Cambridge, his alma mater; a place Marbeck knew as well as his boyhood home, and better than he did London. With mixed feelings he rose the next morning in a hired chamber at the Roebuck Inn, close to Pembroke Hall. His own college, St John’s, was at the other end of the town, but he had no wish to be there. Some of his old friends might remain, as fellows or tutors. If recognized he would no longer be Richard Strang, or even John Sands: he would be Marbeck. And the tale he told his family in far-off Lancashire – his invented position, in a minor court role to do with arranging pageants – might ring somewhat hollow here. So, feeling somewhat conspicuous, he breakfasted and prepared to go forth, to discover if he could find the whereabouts of Isaac Gow.
The place to start was Emmanuel College, which as Thomas Garrod had said was a centre of Puritan thought, founded for the training of preaching ministers. Emmanuel was on the edge of the city, almost in the fields, and only a short walk from Pembroke Hall. Soberly dressed in a black cloak, and minus his sword, which he had left at the inn, Marbeck fell into intelligencer’s habits. Walking a roundabout route, he turned in by Corpus Christi and skirted St Andrew’s, to approach from the direction of the town. Finally he arrived at the college and made his way to the porter’s lodge where, with luck, he might engage in some gossip. But in that matter he was disappointed: the porter was a taciturn fellow, who barely responded to his casual questions. So in the manner of a sightseer he strolled down a side street beside the college, which gave on to its gardens and orchard. Here his luck improved when a grizzled gardener in fustian, pushing a wheelbarrow close to the low fence, stopped to look at him.
‘The entrance is round there, master,’ he announced, pointing with his chin. ‘You must knock and wait.’
‘I thank you,’ Marbeck said. ‘I’m a stranger here. Yet I wasn’t seeking admittance, so much as news.’
The other set his barrow down. ‘News of what?’
Marbeck paused, uncertain whether or not this man would be sympathetic to his enquiry. It was hard to know nowadays where some people stood. The gardener might be a Puritan himself, or an unreformed Papist, or one who trod the broad path between as most tried to do. He decided to take a risk.
‘There’s a preaching man … one of severe habits, who dwells somewhere about the town, or so I’ve heard,’ he began. ‘I’ve come a long way to see him … his name is Gow. Do you know him?’
The gardener regarded him for a moment. Finally he pushed back his battered straw hat and gave a sigh.
‘I know of him. But you won’t find him in Cambridge … not here at Emmanuel, or even at Sidney Sussex.’ He named the other Puritan college, founded only a few years back and already known as a hotbed of dissent.
‘That’s a pity.’ Marbeck put on a disappointed look. ‘As I said, I’ve come far …’ He watched the older man, and now detected a look of disapproval. Thinking fast, he added: ‘I’m here on behalf of my father. It’s my younger brother … the boy’s gone off with this Gow, and we’re at our wits’ end wondering what’s become of him. I wish to find him, and see he’s in no harm …’
‘Harm, you say?’ the gardener echoed, growing animated. ‘Well, he may indeed come to it if he takes up with a man like Gow. Even Emmanuel is too tame for such as he. He came back from exile, in Germany or some such place, burning like a firedrake – like most of his kind. I will name them: separatists. He’s been travelling the country. But he has a lair hereabouts, so I heard … too close, I might add.’
‘Where is that, master?’ Marbeck asked. ‘Where should I go?’
‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ the other grunted. ‘But if you must it’s a farm you seek, or it used to be. It lies south-east, by Gogmagog Hill … have you heard of that?’
‘I’m unsure,’ Marbeck lied. ‘But I will find it … is there more you can tell me?’
The old man shrugged. ‘Go swearing death to the Antichrist,’ he said dryly. ‘Or go with your ears stopped up … Gow is a man filled with rage. Then, mayhap you’ve heard that already.’ Signalling the end of the conversation, he picked up his barrow. With a word of thanks, Marbeck took leave of him and walked back to St Andrews Street.
Outside the church he stopped to think. He knew the chalk downs of Gogmagog well enough: students were forbidden to go there, on penalty of a fine. It was a strange place, where old ruins could be seen and where legends abounded. But it wasn’t far: three or four miles. And it ought not to be difficult, Marbeck thought, to discover this farm where Isaac Gow dwelled. Here at last he might find Henry Scroop, and keep his promise to Celia.
