The other blinked. He was a flinty little man, clean-shaven and clad from head to foot in dusty black. ‘Who are you, and what do you want with me?’ he asked. They stood in the doorway of his home, Slowpenny with a high-crowned hat in his hand. Marbeck wore a plain black cloak and no sword and carried a similar hat, which he had managed to find on a stall. Twisting its brim in feigned nervousness, he bent closer.
‘I hoped you might have news of a friend,’ he said. ‘I went to join him in the Gogmagog Hills by Cambridge, but he had gone … I’ve spent weeks trying to find him.’
The doctor gave a start, and a look of suspicion appeared. ‘There was someone else here yesterday, asking questions,’ he murmured. ‘I told him I’d never heard of that man, and I’ll say the same to you—’
‘What man?’ Marbeck broke in. ‘I’ve named no names. I came here because I was told you were one of faith and soberness. One brave enough to challenge the squalid reign of Elizabeth Tudor – to speak the truth as written in scripture.’
The other hesitated, and a touch of pink appeared on his cheeks; he was not immune to vanity after all. ‘Yet I fail to see how I can help you,’ he answered. ‘You’re asking for news I cannot give …’ And he would have moved to the door, had Marbeck not stayed him.
‘I merely wish to find him, and hear him preach,’ he protested. ‘To converse with him, as I would have at Gogmagog – where’s the harm? I believe you’re a man of principle, but also of charity. Can you not at least send me away with some hope? Point me towards good Doctor Gow, that I may clasp his hand as I yearn to do!’
But Slowpenny remained stony-faced, and merely nodded towards the door. So with an effort, Marbeck produced his last card. It was a Ballard trick, of course: focus your mind upon a painful memory from childhood, the old player had once told him, and the tears will come. So screwing up his face, he forced himself, and was rewarded by his eyes filling and drops coursing down his cheeks. To his relief, the ruse worked.
‘Great heaven …’ More in embarrassment than in sympathy, the barber-surgeon relented. ‘Brother, this will not do … you’d better come and take a restorative.’ He led the way to the rear of his cramped premises. Marbeck sat on a stool, shaking his head and wiping his eyes, while the other fussed about, preparing a mix of powders and liquids.
‘You are most kind, doctor.’ Marbeck took the cup from him and sipped the foul-tasting brew. ‘My weakness confounds me; our leaders of old, like the great Calvin, would be ashamed.’
‘No doubt.’ Slowpenny looked uncomfortable. ‘See, I must go soon. You may rest here a while – but with regard to the other matter …’ He shook his head. ‘I deem you a believer, yet I fear to aid you. Our brother Isaac – yes, I will name him – has been sore pressed in recent weeks. Arrested for no good reason, pursued after he bravely escaped—’
‘Arrested?’ Marbeck looked horrified. ‘No … that is too hard to bear! But can I not join him, and share his tribulations? At least tell me in which direction I should go, dear friend – will you not do that?’
A moment passed; he held his expression, of earnestness mingled with deep concern, until at last the barber-surgeon sighed and pointed through the window. ‘You’d best journey north,’ he said. ‘There’s a house on the edge of Brampton village that belonged to a friend of his – the Tyrrell house. I know not if he is there still, for he moves about a great deal. But you may get news …’ He shook his head again. ‘I pray you’re in time, for our poor brother is sick … yet one day he shall be raised in rapture. God preserve him!’
‘Amen …’ With a sigh, Marbeck stood up. ‘I’ll go at once.’
He placed the cup of medicine in Slowpenny’s hand; the man took it absently, then saw that it had hardly been touched. He glanced up, but all he saw was Marbeck’s back disappearing through the doorway.
Brampton was fifteen miles away. On Cobb, Marbeck could have reached it by noon, but he was obliged to go slowly, Rowan’s horse being as wearied by recent exertions as its rider. The two reached the village by mid-afternoon, and after watering their mounts, obtained directions to the Tyrrell house. But as they left the main road and turned onto a track that led through fields, they slowed down instinctively.
A large timbered house had appeared ahead. This had been a farmstead, Marbeck saw, but it was run-down, and he was reminded of the place at Gogmagog; there was the same silence, the same air of watchfulness. There were no mules, however, nor smoke from the chimney. He and Rowan walked their horses to the front of the house and halted. No one appeared, so they dismounted and approached the door; both sensed that something was wrong.
