Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot

by John Pilkington

  ‘It seems there were many in this circle of plotters,’ his fellow intelligencer told him. ‘Robert Catesby, as you surmised. Ambrose Rookwood, Francis Tresham, Robert Keyes and others … Papist villains all. Even Lord Digby’s part of it, I heard—’

  ‘And Thomas Percy?’ Marbeck broke in.

  ‘Him also.’ Deverell nodded. ‘Indeed, he looks like one of the prime movers; he was back at Essex House only the day before the explosion was set, dining as bold as you like with his cousin, the earl. The earl too has a lot of explaining to do, though I doubt the man knew much about it. The story’s emerging piecemeal, with much still to be uncovered. As for Percy – he’s now fled to the Midlands, I gather, where some of the others have gone. They won’t remain free for long: horsemen are scouring the shires already.’

  He fell silent, letting Marbeck absorb the intelligence. As when they had last sat here together, the enormity of the plot – and the implications, had it succeeded – took his breath away. Finally, he frowned and said: ‘The servant. The man I encountered at Percy’s house …’

  ‘Calm yourself, for he’s taken,’ Deverell answered, with grim satisfaction. ‘Caught red-handed, would you believe – hiding in the vault with a slow match ready to set the charge, and booted and spurred ready for flight. He’s been conveyed to the Tower. Hard as iron, I hear: he told them nothing, almost spat in their faces. But I’ll wager he won’t stay silent for long.’

  Marbeck lowered his gaze, picturing the tall man in the house at Westminster, smiling as he described the place as being like a rabbit-hutch. ‘I’ll wager another thing,’ he said. ‘That his name’s not Johnson.’ Suddenly, he looked up. ‘Aren’t you curious to know where I’ve been these past days?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘I am,’ Deverell replied. ‘For after we parted, I was detained at the Lord Secretary’s pleasure …’ He paused, meeting Marbeck’s eye. ‘I hope you’re not suspecting me of anything untoward?’

  ‘Not at present,’ Marbeck said. ‘But I’m eager to hear.’

  The other gave a shrug. ‘Well, there’s little to tell. I went to Salisbury House as I said, demanded to see the Lord Secretary … but can you guess who I saw instead?’

  ‘Monk?’ Marbeck frowned again. ‘I’ve thought about him a good deal, of late. But please, finish your tale.’

  ‘Very well …’ Deverell too was frowning, at the memory. ‘There was Levinus Monk, in a chamber of his own, as comfortable as you like. The Lord Secretary was too busy to see me, he said. He also said that the old room by the Jewel Tower was no longer safe, though I couldn’t see why. Then he heard me out: your discovery in the vault, the whole story, including your going to question the priest—’

  ‘And?’ Marbeck broke in impatiently.

  ‘And then, he arrested me.’

  Marbeck let out a breath. ‘Did he, now.’

  ‘He did. I had a room to myself in the house, food and drink, even books to read. I wasn’t allowed tobacco, since the Lord Secretary won’t permit it. I could venture as far as the garden, where I was greeted by my protectors, as they called themselves. They were my gaolers, of course, who had orders not to let me leave until further notice. Until last night, when it seemed they finally got that notice. I went first to my wife, who was frantic with worry, then this morning I came here. And that, Marbeck, is the whole of it.’

  ‘You didn’t see Monk, after he detained you?’

  ‘Not until last night, very late. A short conversation, telling me what I’ve since told you. You’re to speak to no one else, I should add, until you’ve seen him.’

  ‘Of course …’ Slowly, Marbeck nodded. ‘No doubt he assumes that I’m still obedient and ready to be sent on my next errand. That I should accept temporary imprisonment without complaint – and emerge unchanged, even grateful for my release.’ He drew a breath and stood up. ‘But that’s not how it will be, Deverell …’ He looked away briefly, then turned. ‘Would you care to hear my own account now – even though it’s a good deal less pleasant?’

  Morning turned into afternoon, and afternoon too was advanced by the time the two men had finished their discourse. By then both were weary and somewhat angry: Deverell as much as Marbeck, for the way he too had been edged aside.

  ‘We’ve always known Monk would serve Cecil to the very end,’ Deverell said finally. ‘Though he himself may trust us, whatever orders our Lord Secretary hands out, he’ll obey them to the letter.’ He eyed Marbeck. ‘Mayhap this time he’ll regret it, if you’re truly resolved to withdraw from the service.’

