‘A pox on him,’ Rowan muttered. ‘Whatever happens, on his head be it.’
Soon after they parted, having agreed that Marygate should be their meeting point. Rowan would look about the city, while Marbeck walked out by Bootham, a busy way lined with shops and stalls. Here he paused: to his left stood the gates of the King’s Manor. But the guards eyed him keenly, and he would not linger; after the encounter with Sir Thomas Croft he had no wish to draw further attention to himself. He moved on, mingling with those gathering for Sunday worship; church bells were clanging from several directions. Beyond Bootham were meadows, and a windmill beside the road. Here he stopped, looking southwards towards the walls, and the broad green before Marygate. Already men were setting up barriers, and close to the gatehouse itself a low platform had been erected, with a padded chair for the King. People would pass before him and kneel, to present gifts and petitions. Whether any would feel the royal hand laid upon them to cure their ills, Marbeck doubted; that custom had long since fallen out of favour.
He walked by the creaking windmill, its sails turning in the breeze. His intention was to survey the green and choose the best vantage points for himself and Rowan. But at that moment a commotion arose from Bootham: cheering, along with a clatter of hooves. He retraced his steps, to stand by the roadside as others were doing. It seemed a party had emerged from the manor – and quickly, he realized he was about to get his first sight of James Stuart. The heads of riders could be seen above the stalls … but when they approached, Marbeck’s reaction was one of surprise: could that unsmiling, rough-bearded man in the centre really be England’s new King?
Yet there was little doubt that it was James himself. His horse was a fine thoroughbred and he sat it well, even with a hooded falcon on his wrist. With him rode other noblemen; some finely dressed, others in plainer garb, also carrying falcons. So the King was going hawking, in sight of the people; from habit Marbeck looked around keenly, but saw only cheering bystanders, bowing and doffing hats. The monarch paid them no heed, but merely stared ahead. Marbeck glanced at the other riders … and froze: towards the rear, sitting somewhat awkwardly on a black hunting horse, was Sir Robert Cecil.
His first instinct was to step forward and hail him, but he knew the notion was foolish: there were armed guards riding behind, their eyes scanning the bystanders for any sign of trouble. In any case the group were already past, heading out to open country. Soon they were merely a distant body, raising a cloud of dust. Standing at the roadside, he cursed silently.
‘Tha’s no call to look downhearted, sir,’ someone nearby said in a thick Yorkshire accent. ‘His Majesty will sit before Marygate this afternoon, and ye may see him at your leisure.’
Marbeck turned to see a sturdy fellow in workaday garb, and summoned a wry grin. ‘So I hear, master,’ he said. ‘What’s the occasion? Will the King make more knights, or touch the sick as some say?’
‘I know not,’ the man answered. ‘There’s to be a pageant and speeches – as if we needed any more o’ them. Yet some are indeed bringing their sick folk here, in hope … is there someone ailing in your family?’
With a shake of his head, Marbeck walked off.
He found Rowan later, and the two of them talked in a tavern in Coney Street. But there was little to add to what they had already learned. The King, it seemed, would spend a few more days in York before moving on to Doncaster. It occurred to Marbeck that Master Secretary intended the sovereign to break his journey at the Cecil family’s seat at Burghley, near Stamford.
‘Aye, he’ll entertain the King’s party in style,’ Rowan agreed. ‘And strengthen his influence all the while … you can wager he has his eye on a peerage.’
‘Meanwhile, I take it you’ve seen no sign of our Puritan friend?’ Marbeck asked, to which the other shook his head.
‘Yet I’m certain he’s here,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Call it the victory of hope over reason, if you will. But I’ve spent so long pursuing the varlet, I believe I can smell him. I’ve come close before …’ He looked up sharply. ‘It ends here in York, Marbeck. I can’t continue in this way … I’ll arrest that man, or perish in the attempt!’
With that Rowan took his cup and drained it, as if to seal the vow.
‘Then let’s take positions on the green,’ Marbeck said. ‘I pray the sun keeps shining – and that luck shines on us, too.’
