Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot

by John Pilkington

  There was a pause. The pinched woman, having said her piece, drew her cloak about her and eyed her friend, who was blushing.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ the friend said with a sigh. ‘You’ve a tongue like a viper’s – but that’s the nub of it, sir, and no lies told.’

  She looked at Marbeck, who merely nodded and moved off.

  The afternoon waned, and he was in the Pegasus in Cheapside. He had been there for hours and had lost count of how many, but unlike on the last occasion he’d sat here, he wasn’t drunk. The same mug of watered sack stood before him, as it had done since his arrival, still half-full. The only reason he’d not been troubled by the drawers was that one of them remembered him, as the man who’d emptied his purse and told him to take the money for his daughters.

  ‘Whatever you desire, sir, call upon me,’ the portly fellow had said as he served him. ‘You look to me like a man who needs to reflect. None shall disturb you – that’s my promise.’

  Marbeck had indeed needed to think, but his ruminations had achieved little. Over and again he ran conversations with Meriel through his mind – especially the last one, when he’d stood at her father’s door and demanded that she go with him. That night, when he’d sought refuge in Charlotte’s bed, he hadn’t expected to see Meriel again. Now it seemed as if everything had changed, but he was unsure what it meant. If she had indeed fled her father’s house – and he had no reason to disbelieve the women in the street – where would she go? Not to her sister’s, for she would be found. Her other friends would surely be known to Thomas Walden, who would lose no time in searching for her. Nor, Marbeck was certain, would she seek out their mutual friend and his fellow intelligencer, Joseph Gifford. Gifford would shelter her, of course – but he was away now, on some mission for Monk. Which left one question: why had she not tried to find Marbeck?

  That, he decided, troubled him most of all. Meriel was shrewd; moreover, she knew him well, as she knew the kind of places he frequented. Surely, she could have traced him to the Duck and Drake? He’d been in prison for some days, but even so …

  He forced himself to face it: the possibility that she didn’t want to see him. What kept his hopes alive was the belief that her feelings for him remained strong, whatever else had passed. Perhaps even now, he told himself, she was searching London for him, though the notion was daunting. To scour this city of two hundred thousand souls – an ants’ nest, a mass of nooks and crannies – was beyond one person’s powers. And by the same token, how could he possibly find her? Perhaps she’d left London – did she know people elsewhere who might offer a refuge, if only a temporary one?

  But at that, he almost laughed. Here he sat, one of the Crown’s best intelligencers, who’d tracked men here and abroad, in towns and cities, to houses and hovels. He had found a priest hidden in a wall, yet he had no idea where to look for the woman who had been his lover.

  He got up at last, drained his mug and left a coin on the table. The inn was filling up, evening already drawing in. Out in Cheapside, he walked to Goldsmith’s Row and turned into Friday Street, intending to make for Ludgate by the south side of Paul’s. He had nowhere to go but back to his lodging, where he would pass one more night. Beyond that … He had few thoughts beyond that. He was a man with no home and no purpose.

  His mind drifting, he was almost at Watling Street when they seized him.

  He had been followed, of course; he cursed himself for his carelessness, even as he struggled. But this time he was outmatched: he knew it as soon as two pairs of strong arms pinned him, while a third man closed in quickly. He was drawn into a side-alley, dark and deserted, little more than a passageway. Breathless, straining against the weight of two heavy men, he was dragged backwards, his heels bumping on cobbles. Nobody spoke – nor would they, he knew: they were hard fellows, the kind he had even commanded himself. Their gloved hands dug into his arms as they forced him halfway along the ginnel, midway between Friday Street and the Old Exchange. There at last they stopped and slammed him against a wall, so hard that his breath was driven from his body.

  With his back to the brickwork, arms outstretched and as immobile as a scarecrow, he could only face his chief attacker. Only then did he see that the man was masked … and thought of his assailants at Skinners’, black scarves covering their faces. But this was no hired ex-soldier, desperate for payment: he was a seasoned professional, who now lifted a pistol and aimed it directly between Marbeck’s eyes.

  ‘Am I allowed to ask a question, before you rub me out?’ he asked, struggling for breath.

