‘Please – you must listen.’ Despite the chill of the cellar, sweat stood on the priest’s brow. With almost a sob he put a hand out, his desperation such that he seemed to have forgotten the circumstances.
But Marbeck shook his head. ‘If you want me to act in this matter, you’ve picked the wrong man,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ve no powers … I’m a Crown servant who—’
‘Your King: would you not try to save him?’ Cornford whispered hoarsely. Then, as Marbeck gave a start, he dropped his gaze. ‘There – I can say nothing more; indeed, I’ve told enough to condemn myself already. But if you believe in the power of mercy, sir, and in hope, I urge you to try. Think on what I’ve said, and follow your heart. I believe you’re a good man …’ But with that, he choked on his own words.
As Marbeck watched he bowed his head, trembling slightly in the cold room. And for some reason, he found his own hand reach out to touch the tormented priest’s shoulder. But Cornford didn’t seem to notice, and he soon let go.
As he left the room, he glanced down from the stairway and saw that the prisoner hadn’t stirred. Whereupon he turned away and ascended, knowing in that moment that interrogation, even under the worst torture, would be merely a waste of time and effort. The man he left was broken already, and beyond anyone’s help in this world.
The knowledge stayed with Marbeck, hours later, when the party at last rode away from Great Willoughby, the manacled prisoner in their midst. Nor did his feelings alter when, as the day waned, they passed through Aldgate and made their way through the busy streets of London, with people stopping to stare. And as word spread quickly others came running, to shout angrily, and to wave fists, at the sight of one more captured Jesuit being conveyed to his doom.
But for Marbeck, something greater filled his mind, which seemed to swell with each hour that passed. There was a terrible danger, he had been told, aimed at the King and perhaps others too; yet he had no inkling where it came from, nor what he might do about it.
TEN
The next morning, Marbeck and William Deverell stood face to face in the room by the Jewel Tower and railed at each other.
‘You took it upon yourself to question that devil in my absence, without authority!’ the spymaster shouted. ‘I should have known better than to let you take him a bible. The varlet was manipulating you like a puppet, sowing doubt for his own wicked ends, and you believed him! What in heaven’s name possessed you … No, I’ll answer that myself: Popish lies, dripped into your ears like poison!’
‘Then you’re content to dismiss every word he said?’ Marbeck threw back. ‘The King could be in danger, yet you refuse even to consider the notion? Meanwhile you busy yourself arresting people like the Warlakes, whose only real crime is their faith—’
‘Enough, damn you!’ Red-faced, and still tired from the exertions of the past days, Deverell glared at him, then turned abruptly away. In the cramped chamber, each could hear the other’s breathing. Marbeck stood rigid, his thoughts in a whirl. Faces crowded his mind: John Cutler, Thomas Percy, Mildred Warlake, Father Cornford … then, for some reason, MacNeish’s flew up to displace the others.
‘And what of Prestall?’ he said abruptly.
‘Who?’ Frowning, Deverell swung round.
‘He’s a servant to the Careys – an informer passed on his intelligence to me. Monk said he’d question the man.’
‘I’ve no knowledge of it,’ came the retort. ‘And why do you raise it now – to divert me from your foolishness?’
‘The kidnap threat,’ Marbeck said sharply. ‘If you refuse to hear me out concerning Cornford, then think on this. Prestall told my informant about a scheme to kidnap one of the royal children. That’s why I was told to watch Percy …’
‘Then why don’t you do that, instead of coming to me with your Popish nonsense?’ Deverell’s shoulders were tense as a bullock’s, his fists clenched.
In spite of everything, Marbeck almost laughed. ‘By the Christ, is it a fight you want?’ he asked. ‘Or would you prefer to fence? I’m willing if you are, though I doubt it’d prove much.’
There was a moment, until with an effort the other mastered himself. Deliberately, he stalked to the side cupboard and poured himself a drink, without offering one to Marbeck. Moving to the table, he sank down on a stool, his eyes flitting over the untidy mass of paperwork. The actions were trivial, but to Marbeck’s eyes they conveyed a good deal: at the final turn, this man was not up to the tasks Monk had laid upon him.