‘Let me go first,’ Rowan said, and drew his sword. Marbeck loosened his in the scabbard, his eyes sweeping the house. They mounted a step, Rowan lifted the latch and threw the door wide. It opened with a creak … and as one, they stopped dead. Stretched out across the hallway was a man who appeared to be in the throes of agony. As they stared, he raised his head and gazed imploringly at them.
‘Help me … for the love of Christ …’
Sheathing his sword, Rowan went forward. Marbeck followed – and recognition dawned. ‘This man was with Gow at Gogmagog,’ he said.
The front of the man’s doublet was covered with vomit. ‘It works through me!’ he gasped. ‘I’m slain, like the others …’ His hands clawed his stomach. ‘It burns … horrible!’
‘He’s been poisoned,’ Rowan said, but Marbeck gave a start. ‘Others?’ he echoed. ‘Henry …’
He listened, but there was no sound. Quickly he moved along the hallway, peering through open doorways. Rowan came after. At the end was a wide chamber, lit by the afternoon sun; they hurried in – and froze.
Two men were sprawled by a large table, where the remains of a meal lay. One Marbeck recognized immediately: the oldest of Gow’s company, white-haired Silas, whom he had last seen in the house by St Neots. The other … he breathed out in relief: it wasn’t Henry Scroop. Then dismay overcame him.
The man was John Chyme.
‘By heaven … what foul business was done here?’
Rowan stood beside Marbeck, dumbfounded. Silas had seemingly expired where he sat, half-drooped across a bench. His eyes were open, while his hands clutched his stomach, like those of the man in the hallway. Chyme had apparently got up from the table and staggered several feet before collapsing on the floor. There were traces of vomit about his mouth.
‘All poisoned?’ Marbeck looked at the table, noticing several overturned cups from which red wine had spilled. Then he knelt beside Chyme, feeling the great artery in his neck. There was no pulse, but the body was barely cold. The young man – handsome still, but clad in the plain clothing he had donned to infiltrate the company – looked as if he were merely asleep. With a heavy heart, Marbeck bent his head.
‘What in God’s name was this – a last supper?’
Rowan was sniffing one of the wine cups. He gestured to the dishes, some of which were untouched. ‘The food’s cold,’ he said. ‘I’ll wager it happened hours ago …’ He gave a start, as a cry came from the hallway. Marbeck turned, tearing his gaze from the body of his friend.
‘Let’s hear what the other can tell us,’ he murmured.
The man was where they had left him, whimpering with pain. As they knelt beside him, he turned a haggard face to Marbeck. ‘Gone …’ he breathed. ‘He threatened to leave us before … he trusts no one now … not even Silas. He said we’d break bread together, for the last time …’
‘The boy – Henry.’ Marbeck lifted the man’s head and cradled it. ‘Where is he?’
‘Gone too …’ came the hoarse reply. ‘He won’t leave him …’ The man’s face creased in anguish. ‘He must have known … he didn’t drink …’
‘The wine,’ Rowan said. When Marbeck turned sharply, he added: ‘Laced with poison: I’m certain of it.’
‘Poison …’ The dying man gazed at them. ‘Aye … ’twas in our company! What fools we were to believe all he said –
we were charmed, as by a sorcerer!’
Marbeck glanced at Rowan, who shook his head: the fellow had not long to live. ‘Where has Gow gone?’ he asked sharply. But there was no answer, only a grunt of pain.
‘You must tell us,’ Marbeck persisted. ‘For the boy’s sake, if nothing else …’
‘To perdition!’ The man’s breathing was laboured, and there was terror in his gaze. ‘Where he would have led us, too. God save us all …’ His eyes closed; the last member of Isaac Gow’s flock let out a hoarse breath, then went limp. Marbeck laid his head on the floor and stood up heavily, while Rowan gazed down at the prone figure.
‘Let’s assume the worst, then,’ he said at last. ‘Shall we on to York?’
Marbeck barely nodded.
