At that Henry frowned. ‘John … the newcomer?’ A bleak look came over his pale features. ‘He came to betray us … Isaac said so.’ When Marbeck said nothing, he added: ‘Yet if he was a friend to you …’
‘He worked for the Crown,’ Marbeck said sharply. ‘And in doing so he lost his life. As others have done, because of that man you venerated – and what was his aim? What was it for, will you tell me that?’
‘He swore he would be a martyr for England,’ Henry said, after a pause. ‘Those who followed him would share his rapture, on that great day …’
‘And you would be one of them,’ Marbeck said. ‘I saw the letter you sent your mother … anyone who read it would know you were prepared to die. Can you not guess what torment it caused her?’
Quickly Henry picked up his cup and drank. Breathing hard, he put it down … and Marbeck saw his hand shake. ‘I was ready to die,’ he said finally. ‘Yet not in the way you think … Isaac told me we were going to denounce the King before a crowd, so they would know him for a secret Papist who would turn the country towards Rome.’ He spoke rapidly, his face taut. ‘I didn’t know he meant to kill him; nor did I know his staff had a blade inside – I swear it. Yet no one believes me.’
‘I believe you,’ Marbeck said.
Henry eyed him, but did not answer.
‘And you stopped him – thereby saving the King’s life. But you shouldn’t be surprised if those serving His Majesty see it differently. They’re afraid for their own positions, and their own necks.’ Marbeck wore a wry look. ‘They allowed an assassin to get close, hence they want to see you executed along with Gow. I’d expect nothing else of them … You’re fortunate that one important man showed mercy, and set you free.’
The youth picked up his mug again; but without drinking he set it down. ‘You serve the Crown too …’ He looked away, unwilling to meet Marbeck’s eye. ‘I’ll admit I owe you much, yet it comforts me not. I see nothing before me but an empty plain, filled with dead things. You can return me to Oxford, present that letter and see me readmitted, but it matters little. I come from brutal stock … the son of a liar and a rakehell.’
‘Yet one who died bravely on the battlefield, fighting alongside his men,’ Marbeck said after a moment. When Henry made no reply he added: ‘Now you have assumed his lands and his title … and you have the chance to use them differently. Is that nothing – or is it that you deem yourself unworthy?’
The boy stared down at the table. ‘You know I am,’ he said.
But Marbeck shook his head. ‘I’ve yet to form a judgement on that. I’ll wait until you’ve completed your degree and returned to your family. It’s what you do in the coming years that matters …’
He broke off; Henry looked so forlorn, he half-expected him to weep. But instead the youth looked up suddenly. ‘Isaac poisoned the wine at Brampton,’ he said. ‘He didn’t tell me – he left my cup untainted. Even Silas, who was always loyal, he no longer trusted. I thought I was honoured – that he valued me above the others, to be with him at the end. But I see I was merely his instrument, to help him to the King.’
A moment passed. The singers had ended their song, and were arguing about what to sing next. For now, Marbeck thought, all seemed to have been said. Looking away from Henry he drained his mug, whereupon the boy stood up.
‘I’ll go to bed now. I’m unused to riding so far in a day.’
Marbeck nodded. He watched him walk from the taproom towards the stairs, then leaned back as the drawer appeared.
‘Will you take another, master?’ he enquired.
‘I believe I will,’ Marbeck said.
The following evening, having delivered Henry Scroop safely to the doors of Exeter College, he found an inn on the other side of Oxford and took his first proper rest in days. In the morning he called for inkpot, quill and paper and penned a letter to Celia telling her that all was well, and that Henry was a student again. He left out the details, letting her know he would tell more later. Then he stowed it in his pack, intending to have it delivered as soon as he reached London. Soon afterwards he was in the saddle once more, with time to collect his thoughts.
In the final moment by the college doors, he and Henry had had little to say to one another. The youth was subdued, but no longer as hostile. When Marbeck asked if he wished him to convey any words to Lady Celia, Henry said he would write to her with a promise to return home at the end of the term. Thereafter they parted, without any words of farewell. Yet despite everything, Marbeck sensed some stirring of purpose in him; or had he merely wished it? With a sigh he put the matter aside, and turned his thoughts towards London.
