Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting

by John Pilkington

  Master Secretary cleared his throat. ‘I’m relieved to see you well, Marbeck,’ was all he said.

  Marbeck’s reply was a faint smile.

  ‘The Lord President of the Council …’ Cecil indicated his brother. ‘His Lordship has come to convey His Majesty’s gratitude for your actions yesterday. Now that all’s been said and sifted, I think at last we have a true picture of events.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that, sir,’ Marbeck said. He glanced at Lord Thomas, and was surprised to see a half-smile on the older man’s face. ‘I did what I could.’

  ‘And you should have due reward,’ his Lordship said. ‘I’m asked to give you this, with His Majesty’s thanks.’ He produced a purse, and waited for Marbeck to walk forward; but he remained where he stood.

  ‘I want no reward, my lord,’ he replied. ‘Only my rightful wage – and some speech with Sir Robert, about certain matters between us.’

  Sir Robert Cecil stirred. ‘We’ll talk of that,’ he said. ‘But I advise you to rein in your pride, lest you forget yourself …’

  ‘Oh – forbear that, sir,’ the Lord President broke in. Marbeck blinked: the man almost appeared to be enjoying himself. What had passed between the two he could not imagine, but he quickly revised his earlier notion; it now looked as if Master Secretary disliked his brother being present.

  ‘He has a right to feel indignant, does he not?’ Lord Thomas went on. ‘He foils a plot down in Kent – even if it was doomed before it started – then hurries up here to prevent a madman from murdering the King, only to find himself arrested! In his place, I wager I’d feel somewhat displeased too.’

  Silence fell. Through an open window Marbeck heard guards drilling, and the distant cries of street-sellers; it was Monday morning, and York was returning to normal. Blank-faced, he eyed Master Secretary, taking some satisfaction from the man’s discomfort.

  ‘Yet what’s done is done,’ Sir Robert said finally. ‘Isaac Gow is a prisoner, and will be conveyed to London …’

  ‘The boy, sir.’ Marbeck interrupted, more sharply than he intended. ‘Henry Scroop … he’s but a foolish youth, who was bewitched by Gow. I swore to his mother I would find him …’

  ‘His mother?’ Lord Thomas spoke up. ‘Do you mean Lady Scroop, the widow of Sir Richard?’ When Marbeck indicated assent, the man showed his surprise. ‘And what, precisely, are your relations with her?’

  ‘She’s a friend, my lord,’ Marbeck answered. ‘I’ve known her son since he was a boy – he’s no murderer, I would swear it.’

  ‘He served a regicidal traitor – he should die with him.’

  Sir Robert snapped out the words, showing anger at last. But Marbeck stood his ground. ‘Did he not stay his hand, though?’ he countered. ‘I saw him myself, struggling to take the blade from Gow … I’m certain the boy had no knowledge of his true intent. The man had poisoned his mind – Henry was frightened and confused. He’s not been himself since his father’s death.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’ Master Secretary remained stony-faced. ‘Yet we cannot let his actions go unpunished.’

  Marbeck pictured Celia in her anguish, the last time he’d seen her. With a heavy heart, he sought to shape his argument further … then he stiffened: the Lord President was looking fixedly at him.

  ‘These actions were committed here in the North Country, were they not?’ he enquired, turning his gaze on his brother. ‘Hence, I think I am the proper authority.’

  Another silence; Marbeck lowered his eyes. He sensed a current of hostility between the two Cecils: the sons of the former Lord Treasurer, Sir William, but by different wives – and as unlike as could be. With hopes barely alive, he waited.

  ‘Indeed,’ Master Secretary said. ‘Yet I should remind you that the deed was done within the King’s presence. It’s treason – we must await His Majesty’s pleasure in this.’

  ‘Oh, very well … so be it.’

  Quickly Lord Thomas appeared to come to a decision. With a curt nod to his brother, he started for the door. Marbeck bowed; but when he looked up, the man was holding out the purse again.

  ‘If not for the Crown, then take it for my sake,’ he said.

  So Marbeck took it. Meeting his lordship’s eye, he sensed that the man understood his feelings. He murmured his thanks, whereupon the other turned briskly and went out.

