Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot

by John Pilkington

  With a last look at the Scotsman he turned and strode away, following the broadside seller back towards Fleet Street.

  The afternoon was waning when he finally returned to the bowling-house. Skinner was nowhere about, so he ascended to his room and, with some relief, found that Curzon, too, was absent. Having checked that his winnings from the primero game were safe under a floorboard, he took some of the money for his purse and set about peeling off his damp clothes. A short while later, dry and newly attired, he was ready to go to supper … but suddenly checked himself as other events flooded back.

  Heavily, he sat down on his bed and faced the truth: that Meriel was lost to him, and her child too; so was his informant … All at once, he realized just how alone he was. Moreover, he seemed reduced to wandering about London like an idler – or a fugitive, as Charlotte had described him. It struck him then that even a year ago he wouldn’t have lost a man like Ferdinand Gower so easily – nor let himself be dogged through the streets by a poor Scotsman named Blue Donal. He recalled him vaguely: a nervous scarecrow of a man, sometimes seen at the cockpit – and the sort who, as Charlotte had also put it, could easily be bought.

  And once again, Marbeck found himself underused, as he had been ever since the Lord Secretary had started to distance himself from the day-to-day work of his intelligencers. Now, fraught with difficulties as it was, the thought of quitting Cecil’s service resurfaced with a vengeance. Had he simply lost heart? he wondered. After all, what was there to keep him in London – to keep him in England?

  Restlessly, he stood up and paced the big empty room, boards creaking beneath his feet. Perhaps the doomsayers were right: the eclipses of sun and moon were portents. It had been a bad time for Marbeck, ever since he’d lost his wager at the cockpit. And despite beating Percy at cards, his actions since now looked like wasted time … Whereupon, at last, an image arose that he had done his best to push aside: the anguished face of Father Cornford, telling him of a disaster that was somehow imminent.

  That, he realized, still troubled him: not merely Deverell’s refusal to take the threat seriously, but the fact that Marbeck had failed to act on it. Then, all at once, a thought flew up that almost made him stagger. Frowning, he moved to the bed and sank down again. What if …?

  No … it was ridiculous.

  He gazed at the stale rushes on the floor, at Curzon’s unmade pallet by the wall, then down at his shoes. The matter had irked him for days, he realized: like a toothache that wells up now and then, to remind the sufferer it needs attention. He thought again of Cornford’s desperate testimony, of Deverell’s scorn, and of MacNeish’s dour face as he spoke of something stirring … in that matter, at least, he believed the man had spoken the truth. Then he thought of Percy, gazing at him over the rim of his goblet at Essex House. And at last he thought of John Cutler, babbling about his bees and the carts he’d seen: carts containing not barrels of ale, but gunpowder, taken to Catesby’s house in Lambeth … which lay across the river from Westminster, within a few minutes’ boat journey of Whitehall Palace.

  Still he gazed down, forcing himself to countenance it. Wild thoughts sprang up of hurrying to Deverell and airing his suspicions – whereupon the man’s face arose, filled with contempt. He could guess what the reaction would be. Well, then – he could go to Salisbury House and demand to see Monk, or even the Lord Secretary himself. If his fears proved groundless, he would at least have done right – Cecil would know that, whether others did or not.

  On his feet again, he took up his sword and buckled it on. This could be his last act as a Crown intelligencer, he thought – in which case, whatever the outcome, he would do his utmost. Quickly, he went to take down his spare cloak – only to spin round as the door burst open and Curzon strode in.

  ‘My dear fellow – you’re here at last!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve been at a loss without you …’ A sly grin appeared. ‘Were you planning to go out to supper? I’d be honoured to join you. As you know, I’m somewhat short of funds, however—’

  ‘Your pardon, Matthew,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘But I’m busy.’

  His friend’s face fell. ‘Ah … an awkward time, is it?’

  ‘I fear so. But here …’ Unlacing his purse, he found a half angel and threw it. ‘Go and dine, with my blessing.’

  Curzon’s hand shot out, but he missed the coin. Bending to retrieve it, he muttered his thanks … then straightened up with a look of surprise; Marbeck was already gone.