  No answer came; but none was necessary. He saw it clearly and realized he should have entertained this possibility sooner … perhaps since he’d closed the door to Levinus Monk’s chamber in Whitehall. Regrettably or not, I’ll have you killed … The spymaster’s words rang in his head. But that, of course, was before Marbeck had told him he was quitting his service, after which everything the man had said meant little. Who else knew that he would be at St Olave’s church – as he knew that Marbeck would be unable to stop himself going there? He had been watched since then, by men who knew how to remain invisible. He had been watched as he talked to the women on the corner, and then followed back to Cheapside. He’d been watched as he came out of the tavern, followed until a suitable spot presented itself to his assassins. For he was no longer merely an unruly and undisciplined intelligencer, a trial at times, yet tolerated because he brought results. He was now a risk, and a serious one at that. Perhaps he should be flattered, he told himself, for being considered so important …

  He blinked: all these thoughts had rippled through his mind in seconds. Before him all was unchanged: two burly men on either side, holding him fast, just outside his field of vision. Before him loomed their leader, gloved and masked, his pistol levelled. Marbeck gazed down the dark cavern of its muzzle … as he had stared down the one held by Thomas Walden, what seemed like a long time ago. At that moment, he recalled, he’d thought his troubles could be solved by merely allowing that angry man to pull the trigger; now, he had no choice.

  He drew breath and waited. There was a faint rasp and a click as the hammer was drawn back – then a great bang that deafened him, and a lurid flash that blinded him. In a daze, he sagged, feeling his arms let loose … then he hit the ground, all his strength gone.

  Whereupon he looked up and realized he hadn’t been shot.

  But someone else had: one of the two men who’d held him. A heavy-set figure, he now lay on the ground to Marbeck’s left, blood welling from a gaping wound in his temple. His companion, no less heavy-set, was slumped on Marbeck’s right, apparently dazed by a blow. And even as he stared, the third figure – the man who would have killed him – bent over the pursuivant and produced a dagger. He dealt two sharp thrusts into his victim’s chest, then stepped back as blood gushed forth. In a very short time two men lay dead in the ginnel, which was becoming awash with their gore.

  A moment passed, but Marbeck didn’t try to get up. Instead, he peered up at his rescuer, who had been poised to end his life, but was now wiping the blade of his poniard on the breeches of the last victim. Words failed him; he had been about to die, and now he wasn’t.

  ‘Good Christ, Marbeck, won’t you rise?’ the man demanded, straightening up. ‘The shot will raise an alarm, and you’re about to get your breeches blooded. Do I have to lift you?’

  It was Deverell.

  Somehow, Marbeck found his strength. It seemed to come back piecemeal, to one part of his body at a time. He got up, his ears still ringing, found he wasn’t too dizzy and put a hand out to steady himself. Leaning against the wall, he could barely see the face of his saviour in the gloom.

  Finally, he spoke. ‘Monk’s orders, I take it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Deverell pulled his mask down, looked swiftly to one end of the alley and then the other. ‘Come,’ he snapped. ‘We must cut through to Old Fish Street, to a house where you’ll be safe.’ He nodded towards Friday Street, where a figure had appear
ed in silhouette; soon there would be others.

  ‘Well then, I’m in your hands,’ Marbeck said. And he began to walk, stepping over the trickle of blood that flowed into the runnel. Gaining the far end of the alley, he followed Deverell out into the Old Exchange, which was quiet. Thereafter, walking side by side, the two of them headed downhill.

  They crossed Watling Street, paying no heed to passers-by, who in any case saw only two gentlemen making their way to the junction of Knightrider Street and Old Fish Street. Here Deverell turned to his left, leading the way towards the opening of Distaff Lane. But before it, he stopped at a door and knocked. Almost at once it was opened and Marbeck was being ushered into a dark hallway. He was aware of muffled voices, before finally entering a dimly-lit room, where Deverell at once went to the window. He peered out, then, apparently satisfied, pulled a curtain across and turned to Marbeck.

  ‘All’s well,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we weren’t followed … Even Monk wouldn’t have thought it necessary, this time. You’re safe, though I don’t advise you staying here longer than a night.’ He drew a breath. ‘Well – are you content?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Marbeck answered weakly. Seeing a stool, he gestured towards it. ‘May I?’

