Marbeck stepped back as men came hurrying in with tools. Grey fingers of dawn were poking through the curtains, and he moved across the room to draw them back. He was hoping he wouldn’t be needed, now that the hunt was almost finished. Having little relish for what might follow, he found his shoes and sat down to put them on. Fully dressed, he stood by as work proceeded: a hammering and gouging that raised clouds of dust from the hiding-hole.
Deverell watched closely, then turned to a man who stood by. ‘Gather the servants, have them keep to the kitchens. And send word to Mistress Warlake … though I wager she’s up already.’ Briskly, he addressed the others. ‘I want every ground floor room guarded, and the cellars beneath. There might be a concealed stair, or a hole big enough for our rat to crawl through. Watch the outside, too. Cover every door and window – I don’t intend to lose him now!’
It was done swiftly, pursuivants moving off through the great house. Doors banged, and from the stairs came the shriek of a frightened servant girl. But when Marbeck moved, as if to join the others, Deverell beckoned to him.
‘Come over here, for I may need you.’
So Marbeck was obliged to join him, and to watch the operation proceed to its close. It didn’t take long: in a matter of minutes, two men had knocked a ragged hole in the second wall, revealing another dark cavity behind. Now there came the unmistakable smell of a candle, recently snuffed out. And there was another smell, too, far less pleasant …
‘By the Christ!’ The man wielding the hammer drew back, bumping into his companion. ‘The bastard’s filled his chamber-pot – how long has he been in there?’ He wrinkled his nose, but there was humour in his gaze. Like his master, he relished his task now that success was near. Having dealt a few further blows, he nodded to the second man. This one hooked a pickaxe in and dislodged more bricks, narrowly avoiding them as they fell. Dust flew everywhere, prompting a few coughs.
Close by, Deverell stood impassively, but Marbeck saw the controlled anger in the man’s eyes and knew what would follow. He was about to turn away – then he gave a start. So did the men, the one with the pickaxe jerking back in alarm.
Like some ghost in the half-light, a figure had appeared on the other side of the opening. Bending down, the man showed his face: pale, and grimed with dust. His spade-shaped beard was silver-grey, his hair cut to little more than a stubble, while a black skullcap was set tightly on his head. In the shocked silence that fell, he eyed his discoverers, then spoke in a soft voice.
‘Permit me to spare you further effort, sirs. I have no other means of egress, since you appear to have blocked it off. If you’ll be good enough to assist me, I will come to you.’
They stared at him, as if at some inhabitant of another world – as in a way he was, Marbeck thought briefly. Glancing at Deverell’s men, he saw unease on their faces. Perhaps it was the fugitive priest’s dignity, or the gentleness of his tone that had startled them …
‘Bring him out, and keep a firm grip – likely, he’s as slippery as an eel!’
Deverell’s voice was harsh, and at once the spell was broken. Dropping their tools, the men bent forward. Slowly and stiffly the priest raised a knee, pushing his dusty black robe up his bare thigh as he did so. With difficulty he was manhandled out of the hiding-place, the two men gripping his upper arms. His skin was scraped by the rough edges of the brickwork, drawing blood, but he made no sound. Finally, somewhat short of breath and smelling like a horse, he was pulled from the hole into the room … whereupon he stood to his full height, prompting a collective intake of breath. At more than six feet tall, he dwarfed those around him.
‘Well, sirs, I thank you.’ Calmly, he surveyed his captors, settling finally on Deverell. ‘No doubt this has been an ordeal for all of us … Might I beg a cup of water? My throat is somewhat parched.’
But Deverell eyed him, shaking his head. ‘Neither food nor drink shall pass your lips,’ he said in a voice as hard as flint, ‘until you’ve told me what I want to know.’ He faced Marbeck. ‘Will you find a suitable place in which to question our friend? Meanwhile I’ll get myself dressed … Do you want to take breakfast with me?’
With a heavy heart, Marbeck turned away.
NINE
It was a cellar: cold, dank and windowless, heavy with the smell of apples laid down for the winter. Lanterns had been brought in, and a space cleared. The prisoner was bound to a central pillar, hands behind his head, which obliged him to stoop slightly since the ceiling was low. Two men stood guard, even though escape was impossible. When his interrogator, as Deverell had become, descended the staircase with Marbeck, the priest barely glanced at them. At once the spymaster approached him, while Marbeck found a seat by the wall.
