The thought alarmed him. Though he hadn’t yet told Cutler, his money was gone, and he was hungry. Soon, he would have to admit it and call the turnkeys. Unless … A worse thought shook him: would the two of them be let out, after all? Perhaps the master of the Clink had orders to starve them, to leave them until they were merely food for the rats … Heavily, he lay down in the fetid straw and closed his eyes. There was a rustling close by, but he no longer cared.
And then, only seconds later it seemed, he was shouting.
‘I’m not done!’ he cried: he was answering a turnkey, the man he’d asked how many priests were held here. ‘You should have counted – shall I loosen your tongue, you—’
‘Marbeck!’
With a cry he sat up, lashing out. His fist connected with something; there was a yelp, then he was gripping the guard by the throat. ‘Tell me how many!’ he cried. ‘Or I’ll—’
‘Marbeck! For God’s sake … it’s me!’
He froze, panting; he was awake, with Cutler trembling in his grasp, hands clamped desperately about his wrist. At once he released his fellow, jerking backwards in dismay.
Spluttering, Cutler spoke out of the dark. ‘You whoreson wretch – you tried to kill me!’
‘It was a dream … Forgive me.’ Breathing hard, Marbeck forced himself on to his elbows. ‘How long was I …? No, you don’t know …’
‘Listen, please!’ There was a different note in Cutler’s voice; Marbeck heard it, frowning in the gloom.
‘What is it?’
‘I said listen!’ the other insisted. ‘Come to the door. Put your ear to it and you’ll hear …’ He paused, then: ‘At least, I pray to heaven you do, and I’m not dreaming too.’
They crawled through the stinking straw, until Marbeck felt the door’s rough timbers. Placing his head against it, with Cutler kneeling beside him, he listened intently. He heard a distant hum and guessed it was merely the murmur of the prison, the wretched inmates of the main chamber. Then …
‘Church bells?’ He swallowed, his mouth as dry as dust.
‘It’s St Mary Overies.’ His voice shaking, Cutler whispered close to his ear. ‘They’re tolling the bells – it’s an alarm!’
Marbeck drew a sharp breath – and fear swept over him, reducing him to despair in a moment. Cutler was right: the bells were tolling, as violently as any sexton could work them. It was an alarm, as Cutler had said … which meant only one thing: the worst had happened, and his theories were as nothing.
He cursed his own folly. He’d convinced himself that all was well, when it wasn’t: for some reason Deverell had failed to report to Cecil … nor had Cecil known of the gunpowder in the vault. The King was dead and probably Cecil too … Hell was unleashed: the plot had succeeded.
In dismay he sank down, his last shreds of hope draining away. Cutler was silent … whereupon, what had become the most unexpected noise of all sounded: almost a shriek, which shook them both. It was the scraping of the door, which now opened wide. There followed light that, though dim, was as a powerful sunbeam to the prisoners, stabbing their eyes. But even as Marbeck shied away from it, the voice of Plainstaff the turnkey sounded from behind.
‘There’s no need to soil your breeches, gents,’ he said. ‘I bring good news: you’re leaving us. How’s that for a sunny afternoon?’
NINETEEN
It was Tuesday, the fifth of November, and as the turnkey had said, it was a fine afternoon.
Blinking in the sunlight, hungry and dirty, Marbeck stepped out of the doors of the Clink. Behind him came the shambling figure of Cutler, staring about as if in a foreign land. Even the stink of the Thames was balm to them both; the cacophony of church bells – dozens of them ringing out at once, from St Mary Overies and over in the city – was sweet music. Dazed by the suddenness of their release, they stumbled down to Bankside and found it crowded. Then at last Marbeck’s fears disappeared, for the news was on everyone’s lips: the King was safe.
There had been no explosion, they learned; the opening of Parliament had been prorogued. News was still coming from Westminster, but the gist of it was clear: a wicked conspiracy had been foiled. The vault of the Lords’ Chamber had been searched in the small hours of this morning by Sir Thomas Knyvett, Keeper of the Palace of Westminster, and a great quantity of gunpowder discovered.
Once he’d absorbed the facts, Marbeck sat down in the road before Winchester House, in no hurry to get up again.
