Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot

by John Pilkington

  ‘By the heavens … Marbeck?’

  Startled, he swung round to find himself facing a handsome man of about his own age, bejewelled and dressed in a slashed doublet with great padded shoulders, a cloak pinned to one of them. With the scent of musk perfume in his nostrils, Marbeck stared. ‘Matthew Curzon …?’

  ‘It’s Sir Matthew now.’ The other smiled and took his hand warmly. ‘I thought I’d seen a phantom … Where have you hidden yourself all these years?’

  For a moment Marbeck made no reply. As a rule he took pains to avoid his old university friends; it was impossible to speak of what he’d done since his time at Cambridge. Gifford knew, of course; but Gifford was an agent of the Crown too, unlike the man who stood here, his fine, silk-lined cloak lifting in the breeze. Curzon had been a dandy ever since he could walk, it was said. A delicate wit, who wrote poetry and spent lavishly on clothes, wine and entertainment, he’d been in debt from his first term …

  ‘So, what do you here, Sir Matthew?’ Marbeck asked with a smile. ‘Palace business, or …?’

  ‘Well, indeed, in a way.’

  The man looked sheepish, he thought – and a suspicion formed. ‘By the Christ, you’re not going to ask me for a loan?’

  ‘Why, shame upon you, sirrah!’ Curzon assumed a hurt expression. ‘How can you think it, after all this time? I was going to invite you indoors for sweetmeats and a cup of Alicante. I have use of a small chamber when the, er …’

  ‘When the owner’s away?’ Marbeck ventured, though he was amused; he’d always liked Curzon. ‘I’m pleased to accept your invitation. But tell me, when did you acquire your knighthood? Not purchased, I hope—’ He broke off, for it was suddenly obvious: how else would a man like this have risen in rank?

  ‘You mock me, Marbeck,’ the gallant said ruefully. ‘Then, you often did, back at St John’s. In truth, I thought a title would be a useful investment … I had a sum from my father that was lying idle. In fact, it turned out to be the last sum he gave me … Ran out of patience, I suppose. I was knighted by His Majesty, for services to a boarhound. It gains me access to places, to certain circles … though when it comes to my debts, I find it’s quite a different matter.’

  His gaze dropped, but by now his position was becoming clear to Marbeck. Curzon was not alone in being a virtual prisoner inside the vast warren that was Whitehall Palace. While he was within its confines he was safe; the moment he stepped outside, he was liable to be arrested for debt. With a wry look, Marbeck placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let me taste your Alicante, and you can tell me more.’

  A short while later, having passed through various doors and corridors, they were in a small but elegant ground-floor chamber hung with tapestries. Seated at a table spread with a garish Turkey carpet, Marbeck sampled the good Alicante wine, knowing it wasn’t Curzon’s at all, but belonged to the usual occupant of the room.

  Helping himself from a platter piled with sweetmeats, his old student friend relaxed and began to hold forth. ‘It’s a precarious life here, Marbeck. There are a few of us hanging about the place, risking a peep out of the gates now and then to see if bailiffs are lurking. The varlets even watch the river, so I can’t escape by boat. They’ve been set on me by my jeweller in Goldsmith’s Row – such a greedy man. I’ve written to him offering to return several rings, but it wasn’t enough. For the past fortnight I’ve lived in fear of the sergeant-at-mace and his tipstaffs, prowling without the Court Gate. While here I’m at the mercy of others’ generosity – and that of the Knight-Marshall. Should he decide to eject me, I could find myself seized and clapped in the Counter! Can you imagine such horror?’

  Marbeck gave a sympathetic shrug. ‘How much do you owe, in total?’

  The other sighed. ‘Close on two hundred pounds, I suppose.’

  ‘What, to one creditor?’ Marbeck exclaimed.

  ‘Not exactly …’ Curzon heaved another sigh. ‘There’s my tailor too, and a bootmaker in Holborn, and a hatter …’ Seeing Marbeck’s expression, he looked indignant. ‘A man must own a decent hat in this climate! Would you see me freeze to death?’

  ‘Have you thought of disguise?’ Marbeck enquired. ‘Borrow a servant’s garb and follow some lord out of the gates?’