He was back by afternoon, walking Cobb down Bishopsgate Street with the din of the city ahead. Carts rumbled by, there were shrieks from Bedlam hospital and beggars shuffling out of the gatehouse. With a full purse at his belt for once, he thought of finding a good chamber in a good inn, instead of returning to the Boar’s Head. Then he remembered his lute was there; so he drew rein, dismounted and turned into Houndsditch. The street was crowded, with people pressing about the fripperers’ stalls. He led Cobb past the gun-foundry, turned by St Botolph’s into Whitechapel, then stopped. Walking towards him, head down in a reverie, was a figure he could never mistake. He waited until the man was abreast of him, then stood in his way.
‘Were you looking for me, Prout?’
Nicholas Prout started as if someone had pulled a dagger on him. ‘By the heavens,’ he began, ‘I thought you were …’
‘Dead? Not yet … though I had something of a scrape in York. Have you ever been there?’
The other shook his head. ‘I wasn’t looking for you, though I’m relieved … Are there tidings?’
‘Indeed there are,’ Marbeck replied. ‘Where shall we talk, at the Boar’s Head?’
Prout waved the question aside. ‘Have you seen Master Secretary?’
‘I have.’ Marbeck put on a frown. ‘He’s most displeased with you.’ The other flinched, and he almost laughed. ‘I expect he’ll forgive your recent lapses, though I’m not certain he’ll excuse your taking so many matters upon yourself. I was strong in your defence, I should say.’
‘To the devil with you, Marbeck,’ Prout muttered.
‘Let me go to my chamber,’ Marbeck said amiably. ‘Once I’ve stabled my horse and made sure my belongings haven’t been filched, I’ll tell all. Are you still holding Sir Roland Meeres at the Gatehouse prison, by the way?’
‘I am – for I can do naught else,’ Prout retorted. ‘He should be taken to the Tower, yet I’ve not—’
‘The authority,’ Marbeck finished.
The other frowned. ‘Why do you ask – do you wish to question him? Is there a warrant from Sir Robert?’
‘Tonight after supper,’ Marbeck said. ‘If you’ll meet me at Westminster, we’ll converse. Will that serve?’
And without waiting he tugged the reins and led Cobb away.
The old gatehouse of Westminster Abbey had been a prison for centuries, and was in a poor state of repair. Yet here some of the most celebrated prisoners of the Crown had been held, including Sir Roland Meeres, who was now confined in an upper chamber. Marbeck and Prout passed down a gloomy passage to a tiny room used by the turnkeys, where they were left alone. Whereupon the messenger, who’d had time to think since their meeting by St Botolph’s, put on a hard look. ‘I’ve waited long enough,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s occurred since you and I last parted – the whole of it.’
So Marbeck drew a breath, and told him. By the time he had finished, Prout was seated on a bench with his back to the wall, and an expression that was glum even for him.
‘By all that’s holy,’ was all he could say.
‘So, we’re in something of a quandary,’ Marbeck said. ‘Neither of us has the power to interrogate Meeres, as a Privy Councillor, unless we find some means to persuade him to talk willingly. Yet one thing that would restore both you and me to Master Secretary’s good favour would be to get hi
m to name this financier who put up the money for Meeres and Drax to hatch their little enterprise.’
‘I’m aware of that, Marbeck,’ Prout muttered. ‘Yet short of putting the man to hard question, I see no means to make him spill anything. He’s a widower, his children grown and scattered. There’s little leverage.’
‘Save in the matter of his religion, and his cause,’ Marbeck observed. ‘What if I were to address him, dwelling on the fate that awaits the Earl of Charnock? The prospect of a traitor’s death, in all its detail, would chill any man’s blood.’
‘He cares little for threats, from what I’ve seen,’ Prout said. ‘He still has rank and influence. He demands a public trial before the Lord Chief Justice, when he’ll have his say.’
‘Can we not be fanciful?’ Marbeck suggested. ‘Tell him Drax is caught and has spilled everything; that his only chance of mercy is a full confession …’ An idea struck him. ‘Or, what if we claim the Pope has denounced Meeres as an upstart who acted without sanction … that he may even be excommunicated?’
Prout looked sceptical. ‘He’d never swallow that.’
‘He might, if a priest were to take the news to him.’