  ‘By the Lord Christ,’ Sir Robert exclaimed, as soon as they were alone. ‘I’d like to hang you from the walls of Clifford’s Tower, Marbeck – as is the custom here, I’m told.’

  ‘For traitors, sir, from what I’m told,’ Marbeck said mildly. ‘And I am not one of those.’

  They eyed each other. ‘Prout’s sent me a full account of all that happened in the south,’ Cecil resumed. ‘Even the harshest of men could only applaud you for what you’ve accomplished – you and others …’ He paused. ‘Llewellyn’s loss cuts me deeper than you know. He served my father once.’

  After a moment Marbeck inclined his head. ‘John Chyme’s death cuts me in the same manner,’ he said.

  At that his master showed irritation. ‘But I should have been told! I would not have sanctioned the mission. Prout over-stepped his powers – in every respect.’

  ‘He believed we were about to be invaded, sir,’ Marbeck replied. ‘As did I … and Drax’s regiment was no phantom army.’

  ‘Well, I’d not meant to speak of that now,’ Cecil replied abruptly. ‘The entrapment of Meeres was your work, and I commend it. Yet Drax remains free – as does the man who supplied the money for their enterprise. By now, it’s more than likely he too has fled – we may never learn who he was.’

  Marbeck frowned. ‘And the Earl of Charnock?’

  A look of contempt crossed Cecil’s features. ‘A fool, if ever there was. He did naught but trail in the King’s wake, swearing blood and thunder. His force – such as it was – melted away as soon as word came that the Infanta hadn’t arrived. Nor would she have done: I could have told them that from the start. Do you truly think the Spanish have any stomach left for invasion? Now the Earl’s held at Berwick, which he’d sworn was the furthest south King James would ever ride. He’ll go to the block – and few will mourn him.’

  In silence Marbeck took in the information. His mind went back to his chamber at the Boar’s Head, when he had slammed a table against the wall, and Prout had sat and watched him. His own words came to mind … had it all been for nothing? He looked at Master Secretary, and found the man’s eyes upon him.

  ‘You think you’ve been harshly treated,’ he said.

  Marbeck didn’t answer.

  ‘I needed to be certain of something, that’s all …’ Cecil gave a sigh, and glanced down. For the first time Marbeck noticed a sheaf of papers, stacked on the table before him. ‘There’s no room for sentiment where the safety of the realm’s concerned,’ the spymaster added briskly, looking up again. ‘Hence, I had to await the results of some intelligence of my own.’

  Now Marbeck began to understand. ‘Then it’s true that someone denounced me,’ he said, containing his anger with difficulty. ‘Had you called me in, sir, I might have been able to answer that charge—’

  ‘The Queen was dying,’ Cecil snapped. ‘Everything was in the balance. You were—’

  ‘Of small importance? I realize that, Sir Robert. But had I been shown the accusation, it’s likely I could have saved you a deal of effort.’

  He waited, whereupon Master Secretary seemed to relent. ‘Perhaps,’ he allowed. ‘But in any case, I’ve satisfied myself the charge was malicious …’ He picked up a paper. ‘This was intercepted, taken from a captured Spanish courier back in January. It’s addressed to you – thanking you for your intelligence, which led to the capture of the English agent Thomas Luce. A reward of two hundred escudos is promised.’

  Cecil laid the paper down, and allowed Marbeck a moment to take in the words, which hit him like a blow to the vitals. ‘But Luce wasn’t captured, was he?’ he began. ‘The last I heard he was in Franc
e …’

  ‘He was,’ the spymaster broke in. ‘He died – but not in a Spanish prison as I feared. It’s taken me months to get to the bottom of it, but it seems he was killed in a whorehouse brawl. He always was a hectoring fellow.’

  ‘Then who says otherwise?’ Marbeck wanted to know.

  ‘There’s the rub,’ came the reply. ‘The letter’s signed Juan Roble.’

  The name hung in the air; Marbeck exhaled, a curse on his lips.

  ‘I said it was malicious,’ Master Secretary went on. ‘This despatch was meant to be intercepted. It’s a trick to get you arrested as a traitor, and sow doubt among us into the bargain. Clearly Roble still burns for revenge, after you broke his circle of agents a while back. You’ll recall the details better than I.’

  ‘I do,’ Marbeck said at last. ‘Though I confess I’m surprised the truth didn’t occur to you sooner – sir.’