In better spirits, he returned to the Roebuck and collected his sword. A short while later he was riding out of Cambridge by Grantchester, taking the road that led towards the hamlet of Cherry Hinton. After a while he veered southwards, where a range of hills appeared above the flat terrain. The Winterbury Hills, they had once been called. But to the folk of this region they were known as Gogmagog, named somehow after the giant of Albion. Soon the ground rose under Cobb’s hooves, and the meadow grass grew longer. There were gulleys lined with trees, and here and there a glimpse of a hut or cottage. Finally, emerging on a slope dotted with sheep, Marbeck slowed down to take his bearings. There was a fold of withies at the far end of the field, and signs of movement; it was lambing time, of course. Walking his mount slowly so as not to scatter the flock, he found a shepherd at work. Fortunately the man was cordial enough, if phlegmatic. Yes, he knew the farm where Isaac Gow lived … the owner had died leaving it in a poor condition, and Gow had taken it at a low rent. There were several people living there, the shepherd thought. It was no more than a mile further, close to the big hill where the giants slept.
Marbeck nodded his thanks, shook Cobb’s reins and urged the horse onward. A short time later, having followed a rough track uphill, downhill and up again, he emerged from a copse and halted. He was looking across a shallow valley, at a collection of thatched buildings that seemed to huddle together for comfort. Smoke rose from a chimney, and there were what looked like mules penned beside the house. Slowly he rode down the track, allowing anyone inside full view of him. Finally he drew rein before the doorway, where he waited.
He waited, but nobody came out. The mules gazed at him over their fence, lost interest and moved off. Smoke continued to curl from the chimney, but there was no sound … until Marbeck turned to a dilapidated barn that stood close by. He listened, and at last understood. There were voices in unison, all of which seemed to be male. Soon the murmuring stopped, and the same voices rose in song. A service was in progress.
He dismounted, released Cobb’s reins and allowed him to walk away and graze. Then he stationed himself before the barn entrance, where he would be seen by those emerging. Here he waited a further few minutes, until the hymn had ceased and another prayer had been said, or so he imagined. Finally the door swung open and several figures garbed in black came out. The moment they saw him, they stopped dead.
‘Good morning, sirs,’ Marbeck said in a clear voice. ‘Have I come to the right place? I seek Isaac Gow.’
There was a silence, while others emerged from their makeshift chapel. Soon nine or ten unsmiling men stood before Marbeck in a body. He glanced briefly at each, then his pulse quickened: on the edge of the group was the unmistakable figure of Henry Scroop; the young man and his mother were very alike. But there was no sign of recognition on Henry’s part. Coolly, he stared at Marbeck as the rest of them did.
‘Why do you seek our brother?’ someone asked finally.
The speaker was a crabbed, white-haired man. ‘In truth, it’s not Master Gow himself I seek,’ Marbeck answered. ‘I came to find a friend … a student who should be at his studies.’ Deliberately he looked at Henry. ‘Master Scroop, is it not?’
At once the boy stiffened, and a wary look came over his youthful features. ‘Who has sent you?’ he demanded.
‘Lady Celia asked me to come,’ Marbeck told him. ‘She is most concerned about you … as are all your family.’
There was a stir among the group, and heads turned towards Henry. ‘I know you,’ he said, frowning. ‘I know him,’ he repeated, turning to his fellows. ‘His name’s John Sands. He’s a servant of the Crown – one of the Great Whore’s lackeys.’
A sound went up: a murmur, almost of outrage. As if by instinct the members of the sect moved closer together.
‘This boy is one of us,’ the white-haired man snapped, glaring at Marbeck. ‘He has abandoned foolish and idolatrous study to join the faithful. Whatever be your mission here, John Sands, it has failed. You should go.’
But to the consternation of them all, Marbeck took a pace forward. ‘In my own time, sir,’ he said calmly. ‘First, I would speak alone with this young man …’ He threw a stern look at Henry. ‘He is a student of Exeter College, Oxford, and is here without permission. He’s on the brink of forfeiting his degree, and his mother is distressed that he appears to have forsaken her and all his family …’
‘And if he will not leave – what then?’