‘I knew about the rumour of kidnap,’ Deverell said finally.
‘Did you, indeed?’
‘Monk spoke of it briefly, before he left for Salisbury House. I thought the notion absurd … The royal children are never unguarded, day or night. But since he appeared to think the threat worth investigating, you’d better follow his orders. Percy’s another Papist dog, when all’s said and done, and not to be trusted. As for this fellow Prestall, I’ve no idea whether he was questioned or not. Do you wish me to find out?’
‘It’s your affair.’ Marbeck was weary of the room and of its occupant. ‘Best you leave me to my own devices. Monk usually does – as the Lord Secretary did before him.’
‘I’m well aware of it,’ Deverell said scathingly. ‘You’ve always been one of his favourites, have you not?’
‘You think so?’ Marbeck enquired. A memory came up then, of Lord Cecil lying in the healing waters at Bath, more than a year ago, telling him that he considered him an accessory to murder, and hence at his – the spymaster’s – mercy. It was a sobering thought, which checked him whenever he harboured ideas of quitting his life as an intelligencer.
‘I’ve always thought so.’ Deverell grunted. He took another drink and lowered his gaze. ‘But as to matters now in hand, I’ve no authority except to bid you follow Percy as you were ordered. Anything more you can take to Monk when he returns – whenever that may be. He’s told me precious little.’
The meeting was over, fruitless as it had been. And something else occurred to Marbeck as he took a last look at the man who sat regarding him over the rim of his cup. At best, he thought, Deverell was little more than a lackey himself: of small importance except as a diligent seeker-out of hidden priests. He was here merely to mind the shop, while his master was away.
Without further word Marbeck went out. And as he’d done the last time, he walked by the river to gather his thoughts. There had been a shower of rain in the night, and the paths were wet. He thought briefly of Curzon, whom he’d left that morning, asleep on a straw pallet in his chamber: Skinner’s sole concession to his new lodger. Recalling the springing of his friend from Whitehall, he had a sudden notion to find his way to Lady Carey’s rooms and enquire for himself about the servant Prestall, the man who appeared to have started this rumour of kidnap. Perhaps there was little substance to it after all, he mused, and MacNeish had merely embellished the tale to winkle payment out of him; it would not be unlike the man. Somehow, the thought offered a crumb of comfort.
Assuming an air of brisk authority, he entered the palace by a side door and tipped a servant to point him to the apartments of Duke Charles. Drawing near, as expected he was soon stopped by armed guards and asked his business. On enquiry, however, he learned that the infant prince wasn’t there, but at St James’s with his brother. Whereupon, with a casual air, he asked after a man named Prestall – only to receive a curt reply.
‘Gone … Dismissed,’ the guard told him. ‘Are you a friend of his?’ And when Marbeck let him understand that he was, the man’s face hardened. ‘Then I’d keep quiet about it, if I were you.’ Raising a gloved hand, he pointed. ‘That’s the way out … You wouldn’t want to linger hereabouts.’
So he left Whitehall and made his way back to Parliament Stairs. He was uneasy now. Swiftly, he ran the events of recent days through his mind, yet could make little sense of them. But then, like it or not, he had a task just now that he must fulfil. With a sigh he drew his cloak about him, stepped on to the je
tty and waited for a boat.
By the evening, however, he found himself thwarted. After some tedious hanging about as Lawrence Tucker, cadging information in the vicinity of Essex House, he discovered that Thomas Percy had left London. The man had ridden north, he was told, to collect rents from the Border properties of his cousin, the Earl of Northumberland. He would be three hundred miles away, and it was not known when he would return. Hungry and dispirited, Marbeck trudged into the city by Ludgate and made his way to the Pegasus in Cheapside.
It was not a regular haunt, but it was big and noisy, which suited him well enough. Once in a corner booth he called for a hot supper and a jug of claret and set about consuming both. Whereupon, a good deal later, with the tavern roaring about his ears, he lifted the jug and found it almost empty. Somewhat fuddled, he looked round to see the inn glowing with the light of candles and darkness outside the windows.
