Marbeck frowned. ‘Who came?’
‘The usual sort … You know them. They arrived by night, said they had orders to take me to Monk, but it was a lie. I was brought here like a common villain … I’ve even lost track of the time.’ A puzzled expression appeared. ‘What day is it?’
‘Saturday,’ Marbeck murmured. He sagged, feeling close to despair. Three days remained until the opening of Parliament; his fervent hope was that Deverell’s report had been believed. Surely, his own absence would then be noticed? He looked up to see Cutler peering at him.
‘I’ve an idea what’s behind it all, you know,’ he said.
‘Have you, indeed?’ Marbeck searched his eyes for the wild look he had seen before and was relieved not to find it. ‘Tell me, then. For we seem to have enough time for tales.’
‘I will … but first, will you recount what’s occurred since you left my home? For it seems to me that – assuming you returned to Monk and made your report – my arrest followed hard upon it.’
‘So it would appear,’ Marbeck said thoughtfully. ‘Very well – I’ll be brief.’ So he told his own tale: the same account he’d given to Deverell, in the King’s Head, as well as what had followed – for what did it matter now? They were both powerless: two intelligencers imprisoned for reasons yet unknown, while events marched on outside. But even as he ended the saga with his arrival in the cell, his own suspicions were gathering … until he stopped in some unease: Cutler was nodding eagerly.
‘I’d swear it’s because we knew about the gunpowder!’ he said fiercely. ‘Someone had to silence us before we blabbed further – you especially, after what you found in the Lords’ vault. Those men who came for me lied – they could have carried a forged warrant. So perhaps, as you fear, Monk has indeed turned traitor …’
Suddenly, the man was mournful. ‘Who can be trusted, Marbeck?’ he blurted. ‘This is a wicked profession … Mayhap we deserve to be mewed up in a place like this. We’ve done – I’ve done – terrible things in the Crown’s service, even to the taking of a life. That wasn’t what I intended, back when I was the fencer you knew. I fought men for money and prestige … before I let myself be flattered into thinking I could serve my Queen – just as you did. Young cubs who knew it all and feared no one …’ He shook his head. ‘If nothing else, I’ve had time to think here in the dark. I can only pray I’m released, for heaven knows what will happen to my bees. Best keep out of everything else … Did I not say that to you once?’
Having no words of comfort, Marbeck was silent. Yet his mind was busy: Cutler’s words had triggered something. A theory was gathering: a shape forming, from the jumble of events and from his suspicions. Deverell’s mistrust of Monk … Cutler’s arrest, as well as his own … and then there was Cornford’s question: Who has most to gain from letting the drama play itself out until the last moment? And, more cryptically still: The answer’s here, standing before you. What was standing before him just then, but a Jesuit priest?
Then he saw it – and the shock propelled him to his feet, startling Cutler. At the wall, he span round and gazed at his fellow prisoner, who peered up in alarm.
‘In God’s name, what’s wrong?’ he exclaimed.
Marbeck didn’t answer.
‘A rat, was it? They’re here sometimes … I’ve heard them.’
‘Not a rat …’ Marbeck leaned against the rough stone wall, drawing long breaths. The stench of the cell was powerful, but he was almost accustomed to it already. Glancing round the cramped space, he eyed Cutler. ‘Can we get something to drink in here? They’ve left me my purse, and my mouth’s parched.’
‘You have money?’ At once Cutler brightened. ‘Why didn’t you say so? My purse is empty, but those varlets outside will bring anything for a price …’ He hesitated. ‘I doubt they’d let us go outside, though, as they do with some.’
‘No …’ Recalling the words of his turnkey – that even angels wouldn’t cover the bribe – Marbeck was of similar mind. Slumping to a sitting position, eyes level with his fellow, he drew another breath and said: ‘I’ll call someone soon, say we can pay for food and drink … and blankets. Does that please you?’
‘Why, you’re a saviour,’ Cutler breathed. ‘You bring light, as well as sustenance …’ A frown appeared. ‘So what startled you?’
‘Let’s say I was in a fog,’ Marbeck said. ‘But I believe it’s lifted. Shall I lay it forth?’
