Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot

by John Pilkington

  ‘Praise be … he’s here at last.’

  In the firelit room, its single window shuttered, Levinus Monk stood by a table strewn with papers. Five years back, Marbeck recalled briefly, this was how he would have met with Lord Cecil, when he was still plain Sir Robert and not the Earl of Salisbury, King James’s chief minister and the most powerful man in England. Now the hawk-faced Monk was the new ‘Martha’, as his agents nicknamed him: a toiler, loaded with the murky business of intelligence. The man’s shrewd gaze was undimmed, though he looked tired; tired and tightly-wound. Brusquely, he pointed to a sideboard where stood a jug and cups, but Marbeck declined. He’d put himself to sleep the night before with a mug of Skinner’s cheap muscadine, taken from the deserted table while his landlord sported elsewhere; this morning, he could still taste it.

  ‘Ah …’ Monk peered at him. ‘You wear that hangdog look, Marbeck. Have you come to disappoint me?’

  ‘I lost Ferdinand Gower,’ Marbeck said flatly. ‘At the cockpit in Shoe Lane … I’ve no excuse, other than carelessness.’

  The spymaster stiffened, but remained silent.

  ‘I could find him again, I suppose … He makes little effort to hide his whereabouts. I think he knows he’s being watched and doesn’t care – even sees it as a mark of status.’

  Monk appeared to weigh the matter.

  ‘And besides …’ Marbeck met his eye. ‘I confess I can’t see what it avails us: I mean, watching Papists like him. You can pick them up any time you choose, since everyone knows who they are and where they worship. As for the Recusants …’ He shrugged. ‘How many noble families are left, who can afford the fines for non-attendance at church? A dozen?’

  ‘Fifteen, at the last count.’ Monk’s tone was dry. ‘Is that all you have to tell me?’

  He knew it wasn’t, of course; this had become part of their ritual, before getting down to business. Despite his manner, Monk knew who his best intelligencers were and took pains to keep them. Soon he would speak of money and produce a purse, Marbeck knew. But today, even that seemed unimportant; he gritted his teeth, forcing down the memory of last night …

  Monk broke the silence, eyeing him grimly . ‘There’s a difference, this year. They’re more than restive … they’re angry. It’s been brewing since the last Parliament, when they finally realized the King’s no Papist sympathizer, but had played them along from the beginning. Now their hopes of toleration are as dust, even their archpriest has spoken out, urging them to remain calm and obey the law … pin their hopes on God. The poor lambs.’

  In some surprise, Marbeck returned his gaze; for Levinus Monk, staunch Dutch Protestant, such a comment was rare. ‘Obey the law?’ he echoed. ‘Does he know something we don’t?’

  The other smiled, though it was more of a grimace. For answer he seized a handful of documents and waved them at Marbeck. ‘More than likely, I’d say. Who would doubt it, when I get reports by the day of fearful goings-on, from here to the Scottish borders? Someone called Woodrington, in the far north, is said to be able to muster two thousand men for the Catholic cause, at short notice. In the Midlands large numbers of horses have been seen, gathered in the stables of certain country manors. Store of arms, too … The swordsmiths have more orders than they can fill, apparently. Meanwhile, John Cutler says there’s weaponry being shifted by night up the Surrey road – though I know of no one else who’s seen it. So – what am I supposed to think?’ With a look of exasperation, he dumped the papers back on the table.

  Marbeck was frowning. ‘Cutler? I thought he’d slipped away. Keeping bees somewhere, or—’

  ‘Yes, the man’s half-mad,’ Monk broke in. ‘Bees in his head, if you ask me – but I can’t afford to waste even him. He’s keeping an eye on the archbishop’s palace in Croydon … We must leave nowhere unwatched.’

  He fell silent, and all of a sudden Marbeck’s own troubles appeared slight. There was always talk of rebellion – even of Spanish involvement, despite the peace treaty signed last year – but perhaps this year, as Monk had said, was different. Catholics were dismayed by their sovereign’s betrayal, after the hopes raised at his accession. Instead of the promised easing of restrictions on their worship, laws against them had been strengthened to the point of brutality, as many saw it …

  ‘Well, as it happens, Monk, I’ve more rumours to add to your store,’ he said at last. ‘One comes from among the Scottish loafers about Portpoole … It seems the Papists aren’t the only ones who see themselves under threat.’