The voice came sharp as a whipcrack, and it came from the rear of the group. At once they parted, to reveal someone who had apparently been standing by the barn door, hidden from Marbeck’s view. As he looked, the man came forward swiftly, to halt a few yards away. There could be no mistake: he was face to face with Isaac Gow.
His first thought was that the man was the image of the Scottish Puritan, John Knox: once a scourge of the established Church, dead these thirty years but never forgotten. Marbeck recalled the portrait – Gow wore his grey beard long, as Knox had done. Moreover there was the same dour face that never cracked a smile; the fervid look of the zealot who is a stranger to doubt. And to cap it all, this man was also a Scot. Raising a finger, he pointed it at Marbeck as if to condemn him.
‘I heard your name once, in London,’ he said fiercely. ‘Ye serve the she-wolf at Whitehall … fashioning pageants and other frippery. She is a queen born of a harlot, and the harlot’s fornicating husband-king! We are engaged in God’s service, sir, and will not be challenged by such as ye! Go hence and beg forgiveness for your sins – leave the brethren to their work!’
The other men murmured their approval. But when Marbeck looked at Henry Scroop, the youth avoided his gaze. He frowned – was there conflict in his mind? Drawing a breath, he eyed Gow again. ‘If the boy is unwilling to come with me, then I will leave,’ he said. ‘But I’ll speak with him first, and hear it from his own lips.’ He placed a hand lightly on his sword-hilt. ‘Or do you keep him here against his will?’
Dark looks appeared, but none fiercer than that of Gow, whose face was as thunder. ‘How dare you fling accusations against those of sanctified cause!’ he cried. ‘We account unto the Saints, and thence to the one true God – you and your like have no dominion here!’
‘That’s odd,’ Marbeck observed. ‘I’ve heard Papists use those same words.’
At that there was a collective gasp. ‘He has the Mark of the Beast upon him,’ one man said angrily. ‘The children of perdition are filled with pride … send him hence!’ And he would have advanced on Marbeck, had not an unexpected voice risen.
‘Wait – I’ll speak with him.’
A hush followed, as all eyes turned to Henry Scroop, pale-faced but still hostile. ‘That is, if our pastor will allow it,’ he added.
Isaac Gow turned to him. ‘You should not have discourse with this man,’ he said severely. ‘He will tempt ye with foul devices, using your family as a lever to prise ye from us.’
‘But in that he will not succeed,’ Henry replied. ‘I have made my choice: I remain with you.’
There was a moment, before finally Gow gave a nod. ‘I stand here,’ he said, placing a protective hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘Call upon me, if you wish.’ With that he moved aside, throwing a look at Marbeck.
The others stood and watched as Henry walked over to him. Wordlessly the two moved away, walking beside the paddock fence. After a while the youth would have halted, but Marbeck led him further until they were out of earshot. Then he turned abruptly, and startled Henry as he had intended to do.
‘Your mother is ill with worry,’ he said. ‘She’s had no news of you in months, save that Exeter College may refuse you your bachelor’s. Is that what you want?’
The boy swallowed, but stood his ground. ‘It’s of no importance,’ he said. ‘I’ve found a cause – a true purpose. This country’s steeped in wickedness. I saw it at Oxford, where men flatter and vie for preferment, and debate only trivia … but a better day is coming. Our pastor Isaac works tirelessly towards that day.’
‘Does he?’ Marbeck eyed him. ‘What does he propose to do?’
‘What does it matter to you?’ Henry retorted. ‘You’re a man of no religion, I think. You merely wait upon the Queen – one of her army of flatterers …’ He hesitated, and a look of suspicion appeared. ‘And what, now, are you to my mother?’
‘I’m her friend,’ Marbeck said. ‘I knew your father too … he would be distressed to see what you have—’
‘You lie!’ Henry broke in, reddening quickly. ‘If you truly knew my father, you would know his reputation: that of a lecher and a drunkard. He was a varlet, who deserved to perish as he did in the Flanders bog! I always thought—’
But he broke off then, as if he had said too much. He looked towards the farmhouse, where Gow and others stood watching them. Marbeck glanced at Gow too, and back at Henry … and in a moment he saw it. The boy was angry, of course: but from grieving, for the father he had rarely seen. And in Isaac Gow, he had found one who would stand in his place: one who seemed to be everything his own father was not. He waited, until Henry turned to him again.