‘Your name,’ Deverell began without preamble. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Ralph Cornford, of the Society of Jesus.’
‘Are you alone? If there are others of your order concealed here, speak and spare them further hardship. For they’ll be found in time – you know it well enough.’
‘There are none here, save me.’ Father Cornford gazed steadily at his captor. Though weak from his confinement, and no doubt hungry as well as thirsty, he appeared resigned to his fate.
‘And who sent you?’
‘Sent me?’ The priest raised his brows. ‘I’m an Englishman, born and bred. Do I need leave to travel in—’
‘You know what I ask,’ Deverell broke in. Since dawn he had appeared satisfied with his success and was trying to be patient. ‘Who sent you over here, to this country?’
‘Well then, the superiors of my Society,’ Cornford replied. ‘If that’s what you wish to hear.’
‘Why?’
‘To bring back wandering souls to their maker.’
‘No …’ Grimly, Deverell shook his head. ‘You came here to seduce people from the King’s allegiance to the Pope’s – and to meddle in state business.’
‘You’re mistaken, for I’ve no interest in that,’ came the firm reply. ‘The head of our order has spoken against such policy – my concern is with matters spiritual, and nothing more.’
‘If you mean Claudio Aquaviva in Rome, I curse him,’ Deverell said contemptuously. ‘He’s a heretic, with no dominion here. Now, tell me how long you’ve lived in this house.’
But at that the priest hesitated, and those watching knew why: by admitting he’d been sheltered by the Warlake family, he would condemn them.
Deverell, however, was having none of it. ‘Forbear to waste my time,’ he snapped. ‘Your hosts will answer for their actions, come what may. My reports suggest you’ve been here for at least a month, so speak.’
‘Then, does it matter what I say?’ Father Cornford sighed. His discomfort was great, but he bore it with stoicism. ‘I came here of my own free will, under no man’s persuasion. What more can I tell? Have I held Masses since I arrived in England? Yes, many. Yet I ask not the names of those who seek me out.’
Deverell thought, then unexpectedly turned to Marbeck. ‘Do you have questions for him?’ he asked sharply.
Taken aback, Marbeck met his eye; the man was drawing him in deliberately, forcing him to take part. Concealing his reluctance, he got up and came forward. ‘Which part of England were you sent to minister to, Father Cornford?’ he asked. ‘The Eastern Counties? Or have you journeyed here from elsewhere?’
There was no answer at first. The priest was in difficulties, with the awkward posture he was forced to adopt. Finally, he returned Marbeck’s gaze and said stiffly: ‘I’m always travelling. There isn’t a county I haven’t visited … What does it matter where I lay my head? My work is the same, wherever—’
‘Your work!’ In spite of himself, Deverell’s impatience was growing. ‘Twisting men’s hearts and minds, spouting Roman poison? That’s over – as your miserable life will be soon, on the end of a rope …’ With an effort, the spymaster checked himself. Whereupon, as if he hadn’t heard, Marbeck resumed.
‘You must tell of the houses wher
e you’ve lodged,’ he said. ‘And give the names of those who’ve harboured you – or you may be taken elsewhere and forced to speak. It’s but a matter of time, for even you will testify in the end. Everyone does.’
But even as he spoke, he saw Cornford’s resolve hardening. This man was well aware of the risk of torture; likely, he had been preparing himself for it from the time of his discovery. He paused, working his dry mouth, then said: ‘Take me away then, and do what you will. My future is in the hands of a power far greater than yours.’
‘Your future?’ Deverell was struggling to contain himself now. ‘You have none! Once you’ve been stretched until your limbs tear out, you’ll give full testimony – and wish there were more you could tell. What can this stubbornness avail you?’ He paused, then levelled a finger at his captive. ‘Or must I have others brought here to join you – servants, even your gentle hostess? Do you think her resolve will prove as strong as yours?’