  ‘Dress as a lackey?’ The knight looked appalled. ‘You truly think someone like myself could carry that off? Nor can I swim,’ he added, ‘if that’s how your mind moves. I’ve contemplated trying to make a run for it, but I was never the athletic sort.’

  ‘Well then, we must think of another ruse,’ Marbeck said, suppressing a smile. He took a drink and thought for a moment. ‘These places to which your new status has given you access – might Essex House be one of them?’

  ‘But of course,’ Curzon replied airily. ‘I’m acquainted with the Earl of Northumberland … A true nobleman, if deaf as a post.’

  ‘And his cousin, Thomas Percy?’ Marbeck enquired casually. ‘I hear he’s in and out of there, too.’

  At that, the other’s face clouded. ‘I rarely see him … He’s away in the North a good deal. Moves in circles I don’t care to know about.’

  ‘Papists, you mean?’

  ‘I assume so.’ Curzon looked uncomfortable. ‘Of course, anyone will tell you the earl’s of the Roman persuasion too – it’s an open secret. But he keeps to himself, pottering about with his scientific experiments at Syon House … There’s no harm in the man, to my mind. The cousin is of a different stamp – not one I’d play at cards with.’

  ‘And yet, I believe I’ve a notion to do just that,’ Marbeck said, on sudden impulse.

  Curzon eyed him. ‘You’re still a gambler, then? It’s reassuring to find that hasn’t changed. I confess I was taken aback when I first saw you. You look as if these past years have used you badly.’

  ‘Too long a story,’ Marbeck replied. ‘Just now, I’m doing my best to devise a means of getting you out of here and evading the sergeant-at-mace. If I can do it, have we a bargain?’

  The other blinked, whereupon Marbeck explained. ‘I speak of a simple exchange of favours. I’ll spring you from Whitehall and take you somewhere your creditors won’t find you. In return, you take me to Essex House this evening – no arresting party would expect to see you there – and introduce me to anyone I ask you to.’ He paused. ‘And by the way, for reasons I don’t care to discuss just now, I’m Lawrence Tucker, a landed gentleman from Hampshire. Are we agreed?’

  So it was done, and for Marbeck it was easy enough. In the dozen or more years since he’d last seen Matthew Curzon he had become a master of deception, he thought fleetingly, while his friend was unchanged: a foppish fellow, but remarkably devoid of guile. Curzon was astonished at the ease with which Marbeck transformed him from a well-dressed nobleman into a prisoner in shirtsleeves, hands bound behind his back. His sword, it transpired, had already been pawned, but his poniard was taken from him. Leaving his fine clothes in a closet to be collected at some later date, he was obliged to step outside the Court Gate into the cold, head bowed in submission. But the most dramatic part of it was the performance Marbeck put on for the arresting party – a sergeant and several watchmen – who accosted them the moment they emerged into the thoroughfare by Scotland Yard.

  Belligerently, hand on sword, Marbeck informed them that this man was in his charge, under arrest by order of the Privy Council. The Knight-Marshall would verify it, if they cared to enquire. It was a serious matter – and when he mentioned Star Chamber, even the suspicious sergeant-at-mace fell silent. The word treason wasn’t mentioned, but the implications were clear. Whereupon, watched by the disappointed group, Curzon was marched away via Charing Cross to the Strand. There, having looked back to see they weren’t followed, Marbeck steered him into a cut-through by Covent Garden, where he untied his hands before taking him to St Martin’s Lane. Minutes later they entered Skinner’s bowling-house where, with immense relief, Curzon sank down on a stool and gazed at his rescuer.

  ‘Great God, Mar—’ he began, then
caught his breath. ‘I mean … I thank you most heartily, Master Tucker.’

  He was just in time: Skinner had appeared from somewhere in a rumpled shirt and was looking askance at them both. At once, Marbeck addressed him. ‘Here’s my friend … Knight,’ he said briskly. ‘He’ll be sharing my chamber for a while, if you’ve no objection.’

  ‘Objection?’ Skinner’s brow furrowed. ‘Well, I might have—’

  ‘We’ll adjust the reckoning,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘He’s very quiet and sober, is Master Knight … The perfect tenant. And you’re not exactly overwhelmed by applicants, are you? I wonder if word’s got round about the state of the timbers.’