‘Can I fetch you aught, sir?’ A portly drawer stood over him, his hands full of empty mugs. ‘A boy with a torch to light you home, perhaps?’
‘Why … is it so late?’ Marbeck peered up at him.
‘Nay, ’tis approaching nine of the clock. Time for another mug, if you’ve a mind.’ But the man raised an eyebrow, his meaning clear enough: he doubted the gentleman needed any more.
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ Marbeck said, picking up his cup and gazing into it. ‘I’ve a mouthful here yet … and with your leave, I’ll take my time in finishing it.’ But when the drawer seemed to be taking his time moving away, something came from his lips unbidden. ‘Do you have children?’ he muttered.
The other blinked. ‘I do, sir – a son and two daughters.’
‘And do they delight you?’
‘Delight me?’ The man’s brow creased. ‘I’d not put it so. The boy’s a trial at times, but the maids – those two would drive a man to distraction.’ No doubt thinking he’d gossiped long enough he turned to go, but Marbeck caught his arm.
‘I have a daughter,’ he said. ‘And you’re the first man I’ve told of it … Here: take this for your girls, with my blessing.’ He put down his cup, produced his purse and tugged it open. When a handful of coins fell into his palm, he poured them into one of the mugs the drawer held. The man stared in astonishment.
‘That’ll be all,’ Marbeck told him and lifted his cup again. Without another word, the other turned and left.
A while later, he stood outside in Cheapside and let the cold breeze blow the fumes of ale and tobacco from his clothing. There was noise and laughter, with night-time revellers passing to and fro. A bellman passed nearby, calling the hour … and that everyday sound was all Marbeck needed to shape his intent. But then, he’d formed it an hour ago, in the tavern; it was foolhardy, even desperate, but he no longer cared.
Turning eastwards, he began walking along Cheap towards the Stocks Market. There he veered into Lombard Street, finding strength as he went. By the time he had walked the length of Fenchurch Street and turned into the narrow way that led to Crutched Friars, he was more sober, but not very. Had he been clear-headed, he would have stopped himself from doing what he was about to do.
He reached the Walden House and found it in darkness. As before, the iron gates were padlocked, but this time no torch blazed on the gatepost. On peering through the bars, however, he saw lights in the big house, on the upper floors. A warning sounded in his head, but he ignored it. Instead, his breath clouding in the cold air, he reached in a pocket and drew out the tailor’s bodkin he always carried. Two minutes’ work on the lock was enough to force the tumblers aside, until with a loud click the hasp sprang free. His fingers stiff from the task, he wrenched the padlock from the bars and, with some vehemence, threw it over the wall. A moment later the gates were open and Marbeck was striding through the garden towards the main door. On reaching it he halted, raised his fist and hammered.
At first nothing happened. He hammered again, whereupon an unwelcome noise came from within: the bark of a large dog. Breathing hard, he fumbled for his sword-hilt. Then above his head, a casement creaked open and a male voice called out angrily.
‘Who’s there? Show yourself!’
Marbeck took a backward pace and looked up. The room above him was lit, and a face peered out: that of an elderly man wearing a night-bonnet. ‘Who in God’s name are you?’ he demanded. ‘The hour is late … and how did you get in?’
‘Thomas Walden?’ Marbeck called. ‘I’m a friend to your daughter … It’s her I seek, not you.’
The man gave a start. Other sounds came from beyond the door: voices, and the growling of the dog. But a recklessness was upon Marbeck that would not be quenched. On occasions, in desperate fights both here and abroad, a disregard for his own safety had saved his life; now it served a different purpose.
‘I beg your indulgence and ask you to send her down,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘She’ll come to no harm, I swear. But I must speak with her—’
‘You shall not!’ the old man roared, in sudden outrage. ‘Whoever you are, you’re an intruder with no business here! I’ve servants enough to overpower you – and a pistol too! I’ll call the watch and have you taken away in chains—’
‘Send her down,’ Marbeck broke in, his voice hard as steel. ‘Or I’ll force my way in!’
