Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot

by John Pilkington

  Marbeck said nothing, and Deverell paused, as if aware how bitter he sounded. ‘The Warlake family pretend to be moderates,’ he said, in a more even tone. ‘The sort who attend church when they must and stay out of trouble. Yet my informant tells of a secret chapel, and of a stranger who’s been there for weeks, keeping within the house. The man’s a Jesuit, I’d swear to it. And when we get there I will know – I’ll smell him.’

  He turned away, leaving Marbeck to walk back to Cobb. Soon he was again in the saddle, following the party eastward through the Essex countryside. And less than two hours later, guided by a man who knew the area, they turned from the Romford road into a lane between hedgerows. Here at last Deverell called a halt. Great Willoughby was but a few hundred yards off, he said, surrounded by pasture and woodland. As soon as the house came into view they would divide into two groups and spread out to surround the manor. No one would be permitted to enter, or to leave: not the lowliest servant, and especially no one who claimed to be merely on their way there from somewhere else. Catching Marbeck’s eye, he beckoned him forward.

  ‘Stay alongside me. And sharpen up your Latin, will you? I may need a scholar to decipher papers.’ And a few minutes later they were riding through a gateway into a wide courtyard, with the manor of Great Willoughby towering over them.

  They reined in, conscious of the silence. There was an air of deep tranquillity about the house; smoke rose from chimneys, a solitary horse stood in the paddock, and there were sheep in the fields beyond. But nobody appeared, nor was anyone seen at the windows. After a brief look round, Deverell dismounted and strode towards the imposing entranceway. He tried the doors, rattled them, then turned in triumph.

  ‘They’re barred!’ he called out. ‘It’s a delaying tactic, to allow the black-robed devil to hide himself … Hurry!’

  Two other men had accompanied the spymaster beside Marbeck, the others having dispersed to encircle the manor. Quickly they got down, while Marbeck followed suit, boots crunching on the gravelled forecourt. Deverell was hammering on the doors, which were of oak and very solid indeed. But when the others came up he gestured to them to wait. Stepping back, he raised his head and shouted at the top of his voice.

  ‘Thomas Warlake! I hold a warrant from His Majesty’s Privy Council, to search these premises for seditious persons! Open your doors forthwith, or face summary arrest!’

  The answer was a resounding silence. Marbeck glanced about, as did the other pursuivants. He thought he could hear noises from within, but they were faint. Despite his dislike for Deverell, however, he knew the man was right. The priest, assuming there was one, was getting himself into a well-prepared hiding-hole, having also concealed his vestments, portable altar and other trappings. Meanwhile, the family and their servants would be scouring the house for any tell-tale sign of their guest’s presence …

  ‘Break in!’

  Deverell’s voice cut through his thoughts like a whip-crack. While his men went to unpack their tools, he turned to Marbeck and said: ‘I look to you – to those keen eyes of yours that Monk always crows about – to spot anything amiss. A servant who looks more nervous than he should be, a fire that’s been doused in haste, a floorboard that sits oddly – anything at all. We’ll search the ground floor first, while others guard doors and windows … Do I need to add anything?’

  With a shake of his head, Marbeck looked away and focused on the doors. There were marks, he saw, that spoke of a previous attempt to force entry. He was musing on this when there came a sound that made both he and Deverell start: that of a heavy bolt being drawn. The other pursuivants, carrying a crowbar and a sledgehammer, stopped in their tracks. The next moment one door swung inwards to reveal a small woman, middle-aged and soberly dressed, standing on the threshold. Placing her hands demurely before her, she gazed at Deverell with apparent calm.

  ‘You pardon, sir … I was upstairs and have only just come into the hall. I walk slowly … An old ailment. The servants have orders not to open to strangers without my leave …’ She looked at the men with the tools and raised her brows. ‘By all that’s holy: surely you didn’t intend to break down my doors—?’

  ‘You’re Mildred Warlake?’ Deverell broke in. The lady indicated that she was, whereupon, containing his anger, he mounted the lower step. She, however, did not flinch.

  ‘I’ve no time for tales,’ he snapped. ‘Where’s your husband?’