  His landlord scowled. ‘That’s slander, that is – and how do you know I haven’t got other applicants? Many would be glad of a big, fine room like that!’ His frown deepened. ‘And now I think on it, there was half a pint of muscadine on the table the other night that had disappeared come morning …’ But he stopped, seeing Marbeck reach for his purse.

  ‘Will a half angel cover it?’ he asked. ‘That, and the rent?’

  Skinner put on a glassy smile.

  Essex House fronted the Thames by the Middle Temple: a rambling mansion where the late earl of that name had once plotted against Queen Elizabeth, before his folly led to his own downfall. Various people lodged here, or came and went as they pleased; the Earl of Northumberland, into whose hands it had fallen, was immensely rich and a generous host. Though he was often at his country seat at Syon House, people mingled, dined and entertained in his absence. Here, after night had fallen, Marbeck arrived with Matthew Curzon and was admitted without difficulty.

  The clothes helped, of course; he wore his best doublet and cloak, and had borrowed some of Curzon’s jewels: his friend had been adamant about not leaving those behind and had made his escape with them rolled in a cloth inside his breeches. Curzon himself was decked in clothing Marbeck had picked up from a fripperer’s stall that afternoon, and though they were inferior to his own, they would serve.

  Adopting the swagger that came naturally to him, the newly-dubbed knight threw his gloves to a footman and strolled across the hallway. Marbeck hung back, taking stock of the place. Music came from nearby, a small consort playing, while laughter and voices drifted from other rooms. Finally, he made his way into a great chamber overlooking the river, where well-dressed men and women were stood or seated in conversation while attentive servants moved about. A curly-haired gallant posed by the doorway, hand on hip to display his gold-embroidered suit: he would do.

  ‘Is there a primero game afoot anywhere, sir?’ Marbeck enquired with a sniff.

  The man turned and took stock of him, taking his time answering. ‘I expect there is, sir … Are you of a mind to play?’

  ‘Perhaps. Would you care to direct me?’

  ‘Up the stairs,’ came the reply. ‘The blue chamber … You’ll find Heywood, among others.’

  ‘I thank you …’ Marbeck made as if to move off. ‘Is there anyone else there I might know?’

  The gallant raised an eyebrow. ‘Since I ken you not, sir, how might I answer that?’ he demanded. ‘But if you’re acquainted with the earl’s rent-collector, will he serve?’

  Marbeck kept his face blank. ‘Do you mean Thomas Percy?’

  The other flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. With a thinly-disguised sneer, he said: ‘As far as I’m aware, His Lordship has only one rent-collector in his family, sir … What did you say your name was?’

  But Marbeck was already out in the hallway, his pulse quickening. The opportunity was too good to miss.

  SIX

  Wearing his most impassive face, Marbeck stared at his cards, holding them in a firm grip.

  He held a fluxus: a deuce, a four, a seven and a knave, all of the same suit. It was worth a bluff, even if he were down to his last few pounds. Most of his money was in the middle of the table, along with that wagered by the other three players. But they were wealthy men who could afford to lose; Marbeck could not. The situation demanded nerve and his blandest expression.

  ‘Well, sirs, will you vie?’

  The speaker was the host of the primero game, a bluff, white-haired man named Heywood. Seated opposite him was a young gentleman who, Marbeck guessed, suspected he was out of luck and would soon withdraw. But it was the fourth man he was interested in, which was why he took care to pay him least attention. For as fate would have it, he found himself facing none other than his new quarry, Thomas Percy.

  Florid and powerfully-built, with a broad beard, Percy was taller than Marbeck expected. After throwing a glance at Heywood, he spoke up. ‘I will vie, if our new friend Master Tucker will dare to lead?’ He looked coldly at Marbeck.

  ‘As you wish, sir,’ Marbeck answered amiably. ‘I hold a supremus: a high three-flush, and an ace from outside. What say you?’

  The other players maintained their impassive looks. A supremus, worth fifty-five points, was the highest hand possible next to primero. If this were a bluff, it would be a bold one. The young gallant on Marbeck’s right blinked.

  ‘A supremus, eh?’ Heywood echoed. ‘Does fortune smile on this man?’ Keeping his own cards low, he looked to the stack of coins by his elbow, took two and placed them on the pile. ‘I’ll add a trifle, just to sweeten the pot,’ he said. ‘Percy?’