But his reply was a muffled oath and the thud of the casement being shut. Shifting his gaze to the door, he prepared to draw his sword and face whatever resistance Thomas Walden could muster. He glanced to right and left, half-expecting someone to emerge from a side door, but no one appeared. Meanwhile, he grew aware of voices: an urgent debate on the other side of the door. In frustration he banged his closed fist on the heavy timbers, making them tremble.
‘Open up!’ he yelled. Then, throwing any last scrap of restraint aside, he grasped his sword-hilt and drew. Steel rang in the crisp night air – and now another dog barked, from some house nearby. Soon, he thought grimly, he would rouse the whole street. Using the pommel of his rapier, he banged ferociously on the door again, then gave a start. A bolt was being drawn …
The door opened a short way, and Meriel’s face appeared. ‘Go – I beg you!’ she said, in a voice that shook.
‘I can’t.’ He dropped his sword on the flagged path with a clang and took a pace forward, but she gripped the edge of the door tightly.
‘Please – it’s no use. My father doesn’t lie: he has a pistol. I promised him I’d get rid of you …’
She was trembling, and at once shame welled up inside him. All else became indistinct, except her face. In the light that spilled from within, she seemed to glow …
‘The gates are open,’ he said, struggling to sound calm. ‘Come with me now, as you are. I can get you to a safe place, and in the morning we’ll ride. Here …’ He tore off his cloak and held it out. ‘I know your feelings for me haven’t changed … In the name of our child—’
‘There is no child!’
It was almost a scream, and it cut him to the bone. Rigid, he stared at her, and the cloak fell from his grasp. He was barely aware of the door swinging inward, and of the figures that crowded the entrance; her words rang in his head, rendering him numb. And only then, with alarm, did he see her face clearly: drawn and pale, with lines of pain that weren’t there, more than a week ago …
‘The baby is lost,’ she said, in a tone that left no room for doubt. ‘There’s nothing for you to do here … Go while you can.’
But he couldn’t move … until a thought sprang up that almost made him stagger. ‘Was it my coming here …? Did I cause you such distress …?’ he began, but she didn’t answer. Instead she was pulled aside, out of his sight. The door flew wide, and in her place stood her father in a heavy gown, his arm levelled; Marbeck was looking down the muzzle of a pistol.
‘Get you gone, or I swear I’ll shoot!’ Thomas Walden snapped.
A moment passed. Drained of anger, Marbeck stared into the gun-barrel. He smelled the whiff of sulphur and knew the weapon was primed and ready
. Yet still he didn’t move. Just then, he realized, the solution to all his troubles was before him; all he need do was make a sudden movement. Then, as if from a fog, he saw the faces of Thomas Walden and his male servants appear, a mixture of anger and fear upon every one of them. He grew aware of the dog too: a great mastiff, growling balefully at him, held on a chain by a nervous boy. Whereupon, forcing his limbs to move, he took a step back. For a moment those in the doorway seemed to think he would fall, but he didn’t. Instead, he half-raised both hands.
‘Your pardon,’ he muttered, feeling utterly broken. ‘I came to the wrong house.’ Slowly, he bent down, picked up his sword and turned away.
In some surprise, and no small relief, master and servants let him go. Finally, as he neared the gateway and vanished in the gloom, Thomas Walden gave brisk orders for his men to follow the madman as far as the end of the street.
But when they did so, making as little haste as they could, there was nothing to see: the wild-eyed stranger, who dressed as a gentleman but had the manner of a cut-throat, was gone. Soon they returned to the gardens, inspected the gates and found that the padlock too had gone.
Marbeck, meanwhile, was standing near the corner of Aldgate and Poor Jewry, looking up at a niche in the city’s east wall known to many, but used by few: a place where, if a man were bold enough – or desperate enough – he could climb up by using ancient footholds in the stonework. A few minutes later, seen by no one, he had scaled the rampart and let himself down on the outside, dropping into a back garden in the Minories. He climbed a fence, then began walking doggedly by Houndsditch and Bishopsgate Street, until at last he could turn off the roadway into open fields.
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 9