King James, the sixth of Scotland and first of England, had been welcomed at York with great show of loyalty by the mayor and populace. With the King was a large train of followers: noblemen, servants and hangers-on, both Scottish and English. Others were arriving by the hour, to swell the crowds; the city was packed, with people flocking from far afield. The royal party was lodged at the King’s Manor, on the north-west side of the city by Marygate: the seat of the Council of the North. Here too were the Cecils: Lord Thomas, the Council’s President, and his half-brother, Sir Robert. That same evening, Marbeck sent a message in cipher to Master Secretary, begging him for an audience on a matter of gravest importance. He sent it by a man he recognized, one of Cecil’s own household who, encouraged by a generous tip, promised to deliver it to his master soon. After that, there was little to do but wait.
There was no room anywhere, of course; every inn, tavern and alehouse was filled to bursting point. The two intelligencers managed to get fodder for their horses and a supper for themselves, but only by paying high prices for both. Finally, to escape the throng they walked along the river by St Martin’s. Night had fallen, and torches stood along the bank.
‘If Gow is here, he’ll be hard to find,’ Marbeck observed. ‘But if he intends mischief he’ll show himself at last, disguised or not. I only hope we recognize him.’
‘I’ll recognize him – have no fear upon that,’ Rowan said.
They walked in silence, among strolling couples and larger groups, picking up snatches of conversation. The King had been stag-hunting on the moors, someone said; he was a great man for the chase. Another remarked on the coarseness of his Scottish followers, as rough in manners as in dress. Someone else spoke of James’s awkwardness; rumour had it he did not enjoy formal ceremonies. That was unfortunate, a man nearby said, for tomorrow he had to endure another. Overhearing this, Marbeck glanced at Rowan.
‘We must find out where that will be. Likely it’s at St Peter’s … the Minster.’
‘Perhaps he means to dub a few more knights,’ Rowan suggested, with a sardonic look.
They had walked westwards almost to the city wall, and the ruined St Mary’s Abbey. Behind another wall was the King’s Manor. It would be well guarded, Marbeck knew; but the thought of a large public ceremony on the morrow made him uneasy. The monarch was always exposed on such occasions: an opportunity for Isaac Gow to make his move. He was musing upon it, when he felt a tug on his sleeve.
‘I think someone here knows you,’ Rowan said.
He turned sharply – and his heart sank. Walking towards him was none other than his former master at Barnes: the bumbling courtier, Sir Thomas Croft.
‘Richard Strang, as I live and breathe!’
‘Sir Thomas …’ Marbeck managed a bow. ‘An honour … and such a surprise.’
‘So I observe.’ The knight, dressed in a garish suit of yellow and crimson, looked him up and down. ‘I would have words with you, concerning the way you left my house without even a farewell. You were remiss, Strang – and insolent!’
‘So I was, sir …’ Marbeck forced a contrite look. ‘Yet I had family business that would not wait. But surely you’ll not begrudge a loyal subject wishing to set eyes on our new King?’
The other grunted, and his gaze fell on Rowan, who stood stiffly to one side. ‘Is this a kinsman of yours?’
Marbeck hesitated, but mercifully Rowan came to his rescue.
‘Merely an acquaintance, sir,’ he said amiably. ‘Master … Strang and I travelled together, to see His Majesty. There’s to be a great occasion tomorrow – at the Minster, we hear …’
‘Then you hear falsely,’ Croft retorted, with the air of one who was in the know. ‘The King will preside on the green before Marygate, when poor citizens and yeomen may have sight of him. They say he will touch the sick, as did the great monarchs of old.’
‘Indeed …?’ Rowan inclined his head, but both he and Marbeck had stiffened. ‘That will be … a joyous event.’
‘How does the Lady Margery, sir?’ Marbeck asked quickly. ‘Is she here too, or …’
‘She is not,’ Sir Thomas answered. ‘She remains at Barnes with our family. Speaking of whom, you have much to do, Strang, to repair relations with Lady Alice. She’s been out of sorts since you went off in such a precipitate manner.’