There was no time to waste, but a long ride lay ahead of them, and already the day was waning. So reluctantly they decided to leave the following morning, when the horses would be fully rested. There was time for a search of the ill-fated farmhouse, but it yielded nothing. There was also time for Rowan to find the constable in Brampton, and tell him of mischief at the Tyrrell house to be investigated; though to the man’s dismay he would not stay to tell more. Having found an inn at Gainsborough, some seven miles further north, they ate and slept, leaving the village at dawn.
There was little to be said that day. The green flatlands of Lincolnshire sped by; by afternoon they had crossed the Humber, and entered the East Riding of Yorkshire. Their progress was good, and as they rode up the valley of the River Ouse, there was an opportunity for talk. Both men were preoccupied with the discovery of the day before, but for Marbeck the matter was graver. The death of John Chyme, let alone the danger Henry Scroop might now be in, weighed heavily upon him.
‘You truly think Gow intends a plot against the King’s life?’ Rowan asked. Having watered the horses at the last village, they were now walking them. From Selby they intended to make speed, and reach York before evening.
‘I believe so,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Indeed, I’ve suspected it since I saw the rage in the man.’
‘He deems himself a martyr,’ Rowan said. ‘He seeks death … but what of the boy?’
Marbeck didn’t answer for a while. He was recalling the letter Henry had sent to Celia; now, its portent was grim indeed. ‘Edward Poyns thought Gow was using him in some way,’ he said, then shook his head. ‘I know not. He said Gow was mad enough for anything.’
‘Well, he seems to want Henry’s company, or he’d have poisoned him along with the others,’ Rowan said grimly. ‘And I let that devil escape! If anything happens to the boy – let alone the King …’
‘Racking yourself is no use,’ Marbeck said shortly. ‘If anyone has cause to do so it’s me. I could have asked Prout to let John Chyme go with me into Kent … he could be alive …’
‘Or blown to smithereens, along with your friend Llewellyn,’ Rowan countered. When Marbeck said nothing, he went on: ‘You’re right: this will avail us nothing. Let’s find the King’s party – whether he’s at York, or further off. No doubt our crookback master will be nearby, whereupon I’ll demand an audience with him; and I mean to demand it, if I have to fight my way to him.’
He turned to Marbeck, who merely shrugged and gathered up Cobb’s reins. ‘Are you ready?’ He asked.
For answer, Rowan put his foot in the stirrup and mounted.
Once in the saddle they started to trot, then to canter. A further ten miles lay ahead, but the light was good. Soon they were speeding along the North Road again, until on the brow of a low hill they stopped to gaze ahead. There in the distance, the outline of Clifford’s Tower could be seen, and to the left, that of St Peter’s.
So at last Marbeck and Rowan entered the great city of York, to a peal of bells and an air of high excitement – and very soon they learned the cause.
It was Saturday the sixteenth of April; and James Stuart had arrived a day before them.
SEVENTEEN
King James, the sixth of Scotland and first of England, had been welcomed at York with great show of loyalty by the mayor and populace. With the King was a large train of followers: noblemen, servants and hangers-on, both Scottish and English. Others were arriving by the hour, to swell the crowds; the city was packed, with people flocking from far afield. The royal party was lodged at the King’s Manor, on the north-west side of the city by Marygate: the seat of the Council of the North. Here too were the Cecils: Lord Thomas, the Council’s President, and his half-brother, Sir Robert. That same evening, Marbeck sent a message in cipher to Master Secretary, begging him for an audience on a matter of gravest importance. He sent it by a man he recognized, one of Cecil’s own household who, encouraged by a generous tip, promised to deliver it to his master soon. After that, there was little to do but wait.
There was no room anywhere, of course; every inn, tavern and alehouse was filled to bursting point. The two intelligencers managed to get fodder for their horses and a supper for themselves, but only by paying high prices for both. Finally, to escape the throng they walked along the river by St Martin’s. Night had fallen, and torches stood along the bank.
‘If Gow is here, he’ll be hard to find,’ Marbeck observed. ‘But if he intends mischief he’ll show himself at last, disguised or not. I only hope we recognize him.’
‘I’ll recognize him – have no fear upon that,’ Rowan said.