  ‘I am,’ Marbeck said shortly. He was restless, eager to be outdoors.

  His fellow, too shrewd not to judge his mood, stood up and stretched his own limbs. ‘I’ll leave you, then. I should have mentioned that, as far as Monk knows, I came to order you to attend him and nothing more. When you do see him, I’d be obliged if whatever he tells you comes as news …’ He hesitated. ‘You do intend to see him?’

  ‘Indeed. I’d prefer to tell him of my decision face-to-face.’

  ‘Then I’ll say farewell. We’re unlikely to meet, after this.’

  Marbeck nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘I almost forgot …’ At the door Deverell turned, fumbling at his belt. Having produced a small purse, he held it up. ‘I have to give you this, for immediate disbursements.’

  He threw it, unhurriedly so that Marbeck could catch it … and as he did so a notion occurred to the latter. ‘It came from Monk, I assume?’

  ‘Naturally – who else?’

  And he was gone, pulling the door behind him before Marbeck could say that he knew he was lying.

  But that same evening, when Marbeck finally made his way to Salisbury House, he was denied entry.

  He was at first taken aback, then annoyed. The two men who confronted him, soldiers rather than servants, wouldn’t let him beyond the gate. Even when he gave several different cover names, and spoke of urgent news for Levinus Monk, they remained adamant. They had orders to admit no one who wasn’t on their list, they said, and Marbeck – alias John Sands, alias Giles Blunt, alias Lawrence Tucker – wasn’t on it. When he asked politely to see the list, he was refused. Finally, feeling not only angry but somehow empty, he turned and walked off.

  He went to the stables then, to see that Cobb wanted for nothing, and paid a small sum on account to the phlegmatic Oliver. Then he walked, to clear his head. Though still bitter about the treatment handed to him, he had continued to piece things together. For in the aftermath of the Gunpowder Treason, it was certain that not only was the Lord Secretary working himself to the bone, but also his most trusted lieutenant, Monk.

  After all, he told himself, a hue and cry was in progress. Reports would be coming in from Crown officials and those charged with rounding up known Papists, as well as pursuing the fugitive plotters. There would be investigations and interrogations, messages flying back and forth by the hour. No doubt King James would be holding council, demanding the presence of his Secretary of State. Marbeck knew well enough that he himself was of small importance, until assigned to a mission. But in that matter, he thought grimly, Monk was about to be disillusioned. Whereas the Lord Secretary, he guessed – were Marbeck ever allowed into his presence again – would fix him with his cold eye and mention his obligations to the Crown. If still unsatisfied, he might threaten action for past misdemeanours … but if it came to that, Marbeck was resolved now to call his bluff. Cecil, he believed, would let him go in the end. The man may be like a well-oiled clock, and devoid of sentiment, but even he would have no relish for seeing one of his best intelligencers executed.

  Finally, weary even of his own company, he returned to the Duck and Drake and drank enough to make himself sleep.

  Thursday dawned dry but cold, with a taste of the coming winter. Restored in body, but with a restless energy, Marbeck roused himself at the inn and went out. Within a short time he had crossed to Bankside, retrieved his sword from pawn and bought a serviceable poniard from the same d
ealer. Re-crossing the river, he returned to his chamber and set about selecting the few clothes he needed. These he made into a pack, ready for travelling. The rest he gave to one of the wenches to sell as she pleased, or even to burn. By midday his tasks were done, so he took a light dinner at the inn before venturing out into the Strand. Soon he was at the Ivy Stairs, where having nothing better to do just then, he sat down to watch the river traffic.

  It was over, he realized: he had yet to see Monk, but his old life was drifting away from him already. Plots and stratagems, even the wiles of Charlotte and her Spanish master, need concern him no further. He guessed that the woman was making haste to quit England, if she had not done so already … By rights he should make a full report of her actions to Monk. He thought then of MacNeish, who had played him along too – he’d never thought the Scotsman capable of such guile. But then, who in the end could fathom another man’s mind?