  ‘I told you, I had to be certain,’ Cecil retorted.

  Neither of them spoke for a while. For Marbeck memories flooded back, of the desperate search for Juan Roble’s double agent, which had caused mayhem among the Crown intelligencers in the year 1600. That the Spanish spymaster should have waited this long to take revenge surprised him … but then, who could fathom such men? He looked up and found Master Secretary’s gaze upon him; at times, Marbeck failed to understand him, too.

  ‘So – you may sleep easy in your bed again,’ Cecil said dryly.

  ‘That will be a refreshing experience,’ Marbeck replied.

  The other fell silent. He wore a familiar look, one that signalled the end of their discourse, but Marbeck wasn’t finished. ‘Have you had any word from Edward Poyns?’ he asked. ‘It was he who pointed me towards Gow’s designs … .’

  Cecil shook his head. ‘I’ve heard naught from Poyns since he went to Wisbech Castle.’ Then almost as an afterthought he added: ‘Since you’re at something of a loose end, Marbeck, perhaps you should return to London and seek him out. Speak with Prout, too – tell him I’ll have words with him as soon as I return. Just now I have other matters to attend to. The King will leave York tomorrow for Doncaster … is there anything further?’

  For a moment Marbeck thought of trying to plead Henry Scroop’s case again, but knew that it was useless. Then, what had he expected? With an effort, he bowed and turned to go. But as he did so, the spymaster cleared his throat pointedly.

  ‘I mean to interrogate Sir Roland Meeres myself, at a later date,’ he said. ‘But I won’t object if you look in on the man first, on some pretext … it can do no harm.’

  With a nod, Marbeck made his way out.

  A few minutes later he was walking the castle walls in the clear air. Below him the river glittered in sunshine, dotted with small boats. He gazed southwards to open country, trying to collect his thoughts. His anger had evaporated, to be replaced by grim disappointment over the fate of Henry Scroop. He had found the boy at last, but once again was unable to help him. How he might break the news to Celia, he did not know.

  Soon afterwards, however, he was surprised to receive a somewhat cryptic message by one of the castle guards. He was leaving the place, intending to retrieve Cobb and prepare to journey south, when the man waylaid him. He should make his way to Micklegate Bar within the hour, he was told, in readiness for escort duty. There was no written instruction, and the man would not say whence the order came. Marbeck’s first thought was that it was from Master Secretary, before dismissing the notion. So in some puzzlement he collected his belongings and went to the stable near Goodram Gate, where he paid the reckoning from the purse the Lord President had given him. Then he saddled Cobb, and led him out through crowded streets.

  Several times he thought he was recognized, as the swordsman who had burst out of the crowd by Marygate, seemingly to attack the King; shouts of Hang him! came uneasily to mind. But none accosted him, and with some relief he passed over the Ouse Bridge to Micklegate … only to stop in surprise.

  Two figures appeared ahead, standing beside saddled horses. One was Rowan; the other, looking pale and thin as a waif, was Henry Scroop.

  NINETEEN

  ‘Here we must part,’ Rowan said. ‘I’ve a prisoner named Gow to take to London, and I’m taking no chances. They’ve given me an escort of four men, just in case.’

  He smiled, though Marbeck barely noticed. He was gazing at Henry, who refused to meet his eye. But the boy was changed: he saw it at once. There was anger and sullenness in his expression, but there was shame there too.

  ‘Am I to escort a prisoner, too?’ he asked Rowan.

  ‘Not quite; you’re to take our friend here back to Oxford,’ his fellow intelligencer answered. Reaching into his sleeve, he produced a sealed document. ‘This is a letter for the dean of Exeter College, instructing him to readmit Henry as a student by order of the Crown.’

  In some disbelief, Marbeck took it. ‘Whom should we thank for this sudden mercy?’ he wondered. ‘Not Master Secretary, surely …’ Whereupon a memory arrived, of Lord Thomas Cecil’s face as he had taken the purse from him; now, he understood.

  ‘That must remain a matter of confidence,’ Rowan said.

  He was holding the reins of his horse, which shifted its hooves, restless to be on the move. Marbeck turned again to Henry, and after a moment the young man raised his eyes.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ he said in a dull voice. ‘I’ll make no trouble, but I don’t wish to talk.’