By afternoon the ground before Marygate was a mass of people, of all ages and stations. City dignitaries dressed in their finest clothes were gathering about the royal dais, presided over by the mayor, Sir Robert Watter. Further off, behind wooden palings patrolled by marshals with staves, ordinary folk thronged in their hundreds, which soon became thousands. Among them the intelligencers moved unnoticed. Rowan was dressed in a plain cloak, with a hat pulled low. Marbeck had no cloak: his sword was at his side, and he wanted ease of movement.
But as the day wore on and the King had still not appeared, both men grew restless. They kept apart, ignoring one another, though now and again Marbeck caught sight of his fellow, always close to the platform. He himself preferred to rove about, observing people and hearing the gossip. His eyes soon fell on those who, perhaps from mere desperation, had brought sick relatives with them. They were a heart-rending sight: the lame and the diseased, from babes in arms to elderly folk being helped along by others. It angered him that these people were doomed to disappointment; the impression he’d formed was that King James would not allow them near him. He recalled Nicholas Prout’s words, when they had sat in the rain, in the gallery at the Boar’s Head: how the new King would drive the people apart …
A great cry went up, shaking him out of his reverie. There was a surge towards the platform, and at the same time a fanfare of trumpets rang out. Peering over heads, Marbeck saw the King arrive at last wearing a tall hat, velvet cloak and jewelled chain, guarded by halberdiers. His followers were about him: lords, knights and mere gentlemen. He couldn’t see Cecil, but was sure he would be among them. He did glimpse Sir Thomas Croft, a gangling figure towering above others. Soon the party had placed themselves before the crowd, and the King took his seat. People cheered, shouted and waved hats. The royal trumpeters blew another fanfare, to bring silence more than anything else, whereupon the mayor raised his hands and called out.
‘God save our royal sovereign James: King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland!’
A roar went up. Marbeck looked round: those with sick relatives were pressing forward, making their way to the barrier. Uneasily he threaded his own way, eyes sweeping the crowd; but there was no sign of anyone who looked like Isaac Gow, let alone Henry Scroop. He caught sight of Rowan, not a dozen paces from the King, and knew the man was as tense as he was.
‘His gracious Majesty …’
There was another cheer; the mayor lifted his hands again, struggling to be heard. ‘His gracious Majesty,’ he repeated, ‘in his mercy, has agreed that citizens in sore need may come before him. If it is meet and fit, he may place his royal hand upon their person, in honour of his state and in knowledge of the blessed power of kings, that they may with God’s help be healed forthwith!’
There were cries of approval. Yet Marbeck saw several people crossing themselves openly; the old religion was strong here. Tales of ancient times, when Edward the Confessor had first touched the sick, were not forgotten. Easing forward, he saw the marshals forming a passageway to the platform: if anyone did intend harm to the King, he reasoned, there were men to prevent it. He realized his hand had gone to his sword-hilt, and hurriedly removed it. But nobody noticed: all eyes were on the King in his chair, and those who were at the front, desperate to have their kinsfolk touched. He sighed; one thing he shared with James Stuart, if rumours were true, was a deep scepticism in the efficacy of such a process. But those folk carrying children or assisting the old clearly believed … He looked away, to observe others near the platform. No weapons were in evidence: such would easily be spotted by the guards … and suddenl
y, doubt overwhelmed him.
Would someone like Isaac Gow – madman or not – truly attempt such a desperate act? It occurred to Marbeck that he had allowed fancy to run away with him. Had he become caught up in Rowan’s obsession with the man’s capture? Indeed – had Rowan not become somewhat unhinged these past weeks, tormenting himself for allowing Gow to escape? He strained his eyes to see his fellow intelligencer, but he was nowhere in sight. Frowning, he began to push his way through the crowd, occasioning a few rebuffs in the process. People jostled for sight of the sick, the first of whom were lining up between the rows of marshals. Now he was near the front … he caught sight of Cecil, standing beside the King. For a moment he thought Master Secretary had seen him too, but the man gave no sign.
A murmur went up: a woman with a child in her arms was allowed forward. Humbly she approached the King, and fell to her knees. Marbeck couldn’t hear what was said, but he saw the sovereign’s lips move, presumably in commiseration. All eyes were on mother and baby, and now a silence fell. Suddenly it seemed the same question had risen in every mind: would this standoffish monarch, who was said to shun contact with all but his family and favourites, put such notions aside and touch the ragged folk before him?