  ‘Thomas is away,’ came the reply. ‘He has other estates to manage. If you’d made enquiry in advance, I could have saved you a wasted journey.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, madam, it will not be wasted.’ Even on a lower step, Deverell loomed above her. ‘I ask you to stand aside and let my men do their work. And in case you didn’t hear me earlier: I have a warrant to search the house, for as long as it takes. While we proceed, no one may enter, and none may leave: not you, your family, servants – not even a dog.’ With a grim smile, he added: ‘Call it a whim, but I’ve seen hounds used to carry messages. By the way, I hope you are well provisioned: I’ve known some searches take weeks. Do you have questions?’

  But Mildred Warlake made no answer. Impassive and dignified, she refused to be cowed. And if she were afraid – as well she might be, since the penalty for harbouring a Jesuit was most severe – she gave no sign of it. Instead, she turned round and walked into the house, leaving the door ajar.

  As she went she glanced from Deverell to Marbeck, who caught her eye for a second. In that instant he marked her courage, along with a faith that sat deeper than any man could dislodge, and could not help admiring her for it.

  But it was of no use. Forcing his feelings aside, he followed Deverell into Great Willoughby, to share in the grim task of tearing the huge house apart from attic to cellar.

  EIGHT

  The search had lasted for three days, and by the end of the third one, Deverell and his company were still no nearer to finding the mysterious priest.

  Patience had worn thin, on both sides. Walls had been broken through, floorboards lifted, closets turned out. Brickwork had been prodded, timbers sounded and masonry dislodged, all to no avail. Even though the tiny, private chapel had long been discovered, and found empty, some of the searchers had begun to wonder whether there had been a priest here at all. Meanwhile, somewhat bizarrely, the business of the household went on around them as if everything was normal. Servants came and went, eyes lowered, while Deverell’s men tore away finely-carved panelling, smashed chimney-pieces and regarded everyone with suspicion. Mess and disorder were everywhere, but no one was permitted to clear up. Through it all, Mildred Warlake spent most of the time in her chamber, once it too had been thoroughly searched. The only revelation had come on the second day, when an old hiding-place was discovered behind a false wall in the main downstairs chamber. But the tiny alcove, barely high enough for a man to stand in, contained nothing but a thick layer of dust.

  Finally, seething with frustration, Deverell ordered Mistress Warlake to be brought to him in the same room. Outside dusk was falling, and candles had been lit. The lady arrived, accompanied by an elderly woman-in-waiting. They found the master of the search on his feet, pacing restlessly. Men stood about, while others were still at work, knocking and hammering. Marbeck, tired of the whole affair, leaned against a wall and watched as Mildred Warlake entered, composed and silent. When Deverell gestured to a chair, she ignored him.

  ‘There’s a simple way for this to end, madam – as you know perfectly well,’ he said finally. ‘Accept defeat with grace, tell us where the priest is hiding, and I’ll speak in mitigation at your husband’s trial. Meanwhile, your household may put the manor back in order. Hasn’t there been enough disarray?’

  The doughty little woman eyed him, with something akin to scorn. ‘You dare speak to me of grace, sir?’ she replied. ‘I need no sermon from a man like you. Do your worst – take a month or more, if you will. We’ll celebrate Christmas at Great Willoughby as we always have. I’ve told you, many times now, that no
seditious person is concealed here, yet you choose to disbelieve me. As for my husband, he will return soon, and he’ll be most displeased. He’s not without influence. You may need to look to your own future—’

  ‘Enough!’ His temper frayed, Deverell frowned at her. ‘My future’s not your concern. You’d best look to your own, once we find the whoreson Jesuit who’s hiding somewhere within these walls – for make no mistake, find him we will! In fact, I’ve barely started – there’s still the roof space to open. Let’s hope it doesn’t rain, shall we?’

  The lady of the house, however, kept her composure. The woman-in-waiting, made of weaker stuff, flinched; the search had taken its toll, and she looked close to tears. Marbeck pitied her, as his admiration for her mistress merely grew. If there were some way to bring this sorry business to an end, he heartily wished he could discover it.

  There was a crash from the room directly above that made even Mildred Warlake start. Eyes strayed to the ceiling as dust floated gently down. The men listened, but no shout of discovery followed. Soon knocking resumed, while below the tension remained.

