‘Johnson,’ Marbeck broke in suddenly. ‘Percy’s servant, who kept the house by the Lords’ …’
‘Ah yes … Him.’ Monk set the paper aside and eyed him grimly. ‘He’s an ex-soldier, fought in the Low Countries for the Spanish. He’s been a busy man, these past years – even went to Spain, seeking support for a rising. He was sent packing, I gather … Philip wanted no part of it. The fellow’s from York – born a Protestant, would you believe? But it’s often the converted ones who turn out to be the most fanatical, isn’t it?’
‘Do you know his real name?’
‘We do now. It’s Fawkes: christened Guy, but calling himself by the Spanish name, Guido.’ The spymaster paused, shaking his head. ‘It took them two days to get even that out of him. I never heard of any man who could withstand the tortures he has endured.’
Marbeck lowered his eyes, remembering the tall man who faced him at Percy’s house and the strength that seemed to flow from him. Then, suddenly, he looked up. ‘Father Cornford …’
Monk stiffened. ‘What of him?’
‘He tried to warn me. He was in torment, because of what he’d been told in the confessional—’ He broke off as a hard look came over Monk’s features.
‘He’ll pay the price for his silence!’ he snapped. ‘Can you imagine the consequences, had this vile plan succeeded? The King dead, likely most of the Council too … an heir to the throne held hostage, or spirited away to be raised as a Papist? England would be drawn into a fearful conflict – or worse, towards the rule of Rome!’
‘And yet …’ Marbeck ventured, causing the spymaster to frown. ‘The matter is – that was never going to happen, was it?’ And when the other merely blinked, he added: ‘Call it speculation … one of my theories, whether you scorn it or not. But the truth is …’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘The fact is, Monk, I’m tired of keeping so many secrets. Indeed, I wonder you don’t feel the same, at times.’
The spymaster’s frown deepened, but no answer came.
‘Then, whether you do or not, it’s all chaff now,’ Marbeck went on. ‘I’ve done a deal of thinking these past weeks – especially in that cell at the Clink, stewing in my own filth. And putting together a picture, too … Even poor Cutler saw it, after we’d talked it over.’ He paused, meeting Monk’s fierce glare. ‘We were there because we were an irritant: two hapless intelligencers, working in the dark. He stumbled upon gunpowder being taken through Croydon, I followed it to Lambeth, and …’ He shrugged. ‘You know the rest, just as I know why you had to keep me out of the way, until things had been allowed to come to fruition.’ He managed a wan smile. ‘I confess, I never thought even My Lord Secretary would take such a risk: letting matters play out until the last moment. Then, no other man would have the nerve. Unless …’ A suspicion rose suddenly. ‘Unless the whole plot was false from the start—’
‘Enough!’ Monk was on his feet now, looking fiercely at him. ‘You go too far, Marbeck – not for the first time! That’s sheer nonsense. The plot was as real as it was wicked – even Cecil didn’t know of it until recently. A letter was sent a week before the opening of Parliament, warning a certain nobleman to stay away … but that too is history now. In truth, you know as well as I that whatever My Lord does is for the safety of the realm. His whole life is dedicated to England’s good – as was his father’s. Do you truly think he would play with the lives of the King and his entire government?’
‘No …’ Marbeck drew a breath. ‘He plays with the lives of expendable folk – men like me. Yet there was still a grave risk, was there not? I saw the barrels myself—’
‘The powder was decayed!’
Marbeck froze, staring at his spymaster. For it was clear that, for once, Monk had overstepped himself. Flushed with anger, the man sat down and put a hand to his head.
The silence grew, until Marbeck was tired of it. Finally, having thrown caution aside, he spoke his mind. ‘Well, that would make sense,’ he said. ‘After long journeys, being manhandled and left for long periods, gunpowder may separate into its parts. In which case, it wouldn’t have exploded. For all his pains, Fawkes’s match would have done little but make a fire, perhaps – and that would have been discovered.’ He exhaled deeply. ‘The King was never truly at risk – but no one must know of it. Am I correct?’
