’ Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I fear it’s too late for that;
the dean of his college will refuse him re-admission.’
Marbeck shook his head. ‘He will reconsider. There are men of substance I can call upon, who’ll speak for Henry.’
‘If he wishes to go back.’ Celia sighed. ‘His letter reads like a last testament … a farewell to us all.’ Then she sagged at last, and let her head fall on his chest.
But now his resolve was firm. Once again he had a purpose, that mattered more than foiling hare-brained plots in Kent, or snaring traitors like Meeres. Uppermost in his mind was not preserving the life of the new King of England, France and Ireland; but that of a confused boy, who happened to be the son of a woman he loved.
By midday he was back in London; an hour later he was in the saddle, riding the North Road to Highgate and beyond.
The roads were busy, but that was to be expected. At first Marbeck cantered, then he galloped, letting Cobb have his head. He passed groups of riders going in the same direction; some were noblemen with substantial trains, others rode alone. By late afternoon he had covered the distance to Hitchin, where he stopped to feed his horse and take a hasty supper. The town was bustling, and as with every other settlement he passed through, all eyes looked northwards. King James had left Gateshead, the gossips said, and was moving down to York, where he would be a guest of the Council of the North. As he pressed onwards, Marbeck recalled that the Council’s President was Lord Thomas Cecil, Sir Robert’s half-brother; likely that was where Master Secretary would go, to meet the King.
Now he forced himself to consider his strategy. He knew Prout had sent a despatch to Cecil, by fast courier. Before Marbeck even arrived, the spymaster would at least know that he had acquitted himself well as a loyal servant of the Crown. Surely he would not deny him an audience? The ruin of William Drax’s rebel army and the capture of Sir Roland Meeres would add weight to his case. He had seen Prout briefly before leaving London, and learned with relief that Meeres had confessed to being part of the group of Catholic plotters which included Drax – and, as they had suspected, the Earl of Charnock. What Meeres refused to do, however, even under threat of torture, was name the source of their funds: the one whose wealth had driven the scheme, even made it possible. It seemed even the ringleaders were in awe of him. The matter rankled with Prout, as it did with Marbeck. That was a trail yet to be uncovered, but for now it must wait.
As the light began to fail he spurred Cobb to greater effort, and to his satisfaction reached Huntingdon that same night. He had covered more than sixty miles. In the short time since he was here, however, it seemed the town had swollen in size. There was no room at the George, or indeed any other inn. Travellers thronged the streets and taverns, while some were even camped outside the town. Finally Marbeck recrossed the river to Godmanchester where he was able to get oats for Cobb, though no stabling. Having gathered what news he could, he walked the horse out of the town and found a ruined barn where he spent the night. In the morning, stiff and cold, he was back in the saddle, riding on to Newark-on-Trent, where he was lucky enough to find an inn. There both horse and rider rested, in preparation for the last stage of their journey; tomorrow they would reach England’s second city, York.
But that night, matters took an unexpected turn.
Having washed himself and eaten a welcome supper, Marbeck was in his chamber preparing to retire when someone knocked on the door. In breeches and shirt he went to open it, only to start in surprise. There stood a man he had almost forgotten; at first he could not even recall his name … then it dawned.
‘Rowan?’
The other barely nodded, leaning on the door-frame. He was more than merely tired: he was utterly spent. ‘Somehow, I thought you and I might cross paths again,’ he said.
Marbeck stood aside to let him enter, and at once the man slumped down on the bed. Looking up, he managed a thin smile. ‘Where are you bound, northward?’ he asked. ‘That’s where half the country’s heading, from what I see.’
Having looked him over, Marbeck went to a table, poured out a mug and took it to him. ‘This was mulled, though it’s cooled now,’ he said. ‘But it’s wet, and well spiced.’
Rowan took it gratefully and drank almost to the dregs, while Marbeck found a stool and brought it over. ‘What do you do in Newark? he asked. ‘More, how did you know I was here?’
‘I didn’t,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve been using the town as a base these past days … following up scraps of what I would have called intelligence, but which always turn out to be false.’ He wiped his mouth and gave a sigh. ‘It was a relief to see a face I recognized.’
‘I heard of your trouble with Isaac Gow,’ Marbeck said, after a moment. ‘Are you still looking for him?’
‘Still looking.’ The other sighed again. ‘Who’d have thought a man like that could give someone like me the slip – and with such ease?’
‘He had help,’ Marbeck replied. ‘And he’s cleverer than he looks. That coughing fit—’
‘Oh, that was real.’ Rowan drained his mug and set it on the floor. ‘He’s not a well man … even when I lost him on the way to Hitchin, he wasn’t faking. His friend – that old scarecrow Silas. He seized the chance, and got him outside.’