They walked in silence, among strolling couples and larger groups, picking up snatches of conversation. The King had been stag-hunting on the moors, someone said; he was a great man for the chase. Another remarked on the coarseness of his Scottish followers, as rough in manners as in dress. Someone else spoke of James’s awkwardness; rumour had it he did not enjoy formal ceremonies. That was unfortunate, a man nearby said, for tomorrow he had to endure another. Overhearing this, Marbeck glanced at Rowan.
‘We must find out where that will be. Likely it’s at St Peter’s … the Minster.’
‘Perhaps he means to dub a few more knights,’ Rowan suggested, with a sardonic look.
They had walked westwards almost to the city wall, and the ruined St Mary’s Abbey. Behind another wall was the King’s Manor. It would be well guarded, Marbeck knew; but the thought of a large public ceremony on the morrow made him uneasy. The monarch was always exposed on such occasions: an opportunity for Isaac Gow to make his move. He was musing upon it, when he felt a tug on his sleeve.
‘I think someone here knows you,’ Rowan said.
He turned sharply – and his heart sank. Walking towards him was none other than his former master at Barnes: the bumbling courtier, Sir Thomas Croft.
‘Richard Strang, as I live and breathe!’
‘Sir Thomas …’ Marbeck managed a bow. ‘An honour … and such a surprise.’
‘So I observe.’ The knight, dressed in a garish suit of yellow and crimson, looked him up and down. ‘I would have words with you, concerning the way you left my house without even a farewell. You were remiss, Strang – and insolent!’
‘So I was, sir …’ Marbeck forced a contrite look. ‘Yet I had family business that would not wait. But surely you’ll not begrudge a loyal subject wishing to set eyes on our new King?’
The other grunted, and his gaze fell on Rowan, who stood stiffly to one side. ‘Is this a kinsman of yours?’
Marbeck hesitated, but mercifully Rowan came to his rescue.
‘Merely an acquaintance, sir,’ he said amiably. ‘Master … Strang and I travelled together, to see His Majesty. There’s to be a great occasion tomorrow – at the Minster, we hear …’
‘Then you hear falsely,’ Croft retorted, with the air of one who was in the know. ‘The King will preside on the green before Marygate, when poor citizens and yeomen may have sight of him. They say he will touch the sick, as did the great monarchs of old.’
‘Indeed …?’ Rowan inclined his head, but both he and Marbeck had stiffened. ‘That will be … a joyous event.’
‘How does the Lady Margery, sir?’ Marbeck a
sked quickly. ‘Is she here too, or …’
‘She is not,’ Sir Thomas answered. ‘She remains at Barnes with our family. Speaking of whom, you have much to do, Strang, to repair relations with Lady Alice. She’s been out of sorts since you went off in such a precipitate manner.’
‘I’ll visit her and make amends,’ Marbeck said. ‘Yet I trust another tutor may be found. Such are ten a penny.’
‘So they are, now I think upon it.’ Sir Thomas sniffed, clearly thinking he had spent long enough talking to men of no importance. With a final glance at them both he started to go, then frowned. ‘Just where is it you’re from, Strang?’ he asked. ‘Somewhere here in the north, isn’t it?’
‘Not here exactly, Sir Thomas,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Nowhere you would know …’ but the man was already striding off. They watched until he was out of sight.
‘So, who is Lady Alice?’ Rowan asked, raising his brows. Marbeck merely sighed.
The Sabbath dawned fair but chilly, with a breeze blowing down from the moors. Unable to find accommodation, the two intelligencers had spent the night in a stable with their horses, after bribing the ostler to let them bed down on the straw. As the city stirred into life they went to an ordinary, the first customers of the day. Over a breakfast of porridge and stewed fruit they made their plans. Marbeck had walked the city streets the previous night, picking up what news he could.
‘Croft might be mistaken about the King touching sick people to heal them,’ he told Rowan. ‘From what I’ve learned, he thinks such old practices mere superstition … and he shrinks from contact with ordinary folk.’
‘He’s an odd fellow,’ Rowan said. ‘Learned as a judge, I hear, yet slobbers like a beggar.’ He thought for a moment. ‘We’ll join the throng – but first we should go to the manor and accost Crookback Robert.’
‘You mean bluff our way in?’ Marbeck looked sceptical. ‘None can get near the house. He has my message … I’ve said I’ll wait near the manor, if he should send for me.’
Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Page 16