It was an empty threat; Marbeck and the other watchers knew it. But a shadow passed across the priest’s face. He swallowed, then in a hoarse voice answered: ‘Their fate, like mine, lies in God’s hands … and in His name, I pity you.’
‘You do what?’ The effect on Deverell was striking. With an oath he darted forward and seized the man’s dirty cassock, pulling it tight about his neck. ‘You whoreson wretch … You think to set yourself above me? I serve God and my King – not the demons of Rome! I’ve a mind to treat you as I would any low villain that’s been taken in felony—’ In a fury, he broke off and looked at Marbeck.
‘Help me strip him to the waist,’ he ordered. ‘You …’ He turned to one of the other men. ‘Find a switch, or a horsewhip – a belt, even! I’ve a mind to administer a flogging and see how his pride stands after that!’
Without a word, the pursuivant went to the steps and ascended. The other man stood stock-still, but Marbeck caught the look in his eye: the fellow liked this no more than he did.
‘It isn’t in our warrant,’ he began, taking a step forward – but Deverell turned on him.
‘I told you to aid me,’ he snapped. ‘No matter: my nerve won’t fail me, even if yours has.’ With that he drew his poniard.
Instinctively, Marbeck moved to stay him, but Deverell shifted the weapon to his other hand. Using it like a butcher’s knife, he slashed Cornford’s cassock from neck to shoulder. Then he dropped the dagger, gripped the thick cloth and, to the alarm of his victim, began to rip it apart. In a moment he had torn the robe roughly from the man’s body, peeling it downwards. Then as Marbeck stood by, restraining himself with difficulty, the spymaster seized the hapless priest by the shoulders and turned him about. The man cried out as his arms were twisted violently … and then, a silence fell.
It was so intense that the only sound was that of Father Cornford wheezing in pain. The three other men stared at the priest’s exposed torso, before beginning to stir. The pursuivant, who had come forward, took an involuntary step away. After a moment Deverell too backed off, dropping his eyes. But Marbeck remained where he stood, gazing at the priest’s bare back. From neck to waist, it was a mass of bruised and scarred skin: old wounds that had healed but were yet livid; others that were raw, even fresh. From some abrasions blood welled: the result of Deverell’s action, which had raked the scabs off. Even for men used to violence, it was a sobering sight.
Finally, since even the spymaster seemed lost for words, Marbeck spoke. ‘How does your notion of dealing him a flogging stand now?’ he enquired, keeping emotion from his voice. ‘For it looks as if someone has gone before you – the prisoner himself, I’d say.’
Deverell made no answer, and to Marbeck’s surprise, there was shame in his eyes. So without a word Marbeck drew his own poniard and, standing on tiptoe, reached up to cut the priest’s bonds. The dagger’s edge being somewhat blunt, it took a little time. But finally, with a groan, Cornford was able to free his arms. At once he sank to the floor and began gathering his tattered robe about himself, to cover the evidence of his own self-scourging. Breathing hard, he looked up at Marbeck.
‘My thanks to you, sir.’
But Marbeck turned on Deverell. ‘With your leave,’ he said, in a voice that suggested he didn’t care whether he received it or not, ‘I’ll get someone to tend the man’s hurts. He can hardly travel to London like this, can he?’
For a moment Deverell looked as if he would offer a retort, but instead he wavered. ‘Find a healing-woman, then,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘I’ve done my part here.’ He glanced round as footsteps sounded on the stairs.
The pursuivant appeared, a switch in his hand. But on reaching the floor, he stopped.
‘We won’t be needing that,’ Deverell snapped. ‘Bring bread and water for the prisoner instead.’ And when the other showed surprise, he allowed his anger to resurface. ‘Are you deaf? Go – and have the lady of the house attend me again.’
Finally, he faced Marbeck and spoke low. ‘We return to London at midday, with the prisoner. I’ll leave men to keep Mistress Warlake under house arrest. Let Monk take the matter further. I’ve other business to deal with – as do you.’
He moved off, instructing his follower to remain and guard the priest. Others would be sent to the cellar too, Marbeck heard him say; as if the black-clad figure, still slumped on the floor, were capable of flight. He was on the point of following Deverell up the stair, when something made him hesitate. Looking round, he found the priest gazing at him.