‘I’ll visit her and make amends,’ Marbeck said. ‘Yet I trust another tutor may be found. Such are ten a penny.’
‘So they are, now I think upon it.’ Sir Thomas sniffed, clearly thinking he had spent long enough talking to men of no importance. With a final glance at them both he started to go, then frowned. ‘Just where is it you’re from, Strang?’ he asked. ‘Somewhere here in the north, isn’t it?’
‘Not here exactly, Sir Thomas,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Nowhere you would know …’ but the man was already striding off. They watched until he was out of sight.
‘So, who is Lady Alice?’ Rowan asked, raising his brows. Marbeck merely sighed.
The Sabbath dawned fair but chilly, with a breeze blowing down from the moors. Unable to find accommodation, the two intelligencers had spent the night in a stable with their horses, after bribing the ostler to let them bed down on the straw. As the city stirred into life they went to an ordinary, the first customers of the day. Over a breakfast of porridge and stewed fruit they made their plans. Marbeck had walked the city streets the previous night, picking up what news he could.
‘Croft might be mistaken about the King touching sick people to heal them,’ he told Rowan. ‘From what I’ve learned, he thinks such old practices mere superstition … and he shrinks from contact with ordinary folk.’
‘He’s an odd fellow,’ Rowan said. ‘Learned as a judge, I hear, yet slobbers like a beggar.’ He thought for a moment. ‘We’ll join the throng – but first we should go to the manor and accost Crookback Robert.’
‘You mean bluff our way in?’ Marbeck looked sceptical. ‘None can get near the house. He has my message … I’ve said I’ll wait near the manor, if he should send for me.’
‘A pox on him,’ Rowan muttered. ‘Whatever happens, on his head be it.’
Soon after they parted, having agreed that Marygate should be their meeting point. Rowan would look about the city, while Marbeck walked out by Bootham, a busy way lined with shops and stalls. Here he paused: to his left stood the gates of the King’s Manor. But the guards eyed him keenly, and he would not linger; after the encounter with Sir Thomas Croft he had no wish to draw further attention to himself. He moved on, mingling with those gathering for Sunday worship; church bells were clanging from several directions. Beyond Bootham were meadows, and a windmill beside the road. Here he stopped, looking southwards towards the walls, and the broad green before Marygate. Already men were setting up barriers, and close to the gatehouse itself a low platform had been erected, with a padded chair for the King. People would pass before him and kneel, to present gifts and petitions. Whether any would feel the royal hand laid upon them to cure their ills, Marbeck doubted; that custom had long since fallen out of favour.
He walked by the creaking windmill, its sails turning in the breeze. His intention was to survey the green and choose the best vantage points for himself and Rowan. But at that moment a commotion arose from Bootham: cheering, along with a clatter of hooves. He retraced his steps, to stand by the roadside as others were doing. It seemed a party had emerged from the manor – and quickly, he realized he was about to get his first sight of James Stuart. The heads of riders could be seen above the stalls … but when they approached, Marbeck’s reaction was one of surprise: could that unsmiling, rough-bearded man in the centre really be England’s new King?
Yet there was little doubt that it was James himself. His horse was a fine thoroughbred and he sat it well, even with a hooded falcon on his wrist. With him rode other noblemen; some finely dressed, others in plainer garb, also carrying falcons. So the King was going hawking, in sight of the people; from habit Marbeck looked around keenly, but saw only cheering bystanders, bowing and doffing hats. The monarch paid them no heed, but merely stared ahead. Marbeck glanced at the other riders … and froze: towards the rear, sitting somewhat awkwardly on a black hunting horse, was Sir Robert Cecil.