  It was almost dark, but mercifully the rain had ceased. Walking briskly through wet streets, he arrived at Paul’s Stairs and found a boatman lighting his lantern. When Marbeck clambered aboard, rocking his skiff, the fellow looked round sharply. ‘Steady, sir … Seat yourself. Where can I take you?’

  Marbeck was about to name Salisbury House, but hesitated. Arriving unannounced at this hour, he realized, could be unwise … Monk might not even be there. And no matter how urgent his business, there was no certainty Lord Cecil would see him; the man would be surrounded, as always, by important people. Thinking fast, he looked out across the rain-swollen Thames, at the bobbing lights of small craft, and made a decision.

  ‘Take me across to Lambeth – to Stangate Stairs.’

  The current was strong, and the crossing took longer than he liked. But night had come, which was to his advantage. At the stairs he paid off the waterman and walked southwards along the path, hurrying past the well-lit entrance to Lambeth Palace. A few minutes more, and he was drawing near to the Vaux Manor again, slowing his pace. The big house was in darkness; he saw the outline of the wall where, six nights ago, he’d forced a terrified carter to tell him of the barrels stored in the cellar. Now, his mouth tight, he saw only one course of action: he would have to break in and see for himself.

  He looked around swiftly: the path was deserted, while across the Thames the lights of Whitehall showed. Keeping low, he hurried forward and rounded the wall. There was no one about … He peered up at the house, but not a window was lit. Moving silently, he found the gate and climbed over it. He was in a stable-yard, where he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. But there was still no sound: he saw a dog-kennel, yet no animal was tethered. So he moved to the main building and stopped at a rear door. Putting an ear to it, he listened, then tried it and found it locked. Finally, he knocked, darted back into shadows and waited. He waited a minute, and another, before he was satisfied: for some reason, the manor appeared to be unoccupied.

  At the rear door again he hesitated; was there not even a servant within? But since events seemed to be on his side now, he pushed the thought away: breaking in had suddenly become a lot easier. Leaving the door, he worked his way round the walls and found a suitable window. Thereafter, with his bodkin and poniard, it was short work to force the casement open. A minute later he was inside the manor, moving cautiously through dusty rooms. By the time he’d found his way to the kitchens, and thence to a cellar door, all was clear: the house was deserted.

  The cellar door was bolted, but the bolt was well-oiled, Marbeck found. Easing it aside, he fumbled for his tinderbox and lit a flame. By its faint light he descended the stairway into a low space that reeked of wine, smoked meat and onions. Whereupon one look round was enough: there were only two small kegs in the room, which, when their lids were lifted, proved to contain rancid bacon.

  He searched, poking into every corner, but his first deduction was correct: there was no sign of the barrels he’d seen brought by night from Godstone. Peering at the floor, however, he found marks of recent activity. The barrels were here and had been moved, he was certain … and where else to, but across the river?

  He left the cellar, bolted the door and extinguished his flame. Having left the house by the means he’d entered, he crossed the yard and climbed the gate, to stand once more on the riverbank. Here he drew deeply of the cold air and faced the appalling truth. For, why else would Catesby bring the gunpowder here – and why would he abandon his rented house, unless the stuff had now
reached its intended destination?

  Desperate – nay, preposterous as it was, Marbeck let the scheme unfold before him, in all its fearful dimensions. Angry Catholics like Catesby, with wealth and means; the cover story about gathering horses and armaments for the Flanders regiment; the secrecy, and the hostility displayed by Richard Evelyn at the powder mills; Cornford’s anguished testimony of the tale given him under confession; the rumour of a kidnapping of one of the royal children, perhaps by Thomas Percy – another Papist. Something was indeed stirring: rebellion. An heir to the throne taken hostage, perhaps, while well-laid plans were put in place for a new government. Which meant, of course, that the old one was first disabled, or even destroyed …

  Only then did he recall Monk’s words of more than a week ago: of two thousand men standing ready in the north.

  But it was another of the man’s phrases that sent him hurrying back along the riverside path towards the jetty. Parliament prorogued … The opening to take place on the fifth of November, a Tuesday …

  The Tuesday in question, Marbeck realized, was but five days away. Today was Thursday, the last day of October: the night of Halloween.