  ‘Come … this is foolishness!’ With an effort, Deverell took a step towards the lady. ‘I know without a doubt what your religion is, madam, as does everyone else here. I also know you act out of loyalty to your husband – I might even commend you for it. But you must know there can be only one outcome: sooner or later, the fugitive must emerge. I could leave men here for months, if need be, until the priest is starved out or loses his mind. How long can he thrive, in whatever hole he cowers? If you care not for yourself, then think of him.’

  But even this tactic, Marbeck knew, was fruitless. He watched as Mildred Warlake drew herself up and met Deverell’s eye. ‘Do your worst, sir,’ she repeated, ‘and may God have mercy on you. Now, if you’ve no further need of me?’ With that she turned and stalked out of the room, her woman-servant following. In the passage outside voices were heard, but quickly stifled.

  A silence ensued, until Deverell let fly an oath, span on his heel and walked across the room, to the huge fireplace with its carved pilasters. Without troubling to hide his weariness, he leaned on the stonework and let out a long breath.

  ‘Can’t we stop work for today, sir?’ One of his pursuivants spoke up. ‘The men are all spent. Yet supper and a mug of beer, followed by a night’s rest, may do wonders … What say you?’

  ‘Yes … yes, very well.’ His commander turned to him. ‘We’ll recommence tomorrow. But let no man mistake: I’m not done. There are corners we haven’t prodded, and I mean to sound every one of them.’ He looked at Marbeck. ‘Have the stables and outbuildings been searched?’

  Blank-faced, Marbeck gave a nod. ‘The woods too, as well as the nearby farm … There’s nothing untoward.’

  A moment passed until, at a nod from Deverell, the other men began to leave, their relief plain to see. When only he and Marbeck remained, the Crown’s eager priest-hunter moved to a chair and sank down. ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ he muttered. ‘Go, eat and drink with the others … bed a wench, for all I care. One of the maids looks willing enough.’

  ‘Have you given thought to the fact that, when all’s said and done, you could be wrong?’ Marbeck asked, after a moment. ‘That the priest – assuming he was here – got clear before we arrived? The barred doors, the attempts to delay us … they could have been merely a cover, to let the man get further away—’

  ‘Of course I’ve thought of it!’ Bleary-eyed, Deverell glared at him. ‘I know every trick they use – and besides, I told you I can smell them. Who do you think it was, who found two of the devils crouched in a hole in Berkshire last summer? They’d lived like rats for almost a fortnight, breaking a loaf into scraps, sharing water to the last drop. One even drank his own piss – they couldn’t walk when we dragged them out. Yet they gave thanks on their knees … Martyrdom lay ahead, and they rejoiced!’ Lowering his gaze, he lapsed into silence.

  Marbeck said nothing, but let his eyes stray to the gaping hole beside the chimney, where the hiding-place had been found the previous day. How any man could spend days, let alone weeks, confined in a dark, airless space like that stretched his imagination to its limit. And yet in France, in the Jesuit schools, he had seen the rapture that drove men to endure, to spare no effort in spreading their mission throughout the world.

  ‘You should sleep,’ he said finally, setting his dislike of Deverell aside. For there was no denying that this man’s faith, misguided or not, was real too. There were some crueller than he, who seized the chance to torture Papists. Deverell was a hard man, but he took his satisfaction from the pursuit and discovery of outlawed priests. Like Marbeck, Monk and all of those who made up the Lord Secretary’s intelligence service, he would serve the Crown unto his own death.

  ‘I will.’ Too tired to argue, Deverell was looking at him. ‘And you? There’s a fire in the chamber overlooking the paddock. Most of the men will bed down there again.’

  ‘I think I’ll sleep here tonight,’ Marbeck said, on impulse. ‘I prefer a cold room … and my own company.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The other stood up, stretched his limbs and went out. Upstairs, the noise of searching had at last ceased, and for the first time that day a kind of peace reigned at Great Willoughby. Marbeck looked absently at a pile of stone flags that had been lifted from a section of the floor – pointlessly, as he’d suspected from the outset. Then he too went to supper, with the gloomy prospect of another day’s search ahead.

