Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot

by John Pilkington

  ‘As they’ve always been,’ Marbeck put in. ‘Think of the conspiracies of the last twenty years. Babbington, Essex … just two of those who paid with their lives. And those more recent … Raleigh languishes in the Tower still, half-mad with protesting his innocence.’

  ‘I know …’ Deverell sighed. ‘Well then: shall we wait for dawn, then go to Salisbury House?’

  ‘Can you delay until later in the morning?’ Marbeck asked suddenly. And when the other showed surprise, he added: ‘Of course we’ll attend Cecil. But if you’ll give me an hour or two, I’ve a mind to go elsewhere first.’

  Deverell gave a start. ‘You can’t mean to talk to that whoreson priest again?’ he demanded. ‘What’s the use? I’ll admit he as good as told you he knew about this plot, given under the confessional. But what could he add now that we don’t already know?’

  ‘I’m not sure he can add anything,’ Marbeck replied; then he frowned. ‘And I doubt hard questioning would work, even if you had time to put him to it.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to suggest it,’ the other muttered. ‘His kind seem to think pain is their friend … that it brings them closer to paradise.’

  ‘I still think it worth an attempt,’ Marbeck persisted. ‘If I learn nothing, we’ve lost nothing. You could wait here, and I’ll return by eleven of the clock …’

  ‘No.’ Deverell shook his head firmly. ‘I follow your reasoning, but I won’t delay – the matter eats at me like a canker. I’ll go to Cecil, make full report and tell him you’ll attend him later to confirm what I’ve said.’

  ‘Very well.’ Marbeck let out a breath. ‘I was about to add that we should try and get some rest, but …’

  Deverell threw him a withering look.

  So at last, after the most troubled night he could remember in years, Marbeck left the inn in the grey light of early morning and walked to the Ivy Stairs. Hailing the first boatman to appear, he ordered the man to take him across the river and down to St Mary Overies. From here it was a short walk to the Clink prison, where he presented himself to the gatekeeper. Without ceremony, he pressed a half-angel into the man’s hand.

  ‘I’m one of faith, who wishes to see Father Cornford,’ he said, sounding as nervous as he could. ‘I believe he’ll hear my confession … as I believe you’re a merciful man, master. There would be further garnish when I leave … An hour would serve me.’

  The warder looked him up and down, even as he pocketed the coin. As hard-faced turnkeys went, this one was a cut above most. But it was well-known that, for a fee, anything was available at the Clink; bribes were customary, even demanded. ‘Might I know your name, master?’ he asked. ‘If another takes my place he should know, so he may let you out.’ A sly smile appeared. ‘We wouldn’t want you to be detained in error.’

  ‘It’s Tucker,’ Marbeck said. ‘Lawrence Tucker.’

  A shout startled him. He looked round and saw the barred grating at street level, through which several dirty hands stretched towards him. At once a chorus of pleading arose, the wretched inmates begging for alms and food: anything that might bring fleeting relief to their misery. Steeling himself, he waited for the turnkey to unlock the outer door, then passed through … and soon gagged at the stench that assailed him.

  For, like most of London’s gaols, the Clink was a hell-hole. Marbeck hadn’t had reason to visit the place in years, and even he was taken aback by the conditions. Having passed through another door, where a second warder eyed him expectantly before pocketing his own fee, he found himself in the main chamber, crowded with prisoners of both sexes. It was filthy, with rank straw underfoot. All the inmates were ragged and dirty, some half-naked for want of basic attire. At once he was surrounded, men shouting in his face; soon he had no choice but to draw his poniard and drive them away. Yet women still clung to him, pawing at his good clothes, offering him any favour he chose. Other prisoners were sitting or lying against the walls, many of them sick. Finally, overwhelmed by the sea of human wretchedness, he took one woman’s arm and drew her aside.

  ‘I seek Father Cornford,’ he said, raising his voice above the din. ‘Here’s a penny for you …’

  But no sooner had he produced the coin than the pathetic creature grabbed it and tore herself free, letting out a shout of laughter. Gritting his teeth, he looked about and settled on a barefoot man, as thin as a rake, who stood grinning at him.

  ‘The priests … Where are they held?’ Marbeck demanded. ‘There’s a penny if you tell me.’