‘In God’s name, Marbeck, what do you think?’ As always, Monk was recovering quickly. Finding a cup, half-concealed by papers, he took it up and drank. ‘Even My Lord needs public opinion, at times,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘The nation’s enraged at what might have happened. We can use it to move against the Papists, strengthen laws … You know as well as I do of the danger within our own borders. We spoke once of the Jesuits at large – imagine another forty Cornfords, winning over converts even as we speak. Would you have them left to their own devices?’
Marbeck gave him no answer. The matter was clear at last, and it left him feeling almost numb. Cecil had indeed played a dangerous game, but the danger had been assessed and deemed acceptable. Now the Lord Secretary had triumphed: it was perhaps his finest hour. And henceforth, as Marbeck himself had said, he would be unassailable.
‘Needless to say, you’ll repeat not a word of what I’ve said in this room,’ Monk said to him. ‘Otherwise, regrettably or not, I’ll have you killed immediately.’
Marbeck looked up, met the man’s eye and knew it was no bluff. But then, he expected nothing else … and now, at last, he felt it was time.
‘You need have no fear of that,’ he said. ‘Yet, regrettably or not, I came to you for two reasons. One was to take whatever payment is owed me. The other was to tell you that I’m quitting your service. But first …’ and as the other stiffened, he raised a hand. ‘First, I’ve a little codicil to add to the lengthy report My Lord Secretary’s no doubt penning. Call it a parting gift, if you like: a mark of my goodwill.’
Monk stared at him, then with an effort sat down. Whereupon, without preamble, Marbeck laid forth the frightened testimony of Blue Donal, given to him in a freezing alley by Ludgate the previous day. It had sobered him, but after sifting the matter in the light of what had happened since he’d set foot in Essex House, it was all as plain as daylight. In a measured tone he told Levinus Monk of Charlotte de Baume and her attempt to end his life. Then he spoke of her master: Juan Roble, the renegade espionar who had quit the King of Spain’s service and worked for his own ends. Finally, to join the final link in the chain, he reminded Monk of his own words.
‘King Philip wanted no part of the planned rising, you said, and refused the importuning of Guido Fawkes. But other Spaniards, it seems, were less scrupulous … in return for riches, when all was over. In a Catholic England they could live well – even sue for a pardon from their own king, perhaps, when he saw what had been done. Likely, the Pope would reward them, too. So whether he likes it or not, My Lord Secretary will have to concede that there was Spanish involvement of one kind. It puts a somewhat different light on his scheme, does it not?’
He stopped then, knowing Monk would piece out the tale for himself. Marbeck would hardly have made it up; he saw that the spymaster had not taken eyes off him for a moment.
Finally, after taking a fortifying sip from his cup, Monk spoke. ‘So this Frenchwoman … this Madame de Baume, who claimed to be kinswoman to the French ambassador, was here as Juan Roble’s envoy? She could have carried words of support to the plotters. Money too, perhaps …’
‘Likely so,’ Marbeck put in. ‘And part of her mission was to snuff my life out into the bargain … Kill two birds with one very attractive stone.’
He was silent then, recalling the breakfast in Charlotte’s bedchamber and the sweetened wine with which he’d almost been poisoned. He would never forget it, nor his last sight of her, sitting like a statue.
‘Well …’ Monk let out a long sigh. ‘Is there more you wish to tell me, or …?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ Marbeck replied. ‘Except to say that my unwilling informant
Blue Donal is now clapped up in the Counter. I thought you might wish to question him yourself, so I had him charged with trying to lift my purse. Since he’d been ordered to betray my whereabouts to others, by which I almost lost my life, I thought he got off lightly. Let’s call him my parting gift to you, shall we?’ He paused, then: ‘As for Madame de Baume, I fear you may be too late. Having been detained for some days, I was unable to tell you of her. But that, I fear, is no longer my concern.’
Monk looked as if he would speak, but held his tongue; the man was stunned at last, which gave Marbeck some satisfaction. ‘You heard me aright,’ he added. ‘I’ll repeat it: I’m leaving your service. And if you’ve a mind to threaten me, I should add that I’ve weighed up the attendant risks and, like My Lord Secretary, decided to run with them.’