  ‘I think you should, before you fall over,’ Deverell said. ‘Then I think I’ll take a cup of something strong … Do you care to partake with me?’

  TWENTY-THREE

  It was not a ‘safe house’, in the sense of one used by the Crown’s intelligencers: just now such a place would not have been safe at all. It belonged to a friend of Deverell’s: an invalid who lived in a back chamber, cared for by his daughter – a spindle-thin girl who looked often at Marbeck, but was too shy to speak. After night had fallen, with a bellman calling the hour outside, he sat and heard his rescuer out in silence.

  ‘The facts are not propitious,’ Deverell said. ‘You’re a dead man … I have to inform Monk of that. I took his instruction last night, without comment or complaint. He knows I loathe him, but he also knows I’ll do as ordered … Why should I not? There was little affection between you and I in the past, and in any case, you were a threat that had to be removed. Indeed, you are still, dead or not … You must see it yourself.’

  After a while, Marbeck nodded. ‘How will you explain the deaths of those two in the alley?’

  ‘I’ll say you fought like a demon, of course. You’re not an easy man to kill – Monk knows that. You stabbed one of them and knocked my hand aside as I fired the pistol, so the other poor fellow was hit instead. After that, I ran you through with my sword …’ Deverell gave a shrug. ‘He’ll believe me in the end. I’d hardly return to his service if I’d betrayed him, would I?’

  ‘Is that what you intend to do – remain in his service?’

  ‘What other life am I suited for?’ the other replied. Then with a frown, he added: ‘For that matter, what other life will you have? You can’t stay in London – you know that.’

  ‘I do …’ Marbeck looked away. Only hours ago, his mind filled with thoughts of Meriel, he’d had little care for his own future. Now, it looked as if he might have none at all.

  ‘Nor can you go back to the Duck and Drake,’ Deverell was saying. ‘If you wish, I’ll go there and gather your belongings. I’d better fetch your horse too—’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘Besides, Cobb won’t let another man lead him nowadays. I’d be grateful for my pack; it’s not been opened, since I was supposed to be gone yesterday. Tomorrow, at first light, I’ll go for the horse. I doubt the stables are watched … As you said, I’m a dead man, am I not?’

  A weariness swept over him. Despite everything, he believed he would sleep this night; tomorrow, he didn’t care to think upon. It struck him that vague notions of going back to his family in the North were as chaff: nowhere in England was safe. So – had it come to this: that for all his loyal service, he had little choice now but to flee the land of his birth and offer his skills to another power, as men had tried to persuade him to do? Was he, in the end, no better than Charlotte de Baume after all: a spy – even a killer – for hire?

  ‘There is, of course, one other possibility, albeit slight.’

  He looked up to see Deverell watching him.

  Taking a drink of the weak wine they’d shared, his rescuer thought for a moment, then said: ‘It’s a very long shot. But were we to go to Monk together and spin a different tale … Were you to throw yourself on his mercy, claim you never intended to leave the service, but were angling for better payment—’

  ‘No.’ Marbeck met his eye, letting the other see his resolve. ‘I won’t do that. Even if it were possible, I could never trust him again; nor would he trust me. As for our Lord Secretary …’ He shrugged. ‘Once he got wind of it, he’d order my death just to be safe, after he’d weighed the risks, as he always does. We’re expendable, Deverell … even the best of us. Which includes you.’

  They both fell silent. The hour was late, the owners of the house already abed. Finally, Deverell rose and said he would go home to his wife. ‘You should have married, Marbeck,’ he said quietly. ‘When all’s said and done, a man needs a little comfort … even you.’ And he went, saying he would return in the early morning.

  After he’d gone Marbeck sat in the dark, until the midnight chime of Paul’s sounded. Then he lay on the rush-strewn floor, on a bed of his own clothes, and let sleep overcome him.

  At dawn, cloaked and hatted, he left the house in Old Fish Street. He had his pack and had bidden Deverell a hurried farewell. When they’d parted, there was nothing left to say; a brief handshake had to serve.

  Hurriedly, he made his way through back streets, to the stable in St Martins. The place was in gloom, with no light showing. Finding the entrance barred, he knocked gently. After a while there was a stir within; a door creaked open, and Oliver appeared in shirt sleeves.