‘If you wish …’ Cutler looked uneasy. ‘Is the gunpowder not the reason we’re here then, you and I?’ Suddenly, he shivered. ‘I confess I’ve feared the worst, once or twice: the possibility that I’m considered a risk – even a traitor, if they choose to name me such. And you know what happens then.’
But Marbeck shook his head. ‘I don’t think you need fear that, Cutler … nor do I, for that matter. I think you’re here as a mere precaution, while I’m here because I’m a nuisance: one who flouts orders and follows his nose, to the great annoyance of some.’ Calmer now, he even managed a wry smile. ‘But there’s one man who long ago ceased to be annoyed by that trait … who even encourages it. Having seen it bring results at times, he lets me make my own paths – so long as, in the end, they all lead back to him.’ He stopped, not needing to say more.
‘You mean our Lord Secretary?’ Cutler spoke low, as if afraid of being overheard. And when Marbeck remained silent, he shivered again. Quickly, he seized armfuls of straw and wrapped himself, hugging his body as if the cold had suddenly worsened. ‘Set forth your deduction, then,’ he said at last. ‘But don’t take too long – I need drink to warm me, as well as a blanket.’
‘I will,’ Marbeck said. ‘But before striking a bargain with our gaolers, I’ll count what’s in my purse, so we may eke it out. For I fear that you and I will have to endure each other’s company for some time yet.’
‘How long?’ Cutler’s unease was back. ‘And how can you know?’
‘Three days at least, I expect,’ Marbeck told him. ‘Until the danger has passed – or rather, until that day a group of desperate Papists think is to be one of jubilation. Once they learn that their plans are as dust, they’ll flee for their lives … Not that it’ll help them. After that, I think we’ll likely be let out of here, though what may follow afterwards, I don’t know.’
And with that, he began to spell it out.
EIGHTEEN
Lord Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, Secretary of State and the most senior member of the King’s Privy Council, had been aware of the gunpowder plot for days, Marbeck believed, or even longer. As the man had once told him, without needing to boast: there was nothing he didn’t know about – and if there was, he made sure that he learned of it sooner or later.
‘It sits well enough,’ he told Cutler. ‘Cecil’s had all the reports of Papist activity over this past year – he must have known something serious was in train. When I went to Monk more than ten days ago, he was weighed down with business. And he ranted about the number of Jesuit priests at large …’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘Why didn’t I begin to see it then?’
‘See what?’ Cutler still didn’t understand. ‘Even if Cecil knew of the plot, with the King away for the summer, he might have simply been gathering evidence—’
‘I’m certain he did that,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘But it wouldn’t be enough for him. He’d rather let the whole scheme ripen, as Cornford put it, to the very last, before apprehending the movers of it. After all, Catesby and his like are watched … though they’ve been cleverer than we imagined, putting things in place under the noses of people in Westminster. No doubt many a bribe was paid … but no matter. For even then – when Cecil’s trap was sprung and the danger lifted – what would be the outcome? Just another Catholic plot foiled, followed by more arrests and executions. But once Cecil turned it about …’ He almost smiled. ‘The Lord Secretary’s never been one to miss an opportunity … That’s what Cornford was trying to tell me.’
‘You mean, he intends to blame it on the Jes
uits?’ Cutler was shocked. ‘Are you saying he would even risk the King’s life to do so … Use him as bait?’
‘Of course not. Cecil never acts without weighing the risks.’
On his feet, Marbeck moved about the cramped cell to stretch his limbs. An hour had passed since the two of them had eaten and drunk of the simple fare brought by the turnkeys, after a price was agreed.
Wrapped in a blanket, warm and sated, Cutler was in better spirits than when Marbeck had first found him. But he was drowsy, struggling to take in the scale and boldness of the strategy. Lowering his gaze, he yawned. ‘Well then, if all is as you say, it’s the most dangerous game I ever heard of,’ he said at last. ‘Even for Roberto il Diablo.’