  ‘Priests?’ The man’s grin vanished. ‘What have you brought – money, food?’ At once he too was pawing at Marbeck’s clothing, obliging him to seize the fellow and hold him at arm’s length.

  ‘The Jesuit priests,’ he began … but there was a squeal of hinges behind him. Looking round, he saw a door open and yet another turnkey appear.

  ‘Come through, sir,’ the man said, assessing Marbeck’s status at a glance. ‘If you can pay the entrance fee, I’ll convey you.’ Then, his manner altered in a trice, he turned on the skinny inmate and dealt him a blow with his open hand, sending the fellow reeling away.

  Somewhat breathless, Marbeck stepped through the door and heard it shut. He was in a vaulted passageway lit by tallow lamps, one of the oldest parts of the building. The stench was as bad, though the noise had diminished somewhat. He saw dark archways and more doors, then stiffened as the turnkey laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Shall we say a shilling, sir?’

  Having found the coin, Marbeck held it out. ‘I seek Father Cornford,’ he began, but the other was already nodding.

  ‘I know why you’ve come, though I’ve not seen you before.’ He surveyed the newcomer briefly, then: ‘They lodge together … pass freely between each other’s cells. Go and conduct your business, then ask for me – Plainstaff. I’ll have another shilling to take you back.’

  ‘How many are here?’ Marbeck asked.

  ‘Priests?’ The man shrugged. ‘I haven’t counted … Are we done?’

  So Marbeck paid him and was let through a third door, the din of the main prison lessening at last. Here the change was marked: there was a sense of calm and some attempt at cleanliness. And two further things struck him: one was a low murmur of voices, exclusively male; the other was the smell of incense. Left to his own devices, he walked down the passage to where several barred doors stood open and was confronted by a cassocked figure emerging from one of them, who stopped in surprise.

  ‘Your pardon, sir …’ The elderly man who faced him was no Jesuit but a Marian priest, one of a rare breed who were now being replenished by the secret infiltrators from the Continent. Eyeing Marbeck, he asked: ‘You … Are you one of the true faith?’

  ‘I’m looking for Father Cornford. Is he nearby?’

  ‘Ah … I see.’ The other nodded towards one of the open cell doors. ‘I’m Father Ambrose – you’ve no message for me, then?’

  ‘I regret not.’

  The priest gave a thin smile and moved off. Subdued, Marbeck walked past one cell, where another priest knelt with bowed head, and approached the one Father Ambrose had indicated. As he did so he slowed, unsure what to expect. At the doorway he stopped abruptly as a black-robed figure appeared to block his way: he had forgotten how tall Father Cornford was.

  ‘Why … Master Tucker, is it?’ The man stared at him. ‘Of all those I might have hoped to see, you must be the last.’

  Marbeck looked and was relieved: Cornford had not been tortured as he’d feared. In fact, he appeared to be in remarkably good spirits. The tiny cell held only a stool and a narrow cot, but it was clean; to his surprise, on one wall hung a crucifix.

  ‘It took me aback too, at first,’ the priest said; he was even smiling. ‘The degree of freedom I and my fellows are allowed, I mean. Yet others were here before, who have made great strides – and we have many good friends on the outside.’ He stood back, motioning Marbeck to enter. ‘Though I find it hard to believe you’re one of them.’

&nb
sp; ‘I admit that I’m not, father.’ Marbeck stepped into the cell. ‘Though I’ve come seeking your help, in one way.’ He kept his eyes on the priest. ‘Do you recall our last conversation, in a cellar at Great Willoughby …’

  At that, Cornford’s face clouded. ‘How can I not? I pray hourly, yet …’ He gave a start. ‘Has something happened? Please tell me – we’re late with receiving news in here.’

  ‘It’s not what you might think,’ Marbeck replied. ‘But there’s danger yet.’

  A moment passed, in which the priest seemed to be judging him. After a while he relaxed slightly, though there was a sadness upon him now. Finally, he said: ‘If you’ve come to ask me to break the seal of confession, you’ve had a wasted visit. You know I cannot.’

  ‘I do know – but it may not be necessary. Will you not help me to help others, and perhaps save lives?’

  Cornford stared … then something surged up, altering the man’s whole demeanour. Hope radiated from him, and involuntarily he lifted a hand, almost in benediction. ‘Speak, then. Say what you’ve come here to say … I pray you!’