Cutler slumped down beside him; the man was still wrapped in his dirty blanket from the prison cell. ‘Thanks be to God,’ he said weakly.
Marbeck said nothing.
‘They had orders, at the Clink … That’s why they were so eager to get rid of us.’ Cutler’s voice shook: he was shivering. ‘You were right – they were charged with keeping us until told otherwise. It means Cecil has matters under control … It must do.’ With growing excitement, he gripped Marbeck’s arm. ‘Don’t you understand? We’re free – I can go back to my bees!’
Feeling drained, Marbeck turned to him. ‘I thought it strange that they returned my sword to me,’ he murmured. ‘My poniard’s gone, but no matter.’
Cutler stared. ‘Did you not hear me? You’re free – you can thumb your nose at the whole pack of them, go where you please!’
‘Yes … you’re right, of course.’ Marbeck managed a smile. ‘I’d surely welcome some soap and hot water, and fresh clothes. I’ve a chamber at the Duck and Drake—’
‘You told me already,’ Cutler broke in. ‘You’d best go there at once … You look like you’ve escaped from Bedlam.’
‘As do you,’ Marbeck said. It was true: Cutler’s hair and beard were wilder than ever, his clothes like rags. There was a light in his eye that might have alarmed some, but Marbeck knew him too well by now. ‘You’d better come with me,’ he added. ‘I’ve some spare attire you can put on. If my credit holds, you can eat and drink while I go out and gather news.’ His face clouded. ‘I must find Deverell …’
‘Oh no – I can’t possibly delay.’ Quickly, Cutler got to his feet. Though pinched and emaciated, there was a determination within him that brooked no argument. He looked along the street, out at the river with its myriad boats, then pointed at London Bridge, looming to their right. ‘There’s my road: Long Southwark. The walk will do wonders for me … I want to see fields and woods.’
‘You intend to walk?’ Marbeck exclaimed. ‘It’s ten miles to Croydon … You’ll keel over before you reach Newington.’
‘I think not,’ Cutler replied briskly. ‘If I look like a beggar, then I can become one. I’ll walk, cadge a ride – crawl if I have to. I must get to my cottage and my bees. Neighbours will aid me … and come next market day, I’ll be doing business again.’
Marbeck drew a breath, but knew resolve when he saw it. Slowly, he got up and, having nothing else to give, offered his hand.
The other took it and, without another word, walked away. He turned by St Mary’s Dock, making for Long Southwark and his journey homewards.
Marbeck watched until he was lost to sight, then looked towards the Bridge. Since he hadn’t even a penny to summon a boat he faced a different walk, through the city to the Strand; then he remembered something else: his winnings from the primero game.
The cache of gold and silver coins, in his old chamber at Skinner’s: of course, he should go there first … Had he really forgotten about it? But then, with Curzon’s murder …
He started walking, past the great church with its bell still tolling … then he slowed. The place will burn down, destroying everything, Monk had said; It’ll probably be a blessing …
Forcing the grim notion aside he walked on towards the Great Stone Gate, picking up scraps of conversation as he went. Through the morning and the early afternoon, it seemed, while Marbeck and Cutler had languished in their cell, the momentous news had been spreading. People stood talking, or hurried to the stairs to hail boats. In the city, bells were still clanging … and now columns of smoke
began to appear. Halting before the gate, where there was an excited throng, he stopped a passer-by.
‘Is there a fire?’ he asked, pointing across the river.
‘You clown – those are bonfires!’ The passer-by, a rough-looking fellow in a brewer’s apron, jeered at him. ‘All of London’s rejoicing at the King’s escape – see for yourself!’ Whereupon, noting Marbeck’s appearance, he wrinkled his nose. ‘If they’ll let you across,’ he muttered, and stalked off.
A moment later Marbeck realized what the man meant. His own words came back: They’ll seal the ports, watch roads … Only too aware of how he looked, he approached two guards who stood at the bridge entrance. For once, he hadn’t the energy to bluff.
‘I need to go through,’ he said.
The men, armed with swords and halberds, looked him over. ‘Who are you?’ one of them demanded. ‘State your business.’
