Their coupling that night surprised Marbeck. He had expected Celia to be unwilling, wanting merely to talk. Instead, when they went to her bed she quickly became passionate, as if, now that she had confessed herself in need of his help, she could be as free with him as they had once been. It brought joy and relief, but it left him uneasy. When they were spent, lying in their sweat between her fine sheets, he turned to look at her. And almost at once she began to speak.
‘I’ve had correspondence with the dean of Henry’s college,’ she said. ‘Exeter, that is.’ She lay on her back, gazing up at the canopy of the great bed. ‘It seems he’s been absent without permission, many times, and the college is displeased. They talk of refusing him his bachelor’s degree. Worse, he appears to have got into company I dislike.’
At last Marbeck started to form a picture; his own student days were not so distant, after all. ‘It’s common enough for young men to run wild, both at Oxford and Cambridge,’ he said. ‘Why should Henry be any different?’
‘You don’t understand,’ Celia answered. ‘If it were mere youthful behaviour on his part, I would welcome it. It’s rather …’ She hesitated. ‘This company he keeps – I speak of their religion.’
‘You mean Papists? That too is not unknown. He’s exploring other ways of thinking … or it may be a form of rebellion on his part.’
‘It’s not even that. If Henry had become attracted to the Church of Rome, I would at least try to comprehend it, and to dispute with him. Even his father, at one time, claimed to understand why some are drawn to their liturgy …’ She turned on her side, and faced him. ‘It seems he’s become close with a Puritan sect … Precisians, of the harshest kind. The sort who demand reform of the Church, who think wearing vestments is a sin, and that all books are frivolous save the Geneva Bible.’
It was a surprise. Though it had been some years since Marbeck had set eyes on Henry Scroop, he remembered him as a lively youth, who enjoyed the company of his friends. Yet people changed, once away from home …
‘That too may be naught but experiment on his part,’ he said after a moment. ‘He could alter his views in a trice …’
‘Their leader is Isaac Gow.’
At mention of that name, he fell silent. Gow was a notorious Puritan agitator. Sir Robert Cecil had had him watched many times, something of which Gow was not only aware, but deemed a badge of merit. Half a century ago, under the bloody rule of Queen Mary, he was the kind of man who would have gone willingly to the Smithfield fires, shouting defiance to Popery with his last breath. To him and others like him even the regime of Elizabeth was one of decadence, if not wickedness. Marbeck found himself frowning.
‘What would you like me to do?’ he enquired.
‘Confront Henry,’ was her reply. ‘He has no father now to talk sense into him … not that he was ever here to do so. His uncles are no use … they shun me, since their brother’s death. Some people believe I willed it – even that I arranged it.’
They gazed at each other. In this very bed, Celia had once confided to Marbeck that she wished her husband would never return from the war in the Netherlands.
‘Sir Richard died in battle at Breda, along with many of his troop,’ he said. ‘How can anyone deny that?’
‘Yet they know what sort of man he was, and how I grew to despise him. My children know it, too.’
He considered. ‘Do you think the boy would listen to me?’
‘I don’t know that he will, Marbeck,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘But you can at least ferret about – is that not the phrase you use? Find out why Gow is in Oxford, and how far Henry has become embroiled with him and his followers. Unless …’ She put on a questioning look, to which Marbeck shook his head.
‘I’m not busy at present.’
Celia showed surprise. ‘Even now, when we hear naught but tales of the Queen’s decline, and what may follow? I thought every servant of the state was at Richmond.’
‘Let’s say I’m being held in reserve.’
She hesitated, then: ‘I’ve little right to ask your help. Save for enjoyment of my body, which is freely given, you—’
‘And the loans of money you’ve made me over the years, not to mention the trust we’ve always placed in each other,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘In short, you have every right to ask. And I’ll do whatever’s in my power – do you doubt that?’
Her gaze softened. ‘I do not …’ Suddenly, she gave a start. ‘The message – I’d almost forgotten.’ She saw his expression, and put on a wry look. ‘But you, of course, had not.’
‘I thought we would get to it in good time,’ he answered.
She lifted the coverlet and rose naked, her body shining in the light of the candles. Marbeck watched her go to the table where her tortoiseshell casket stood, unlock it and take out a paper. She returned and handed it to him.
‘Shall I look away while you read it?’ she asked.
He didn’t answer. As Celia got back into bed he sat up, peering at the seal, which bore no device. The handwriting was familiar, however. Bringing the letter nearer the light, he read the name: it was addressed to John Sands – his usual alias. And then, even before he tore it open, he knew who the sender was.