  And within a short time the prisoner’s hopes were indeed realized, in part at least, as the terrible burden he carried was lightened somewhat. A planned assassination of King James was about to be thwarted, he was told; even as the two of them spoke in this gloomy little cell, matters were being put in hand.

  But what followed was unexpected, and by the end of that morning, Marbeck would have to reassess everything he knew.

  SEVENTEEN

  It was soon apparent that Father Cornford could tell him little, once Marbeck had revealed his discovery in the vault beneath the Lords’ House – for it seemed that he hadn’t known such details after all. He’d believed that there was a bold project in train to restore the Catholic faith in England, but he knew nothing of gunpowder. All he would admit was that he was acquainted with some brave young Catholic gentlemen, who were filled with anger at the king and resolved to carry out some long-planned scheme, with or without sanction. Which was why, in a place he wouldn’t name, Cornford had reluctantly agreed to give the sacrament to several of them who’d taken a solemn oath, without asking questions. As for the man who’d told him more, under confession: Cornford prayed for him. Perhaps at least one of the circle had grown fearful of what lay ahead and wished to withdraw, he said. Yet none, he was certain, would betray their fellows: things had gone too far for that.

  The two of them stood in silence for a while. For Cornford, who was at first shocked when Marbeck – after swearing him to secrecy – told him of the planned explosion at Westminster, relief was tempered with the knowledge that the movers of the plot were at large and could try again. And while he himself yearned for change, he insisted that what he’d told Deverell was true: his Society forbade acts of terror. Faith and persuasion, by deed and by example, were his only weapons.

  ‘Then it’s no use my mentioning names to you,’ Marbeck said finally. ‘Catesby, perhaps … or Thomas Percy?’

  The other shook his head.

  ‘Even though you know they’ll be taken? For now the plan is uncovered, they’ll certainly be brought in, sooner or later. My masters will seal the ports, watch the roads – the entire nation will be on alert. Meanwhile, they’ll question those they hold already, by cruel means … which includes you, father.’

  ‘You warned me of that already, in the cellar at Great Willoughby,’ the priest said, somewhat tiredly. ‘I repeat: my fate is in God’s hands, as is the fate of those other men.’

  ‘Will you at least tell me about one named John Johnson?’ Marbeck asked, his patience thinning. ‘A man from Yorkshire, tall and heavy-bearded?’ His hopes rose as a different expression appeared on Cornford’s face – only to vanish again.

  ‘I’ve no need for silence there,’ the priest replied. ‘For I never heard that name, nor do I recognize the man you describe.’

  ‘Very well.’ Marbeck sighed; it was time to admit defeat. Deverell had been right, and the visit was pointless. With a final look at the captive, he was about to take his leave when the other half-raised a hand.

  ‘There’s something I can and will say,’ he said. ‘Since this business is now about to be exposed to the world, you claim … and I’ve no cause to disbelieve you, Master Tucker; even though I’m sure that’s not your true name.’

  He hesitated, then met Marbeck’s eye. ‘Have you not thought that others besides the ones I spoke of may know of it and are merely letting the plot ripen, for their own purposes?’

  ‘In fact, the thought has occurred to some,’ Marbeck said, concealing his unease; he was more troubled by that notion than he could admit. ‘You needn’t rack your own conscience any further – all will be sifted in time.’

  ‘Will it?’ Cornford wore a thin smile. ‘Can you be certain?’

  ‘I can,’ Marbeck said stiffly. ‘As shrewd as you are, father, there are men as clever, or even cleverer than you—’

  ‘I don’t doubt that,’ the priest broke in. ‘Yet you might ask yourself who has most to gain from letting this terrible drama play itself out until the last moment.’ His smile faded. ‘And what motive might lie beyond the mere foiling of yet another Catholic plot … Do you follow me now?’

  Marbeck made no reply.

  ‘I think you do,’ Cornford said. He drew himself to his full height, the change in his manner striking: from one of stoicism to something like severity.

  Marbeck felt the man’s strength and knew that his talk of facing torture was no bluff: here was courage of a kind he had only seen in hardened soldiers. ‘Will you not say more, even now?’ he asked.

  ‘Do I need to?’ The other raised an eyebrow. ‘When the answer’s here, standing before you?’