  The spymaster looked dismissive. ‘I know that. One man told me the Scotsmen would be blown back to their frozen lands soon. Barbarians, he called them. I mentioned that King James is a Scot, shrewder and better educated than most of the men on his Council, but I doubt he was listening.’

  ‘And yet, there might be some substance to it,’ Marbeck said, thinking of the dour-faced MacNeish. ‘My source has always been a truthful man, with an ear to the ground. There’s a stirring, as he put it. The Scots are afraid, and not merely of the rakes who assail them in the streets.’

  There was a moment while Monk considered. But when he spoke again, it was on a different tack. ‘You know that the opening of Parliament was prorogued,’ he said with a frown. ‘It will take place on a Tuesday, the fifth day of November … If the King returns from Royston in time, that is.’

  Marbeck said nothing; today, his mind seemed to be drifting. All England knew that their monarch spent more and more time away hunting and hawking, leaving the Queen at home and the business of government to ministers. Even when at Whitehall, he was likely to be found at the royal cockpit or at the mews, among his falconers …

  ‘Which is why …’ With a stern look, Monk forced his intelligencer to give him full attention. ‘Which is why I’m so hard pressed just now – forced to employ even a witless cove like Cutler. I have to treat every report – every rumour – with due seriousness.’

  He paused, then: ‘Your intelligence from France was useful. Since Henri lifted the ban last year, everyone knows Jesuits have been flocking to the new schools … though we had only a vague notion of their numbers. Small wonder that some say we’re almost besieged by those people.’ Irritably, he slapped the table. ‘Do you know how many of their priests are believed to be at large now – I mean, not in France, but here in England? More than forty! Do you mark that?’

  But Marbeck merely raised an eyebrow; the figure did not surprise him, after his sojourn among the eager students of the colleges in Northern Europe. For more than twenty-five years, since Robert Persons and Edmund Campion had first brought their Jesuit mission to England, the trickle of clandestine priests had increased, year by year; the threat of hanging seemed only to encourage them.

  ‘Do you want me to turn my attention to them again?’ he asked, without enthusiasm. Then, before the spymaster could answer, he added: ‘First, perhaps you should hear my other intelligence that came from the same source. For if there’s any truth to it, it’s graver than anything else I’ve heard.’

  Monk blinked at him, his beak-like nose almost quivering. ‘What now?’ he demanded. ‘Are the Spanish in the Channel with a new armada, or what?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Marbeck answered. As briefly as he could, he related Colum MacNeish’s testimony of a perceived threat to the princes and princesses of the realm.

  The spymaster listened, with growing unease – but when Marbeck spoke of Thomas Percy, kinsman to the Earl of Northumberland, he almost spluttered. ‘Him! By the Christ, I wish I’d a crown for every man at Court that would like to see that fellow hanged. Why, I could—’ With an oath, he broke off.

  Half-amused, Marbeck spoke up. ‘Buy yourself a knighthood? I hear the going rate is thirty pounds … Very lucrative for the royal coffers.’

  He had overstepped the mark, but he knew Monk well enough. The man snorted and said something about treasonous remarks that got men imprisoned, before returning to the matter in hand. ‘But see now, Percy’s often about Westm
inster. As a Gentleman Pensioner, he has quarters here. How can your man be certain he watches the princes? And as for kidnap …?’ He looked sceptical.

  ‘My Scotsman says he got it from someone close by,’ Marbeck told him. ‘A servant to the Careys, named Prestall. He was drunk at the time, it seems, but …’

  ‘I’ll have him brought to me,’ Monk said at once. ‘Have you no further details?’

  ‘Not at present.’

  ‘Well, there’s a new task for you. You may forget about Gower and watch Thomas Percy instead. He’s not an easy man to lose.’

  His spirits sinking, Marbeck looked away. But at least he could leave Skinner’s and move elsewhere – whereupon, as if divining his thoughts, Monk asked him where he was lodging. When Marbeck answered, he added: ‘It’s best you stay there, isn’t it? If you live too near the Palace, you may be noticed. You can remain Lawrence Tucker, turn up now and then and hang about with the rakes and gamesters. Percy has hired rooms close to the Lords’ Chamber, though he’s sometimes at Essex House – the earl’s town residence. How you might gain access there, I don’t know. But you’ll find a way, Marbeck; you always do.’