‘I’m John Sands, servant to the—’ He broke off in time, before someone truly took him for a madman. While the guards stared he backed off, turned and left the roadway.
On Bankside again, he began to gather his wits. Of course Cecil and the Council would have moved to secure both cities: London, and especially Westminster. Much as he’d tried to forget it of late, he was still Marbeck the Crown Intelligencer; now, Marbeck-like thoughts crowded in. Had Robert Catesby, Percy and others been apprehended? Had Percy’s servant Johnson been taken? Was the King now at Whitehall? What of the kidnap threat to the royal children – were they safe?
He walked along the river, reasoning as he went. Men passed, looking askance at his clothes: good quality, yet badly soiled. As for his rapier, they would think it stolen … He stopped. The sword: it had been back in his possession for less than an hour; now he must part with it again, for it was his only asset.
A short while later, unarmed but with money in his purse, he was at the Falcon Stairs, trying to act like the gentleman he was. After all, he was not the first to pawn such a valuable possession … whereupon he thought suddenly of Curzon. Somehow he had managed to keep the memory away, until now …
‘You, fellow – get out of the way!’
He swung round to see a well-dressed gallant, buckled hat and all, gesturing impatiently at him. ‘That’s my boat,’ the man added, his nose in the air. ‘Be off!’
Marbeck looked and saw others jostling behind him. Meanwhile a skiff was pulling in, the boatman gripping the jetty post … whereupon one thought overrode all others. His anger surging, he shoved the gallant backwards into the crowd of waiting passengers, knocking the fellow’s hat flying and provoking a chorus of shouts and curses. Two seconds later he was in the boat, tugging at his purse. When he drew out a silver coin, the waterman blinked.
‘Take me to Paul’s Stairs,’ Marbeck snapped. ‘I’m on royal business. There’s a shilling for you – refuse, and I’ll have you arrested. Come, what say you?’ He held the man’s eye, until he flinched.
‘Good Christ … I believe you.’ The fellow gulped and shoved his oar against the jetty. In a moment, to the fury of those left behind, the boat was turning with the current.
‘Now, row like the devil,’ Marbeck added, sitting down heavily. ‘I meant what I said – so bend your back!’
Less than a half hour later, however, he stood in St Martins, gazing at the blackened ruin of Skinner’s bowling-house. And from the bottom of his heart, he cursed Levinus Monk. The spymaster’s words were as his actions, it was said; just now, Marbeck wished heartily that they’d been empty words.
But they hadn’t. The fire had been out for days, he saw: perhaps since the very day he’d stood in the room by the Jewel Tower and told Monk of the sword fight that had taken place within. Rain had since turned the burnt timber, thatch, and everything else into one great, soggy mass. Not surprisingly, the buildings on either side had been damaged too: this was London, where people lived cheek by jowl. Fortunately, it looked as though those fires had been put out quickly, leaving the oak frames still standing. With a sigh, Marbeck surveyed the devastation and accepted defeat. Somewhere underneath lay his hoard, won off Thomas Percy with a knave-high fluxus. But there was no denying what would be found now, were he inclined to sift through the wreckage long enough: molten coins, congealed into a shapeless lump of metal.
A thought sprang up, which almost made him laugh. ‘I bluffed to get it,’ he said aloud. ‘So there’s my reward.’
He turned about and walked the crowded streets, through something close to mayhem. Here in the city, the news of an attempt to murder the King seemed to have struck a more urgent note than on shiftless Bankside. Bells still rang, and bonfires were being lit in many places, people emerging from their doors with fuel. Soldiers passed in two and threes, while the taverns were bursting. Men and women stood about on corners, eager for news. It appeared there had been mutterings of a Spanish conspiracy. A mob had assembled outside the ambassador’s house and only dispersed when the frightened man threw money down to them. Some reminded their fellows of the omen: the eclipses of the previous months … Was there yet more danger to come? Meanwhile a watch was on all the gates, and a company of the King’s horsemen had been seen galloping out of the city, heading westwards. Moreover, it appeared that parliament was not prorogued after all, but sitting in emergency session. But yes, the King was safe; England was safe … for now.