  ‘In what manner?’ Restlessly, Marbeck moved to the door and turned to face him. ‘I’ve no time for riddles, father.’ As he spoke, he imagined Deverell at Salisbury House, making his report to the Lord Secretary. ‘I feared you would tell me nothing – but it matters little in the end. I’ll bid you farewell; you know we won’t meet again.’

  Father Cornford gazed at him in silence. Finally, he turned away and bowed his head.

  So Marbeck left the cell and walked to the door by which he’d entered. He banged on it and called the name Plainstaff. After a moment the turnkey arrived, peered through the bars and gave a nod. Still thinking over what Cornford had said, Marbeck waited for the door to be unlocked, then passed through it. But when he started to walk towards the second door, he felt a sudden tug at his belt. Whirling round, he realized that the warder had snatched his poniard from its sheath.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ he said softly.

  Immediately, Marbeck tensed. ‘Has the price of getting out gone up, then?’ he asked harshly. ‘How many shillings is it now?’

  ‘I fear shillings won’t cover it, my friend … nor even angels, for all that.’

  Plainstaff was grinning at him … and even as realization swept over Marbeck, he saw the far door open. Another turnkey appeared – and this one held a sword.

  ‘We must detain you, master,’ he said.

  Swiftly, Marbeck assessed his chances – but when his hand went to his scabbard, it was seized in a grip stronger than his own. Plainstaff held him, forcing his hand behind his back – and the next moment the other man’s sword was at his throat.

  ‘You’re a Papist,’ he hissed. ‘You told the gatekeeper so yourself – and you’ve been consorting with a seditious Jesuit. You’re not leaving here.’

  ‘By whose orders?’ Marbeck demanded. ‘Tell me, or by heaven I’ll—’ He broke off as his own poniard was thrust against his side, hard enough to prick the skin. Taking a sharp breath, he locked eyes with the swordsman. ‘You’re making a mistake,’ he snapped. ‘When my masters find out who …’

  He stopped himself as another feeling arose: one of terrible suspicion. His thoughts whirling, he found himself pushed violently through an archway. Then he was marched down a pass
age, his hands clamped together and a blade at his neck. Around a corner the three of them went, into a narrow way with a door at the end. Plainstaff took his sword from him, while the other man produced keys. This door, however, didn’t merely squeak: it scraped the floor horribly, as if it were rarely opened. He glimpsed a pitch-dark cell beyond, then he was thrust inside … to fall headlong over something in his path. The door closed and a bolt slid into place, as Marbeck got up and turned – only to stop short when a voice came out of the darkness, from somewhere by his feet.

  ‘Who’s there? Keep back! I have a knife …’ There was a rustle of straw as the man scrambled away. ‘Stay there!’ he shouted, from higher up; he was crouched by the door. ‘Tell me your name!’

  But only silence greeted him, until at last the new prisoner spoke in the dark. ‘It’s Marbeck.’

  A gasp, then: ‘Good God … are you in jest?’

  ‘Do you think I’d give my name, if I hadn’t recognized your voice?’ Marbeck said, his spirits sinking. ‘Shall we talk of bees, or do you require further proof – John Cutler?’

  It turned out that there was a rushlight in the cell, in a tiny alcove. Marbeck discovered it when he lit a flame with his tinderbox, so at least they had a little light. Cutler, it transpired, had neither tinderbox nor the knife he’d claimed to possess. Haggard and pale, his hair a tangled mess, the one-time intelligencer looked like some Bedlamite who had been incarcerated here in error. But once they began to talk, sitting on the stone floor with only straw to cushion them, he appeared to be in a sharper frame of mind than Marbeck had feared.

  ‘You were right, of course, in Croydon – about the gunpowder, I mean,’ he mumbled. ‘I knew it wasn’t ale in those kegs—’

  ‘You knew?’ Marbeck broke in harshly. ‘Then why in God’s name didn’t you say that?’

  ‘I know – forgive me. I …’ The other shook his head miserably. ‘It seemed such a bind, Marbeck – reporting to Monk, who rarely believes what I say anyway. I’ve made a life down there, you know. I once wrote a letter, saying I wished to cease intelligence work, but he claimed he never received it. Still, they left me alone … I’m harmless, I suppose.’ He looked up. ‘Then you visited … and a few days later, they came for me.’