They eyed each other. Marbeck had brightened, but Prout was shaking his head. ‘If you mean to take on another of your theatrical roles, it’ll fail,’ he said. ‘The man got a good look at you in that room over the Dagger – he’d see through such a ruse in no time.’
Marbeck thought – and the answer came at once. ‘Is Edward Poyns in London still?’ he enquired.
‘Poyns? I saw him a few days back …’ Prout stiffened. ‘Do you suppose he could carry it off?’
By the following morning it was arranged. Edward Poyns, whom Marbeck had last seen in Huntingdon, was tracked down by Prout to his lodgings in Silver Street. There the two intelligencers talked until late, constructing a small interlude to play before Sir Roland Meeres. Marbeck would maintain a role as Crown pursuivant, while Poyns would take that of a Catholic priest, released from prison on licence to visit Meeres. When that was at last decided, and news had been exchanged, both of them rested for what was left of the night. Marbeck had left the Gatehouse without ever seeing Meeres, but now as London sprang into life he met Prout again by the entrance. With Marbeck was a slight, stooped figure in a priest’s hat and cassock. A pair of spectacles was perched on his nose, and there was a bruise on his cheek made by the skilful application of soot and walnut juice. Prout took one look at him and grunted.
‘You know what’s required of you,’ he muttered.
‘I do, goodman Prout,’ Poyns replied, fingering a silver crucifix at his neck. ‘It would go better if I had an Agnus Dei, and a stole. But this was all I could get.’
Prout turned to Marbeck. ‘I can’t be there, hence I must put my faith in you,’ he said.
Marbeck merely nodded. And soon afterwards the two intelligencers were inside, walking behind a turnkey up a narrow stair. The door at which the man halted was unlocked; he even knocked politely, before a voice from within bade him enter. Marbeck and Poyns exchanged looks: noblemen often lived in high style in prison, provided their funds held out. Some had servants with them, and food and wine brought in daily, even enjoying the company of their wives at times. But the room which Marbeck and Poyns entered was small, furnished only with a bed, table and padded stool. There was a single occupant: well dressed, though somewhat haggard in appearance. As the turnkey stood back to let them enter, the man stood up – then recognition dawned.
‘I’ll not speak with you,’ he said to Marbeck. His eye fell on Poyns, and a frown appeared. ‘Who’s this?’ he demanded of the gaoler. ‘What trickery do they attempt now?’
‘No trickery,’ Marbeck said. He looked round at the turnkey, who took the hint and disappeared. The intelligencers waited until his footfalls receded, whereupon Marbeck closed the door carefully.
‘I hear you need a priest, Sir Roland,’ he said with some contempt. ‘Here’s one they’ve let out for an hour, before he’s returned to the Marshalsea. Will you receive him, or shall I take him away? It’s a matter of indifference to me.’
He waited. So did Poyns, with a look of mingled fear and concern on his face; then he spoke – but in Latin.
‘Loquemus lingua Romana,’ he said in a reedy voice, fixing his eyes on the prisoner. ‘Hinc grassator non comprehendabit.’
Marbeck stiffened, and though he understood perfectly – let us speak the Roman tongue, Poyns had said, so this ruffian won’t understand – he feigned incomprehension.
But Meeres gave a start. ‘Es sacerdos, veramente?’ he asked quickly, and received a nod in return.
‘Sum … Te succereram—’
‘Stop that!’ Marbeck glared at them both. ‘Speak English, you devils!’
‘Very well …’ Poyns gulped. ‘I … I was merely soothing this man in his predicament.’
A moment passed; Meeres had asked Poyns if he was really a priest, and received an affirmative answer. Marbeck retained his angry look – until at last, to his relief, the prisoner sat down again. ‘Do you intend to stay?’ he demanded in a surly tone. ‘Can’t he and I have a minute to ourselves?’
‘Later, perhaps …’ Marbeck eyed him stonily. ‘For now I’d like to ask you some questions – may I proceed?’
The other hesitated, then looked at Poyns in his cassock. ‘What’s your name, Father?’ he asked.
‘Tobias Marchant, sir,’ Poyns answered, bobbing. ‘Newly removed from Wisbech Castle. I’m pained to see you in such straits … Will you not placate this man, so I may do my office?’