There followed a silence. Seeing that Marbeck wasn’t in a mood to listen to argument, Monk merely drained his cup to the dregs. Finally, summoning a brusque manner, he shoved a pile of papers aside and opened the familiar chest.
‘Your payment,’ he said, and threw the purse.
‘My thanks,’ Marbeck said as he caught it.
‘As to the matter of your decision …’ The spymaster gave a sigh. ‘I can but convey your words to the Lord Secretary, at the next opportunity.’
‘Naturally.’ With a brief nod, Marbeck rose to take his leave. He caught a look in Monk’s eye, one of sly calculation, before it vanished. ‘Although … there’s one final matter that may interest you,’ the spymaster said.
With a wry look, Marbeck waited.
‘With all the excitement of late, such everyday matters tend to get overlooked,’ the other went on, giving him a bland stare. ‘Yet for most of the populace life goes on, does it not? Affairs of state move apace, but others require more mundane attention. I speak of a forthcoming marriage, at St Olave’s Church in Hart Street. It’s the parish church for the people of Crutched Friars, among others. The groom is a well-known lawyer, Richard Verney. The banns have been read, I understand, and all is arranged.’
Controlling himself, Marbeck stood very still. Finally, seeing he had no choice but to enquire further, he said: ‘Since you’re so well-informed, might I ask when the date is set for this wedding?’
‘Tomorrow, at noon,’ Monk replied. ‘Or so I’m told.’
Without a word Marbeck turned on his heel and moved to the door. With pulse rising he opened it, but before he could step over the threshold the spymaster spoke up.
‘The matter is, with all that’s going on,’ he said, ‘it’s unlikely I’ll have that opportunity for quite some time: to pass on your decision to my master, I mean. And it’s likely even you don’t feature in his thoughts just now, Marbeck. Should your name arise, however, I could mention some small investigation I’ve sent you on. Meanwhile, you may take some time to think—’
‘I don’t need it,’ Marbeck broke in, containing his feelings with an effort. ‘I’ve said what I came to say, and there’s an end to it.’
‘I understand,’ Monk said quickly. ‘But who knows how you may feel in a month or two? We all need a holiday at times, Marbeck – even I. I’ve a notion to see my home town again … That’s Ghent, as you know. It’s mighty cold there in winter. But then, I imagine wherever you plan to go to will be the same just now …’
He had raised his voice during the last sentence, but to no effect. Without looking back Marbeck left him, making a point of banging the door. The latch rattled, and then there was only the sound of his footsteps receding along a stone passage.
Outside he walked briskly, his hand gripping his sword-hilt until the knuckles ached. Out through the Court Gate he went, looking straight ahead. Charing Cross loomed before him, with The Strand opening on his right. Without slowing his pace, he strode to the Duck and Drake and entered. A short time later, with the reckoning settled and carrying his belongings, he was making his way to the stables. Finding Oliver absent he readied Cobb, left money for his keep and tied his bags to the saddle. Then he was mounted, feeling the horse’s eagerness match his own: a desire to ride out of London into the fields, and thence through open country until it grew too dark to see.
But it was no use. They got as far as Highgate before he reined in, the breath of both horse and rider clouding in the cold air. Turning Cobb about, he peered downhill towards the sprawl of London, hazy in the smoke from thousands of chimneys. After picking out the tower of St Paul’s his eyes roved eastwards: the distant spires of Bow Church, the Guildhall, St Anthony’s, and finally St Helen’s. The small church of St Olave was not to be seen, but it was only a short distance further.
He drew a deep breath, shook the reins and began riding slowly, back towards the city.
TWENTY-TWO
Under a cloudy sky, several wedding guests had assembled by St Olave’s to greet the bridal party when they walked down from Crutched Friars. In view of the season, vows would be exchanged inside the church instead of at the doors; the parson was already within, warming himself. Outside, a number of parishioners had gathered from mere curiosity, while the group of invited guests stood apart, their status obvious from the quality of their clothes. No one paid much attention to a man clad in plain black, who appeared a little before noon and stood on the edge of the crowd.