  Percy was frowning, and Marbeck sensed his aggression. Not only was this a man who must win at all costs, he decided, he was one of those who liked to grind his opponents down. His eye on Marbeck, he said: ‘Well now, I’ve a mind to test Tucker’s nerve.’ He fingered a small column of gold coins, then pushed it forward. ‘There’s ten pounds … More than I pay my gardeners in a year. Who’ll match it?’

  There was silence as the tension rose. Several other people who had been standing about the blue-painted chamber were moving round to observe the game. Out of the corner of his eye Marbeck saw a woman enter the room, splendidly attired in red and silver, her hair elaborately dressed. Lowering his eyes, he focused on the table and was not surprised when the young man on his right let out a heavy sigh, leaned back and showed his cards. It was a poor hand: three and six of clubs, plus an unrelated four and a queen. Accepting defeat with a wry look, he threw them down.

  ‘Not worth a straw,’ he murmured. ‘I must withdraw from the game.’

  Now three card-players remained. Heywood was concentrating, head down, but Percy fixed Marbeck with another stare, daring him to act. Whereupon Marbeck moved the last of his coins to the stake and said: ‘I can’t meet your ten pounds, sir. Here’s all of my purse … Will you take my bond for the rest?’

  ‘What … do you mean to match me, or outbid me?’ Percy snapped. There was colour in his cheeks, or that part visible above the thick beard. Like the others he had partaken freely of the host’s wine, but it had little to do with his manner. He was kinsman to the earl, whose house this was, and would brook no defeat. And yet, along with hostility, there was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes; Marbeck saw it, if the others did not.

  ‘To outbid you, of course,’ he answered. To Heywood he said: ‘I believe fortune indeed smiles on me, sir. I felt it as soon as I awoke today … I’m a man who trusts his instincts.’

  Heywood grunted; he was looking less then pleased. Finally, aware of the antagonism brewing between Marbeck and Percy, he gave a sigh and turned his own cards about. Marbeck hid his relief, for the man held three hearts including a knave: a numerus, which would have beaten his own hand. Thus far, his bluff held.

  ‘You yield too easily, Richard,’ Heywood said to the young man opposite him. ‘And yet I find myself following suit … Perhaps I grow cautious in my latter years. But I dislike the way this game moves.’ He looked deliberately at Percy, then at Marbeck. ‘I also dislike it when a man claims his purse is empty and speaks of bonds or promissory notes. You’re unknown to me, Master Tucker … hence, what security can you offer, to match Percy’s bid?’

  All eyes were on Marbeck now. Yet, try as he might, he could n
ot fail to be distracted by the woman, who was now moving to stand behind him. Keeping a level tone, he turned slightly to reveal his basket-hilt rapier in its scabbard.

  ‘This is a good sword,’ he said. ‘Well-tempered steel, with a chased silver pommel. I forget what it cost me, but—’

  ‘It’ll serve.’ Percy’s voice was sharp. In a disdainful tone, he added: ‘I’d thought of ordering a new blade myself soon – this will save me the trouble. And I don’t fear your supremus, Tucker, for I hold one of my own. The question now is, whose cards are the higher? Or perhaps I should say, whose nerve is the stronger?’

  They eyed each other, and now the silence was such that music and laughter could be heard from downstairs. Here in the blue chamber, two or three men had moved behind Percy: Marbeck caught their expressions and felt his left hand stray towards his dagger-hilt. He had a fleeting notion, should he win the game, of finding himself followed out into the street … though at least, he thought, he would still have his sword. As for whoever now stood behind him: he heard the faint rustle of silk and caught a whiff of civet perfume.

  Placing his free hand on the table, he said: ‘That is indeed the nub of it, Master Percy. We’ve seen a knave and a queen thus far – where do the other court cards lie, I wonder?’

  They locked eyes; but while Percy was controlling his hostility with an effort, Marbeck felt elation. This stage in a game always excited him: the moment it narrowed to a duel, when nerve and the ability to bluff were the best weapons a man had at his disposal. He bided his time, his gaze flickering to his cards and back. Percy bided his, too … until, at last, a shade of doubt showed. It was gone in a second, but Marbeck saw it and breathed in silent relief; perhaps the man was a blusterer, after all.