‘And his people were following?’ Marbeck asked sharply.
‘So it would seem.’ The other peered at him. ‘I remember now – it was that boy you were trying to rescue, wasn’t it? One who’d tagged along with Gow …’
‘Henry Scroop.’ Marbeck stiffened. ‘Have you had any word of him?’
The other shook his head. ‘Gow’s people scattered … the trail went cold almost at once.’ He let out a sigh. ‘I’m done with it all. I’m not a man who likes to admit he’s beaten, but …’
‘Your man – the guard who was with you …’ Marbeck began, but Rowan merely grunted. ‘He’s gone back to London. He said he’d make a fair report, but he’ll just try to cover his back. That’s what everyone’s doing just now, is it not?’
Marbeck couldn’t help a rueful smile. ‘Then it looks as though you and I are both outside the pale,’ he said. ‘Though I won’t bore you with my story just now … you look like a man who needs some rest.’
Rowan nodded. ‘Might I share your chamber? My purse is light – a corner will do.’
But Marbeck was already on his feet. ‘Take the bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll order a supper for you … things will look better tomorrow.’
He took up Rowan’s mug and went to the door. But even as he opened it, a sound made him turn. The man had already stretched out, and was falling into an exhausted sleep.
SIXTEEN
‘I knew you were Marbeck, as soon as I saw you,’ Rowan said. ‘That day in the magistrate’s house near St Neots. Perhaps it’s meet you should learn my name – for you know it’s not Rowan.’
They stood in a meadow outside Newark, letting their horses graze in the sunshine. It was the morning after the man had appeared at Marbeck’s door in a sorry plight, but having slept and eaten he was much refreshed. The intelligencers had agreed to exchange news, for they soon realized they shared a common purpose: to find Isaac Gow and, so Marbeck hoped, Henry Scroop along with him.
‘Then who are you?’ Marbeck asked.
‘I’m Barleyman.’
He recalled the name from years back, in the time of Sir Francis Walsingham. Barleyman had been under a cloud: it was believed he’d once sold intelligence to Spain. The slur was later found to be false, and the man entered Sir Robert Cecil’s service, since which time he had served the Crown well. He was a man who needed to prove himself, it was said, time and again.
‘You’ll recall last night, when I said you and I are both outside the pale,’ Marbeck said after a moment. ‘Shall we trade confessions?’
‘You mean compare grudges?’ the other asked wryly. ‘Or lay bare our guilt?’
‘I mean swap confidences. Though for policy’s sake, I’ll still call you Rowan.’
Marbeck returned the other’s smile, and soon they were talking. Rowa
n had indeed had his troubles, since losing Isaac Gow en route for London. He’d heard of sightings of the man, always further north. They had led him to Nottingham and Lincoln, and now to Newark. In turn Marbeck told his own tale of recent weeks, which surprised his companion. But when he mentioned John Chyme, of whom he’d had no news, Rowan nodded.
‘I heard rumour of a newcomer amongst them – a young man. The group you encountered at Cambridge and Huntingdon is much altered – I think some of them have deserted Gow. Though I believe the boy’s still with him, as is Silas. Perhaps Chyme succeeded in worming his way into their company.’
‘We must find them, and quickly,’ Marbeck said. ‘I’m told the King is nearing York. And if Gow’s heading north …’
‘Yet I’ve been chasing shadows for the past fortnight,’ Rowan said with a sigh. ‘They’re more like a robber band than a company of zealots. Gow spreads false rumours of his whereabouts, he has sympathizers who provide shelter … he may even use disguise.’
‘So what brought you to Newark?’ Marbeck wondered.
‘A piece of intelligence that’s yet to be exhausted,’ the other answered. ‘There’s a doctor in this town, a barber-surgeon, who’s been in trouble in the past for making angry pronouncements about the Queen, the bishops, indeed, anyone who isn’t of the Calvinist persuasion like him. I thought he might know of Gow’s whereabouts, so I visited him yesterday, but he claimed he’d never heard of the man. I mean to try him again.’
‘Then might I try instead?’ Marbeck suggested.
The barber-surgeon’s premises were in a narrow street close to Newark’s market square. An hour later Marbeck presented himself in a guise he had not used before, that of a devout Puritan, seeking out a fellow devotee. At first however his plan almost stalled: the good doctor, who went by the name of Slowpenny, claimed he was setting out to visit a patient. Hence Marbeck was obliged to plunge into extempore.
‘By the good saints, sir – have you no heart?’ he cried. ‘I’ve come fifty miles looking for tidings, and you say you’re too busy to greet one of the faithful?’
Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Page 15