For Marbeck it had been a near-sleepless night, in his old chamber at the Duck and Drake. More than once he had cursed himself for his desire: the need not only to see Meriel, but in the end to punish himself too, by watching her marry another man. It was partly sheer curiosity, he knew: to see whether she would go through with it, given what she’d told him the last time he saw her. But he remembered the desperation in her gaze as he recalled her weariness when she spoke of putting an end to the conflict with her father. Perhaps it was, as she had told him, the only life she could make for herself. Outwardly calm but with a turmoil of thoughts, he stood with the other bystanders and waited.
Mercifully, the wait was short. A murmur of voices arose, and all eyes turned towards the end of Hart Street, where it bent away into Crutched Friars. Soon the party appeared, splendidly dressed, bride and groom at its head … and Marbeck’s heart thudded: for the bride looked happy.
Along with others he watched the approaching group, managing to keep out of their sight. The bridegroom was neither more nor less than he’d expected: a middle-aged lawyer in a fine gown, round-faced and beaming, his grey-speckled beard neatly trimmed. Close behind him stepped a company of gentlemen and ladies, richly attired, bejewelled and smiling. He scanned the group warily for Meriel’s father, but failed to see him. He did see an elderly woman who could be the servant Goody Joan, recalling with a pang of regret that she would have been Meriel’s midwife. Friends and relatives followed, in cheerful conversation. All was well, it seemed … but why should it not be? It was an occasion for rejoicing, with feasting and merrymaking to follow, and at once Marbeck knew he had no place here.
Could he really have thought otherwise? He’d seen enough already; now, he had no desire to witness the ceremony. With an emptiness inside him, he was on the point of edging away, yet he lingered. Perhaps it was unwise, but he wanted to take a last look at Meriel before she entered the little church. The couple were at the doors now, people craning their necks for a glimpse of the bride in her fine gown of lilac and silver, her head covered with white lace. At the last moment she lifted her head – and seemed to look directly at Marbeck. Then without another glance she turned and, hand-in-hand with her husband-to-be, entered the church.
The others followed, crowding the entrance, joined by those who’d waited in the street. Soon only the backs of the last few guests could be seen, while the onlookers began drifting away. But Marbeck remained where he stood, motionless and without expression: for that look from the bride had stunned him.
The woman wasn’t Meriel.
For a moment he thought his mind was playing tricks, that his wishes had overridden his senses. From a distance, as the group approached, he had assumed that the fa
ir young woman in the bridal gown was she. He’d seen her smile and allowed his gaze to shift to the others. Only at the church door, when he met her eye, had it struck him. Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw Monk’s sardonic gaze. The groom is a well-known lawyer, Richard Verney, the spymaster had said; he’d made no mention of the bride.
His thoughts racing, he turned from the church and walked to the corner, where the street joined Mart Lane. Several bystanders stood about, talking of the wedding party. He picked out two likely informants, managed a smile and approached them.
‘Your pardon, mistress …’ Bending his head, he fixed on the older of the two women. ‘I came to see the wedding – or rather, to see Master Verney and wish him well. But I’ve yet to learn the name of his bride – do you know her?’
‘I do, sir,’ the woman answered. ‘She’s Mistress Wallbank, a cousin of his. They’ve known each other since they were children.’
‘Of course …’ He nodded. ‘Yet, now I think on it, I heard he was betrothed to another – a daughter of Thomas Walden?’ He raised his eyebrows and waited, but he had to work hard to appear only mildly interested at what followed.
‘Oh, sir …’ The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Plainly, you haven’t heard. Mistress Walden ran away – left her father’s house, more than a week ago. But even before that, the wedding had been called off, so I heard. She … Well …’ His informant hesitated, whereupon her friend, a pinched-looking woman with a hard eye, spoke up instead.
‘She was a wanton,’ she said sharply. ‘A sore trial to her father, who is a fine gentleman. If you care to know what I think, Master Verney is well rid of her. Nor did he take it to heart, being the strong man he is, but settled matters at once with the Wallbank family. It was meant to be – even if there was an uncommon speed about it all, banns read quickly and all. But no matter – he’s made a good match, and so has she.’
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 19