  FOURTEEN

  It took him almost an hour to hail a boat, and by the end of it he was as tense as a bowstring. The night had deepened and lights were few along the river, but at last a waterman answered his call and rowed to the landing. Concealing his agitation, Marbeck told the man to drop him at Parliament Stairs and wait there. Soon afterwards, splashing through puddles, he was making his way across the Old Palace Yard, only to be confronted by a burly sentry with a halberd. Realizing some serious bluffing was required, he assumed his most authoritative manner.

  ‘I seek the house of Thomas Percy,’ he snapped. ‘I understand it’s hereabouts – he’s a Gentleman Pensioner.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’ The guard peered at him. ‘Yet he’s absent … Who are you, and what’s your business?’

  ‘John Sands, servant to the Lord Secretary. I’ve orders to go to Percy’s dwelling … There’s a message.’ Marbeck tapped his pocket briskly.

  ‘Very well, but I’ve told you he’s not here,’ the other said. ‘You may look for yourself … The door’s over there, close by the Lords’ Chamber. In any case, the place isn’t Percy’s: it belongs to Whynniard, Keeper of the Old Palace … He rents it.’

  With a word of thanks Marbeck moved off, but paused when the other called after him. ‘Have a care, sir … If his servant’s within, he may take you for an intruder.’

  He raised a hand casually, then walked the short distance to the door, taking care not to hurry. Above him, the great stone bulk of the Lords’ Chamber rose against the sky: the hall where the state opening of parliament would soon take place. But here in the yard there was an untidy huddle of smaller buildings: storehouses and lodgings for officials and servants, some of them little more than huts. At the low doorway he stopped and knocked loudly, then knocked again; there was no answer. He knocked a third time, and still there was nothing … whereupon he realized his hand was on his sword.

  Someone was there: he was sure of it. His old instincts, his nose for danger, hadn’t deserted him. There was neither light nor sound from within, yet he knew. Glancing round to see that no one was about, he lifted the latch and, as he expected, the door didn’t yield. There was one window, firmly shuttered. Glancing up he saw another, but climbing was out of the question; guards patrolled the Palace and its environs at all hours. His spirits flagging, he was considering his next step when the door opened.

  In the gloom stood a tall figure, surveying Marbeck in silence. The man carried no lantern, and though there was a dim light from within the dwelling, his face was in shadow. Marbeck glimpsed the outline of a heavy beard and felt a pair of sharp eyes upon him. Drawing a quick breath, he spoke up. ‘I give you good evening … Are you servant to Master Percy?’

  ‘I am, sir,’ came the reply. ‘He’s away just now and unlikely to return soon … May I know your business?’

  His accent surprised Marbeck: as a northerner himself by birth, he recognized the Yorkshire brogue. ‘My name’s Sands, servant to the Earl of Salisbury,’ he answered. ‘May I come in?’

  A pause, then: ‘Do you need to do so, sir? If there’s a message I may take it and give it my master when he returns.’

  ‘Why – is there some reason you don’t wish me to enter?’

  ‘No … none at all.’

  And yet the occupant of the house stood his ground. Marbeck gained an impression of a powerfully-built man, one who was not easily cowed; for a servant, his manner was odd. Then, glancing aside, he caught sight of something else. ‘Are you aware that you break the law, wearing that?’ he asked gently.

  ‘You mean my sword? I wear it to guard my master’s house. Thieves may come … and others, perhaps, with yet darker motives.’

  A moment passed … and now Marbeck felt the other’s will, bent forcefully against his. A lesser man might have stepped back … whereupon realization dawned. ‘Well now, where did you soldier?’ he asked, forcing a casual tone. ‘Ireland, the Low Countries – or was it further afield?’

  ‘I served God and my sovereign in Flanders, sir.’

  The tone was friendly, but false: Marbeck sensed danger and remained on his guard. ‘Indeed?’ he answered. ‘Who was your commander? It’s possible I may know him.’

  This time there was no reply – but something fell into place. The man had been a soldier, that much was obvious; what few would have suspected was that he’d fought not for his own country, but against it. Catholic gentlemen, as a rule, kept Catholic servants; this man was a Papist like his master, Marbeck guessed … and just now, he was assessing how to deal with an intruder who wouldn’t go away.