‘Is there aught else you need?’ Marbeck asked, for want of something to say.
‘No … and again, I thank you,’ Cornford answered. ‘Or rather …’ He hesitated, then: ‘In the place where I was you’ll find certain objects, one of them a bible. I would beg you …’
‘I’ll fetch it,’ Marbeck said at once.
Upstairs the house was filled with activity, Deverell’s men moving about at their various tasks. The hayloft had been sorely depleted, he heard one say, as well as the larders, so it was as well they were leaving. Meanwhile, the servants were still penned in the kitchen, no one having bothered to ask what should be done with them.
Deverell was in the downstairs room, waiting impatiently for Mildred Warlake to be brought to him. When Marbeck entered and made for the priest-hole, he frowned. ‘Leave everything there as it was,’ he ordered. ‘The chalice, the pyx and the rest – they’re evidence.’
‘He asks for his bible,’ Marbeck replied. ‘I didn’t think it could do any harm.’
‘Then find another one.’
So Marbeck looked about the house, moving through the destruction wreaked by the searchers, and finally came upon a small bible in a case of books. Learning, with some relief, that Deverell didn’t need him when he confronted Mistress Warlake again, he returned to the cellar.
Two guards stood at the foot of the stairs, but on seeing who it was they moved aside. Father Cornford was now seated on a box and seemed to have regained some composure. When Marbeck approached him with the bible, he even managed a wan smile.
‘Once again, sir, I’m in your debt,’ he said. Taking the book, he pressed it to his chest. ‘Might I know your name?’
‘Tucker,’ Marbeck said – then stiffened; the look on the other’s face showed that he didn’t believe him.
‘Master … Tucker.’ Cornford met his eye. ‘Would you deign to spend a moment with me?’
But Marbeck raised a warning hand. ‘I can’t – I’d have to fetch witnesses. You won’t be left alone again – at least, not until you reach prison. There you may be allowed to join others of your faith … though I couldn’t swear to it.’
‘I understand, but—’ The priest broke off.
Marbeck caught a different look in his eye and found himself frowning.
‘The matter is, I know I haven’t long to live,’ the other told him. But again he wavered, and Marbeck thought he understood.
‘If you wish to make confession to another priest, that too must wait,’ he said – whereupon Cornford sh
ook his head.
‘No … you misunderstand me.’ In some agitation he looked to the guards, who had seated themselves on the bottom stair. Eyeing Marbeck again, he said softly: ‘It’s another matter … one that troubles me greatly. Yet, for the reason you’ve touched upon, I may not speak of it.’
Marbeck narrowed his eyes; there was something in the priest’s gaze he couldn’t fathom. Perhaps the man’s composure – formed, he’d assumed, of an unshakeable faith in the life to come – was but a veneer after all. Instead, he saw a look that allowed for another interpretation: one of underlying anguish.
‘If … What if I told you that there is something fearful … a terrible fate, set to befall certain people within a matter of days?’ the priest said haltingly. He was forcing the words out; Marbeck saw he clutched the bible so tightly, his knuckles had paled. Involuntarily, he moved closer, whereupon the prisoner leaned towards him and whispered urgently.
‘I was told of it under confession … do you see? Whatever they may do to me in London, I cannot break my vow. I’ll die with the knowledge – but so will others, because of my silence … It’s a weight I’ve found impossible to bear. God forgive me, I’ve begged for guidance, yet none comes. Someone must act, or cataclysm will follow – a slaughter of innocents!’
There was a stir from across the room: Marbeck glanced round and saw the guards watching him. Blank-faced, he walked over to them and spoke softly. ‘The prisoner spins his tale,’ he said, forcing a grim smile. ‘I’ve resolved to listen and see what he may let slip. Give me time, will you?’ And when the men nodded, he returned to Cornford.
This time he knelt on one knee. He believed the priest, he realized: something told him the man’s fears were not for himself, but for others. Though what the terrible event he’d hinted at might be, he couldn’t imagine. Bending close, he said: ‘You’re amiss if you think I can betray my fellows – I should report anything you say. The man who questioned you doesn’t bluff: he could have you put to hard question until you tell of this matter, whether it breaks your sacred vow or not …’
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 8