  The conversation was over, yet Marbeck stood his ground until the spymaster took the hint. He opened a small wooden chest, drew out a purse and, after weighing it in his hand, said: ‘Now I think on it, will you undertake a journey before you seek Percy out? Go down to Croydon and find Cutler … See if he sticks to his tale about the mysterious goods that pass up the Surrey road by night. If it holds up, you might poke about a little. If it doesn’t …’

  In some surprise, Marbeck nodded; the purse, and the prospect of a ride in the country, cheered him a little. Taking his payment, he paused, then said: ‘Croydon’s a summer palace, isn’t it? The archbishop won’t even be there.’

  Monk gave a shrug. ‘My Lord Secretary has ordered it,’ he said dryly. ‘And who am I to question him?’

  By midday he was ready. Managing to avoid Skinner, he left the bowling-house carrying a light pack and walked to the nearby stables to get Cobb. The place was small and mean, but discreet, kept by a taciturn friend of Skinner’s named Oliver. At sight of Marbeck, the dour-faced man merely nodded and fiddled with his tobacco pipe, as he always did, before indicating the farthest stall. When Marbeck approached, his horse almost reared: he had been indoors too long. Once saddled and bridled he followed his master out on to the cobbles, head tossing. Within the hour they had crossed London Bridge and were cantering south, away from the noise and smells of the city.

  It was a ten-mile ride along the old Roman Road, through the villages of Newington and Streatham. By late afternoon they were in the market town of Croydon, on the edge of the Surrey Hills. Wood smoke drifted on the wind and cattle lowed in the fields, ready to be brought in for milking. Walking his horse Marbeck entered the square, found a water-trough and dismounted. While Cobb drank, he looked about at the townsfolk who passed by before hailing one and asking for the whereabouts of John Cutler, who kept bees. The man nodded: Marbeck would find him at the last cottage on the Waddon road, below Dubber’s Hill.

  So, with the afternoon waning, he led Cobb to the edge of the town, passed several thatched houses and stopped at the end one. Smoke curled from the chimney, and there was a faint light within. Leaving his mount at the gate he walked the few paces to the door and knocked … but when it opened, he took a step back: the man was a stranger.

  ‘Your pardon …’ Marbeck blinked. ‘I’m seeking Master Cutler.’

  Ruddy-faced, his features almost hidden by a heavy beard and a mass of unkempt hair, the cottager peered back at him. He was roughly dressed and none too clean; from inside the house drifted the bland odour of bean pottage. ‘I’m Cutler.’

  You can’t be, Marbeck thought. But he said: ‘Well then, you’ll remember me – John Sands, servant to Lord Cecil?’

  There was no reaction.

  ‘Shall I try the names of a few others?’ He was hungry and stiff from riding, and his patience was thin. ‘Joseph Gifford, also known as Porter? Or what of Giles Winterburn—’

  ‘Lord Cecil?’ The other gave a start. ‘You’ve come from him?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Marbeck said – then suddenly, the other’s face cleared.

  ‘By the heavens … you’re Marbeck.’

  They stared at each other, whereupon recognition dawned on Marbeck too. The man’s appearance had belied him: the John Cutler he remembered was a swordsman like him, athletic and alert. The one who stood before him was a stooped countryman in stained breeches and jerkin, wide-eyed and wild-haired … yet it was him, after all. Then, it had been well over a year …

  ‘I am,’ Marbeck replied, with some relief. ‘I confess I didn’t know you … You’ve altered somewhat.’

  ‘Have I?’ Cutler said vaguely. There was a look in his eye that made Marbeck uneasy. But he stepped back and drew the door wide. ‘Well, come inside, won’t you …’ He glanced at Cobb and gestured towards the side of the house. ‘That’s a fine horse you have … Take him into the back garden. There’s a lean-to, but I’ve no animal of my own now. Take care to avoid the skeps – the bees are asleep, and I don’t want them roused.’

  With a nod, Marbeck led Cobb round the back. He saw the straw skeps, a dozen or more, well-made and set out on wooden stands. But in the chill of autumn, no bees flew. The rest of the garden was overgrown; Cutler had let it run wild for the sake of his apian friends.