  At last, the man spoke up. ‘My commander is dead, sir, and it unsettles me to speak of him. But I’m remiss … Won’t you come in and warm yourself before you go? It’s mighty cold out … and you may give me your message.’

  He stepped aside, yet for Marbeck his change of manner made no difference. Ready for whatever might come, he walked past the servant into the dwelling. But once inside, doubts arose: the place was tiny.

  There were just two floors; the one above was a box-like sleeping chamber, while the one below, though comfortably furnished, was devoid of anything that resembled a barrel. Nor was there any other door save the one by which he’d entered. Standing in the middle of the stuffy room, which was lit by a very small fire, he glanced at the shuttered windows that defined three sides, then at the other wall. There was no need to wonder what lay beyond that: the Lords’ Chamber itself. Finally, he turned to Percy’s servant and found the man smiling broadly at him.

  ‘It’s like a rabbit-hutch, sir, is it not?’ he said. ‘Then, ’tis but a place to sleep. My master must stay close to the Palace and his duties. His proper residence is by Holborn.’

  ‘Of course.’ Marbeck managed an air of unconcern. ‘And I won’t detain you longer …’ He paused. ‘What’s your name, pray?’

  ‘It’s Johnson, sir – John Johnson.’ The other raised his brows. ‘Now, you spoke of a message?’

  ‘Ah yes …’ Marbeck appeared to recall it. ‘My Lord Secretary asks your master to attend him before the opening of Parliament. He has a matter to discuss … What it is, I’m not privy to.’

  ‘Very well.’ John Johnson kept his smile, but there was a smirk beneath it: not only did he not believe a word Marbeck had said, it seemed to say, but he also cared not a jot that Marbeck knew it.

  So he took his leave, allowing this stolid Yorkshireman to close the door behind him. He looked back once, at the poky little dwelling crouching beside the Lords’ house. Then, with a sigh, he walked back to the riverside.

  But the night of Halloween wasn’t done with him yet.

  Finding his boat waiting as ordered, he had the waterman row him downriver to Paul’s Stairs, from where he walked back to St Martins. He’d drawn a blank, both at the Vaux Manor and at Percy’s
lodging, yet still the notion wouldn’t go away: somewhere, he knew, there was a large quantity of gunpowder hidden, intended for a sinister purpose. And though all Marbeck had was a jumble of half-truths and suspicions, he believed that the danger was real. Just five days hence, the King and his Privy Council, together with the Queen and perhaps the young Prince Henry, a dozen bishops, forty lords, courtiers and a host of lesser individuals, would all be gathered in one place. What better opportunity could arise to wipe out the Protestant rule of James Stuart at one terrible stroke?

  He walked faster, by Knightrider Street and Old Change, head down. Soon he was in Martins Lane, close to his lodging, where he slowed and finally stopped. He’d puzzled over the matter long enough, he realized: he must go at once to Salisbury House. Since the city gates were shut, he would return to the river and get a boat.

  At the door to Skinner’s he halted, on the point of turning about … when something stopped him. He listened, glancing about sharply, but saw no one. Yet the feeling was there, once again – the sense that he was observed. At once MacNeish’s words sprang to mind: his admission that the slippery Blue Donal had been following Marbeck. Surely, he reasoned, by now the man would know that matters had changed? Or, perhaps he didn’t …

  He looked up at the tumbledown bowling-house. All seemed quiet, with a feeble light showing through the dirty window. Why, then, this strong sense of foreboding? He looked round again, saw the street was empty. Likely, Curzon was still out, making the most of the half-angel Marbeck had given him. Finally, he opened the door and went in, finding the downstairs room deserted. There was a guttering candle on the table, but no sign of the landlord, which was unusual at this hour …

  ‘Skinner!’ His voice rang to the ceiling. ‘Are you here?’

  No answer came, so Marbeck crossed to the stairs. Hearing nothing from the floor above, he turned impatiently and retraced his steps. He was almost at the door when he heard a faint sound from behind – and ducked instinctively, whereupon something knocked his hat off. He whirled round and saw them: three men, their faces covered with black scarves, bearing down on him.