‘That may be,’ Marbeck said, not unkindly. ‘Yet it’s a rare father that doesn’t wish a good life for his son – especially one as clever as you. What of your future? How will you spend your days, if you forsake the university? Meanwhile Lady Scroop frets at Chelsea, losing her appetite as well as her sleep—’
‘Enough!’ Henry threw up a hand as if to ward off such thoughts. ‘You speak to me as a child,’ he said, with some bitterness. ‘But I’m almost nineteen … do you think I didn’t hear rumours, when I was last at Chelsea? Servants’ gossip, behind half-closed doors, but its import was clear. You visited late at night, while my father was at war … you pretended legal business, yet you are no lawyer. I ask again – what are you to my mother?’
Marbeck hesitated. ‘I’m her lover,’ he said after a moment. ‘And I would do anything in my power to help her, as I would you …’ But he too fell silent, regretting his words. Suddenly, Henry looked close to tears.
‘I knew it!’ he shouted. ‘You prey upon her – you’re a vile sinner, like most of the population of this cess-pit! Pastor Isaac saw through you at once. You’ll perish in the fires prepared for you – for you are too late to join the appointed brethren. You’re no friend to me, and you’re not wanted here!’
Cursing silently, Marbeck opened his mouth, but it was too late. The boy was backing away, and at the sound of his raised voice the others of the sect had started forward. Marbeck saw Gow advancing, striding through the grass like an angry lion.
‘Henry, wait …’ He moved towards the youth, who veered away. Then the others drew close, surrounding him like a bodyguard. At their head Isaac Gow stopped, and proceeded to direct his wrath against Marbeck.
‘I know ye, fellow!’ he roared, raising his fist. ‘Ye were sent here to snoop – to beguile us with feigned concern for this boy, who is tender and in need of protection. Men of evil purpose always come in disguise, like the minions of Satan himself. Ye seek to entice him away – but I forbid it. Leave us, and do not return!’
The others gathered round, and in their faces Marbeck saw only fear and hatred. He looked at Henry, and saw a similar expression; but at least, he thought he understood the boy’s emotions. Then there were hoof-beats: someone was leading Cobb up. Swiftly, Marbeck stepped forward and snatched the reins from the man’s hand.
‘Have a care, sir – he is particular who handles him,’ he said softly. Startled, the man fell back, whereupon Marbeck mounted. Turning the horse in a rapid half-circle, he gazed down at Gow and his followers, knowing further words were useless. His last look was directed at Henry Scroop, but the boy had turned his back and was walking towards the house.
With a sigh, he shook the reins and rode away.
At the Roebuck, having stabled Cobb he went to the taproom and ordered mulled ale flavoured with spices. There was a good fire, and he sat down before it to drive the chill from his bones. On his way back to Cambridge the rain had started up again; now it fell in sheets, splashing against the windows.
Grimly he gazed into the flames. His mission to rescue Henry Scroop from the clutches of a crazed Precisian having stalled, he was at a loss. He could write to Lady Celia, but there was no way to embroider the news. Thereafter, his choices were few. Go north, Gifford had advised, meaning to Scotland and the court of James Stuart: the man most people supposed to be England’s King-in-Waiting. He pondered the notion, not liking the prospect of several days’ ride to an uncertain welcome. But it was true that others had gone already … He breathed a sigh. Elizabeth’s long reign would soon be over, and much would be swept aside with it. What the coming years would bring, nobody knew.
He finished his drink, left the taproom and walked up the stairs. He would pen the letter, then leave Cambridge. Though it would appear as if he had given up too easily, he thought … should he make one further attempt to talk to Henry? The prospects of success looked bleak. With such thoughts in mind, he threw open the door to his chamber – and stopped in mid-stride. A sword-point had appeared, its point directly above his heart.
‘Well now,’ someone purred. ‘So it is you, after all … grown somewhat careless, have you not?’