  Having put Cobb under cover, he hung the nosebag about his neck and went to the back door. Inside the cottage he found Cutler stoking the fire. After swinging an iron pot back over the blaze, he straightened up. ‘So, is it Levinus Monk you serve now?’

  When Marbeck nodded briefly, he added: ‘He sent me down here to bury me, you know. I doubt if he even reads the reports I send … Not that I send many. Where’s the need, when the archbishop’s palace lies empty, save for a handful of servants?’ He gestured towards the window. ‘It’s across the road, beyond the trees … You could go and see for yourself.’

  ‘In fact, that isn’t why I’m here,’ Marbeck told him. After stretching himself he looked round, saw an oak chest and sat down on it. ‘Our master’s more interested in the goods you spoke of, going up the road to London.’ He raised an eyebrow, but Cutler looked blank.

  ‘Goods?’

  ‘Weaponry – isn’t that what you reported …?’ Marbeck paused. ‘Carts passing by night?’

  ‘No, no – they carried hides. Untanned hides and barrels of beer.’ Cutler put on a lopsided smile. ‘I remember now: I took a peek one night, while the carters watered their oxen. Lifted the covers, but there were only hides and kegs beneath them. The kegs reeked of beer.’ His grin broadened. ‘You’ve had a wasted journey. But no matter … You can sup with me and talk of other topics.’

  A weariness settled upon Marbeck. For a moment annoyance rose, but he forced it down as Cutler bent down by the fire and began whistling to himself. Lifting the pot lid he peered inside, nodded in satisfaction and spoke over his shoulder. ‘I’ve some sack to wash this down, and there’s honey to smear on your bread. I sell it in the market – I could make my living doing it, you know …’

  ‘By the Christ, Cutler.’ Marbeck let out a breath and waited for the other to turn – which he did, reluctantly. ‘I didn’t know you when you opened the door … Now, I wonder if I do yet.’

  Cutler opened his mouth, then closed it again. Seeing he wasn’t about to speak, Marbeck pressed on. ‘Will you think back to the old fencing hall, in the city? You and I had a bout there once. Your stoccada was perfect – you won ten crowns off me. You had a Toledo sword with a motto chased into it and a dagger to match … You lodged by Queenhithe, with Winterburn. He used to challenge you to drinking contests—’

  ‘No, no …’ Much too quickly, Cutler stood to his full height. ‘I never did … I always lodged at the Irish Boy in the Strand.’ To Marbeck’s alarm, he threw up a hand as if to ward off a new thought. ‘I hear Papists meet
there now … Secret masses and such. Dark stuff. Best keep out of it, I say.’

  Silence fell. His heart sinking, Marbeck gazed at him. Whistling once more, Cutler stepped to a shelf, took down a mug and stuck his nose in it. Then as Marbeck watched, he pulled out a dirty kerchief and wiped the inside busily. Finally, he looked round, grinning.

  ‘I never use sugar – always sweeten my wine with honey. Do you know I keep skeps out the back? I fashion them myself – sell honey at the market. Why, I could make a living by it.’

  He turned away again, polishing vigorously. And all Marbeck could do was regard the man who had once been John Cutler, crown intelligencer, and was now someone else who went by the same name: a bee-keeper of Croydon.

  FOUR

  He awoke early in the morning, in a hard bed in the Gun Tavern. Below him, the inn was stirring into life. Without thinking he threw the coverlet aside and sat up … then events flooded back.

  He had a child unborn: a daughter, perhaps, who would never know him.

  He stared at the floor as a wild scheme flew into his mind: of riding hard to London, going to the Walden house and carrying Meriel away by force. He could take her to his father’s manor in Lancashire … He could play the prodigal son, swear he was a changed man who was eager to start afresh. But at that something welled up, to emerge as a bitter laugh.

  The biggest fool is the man who fools himself …

  His father’s words rang in his head; the voice of Sir Julius Marbeck, Justice of the Peace, now in his seventieth year. Marbeck pictured the old man, a look of scorn on his face. Then he pictured Monk, wearing his most sardonic expression; the notion was absurd.

  He stood up quickly and began to dress. Within the hour he had left the inn and was back in the market square, leading Cobb toward the London road. He was about to mount, then checked himself: the horse’s gait was amiss. Carefully, he looked him over; speaking soothingly, he bent and lifted one front hoof, then the other, before setting it down.