He did – but quickly, and with a gloved hand. Another murmur rose: surely this was not the way? People turned to one another, muttering – but Marbeck’s eyes were on the platform. He saw the woman with the child being ushered away, and understood. This was but an exercise in majesty … a new king striving to show himself one with the people. It was a pageant in itself – as much of a show as those that would follow it. His mouth set tight, he looked hard at Sir Robert Cecil, and knew. Who else but Master Secretary, weaver of intrigue, would have planned it? The monarch had to be seen in the best light … all England would hear of how James in his humility had touched the sick on his progress south.
And yet, the sick still waited in hope. Another woman had approached, leading two children by the hand. They too knelt, to receive some empty words and a touch of the King’s glove. Then they were led aside, as an old man limped forward, leaning heavily upon a raggedly dressed boy. The man used a crutch, and took a long time to reach the platform. The marshals glanced at him, then looked to see who was next in line. The boy stumbled and dropped to his knees before the King, seemingly overwhelmed by the occasion. The old man bowed but stayed upright, struggling to keep his balance. There was a moment as the King spoke up, bidding him come closer. People strained to see and hear, heads bobbing …
But Marbeck gave a start, and every sinew in his body tightened. He shouted, but few heard. He elbowed people aside, and got blows in return. Some turned to look, and fell back at sight of a man with hand on sword. Then he was at the barrier, struggling to climb it.
‘Stop that man!’ he shouted. ‘He’s an assassin!’
Someone loomed to block his way, but he downed the fellow with a blow. Then he was over the paling, advancing towards the platform – and at once marshals started towards him. But his eyes were on the lame figure, who was no cripple at all – and on the boy, who was suddenly on his feet. The King and those around him had now realized the danger, and a cry of dismay flew up: the old man’s crutch had suddenly become a blade. Half of it was thrown aside, and steel flashed in the sunlight … Isaac Gow, eyes blazing, lurched towards the monarch.
For Marbeck, time slowed to a snail’s pace. He drew his sword, knowing he was too late. Burly arms seized him … He thrust at someone, but his stroke went wide. There were screams from all sides … He saw figures in his path, and a blur of movement. He thought he heard Rowan shout … He even had time to glimpse Sir Robert Cecil, a look of horror on his features. And then to his amazement, something else: the boy – who was indeed Henry Scroop – appeared to be grappling with Gow, struggling for possession of the man’s blade. Locked as in a dance, the two impostors fell to the ground, to be overwhelmed at once by guards.
But now Marbeck too was held. He shouted again, and it was Henry’s name he called … then he was falling, bodies pressing him downwards, pinning him as if he were a madman. Someone kicked him in the ribs, someone else tore his sword from his grasp … He lashed out, but was overwhelmed. It was over: breathless and half-dazed, he was yanked to his feet; then he was being marched away, with a great roaring in his ears.
It sounded as if the crowd were shouting, Hang him!
EIGHTEEN
York Castle was damp and cold, its old walls echoing to the sound of footfalls. Marbeck was frog-marched down a passage to a small cell and shoved inside, so violently that he fell to his knees. The door squealed shut, and a key rasped in the lock. Then he was alone, with a tiny window too high to see out of and a pile of straw in one corner. Getting to his feet, he went to the door and vented his rage by hammering on it. But there was no answer except a distant shout of approval, perhaps from some wretch who was in a similar position.
Anger and frustration overwhelmed him. He had tried to save the King, only to be taken for an assassin himself. Cursing roundly he kicked the heavy door, bruising himself in the process. He felt for his poniard, but it had been taken from him along with his sword. He searched his doublet, and found that even his bodkin was gone. There was the lute-string in his waist-band … but as he stood there in the gloom, he knew he would get no opportunity to use it. Fighting despair, he sank to the floor.