Through it all Marbeck walked as if in a daze, picking up rumours as he went and discarding most of them. The French were behind it, or even the Irish – they could never be trusted; it was a hoax – there was no gunpowder, only barrels of earth; the barrels had been found a week ago, but no one had acted … Gradually, however, a consensus seemed to be forming: that this was yet another plot by desperate Papists, foiled by the Lord Secretary, a man hated by many but grudgingly admired. If there were anyone cleverer in all England than Lord Robert Cecil, Marbeck thought, he had yet to hear of him.
He skirted Paul’s and walked through Ludgate, which was also guarded, out into Fleet Street. People were on the road, on horse and foot, but he ignored them. After he’d passed through Temple Bar, however, where sentries regarded him darkly, he slowed pace and finally stopped before the gates of Essex House. It was closed up, with no sign of habitation. He thought briefly of the gaiety he had found within the mansion, the night he’d gone there with Curzon and played primero in the Blue Room. Where was Thomas Percy now?
But he relaxed then, letting out a long breath; it was no longer his concern. Let Monk say what he liked … if, indeed, Marbeck ever saw him again. He was finished as an intelligencer: his resolve, made in the darkness of his foul prison cell, was unshakeable.
At a brisker pace, he walked the short distance to the Duck and Drake and entered by the side door. As expected the inn was noisy and crowded, but in the din nobody paid him much attention. He reached the stairway in the passage, where he found one of the drawers having a surreptitious smoke.
‘Jesu, Master Tucker …’ The man snatched the pipe from his mouth. ‘What’s become of you?’
‘Long story,’ Marbeck said. ‘Will you have some hot water sent up – and a ball of soap, if you can find such?’
‘I will …’ The drawer stared at him. ‘Have you heard the coil? Some devils tried to blow up Parliament!’
‘I heard,’ Marbeck said, one foot on the stairs. Seeing that his credit appeared to be intact, he added: ‘I’ll have supper and a cup of Rhenish too … No, make it a jug.’
In his chamber at last, he went to the window and looked out. Evening was falling, and he could see lights at Somerset House. Beyond was the Savoy, and further off Salisbury House: a stone’s throw away, yet for Marbeck it might have been an ocean’s width. Even if the Lord Secretary had returned home, and was even now in the private chamber in his great house, he was as unreachable as he was indomitable.
Moving about the room, he peeled off his filthy clothing, piling it in a heap. The itching that had troubled him in the prison had continued since his release: now he found th
e lice, in his clothes and on his body. Finally, stark naked, he wrapped himself in a sheet and waited for the means to get himself clean. Once he was restored, when he had eaten and rested, he would go out and conduct business. There were men he might borrow money off while he made his plans. He would seek out Deverell first, then Monk, and tell them of his decision. Afterwards he would take Cobb from the stables and ride, far away from London. But before that he would try to see Meriel …
He sat on the bed, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from him. He’d vowed before that he would quit the Crown’s service, more often than he could recall. Now the decision was made, he felt only relief.
He was still sitting, gazing at the rushes on the floor, when a servant girl arrived with a cheerful grin and a brimming pail. Supper was delayed, she informed him, because the hostess was so busy. But if he cared to wait, being a regular gentleman, he would receive satisfaction. Marbeck nodded and favoured her with the first real smile he had worn in many days.
Two hours later, clean and with a full stomach, he slept like a dead man. He slept all night and through the early morning, through the rattle of wheels on the Strand, the cries of carters going into the city and the cracking of their whips. He slept as the inn stirred into life, the wenches clumping on the stairs and the drawers coughing. Finally, he awoke with the morning well advanced, to a day of cloud … and sat up with a start. Deverell was sitting by the window, as calm as could be.
‘I didn’t like to rouse you,’ he said. ‘I’m pleased you’re safe and well … Would you care to hear my tidings?’
TWENTY
Despite his new resolutions, Marbeck couldn’t help his innate curiosity. Having dressed, he shared a late breakfast in his chamber with Deverell and listened to the man’s tale. And quite soon, even the limited news Deverell could impart held him in silence.
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 17