  But that night, everything changed, and it was Marbeck’s decision to sleep in a room that had already been searched that brought it about.

  He woke, as he often did, just before dawn. His bed was hard, and there was a smell of plaster dust … then he remembered where he was: on the floor, with his folded doublet beneath him and his cloak for a coverlet. Raising his head stiffly he peered round, making out the contours of the large room with difficulty. The house was quiet, occupants and occupiers alike sleeping. With a yawn, he lay down again … then froze.

  It was barely audible: a scuffle or a scratch that could have been made by a small animal, or even a mote of falling masonry. He listened intently, but no other sound followed. Feeling another yawn coming on, he was on the point of dismissing it – then the next moment he sat up, fumbling for his poniard.

  Unlikely as it seemed, the noise had come from near the chimney: from the old hiding-hole that had already been exposed. On his feet at once, Marbeck padded silently across the floor in his hose and peered inside. There was no tell-tale chink of light, nor any further sound. And yet he waited, for at least a minute, his ear turned to the fireplace … until, at last, his suspicions proved correct. His pulse rising, he leaned forward, poking his head into the dark alcove until he heard a faint rustling – and now he was certain: there was a second hiding-space beyond it.

  Drawing back, he collected his thoughts quickly. He was loath to leave the room, for there could be an escape route somewhere that was yet to be discovered. The second hiding-hole, he guessed, bent round behind the fireplace. No fire had been lit here for days: the searchers had observed that from the start. Once the first hole had been found, however, they’d lost interest and moved elsewhere. Marbeck needed to get Deverell here … but first he needed light.

  Moving carefully about the room, he found a candle in a holder and got out his tinderbox. Carrying the light, he returned to the hiding-place and stepped inside it. He raised the holder, and at once the flame wavered. Holding up his palm, he felt for the tiny draught: as he’d suspected it came not from the chimney-stack, but from the rear of the hole. Putting his ear to the wall he listened – and caught his breath.

  On the other side of it, someone was praying.

  Breathing slowly, Marbeck stepped away from the alcove. Setting the candle on a side table, he moved to the doorway and out to the hall. One of the pursuivants, supposed to guard the front entrance, was asleep on a bench. But when Marbeck shook him roughly, he awoke with a cry.
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  ‘Rouse Deverell. Get everyone up – bring lights to the main chamber, and quickly.’

  The man scrambled to his feet and stumbled towards the stairs, rubbing his eyes. Marbeck returned to the room and hunted for more candles. By the time Deverell appeared, tousle-haired and clad only in shirt and breeches, the place was lit well enough. Other men followed him in, while footsteps thudded overhead and on the staircase.

  ‘Behind the hole,’ Marbeck said, pointing. ‘There’s another chamber – dust was laid in the first one to trick us.’

  Without hesitation Deverell strode to the chimney wall, calling over his shoulder for men to bring hammers and pickaxes. Marbeck took a light and followed him. Soon both of them were peering into the space, scanning the brickwork beyond … whereupon Deverell gave a cry of triumph.

  ‘There – it’s a feeding tube! Do you see?’

  Marbeck stared and saw what looked like a quill, protruding barely an inch from the masonry. It was narrow, but not so narrow that liquids couldn’t be poured through it into the space behind. There were no other tell-tale signs, nor was there any discernible chink in the wall, but all was becoming clear.

  His face aglow in the candlelight, Deverell turned to him. ‘I should have known. I’ve seen it before, in Warwickshire … The first hole’s a decoy. He’s been there all along. He could have heard every word we’ve said in here and laughed at us!’

  ‘What of the space on the other side of the chimney-wall?’ Marbeck wondered. ‘There must be another way out … The kitchen’s beyond there, isn’t it?’

  ‘No matter.’ In some triumph, Deverell smiled. ‘I’ll set men all round, while we break in from this side. Indeed, it may not even be necessary …’ With a sudden movement, he banged on the wall with his closed fist and shouted into the gloom. ‘You are discovered, priest! We’re about to break in, so why not reveal yourself? Are you mortared up in there? Either way, it’s all over … Best stand clear of the wall, if you have the room!’