Meeres hesitated, then let out a sigh; as did Marbeck, in silence. His scheme was about to bear fruit.
TWENTY
‘You realize, Sir Roland, that you will be the last one to die,’ Marbeck said. ‘William Drax is in flight, the Earl of Charnock is captured. In time they’ll both be dragged to Tower Hill on hurdles, to be hanged at the gibbet and taken down alive. Then their privy parts will be cut off, their innards opened and their bowels pulled forth to be burned before their eyes …’ He paused, with a look of mock concern. ‘Do you wish to meet that fate alone?’
There was no answer. Meeres sat rigid, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Nearby Poyns stood, his face transfixed in horror. To Marbeck he said: ‘May the Lord forgive you … you’re no better than the wild beasts in the Tower—’
‘No doubt.’ Marbeck threw him a bland look. ‘But remember your place here, priest. Any more insolence and you’ll receive further treatment, of the kind you found in the Marshalsea.’
Poyns put his hand to his fake bruise and winced. Meeres looked shaken, but remained silent.
‘There’s nothing to be gained by holding back now,’ Marbeck went on. ‘All I want is the name of the man whose money allowed you to launch your venture, then I’ll leave you. The entire scheme has failed – but you know that. Indeed, it was a fool’s breakfast from the start. The Pope never sanctioned the enterprise – there’s even talk of excommunication.’
‘Lies!’ Poyns raised a trembling finger, pointing it at Marbeck. ‘I cannot keep silent at such falsehood … and you’re a blasphemer, to speak of the Holy Father in such a manner! This man here will receive his due rites, as a courageous defender of our religion—’
‘A what?’ Marbeck forced a scowl; for an instant, his admiration for Poyns’s acting had almost thrown him. ‘I told you to keep silent, you Papist cur …’ Stepping forward, he gasped his arm. ‘Perhaps we’ll dispense with your services until it’s time for those last rites you speak of—’
‘No!’
Suddenly Meeres was on his feet again. ‘This is a man of God, who’s borne your savagery long enough!’ he cried. ‘Let him alone, for I’ll tell you nothing! But when it comes to my trial, I’ll waste no time in naming those who’ve stepped beyond their office …’
He broke off; Marbeck had thrown Poyns a look, which his fellow understood even as he shrank from him. To the prisoner, he turned
a face of anguish. ‘Sir Roland … I fear there may be no trial,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘They’ll slay you here on some pretext – attempting escape, perhaps …’ He turned on Marbeck. ‘Why should I not speak the truth? You can do naught but separate me from my body – whereupon I will find joy everlasting, which you will never know!’ Near to tears, he crossed himself. ‘Forbear to fight them, Sir Roland,’ he begged. ‘It matters little now. Tell them what they want to know, for the man you will not name has forsaken you – can you not see it? He walks free, while those who put themselves in danger pay the price! I can do no more than pray for you – pray for us all!’ And with that, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head.
A silence fell. Meeres looked aghast, his eyes going from Poyns to Marbeck and back. He sank down on his stool, while Marbeck put on another angry expression, as if Poyns had said too much. He placed his hand on his sword-hilt, threw a withering look at Meeres, and counted to ten …
‘His name’s Spinola,’ the man said hoarsely.
Marbeck froze, then raised his eyebrows.
‘Augusto Spinola, from Genoa … the argentarius.’ Meeres sighed and lowered his gaze. ‘Now for the love of God, will you let me make my confession? For my life’s done, and there’s naught to keep me on this earth.’
He looked up with a bleakness born of despair. ‘England is broken, and the forces of evil are at her gates,’ he mumbled. ‘James Stuart will betray us, and burn one day in the pit that’s prepared for him – as will you and your kind. Now leave me – and may God have mercy on you!’
Another moment passed; then to Meeres’ dismay, Poyns got abruptly to his feet. The prisoner stared – and saw at once how he’d been outwitted. Words failed him; all he could do was gaze at the bogus priest, as he removed his cassock to reveal an unwashed shirt and a pair of striped breeches.
‘Well, that wasn’t so difficult,’ Poyns breathed, wiping his brow with a sleeve. ‘Shall we leave Sir Roland in peace?’
Prout was waiting on the ground floor of the Gatehouse. As soon as the two appeared, he started towards them.
Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Page 19