This is in haste, before I go to Flushing. By the time you read it you may be in fear, and you are right to be. I know little, except that someone’s denounced you to our crookback master for a servant of Spain. And since Roberto is dizzy with looking every way at once, his vision grows blurred. My advice: leave London and go north while you can. James Stuart will be king within the month, and if you get to him before others do you may yet save your neck. God speed!
It was signed with a name Marbeck knew was false: Edward Porter. But had he been in any doubt, two tiny initials were squeezed inside the loop of the letter P: J.G. His friend and fellow intelligencer, Joseph Gifford.
He lowered the paper, and saw Celia resting on her elbow watching him. ‘Troubling news,’ she observed. When he made no reply she added: ‘You know now who it is from?’
Absently, he nodded.
‘So … you are called to duty after all.’ Her tone was suddenly dry. ‘My difficulties can wait … how paltry they must seem, compared with the affairs of state that bind you …’
But he turned quickly to her. ‘You’re wrong. I must leave, and soon … but I see no reason why Oxford should not be my first destination.’
She sat up abruptly. ‘You will seek out Henry?’
‘Of course. I’ll do what I can, and write to you.’
She gave a long sigh. ‘Then you carry my hopes,’ she said. ‘And my heart too, for what it’s worth.’
‘It’s worth much,’ he replied. And he would have said more, but her hands were about his face, pulling him towards hers.
In the grey light of a cold dawn, Marbeck took the first ferry across the Thames at Putney and walked briskly upriver to Barnes. He had made his plans, and would lose no time in implementing them. Within the hour he hoped to be on the road to Beaconsfield, which led thence to High Wycombe and on to Oxford.
Now that he had a purpose he felt relieved, despite the grim warning contained in Gifford’s letter. The man had penned it a week ago; what surprised Marbeck now was the fact that, assuming its contents were correct, he himself was still at large and not languishing in a cell somewhere. Master Secretary Cecil had not merely been keeping him at arm’s length, he realized: he was suspicious of him, and may indeed have had him watched. It galled Marbeck that, as a loyal intelligencer, he should be doubted so swiftly. Moreover, it threw suspicion on those he had been in contact with of late: John Chyme, and the people at Croft House … He drew a breath, and dismissed such thoughts. His task was to gather his belongings and get Cobb out of the stable before anyone noticed.
The household was astir, a thin line of smoke already rising from the kitchen chimney. Skirting the main buildings he passed through a wicket gate, crossed the vegetable garden and entered by the back door. Some of the wenches were about, but none paid him much attention; a man of his age and station coming in at such an hour, looking somewhat sheepish, was not unknown. He went through to the hallway, ascended the stairs and gained his small chamber, where he quickly set about making up his pack. His lute he thought of leaving behind, then decided against it; the role of Richard Strang, jobbing musician and tutor, might yet come in useful. Having taken a last look round, he left the room. The upper house was silent, the family still abed. But as he gained the stair-head there was a creak, and a voice stopped him in his tracks.
‘Master Strang … where are you going?’
He turned, to see a barefoot Lady Alice standing by the doorway to her chamber. She was in her shift, hair unbound. Her face was puffy from sleep, but her eyes were wide.
‘Your pardon, my lady …’ Marbeck threw her a smile. ‘I’m called away on urgent business … a family matter.’
‘You mean you’re leaving?’
He nodded. ‘I wish I could stay for your lesson, but I cannot.’
Her face fell, and for a moment he thought she would fly into one of her famous rages. But instead, she said: ‘You will return, won’t you?’
He hesitated. ‘If I can … one day.’
‘When?’
‘I know not.’
They eyed each other, then she gave a sigh. ‘My father says the Queen may die soon, and everything will be different.’
‘Likely it will, my lady,’ Marbeck said.
He turned away from her and hurried downstairs. A quarter of an hour later he was leading Cobb out by the stable gate. Having tightened the horse’s girth and checked that his belongings were tied securely, he placed foot in stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle. Then he was trotting along the path, while grey clouds scudded overhead. He did not look back.
The day was breezy, but as yet there was no further rain. It was approximately ten miles to Uxbridge, where Marbeck made his first halt. Having watered and fed Cobb he was soon back in the saddle, and despite the muddy roads made good pace, reaching Beaconsfield by midday. In the afternoon he passed through High Wycombe without halting, spurring his mount against the fading light. But the horse ran well, eager for exercise after being stabled for too long. To his relief, as darkness fell, he saw the lights of Oxford ahead. He had covered sixty miles.