‘I’d have to agree,’ Marbeck said. ‘But think on it. He has enough priests in custody – in this very place, as well as elsewhere – to put a strong case together. Under hard questioning some will break; they’re but human. By the end they’ll admit to anything, put their names to any document to make the suffering stop. Catesby and Percy are known Papists, whose arrest and execution would solve little – but the Jesuit missionaries are of a different stamp. They serve Rome directly and mean to bring the nation back to her – not by force, but by a war of attrition. That even scares Cecil, as it does Monk.’
‘So, you believe Monk’s a part of it?’
‘He has to be.’ Marbeck frowned, piecing it out yet further. ‘He tried to put me off, told me to behave myself and watch Percy – because Cecil ordered him to. Sending me to seek you out in Croydon was perhaps a mistake … When I returned, his manner had changed.’ He gave Cutler a wry smile. ‘You may be harmless, as you say, but you put me on the scent. I was uneasy, hearing your tale … yet it was by sheer chance I listened to a talkative blacksmith and went to look for a gunpowder mill in Godstone.’
They were silent for a while, mulling the matter over. But for Marbeck, one thought grew: that he had been sidelined once again, and not entrusted with the business of intrigue and entrapment that had been going on in secret. How many of Cecil’s other intelligencers might know of it, he couldn’t guess. Perhaps Monk was the only one; he suspected Deverell had been as much in the dark as he had.
‘Cecil’s always hated the Jesuits, as his father did,’ Cutler said, almost to himself. ‘Ever since Robert Persons escaped capture and got to Rome, where he still holds office.’
‘Precisely so,’ Marbeck agreed. ‘And with the schools flourishing, in France too now, he sees the threat grow ever stronger. Hence, what better opportunity could have arisen than this reckless scheme to blow up King and Council? How he learned of it doesn’t matter – he may not even have known the details. But once he’s poked around, produced enough evidence to show the Jesuits were behind it, he’ll have all the help he needs to hunt them down and put them to trial. An attempt on the King’s life is treason, so the worst kind of executions would follow: a deterrent to others, and a hard blow to their Society – they’d be discredited in the eyes of every monarch in Europe.’ He let out a breath; despite his resentment, he couldn’t help but be impressed at the clarity of Cecil’s vision.
‘And now the King has returned, you say?’ Cutler put in.
‘I heard he came back to London on Thursday – Halloween. And it wouldn’t surprise me if a search is now being planned for the night of the fourth, the eve of the opening of Parliament. The gunpowder will be found, and the King and Queen will be safe, while pursuivants stand ready with a list of men to apprehend …’ Marbeck paused as a thought rose. ‘The one who minds Percy’s house by the Lords’ Chamber should be high on that list.’
Again, Cutler showed surprise. ‘You mean, you believe the King was never in any real danger?’
‘I’d swear to it,’ Marbeck said. ‘Even Cecil wouldn’t dare use him as bait, as you put it.’
But even now the magnitude of the danger subdued him, as it had when he’d torn away the brushwood in the vault and seen the great heap of barrels – and again at the Duck and Drake, when he and Deverell had faced the matter. As so often before, he had to admire the needle-sharp mind of the Lord Secretary, not to mention the little hunchback’s cool courage. Few men could have turned the matter to their advantage so skilfully … He paused, and a smile appeared unbidden.
‘What amuses you now?’ In the dim glow of the rushlight, Cutler was frowning at him. ‘You said we’re but pawns in all this – or nuisances, to be kept out of the way. I for one don’t relish another three days in here, even with those comforts your purse may bring.’
‘Nor do I,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Yet I can’t help but imagine the outcome, when Cecil chooses the moment to take his evidence to the King. His position will be unassailable. Those who hate and despise him, his rivals on the Privy Council … they’ll all be thwarted. James Stuart will never cease rewarding the man who saved his life and his monarchy.’
‘Well … by heaven, I think I’ve heard enough just now.’ Cutler sighed, shaking his head. ‘Will you let a man sleep, so he can forget this witchery for a few hours?’ He found a leather mug they’d been given and drained it.
‘If they don’t release us in three or four days, I’ll try some other way to bribe the guards,’ Marbeck said finally. ‘My money will be gone, but there’s my sword and poniard …’ He frowned. ‘Though it’s likely they’ll have sold them and deny they ever saw such.’