Vivid in his mind was Gow’s attempt on the King’s life, which seemed to have failed – at least, he hoped it had. He was amazed by the clumsiness of it: the man who had managed to elude Rowan, to disappear for weeks and then re-emerge in disguise, face to face with the monarch, had seemingly been confounded at the very last by Henry Scroop, of all people: the boy who worshipped him. What lay behind it Marbeck could not know, but it hardly seemed to matter now. He himself, no longer trusted by Master Secretary, had been dubbed a traitor, and would face interrogation whenever the King’s servants chose. The injustice nauseated him … though he had a memory of Sir Robert Cecil’s face, as he stood behind the monarch. Would he not interpret Marbeck’s actions differently? And what of Rowan? Had he not come forward to defend him?
He breathed deeply, pressing his hands to the cold floor; this was no use. For the moment he could do nothing but conserve his strength. Sooner or later he would be called to account … He smiled grimly: when that time came, he would have his say. After a while he stretched out on the straw; there was a rustle and something scurried away, but he paid it no heed. Instead he fixed his eyes on the little square above and watched the afternoon turn to evening, then to dusk. Finally, because he could do no other, he slept.
The squeal of a key woke him. He sat up, his eyes going to the window: dawn had broken. As the door opened he got to his feet, events of yesterday crowding his mind. He was cold, stiff and hungry. Half-crouching, he prepared to face his captors … but at sight of the figure who appeared, he drew a breath of relief.
‘Thanks be to God … I thought they’d used you as they did me,’ Rowan said.
Marbeck stared. His fellow intelligencer looked tired and pale, and there was a swelling at his mouth that spoke of blows received. But he was no prisoner: he even wore his sword. A guard stood outside while Rowan came into the cell.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I’ve been up half the night, haranguing everyone from the Sheriff of the Castle to his potboy. It’s an outrage you were treated in this manner.’
‘The King …’ Marbeck found his voice. ‘Did they—’
‘He’s unharmed,’ Rowan answered at once. ‘Gow’s a prisoner, in this very dungeon. It was the boy saved him – did you not see?’
But Marbeck sat down heavily on the floor, relief sweeping over him. He sighed, and gazed up at his fellow. ‘Then … they don’t think I tried to attack the sovereign?’
‘Not any longer. Not after I’d told my tale half a dozen times, finally to Master Secretary himself.’ Rowan’s irritation showed. ‘But it’s all been laid forth now, and he�
��s satisfied. In any case, it seems he has Prout’s report – had it for days. And he knows about Drax and Meeres, and the Earl of Charnock too.’
It was becoming a great deal to take in. Marbeck started to raise himself, but at once Rowan put a hand out. ‘Let me aid you,’ he said. So Marbeck took his hand, and was pulled to his feet. The other did not let go; and in his eyes, there was something like contentment, born of sheer relief. They clasped each other, and Rowan even managed a smile.
‘So it has ended in York, as you vowed,’ Marbeck said.
With a nod, Rowan released his hand. ‘For you too, I think. When you’ve eaten you’ll get your wish: an audience with Master Secretary. Though I wouldn’t expect too much.’
‘I don’t,’ Marbeck said. ‘All I want is the chance to ask a few questions. After that I care not what happens …’ His face clouded. ‘But what of Henry? Is he arrested too?’
‘He is.’ Rowan turned to the door. ‘And he’s unhurt, despite everything. It’s best you have it from our master … Shall we get ourselves out of this stinking hole?’
It was midday before Marbeck was finally admitted to see Sir Robert Cecil. He was not taken to the King’s Manor, but to another room in the castle. Though his accommodation had improved beyond measure: he had eaten breakfast, washed, and enjoyed the feel of fresh clothing. Rowan had brought his pack and left him, having things to do, he said. So rested and refreshed but smouldering with anger, Marbeck awaited the call, and was at last conducted to an upper chamber, well appointed and bright with hangings. Master Secretary, his face expressionless as usual, was seated behind a table, propped up on a woolsack. To Marbeck’s surprise another man was with him: elegant, richly dressed and vaguely familiar. It took a moment for him to realize that this was Sir Robert’s half-brother, Lord Thomas Cecil. So – his master wanted some support. He made his bow to both men and waited.
‘But he’s quite young,’ Lord Thomas said, raising his eyebrows at Marbeck. He was on his feet, dwarfing his hunchback brother. ‘I pictured a middle-aged swaggerer, with battle scars and all. Is this the man who tried to take on an army, in defence of our blighted nation?’
Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Page 17