The old city was quiet. Though Hilary term would draw to a close soon, he knew, and students would be restless in anticipation of the holidays. He neared the walls, half-expecting the gates to be shut. But the curfew was not yet in place, and Cobb’s hooves were soon clattering on cobbles as they entered St Aldates, with Christ Church on the right.
Exeter College was to the north of the city, but Marbeck did not go there. Instead he found an inn and saw to the horse’s stabling. Then, having left his belongings, he set out on foot for a house close to Jesus College, whose whereabouts he had learned from Lady Celia. Here, she’d told him, Henry spent much of his time instead of in the shared chambers at his own college. Soon, in a narrow and gloomy street, he halted by a low door and knocked. After some delay, it was opened by a tousle-headed young man with a wispy beard.
‘I seek Master Henry Scroop,’ Marbeck said. ‘Is he here?’
The young student was holding a small lantern, which he now raised. He blinked, then shook his head.
‘Do you mind if I make certain?’ Marbeck persisted, placing a hand firmly against the door.
The other drew back. ‘There’s no need,’ he replied. ‘Henry’s gone from here – left more than a fortnight ago.’
‘You mean he’s at his college?’
‘No – I mean he’s left Oxford.’
Marbeck’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Well, who are you, sir?’ the other wanted to know. ‘Are you a kinsman of Henry’s, or …’
‘A family friend,’ Marbeck told him. ‘And you – are you a friend of his? May I know your name?’
‘Thomas Garrod,’ came the reply. ‘Yes, I’m a friend … or rather, I used to be.’
‘Indeed?’ Marbeck gazed at Thomas Garrod until he flinched. ‘How so?’
‘Let’s say that Henry has cast off his old acquaintances, in favour of other company.’
‘A rumour tells that he now follows Isaac Gow, and those of his persuasion,’ Marbeck said. But at that, unease showed in the young man’s eyes.
‘I care not for rumour,’ he said.
‘But you too, Master Garrod, are concerned for Henry’s welfare, I think.’ Marbeck lowered his voice. ‘As are we all – in particular his mother, Lady Scroop. He is in his final year, yet he risks losing everything he has worked for. I wish to find the lad and talk with him – nothing more.’
Garrod hesitated. ‘Then I fear you may be too late, sir,’ he said finally. ‘The last speech I had with Henry was weeks ago. He was withdrawn, even hostile. He bade me wake up to what England is, and what it will soon become … then, he’s been wont to say such things for some time.’ The young scholar gave a sigh. ‘There’s no disputing with him any more. He’s a cauldron of anger … has been ever since his father died. What will become of him, I fear to think.’
Marbeck considered. ‘Do you have any idea where he’s gone?’
The other gave a nod. ‘Emmanuel College, or so I understand … Is that not the cradle of such philosophy as his?’
‘You mean he’s in Cambridge?’ Marbeck showed surprise.
‘Where he’ll no doubt find others of similar mind,’ Garrod answered in a dry voice. He stepped back and lowered the lantern. But before he could disappear, Marbeck stayed him.
‘Wait – answer me this,’ he said. ‘Did Henry go to Cambridge to follow Gow?’
The young man gave a shrug. ‘Gow has a house there, I hear … Cambridge, or somewhere nearby. He preaches sometimes …’ He sighed again. ‘You may find Henry, sir, yet I doubt it will avail you much. His mind has become closed to all but the most dogmatic of Precisian views. A creed of the most rigid kind … and against such blind certainty, even the gods of ancient times were powerless.’
Then he was gone, closing the door.
Through near-deserted streets, Marbeck retraced his steps back to the inn. He had no choice now, he felt, but to ride to England’s other seat of learning: Cambridge, where he had once been a somewhat unruly student of St John’s. He had not been there in more than ten years; nevertheless, he was resolved. And at least his whereabouts would be unknown to anyone, save a dour Oxford student. None could have followed him here, he felt certain, if he had indeed been under surveillance at Barnes. So with resignation he went to his chamber and slept, rising to another morning with the cloud lying as grey and thick as a horse-blanket.
Within the hour he had breakfasted and was leaving Oxford, taking the road east towards Aylesbury. From there, he faced another fifty-mile ride to Cambridge. Then, for Lady Celia’s sake if no other, he would seek out Henry Scroop and try to reason with him.
Just now, however, it looked like a somewhat difficult task.