‘Very likely,’ Cutler murmured tiredly.
‘Yet, there’s my belt and doublet … Have you anything to offer?’
Again, Cutler shook his head. ‘I came here in my workaday clothes, without even a cloak to keep out the chill. Now they’re fit for naught but rags …’ A frightened look appeared. ‘My bees, Marbeck … who will mind them? No one even knows I’m here!’
Suddenly, the man was distraught, his fists clenched. He looked about helplessly, then finally lay down, pulled his thin blanket around him and turned his face away. Nor did he react when Marbeck moved closer to him and spoke low. ‘Three days … four at the most. Then I’ll try and find a way to get us out.’
There was no answer. Straightening up again, he stepped to the wall and leaned back, staring into space … whereupon the rush light sputtered and went out.
But there in the pitch dark he made his resolve – and this time he would not be swayed: his days as a Crown intelligencer were over. Let Monk, even Lord Cecil, threaten him as they liked: he had done with skulking in shadows and spinning tales, risking his life for purses begrudgingly given – and finding betrayal at every turn. His last thought, as he sat to take some rest, was of Meriel: once all was understood, would she be willing to listen? When she saw his resolve was genuine, would she allow him one more chance? He pictured her careworn face, in the doorway of her father’s house, before she was snatched away from him. With a heavy heart, he closed his eyes and waited for sleep.
Three terrible days followed.
To begin with, having no means of measuring time, both Marbeck and Cutler soon lost track of it. Though Marbeck was able to barter for more light, after a while the two of them agreed to go without it and use his dwindling purse to buy food and drink. Thereafter they passed the hours fitfully, swapping tales and, when they were used up, falling back on childhood stories. Meanwhile they grew dirtier by the hour, having only weak beer to drink and no water. From time to time Marbeck summoned the turnkeys by banging on the door, using all his wits to bargain for sustenance. He was forced to endure their mocking looks, knowing full well, as they did, that his money would soon be gone. After that, disaster loomed: a prisoner who was penniless was nothing more than an encumbrance and would likely be put in the Hole. His only hope then was to beg charity from passers-by through a grating: the one Marbeck had seen on first arrival, when he had come here to see Father Cornford. Already, it seemed like weeks ago.
On the first day, as he wrangled with Plainstaff or one of the other men, he asked the hour. When told it, he made a scratch in the wall with his bodkin. But after a while he believe
d the warders were playing games, giving false answers for their own amusement. Finally, certain that was the case, he gave up and tried to reckon the passage of time himself. But it was no use: after many hours in the windowless cell, he no longer knew whether it was day or night.
Then there was the problem of Cutler. For a day and a half, at least, his fellow intelligencer had remained calm enough, apart from moments when he fretted about his bees and his empty cottage. He even fretted about his market customers in Croydon, who would no longer be able to buy his honey. Sometimes he lapsed into fantasy, and the wild manner Marbeck had observed when they’d last met reappeared. He began to harbour notions of feigning sickness, so that when the guards opened the door he and Marbeck could overpower them. When Marbeck pointed out the unlikelihood of such a scheme succeeding, given the number of locked doors that separated them from the main gate, Cutler grew angry and accused him of cowardice. But Marbeck would merely turn away and scratch the wall with his bodkin.
‘What are you writing?’ Cutler demanded one time, when they had long since grown sick of each other’s presence. ‘Or are you drawing? Can you see in the dark now, like a dunghill cat?’
‘I can see you, Cutler,’ Marbeck threw back, a warning note in his voice: his own temper was almost spent, which troubled him somewhat. ‘Or smell you, at least … so don’t try putting any of your foolish notions into practice. I’ll spike you if I must.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ the other growled. ‘Mayhap you should do so while you may … for if I spend another hour in here, I’ll likely lose my senses. Who knows what might happen then? I’ll be the Tom o’Bedlam you took me for, when you came to my door – a harbinger of doom!’
Marbeck didn’t answer. He heard Cutler breathing in the dark and steeled himself for any move: the man’s desperation was becoming a threat. When nothing happened he at last began to relax, and a crippling tiredness swept over him. He had slept only for short intervals since the first day; now it was telling on him.
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 16