  After an hour, he was cold and cramped. Boats came and went, the watermen’s voices sharp in the cold air. He rose finally and started to make his way back to the Strand, when a blur of movement caught his eye: just ahead of him, someone had seemingly darted round the corner. With sudden suspicion Marbeck quickened his pace, emerging into the busy Strand. He halted abruptly, peering about – then at once, he was running. He was in pursuit: of a slim figure in a blue coat – and now he recalled MacNeish’s admission and knew his instincts about being followed had been correct all along.

  Towards Ludgate his quarry ran, dodging horsemen, carts and passers-by – but Marbeck, running with renewed vigour, was gaining on him. For a moment he lost sight of his man, then caught a glimpse of him ducking into a side-alley. In a moment he had turned in after him … only to slow down in grim satisfaction: it was a dead end.

  Caught like a rat, the fugitive cowered at the far end of the ginnel, looking desperately to left and right. But there was no escape, and he knew it. Steadily, Marbeck approached him, regaining his breath while he reached for his sword … then as he drew near, he spoke.

  ‘Blue Donal.’ His anger rising, he closed in on the wretched man, who was quivering with fear. Indeed, before Marbeck could even speak, he was babbling.

  ‘Mercy, master …’ He almost choked on his words. ‘I’m a poor man, with a parcel of bairns to feed … For the love of God, will ye no’ spare me?’

  ‘Spare you, Donal? Why – should I have some grievance against you?’ He halted within a yard of his victim and let him quake for a while. This Scotsman was no red-bearded highlander of MacNeish’s stamp, but a raw-boned townsman from the Edinburgh streets, dark-haired and weasel-faced.

  Wetting his mouth, Donal swallowed and said: ‘I … I fear ye might have, master. If ye’ve been talking with the man MacNeish, I mean … then, I wouldn’t believe everything the big fellow tells ye. I just run errands, as it were … keep mysel’ out of trouble, as best I can.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Keeping his hand on his sword-hilt, Marbeck fixed him with a stern look. ‘Does dogging my every move count as keeping out of trouble, then? For it brought a good deal of inconvenience to me, I can tell you.’

  The other shivered and gulped, struggling for words. He cut such a sorry figure, in fact, that Marbeck felt something akin to pity. He was a poor man, when all was said and done … like the men who had waylaid him at Skinner’s. At that thought, he stiffened. ‘By the Christ,’ he muttered. ‘Was it you who told a pair of men-at-arms where to find me? For if so, you’d have helped me to my death.’

  ‘No, master, I pray you …’ Quickly, Blue Donal found his voice. ‘I know naught of such … I was hired to follow you about for a while, I admit such, and God forgive me for it. I had to watch your lodging – the bowling alley, that is – and report when you came and went.’

  ‘And you’re still doing so, it seems,’ Marbeck said dryly. ‘Perhaps you’re unaware of recent events … that the lady who paid you and MacNeish to do her bidding is exposed as the agent of a Spaniard?’

  At that, Donal jerked as if he’d been struck. ‘You toy with me, master,’ he said quickly. ‘I—’ He broke off, eyes darting everywhere.

  But Marbeck drew a long breath, for all was clear to him. He pictured Charlotte, sitting rigid in her nightgown, telling him of her master Juan Roble. His reach is long …

  ‘I speak true,’ he said, with a shake of his head. ‘I’d guess you’ve not seen the lady of late, in which case you wouldn’t know. But as we’re both gamblers, I’ll wager you she’s long since left the house where she stayed – maybe left England. There’ll be no more payment, and you’ve been serving an enemy of the state … Somewhat unwise, just now, I’d say. So …’ He paused, to let the import of his words sink in. ‘Would you take that wager?’

  Then, as the wretched man stared at him in mingled dismay and terror, he gripped his sword-hilt and summoned his most menacing tone. ‘I thought not. So instead, would you care to tell me the whole of your tale – here and now?’

  Blue Donal gave another gulp and managed a nod.

  TWENTY-ONE

  In the light of what he now knew, Marbeck decided to wait until the following day before leaving London.

  It was Friday, the eighth of November, and apart from the inn-folk at the Duck and Drake he had seen no one since his talk with Blue Donal. This morning he busied himself making purchases, weighing carefully what remained in the purse Deverell had given him. He went to the stable, saw that Cobb was well-fed and spoke to Oliver; he would leave in the afternoon, Marbeck said, and asked the stableman to make up a feedbag for the horse. After taking dinner at an ordinary he walked by the river again, then returned to the inn. But in the Strand, someone appeared suddenly to block his way.