  ‘Master Tucker?’ The ostler blinked in the dim light. ‘What’s the coil? It’s unlike you to come at such an hour …’

  ‘It’s the last time,’ Marbeck said, and pushed his way in.

  In the semi-darkness, with the warm smell of hay and the muffled stamping of hooves on straw, he relaxed slightly. Cobb was in the farthest stall as usual and lifted his head at his master’s approach. For a while horse and rider stood, Marbeck stroking the animal’s mane. Behind him, Oliver was making a spark to light a lantern.

  ‘It’s just you and me now,’ Marbeck said softly, rubbing Cobb’s forehead. ‘Let’s shake London dust from our feet, shall we?’ Then he turned, saying: ‘Can you make up a bag of feed for him, with oats? A bigger one than before.’

  ‘I can.’ Having hung up the lantern, Oliver faced him, digging his pipe out for his first smoke of the day. ‘But see now,’ he muttered, ‘when you said it was the last time, do you mean you’re taking Cobb away for keeps?’

  ‘I do,’ Marbeck answered. ‘You’ve no need to fret – I’ve payment here and a shilling for yourself to toast my departure. Would you have a dried apple or two you could spare?’

  ‘I might …’ Oliver stuck his ancient pipe in his mouth and summoned a faint smile, which was a surprise; as a rule he was the most morose of men. Marbeck watched him go off towards the tack-room, which often served as the man’s bedchamber.

  Moving to the harness rack, he found Cobb’s saddle and bridle. He was about to ready the animal, when a sound made him turn. Oliver was standing by the open door to his lair, still wearing the grin which, to Marbeck’s eye, looked somewhat forced.

  ‘Will you step in here, sir?’ he called. ‘There’s a reckoning made up for the time Cobb’s lodged here – only, I don’t read too well. If you’d care to run your eye over it, make sure all’s fair and good, we’ll settle up. ’Tis not for myself … My master’s a stickler for such frippery.’

  Marbeck hesitated, but only briefly; everything should appear as normal. Putting down the saddle, he walked across the straw-covered floor. ‘I always thought you were the owner
of this stable, Oliver,’ he said as he reached the door. ‘Or part-owner, at least … I never knew you had a master.’

  Oliver was already in the dusty little room, rustling papers. Marbeck squeezed inside, between piles of old harness and assorted jumble. Seeing the man bent over a shelf with his back to him, he stepped forward … and came up with a jolt as something solid was jammed against his spine.

  ‘Did you not?’ a harsh voice cried. ‘Well, that shows you don’t know everything, Tucker!’

  Marbeck stood rigid. He felt hot breath on the back of his neck and smelled the odour of strong drink. In front of him, Oliver was backing into a corner, out of reach. His grin was gone … and once again, Marbeck knew the bitter taste of betrayal; as he knew who it was, pressing a pistol to his back.

  ‘Turn round slowly – and no tricks!’ Skinner ordered, his voice hoarse as a rusty lock. ‘My hand’s somewhat shaky of late … I wouldn’t want to shoot you before I’m ready.’

  So Marbeck turned about carefully, his hands away from his sides, and faced his old landlord. He blinked, for the man was a sorry sight: haggard and unkempt, with a mark on one cheek that could have been a burn. He wore the same clothes Marbeck had last seen on him – when he’d sat on the floor of the bowling alley, his arm dripping blood. That arm was bandaged, but it didn’t prevent the man from holding, with both hands, what turned out to be a caliver: an old army gun, cocked and primed.

  ‘Well-a-day …’ Marbeck allowed himself a sigh. ‘How long have you been bedding down here, Skinner?’

  ‘How long?’ the other echoed. ‘Ever since my house got burned down – for I’d nowhere else to go! But now my luck’s turned, has it not? I want to see you cack your breeches, Tucker – for you’ve precious little time left on this earth!’

  There was a stir from behind. ‘Not in here,’ Oliver said harshly. ‘Take him outside, as you swore you would, else the horses will take fright and bolt.’ The man was nervous; Marbeck heard him shifting from one foot to another. It was he, of course, who had told Skinner he would be arriving today to collect Cobb.