  Rowan and Marbeck exchanged looks. Then with a nod Marbeck stretched out his hand, which was taken firmly by the other. ‘God speed you to London,’ he said.

  ‘And you to Oxford,’ Rowan answered. Then he mounted, and with a last glance at them both rode back across the bridge into the city.

  Marbeck watched him go, before turning to Henry. ‘Have you got everything you need?’ he enquired, and received a nod in return. ‘Then we’ll try to make Gainsborough by nightfall … there’s a passable inn I know. Thereafter we have a ride of more than a hundred miles ahead of us – can you manage that?’

  Without a word the youth turned and put his foot in the stirrup. He had a good chestnut horse, which had no doubt been supplied by the same powerful man who had obtained his freedom. Marbeck recalled His Lordship’s words, in the castle chamber: it seemed Lady Celia Scroop was known to him too. With a lightness born of relief, he too climbed into the saddle and grasped the reins. This day, which had started so badly, was ending in ways he would never have imagined.

  And only then did he realize that Henry was no longer wearing his ragged disguise, nor the black garb of his former brethren, but a sober doublet and breeches of fawn. Wordlessly the two of them shook reins and rode out onto the Old North Road, heading south towards the fields of Lincolnshire.

  Marbeck allowed two days for the journey from Gainsborough to Oxford, though he could have gone faster. Henry rode well, he saw, but he had no intention of forcing the pace. They said nothing throughout the entire first day, and Marbeck merely bided his time. He believed he understood the young man’s feelings; but not until that night, when they were installed in the George Inn at Huntingdon, did he confront him.

  He had chosen the resting-place deliberately. It was roughly halfway along their journey, but he would have stopped there anyway. Not far away, more than three weeks earlier, he had found Isaac Gow’s company, and attended the meeting in the wood which had ended so abruptly. There was no need to remind Henry; the boy understood well enough. Having eaten supper, he was about to walk off to their shared chamber when, to his alarm, Marbeck steered him into the taproom and sat him down. The drawer appeared, and he ordered spiced ale for himself. Then he looked at Henry and waited.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ he said. ‘I’m weary …’ He glanced at the drawer who stood nearby. ‘Tell him so.’

  ‘Two mugs, then,’ Marbeck said to the man, who started to go. Whereupon with a frown, Henry lifted his hand.

  ‘No, I’ll take Canaries … sugared a little.’

&nb
sp; The drawer looked at Marbeck, who nodded. But the moment they were alone, the youth turned on him. ‘What do you intend, to get me soused?’ he demanded. ‘I’ll have none of it – I drink to help me sleep, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s wise,’ Marbeck said.

  They sat in silence, while the room gradually filled with townsfolk. Someone started singing an old Yorkshire air, and someone else joined in. Marbeck drank a little, then stretched his feet out towards the fire, recalling that he had sat in this very spot with Edward Poyns. Henry tasted his cup of Canary wine and stared at the table. Finally he eyed Marbeck and said: ‘If you want gratitude, I shall disappoint you.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Marbeck told him. ‘All I want is for you to take up your studies again, and put away what’s past.’

  The youth made no reply.

  ‘I spoke to someone you know,’ Marbeck added. ‘Thomas Garrod. He was saddened at the way you shunned your friends.’

  Henry gave a start. ‘You’d no right to delve into my affairs.’

  ‘I went at Lady Celia’s behest. Had she no right either?’

  ‘A pox on you – you’re determined to treat me as a fool!’

  The words came in a burst of anger. One or two people looked round, but since Marbeck appeared unruffled they lost interest. To Henry he said: ‘I don’t think you’re a fool. I think you were restless and unhappy, not knowing what to believe or whom to trust. Gow appeared, and—’

  ‘Yes – now it comes!’ Henry stared fiercely at him. ‘I was a lamb, led by the nose and destined for sacrifice. I was drunk with love and friendship … my new family!’

  ‘Some families are by nature worm-riddled, and bound to destroy themselves.’ Marbeck eyed the boy grimly. ‘I went to the farmhouse at Brampton, with Rowan. We found the bodies of Silas and another man – and John Chyme’s, too. Likely you knew him by another name; but he was a brave man, and a friend.’