  ‘Master Tucker?’

  ‘Not I, my friend,’ Marbeck said, with a shake of his head. ‘You mistake me for another.’

  The one who confronted him, however, gave no sign of moving. Whereupon with a frown, Marbeck recognized him as one of the armed men who had refused him entry to Salisbury House, two days ago. ‘Master Tucker … or Master Sands, if you will,’ the guard went on. ‘I have orders to invite you to a room where someone you know waits.’

  ‘Invite me?’ Marbeck echoed. ‘Most kind – on another occasion I’d be delighted. As it is I’m occupied and will choose my own time to pay my respects.’

  The other grinned. ‘He said you’d likely reply in such a manner. So I was told to offer this on account … More will follow when you attend him.’ He reached in his pocket and produced a gold sovereign, allowing Marbeck a moment to reflect.

  ‘I’ll admit your timing is good,’ he said finally. ‘Yesterday, I’d have rammed that coin down your gullet and made you swallow it. As it is, I’ll accompany you, provided you tell me I’m going to see Levinus Monk and no one else.’

  ‘It’s Monk,’ the other admitted, his grin disappearing; he’d sensed that only a straight answer would serve. He held out the coin and Marbeck took it. This was no time for wounded pride: he needed money – and more, he needed to look his spymaster in the eye and tell him he would no longer do his bidding.

  So with a curt nod, he allowed the soldier to lead the way. And some twenty minutes later, having walked the length of the Strand and passed by Charing Cross into Whitehall, he was admitted to a small, ground-floor chamber close to the Privy Gallery. There at last, after the most momentous week he could remember, he confronted Levinus Monk again; but as so often in the past, the man confounded him by going immediately on the offensive.

  ‘By heaven, Marbeck, why couldn’t you take the hint?’ he thundered. ‘Why couldn’t you have left things alone, just for once, and done as ordered? You think I enjoyed having you clapped up? You and Deverell – even that fool Cutler?’

  He was on his feet, beside another table cluttered with papers and writing materials. In fact, the place was such a close replica of his former chamber by the Jewel Tower, for a moment Marbeck was almost disoriented. But there was a window here, even if its view was only that of a stone w
all. Gathering his thoughts, he remained silent and let Monk have his say.

  ‘I knew how your mind moved,’ the spymaster went on. ‘As I understood only too well what you’d uncovered. You think after all this time, I don’t know your strengths? Perhaps I should have foreseen you’d turn something up, before the time was ripe. As it was …’ He hesitated. ‘My hands were tied. I won’t say more: I think you understand.’

  ‘Just now, I’m not sure what I understand,’ Marbeck said. His thoughts were on the prison cell, where he and Cutler had pieced together their theory: that the Lord Secretary himself had allowed the Gunpowder Plot to come to fruition. Was he about to get some answers at last?

  For a while Monk said nothing. The man was more than tired, Marbeck saw: he was near to exhaustion. He took a stool near his table and sat, motioning Marbeck to do the same. ‘And don’t tell me you’d prefer to remain standing,’ he said in an acid tone. ‘What I’m about to say will take some time … and even you will find it better to listen in some comfort.’

  So Marbeck took the only other stool and sat down facing him. Whereupon Monk picked up what looked like a hastily scrawled report and scanned it briefly.

  ‘It may interest you to know that I didn’t order you to watch Thomas Percy merely to keep you out of my way,’ he said, looking up finally. ‘He was of real interest to us … But in any case, that’s history now. The man died this morning, killed in a fight at Holbeach House in Staffordshire, where he and his friends had been cornered. Robert Catesby died with him. They stood back to back, I gather, and were shot by the same bullet … Most economical.’

  Marbeck took in the news in silence. Briefly, he saw Percy, eyeing him over the card table at Essex House, telling him they would play again; that, too, was now another closed chapter.

  ‘Others were also slain,’ Monk went on, in a matter-of fact tone. ‘One Rookwood was wounded, and the survivors were captured, to be conveyed to the Tower. For such treason, their deaths will be terrible: the worst the Crown can devise—’