His first instinct was to step forward and hail him, but he knew the notion was foolish: there were armed guards riding behind, their eyes scanning the bystanders for any sign of trouble. In any case the group were already past, heading out to open country. Soon they were merely a distant body, raising a cloud of dust. Standing at the roadside, he cursed silently.
‘Tha’s no call to look downhearted, sir,’ someone nearby said in a thick Yorkshire accent. ‘His Majesty will sit before Marygate this afternoon, and ye may see him at your leisure.’
Marbeck turned to see a sturdy fellow in workaday garb, and summoned a wry grin. ‘So I hear, master,’ he said. ‘What’s the occasion? Will the King make more knights, or touch the sick as some say?’
‘I know not,’ the man answered. ‘There’s to be a pageant and speeches – as if we needed any more o’ them. Yet some are indeed bringing their sick folk here, in hope … is there someone ailing in your family?’
With a shake of his head, Marbeck walked off.
He found Rowan later, and the two of them talked in a tavern in Coney Street. But there was little to add to what they had already learned. The King, it seemed, would spend a few more days in York before moving on to Doncaster. It occurred to Marbeck that Master Secretary intended the sovereign to break his journey at the Cecil family’s seat at Burghley, near Stamford.
‘Aye, he’ll entertain the King’s party in style,’ Rowan agreed. ‘And strengthen his influence all the while … you can wager he has his eye on a peerage.’
‘Meanwhile, I take it you’ve seen no sign of our Puritan friend?’ Marbeck asked, to which the other shook his head.
‘Yet I’m certain he’s here,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Call it the victory of hope over reason, if you will. But I’ve spent so long pursuing the varlet, I believe I can smell him. I’ve come close before …’ He looked up sharply. ‘It ends here in York, Marbeck. I can’t continue in this way … I’ll arrest that man, or perish in the attempt!’
With that Rowan took his cup and drained it, as if to seal the vow.
‘Then let’s take positions on the green,’ Marbeck said. ‘I pray the sun keeps shining – and that luck shines on us, too.’
By afternoon the ground before Marygate was a mass of people, of all ages and stations. City dignitaries dressed in their finest clothes were gathering about the royal dais, presided over by the mayor, Sir Robert Watter. Further off, behind wooden palings patrolled by marshals with staves, ordinary folk thronged in their hundreds, which soon became thousands. Among them the intelligencers moved unnoticed. Rowan was dressed in a plain cloak, with a hat pulled low. Marbeck had no cloak: his sword was at his side, and he wanted ease of movement.
But as the day wore on and the King had still not appeared, both men grew restless. They kept apart, ignoring one another, though now and again Marbeck caught sight of his fellow, always close to the platform. He himself preferred to rove about, observing people and hearing the gossip. His eyes soon fell on those who, perhaps from mere desperation, had brought sick relatives with them. They were a heart-rending sight: the lame and the diseased, from babes in arms to elderly folk being helped along by others. It angered him that these people were doomed to disappointment; the impression he’d formed was that King James would not allow them near him. He recalled Nicholas Prout’s words, when they had sat in the rain, in the gallery at the Boar’s Head: how the new King would drive the people apart …
A great cry went up, shaking him out of his reverie. There was a surge towards the platform, and at the same time a fanfare of trumpets rang out. Peering over heads, Marbeck saw the King arrive at last wearing a tall hat, velvet cloak and jewelled chain, guarded by halberdiers. His followers were about him: lords, knights and mere gentlemen. He couldn’t see Cecil, but was sure he would be among them. He did glimpse Sir Thomas Croft, a gangling figure towering above others. Soon the party had placed themselves before the crowd, and the King took his seat. People cheered, shouted and waved hats. The royal trumpeters blew another fanfare, to bring silence more than anything else, whereupon the mayor raised his hands and called out.
‘God save our royal sovereign James: King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland!’
A roar went up. Marbeck looked round: those with sick relatives were pressing forward, making their way to the barrier. Uneasily he threaded his own way, eyes sweeping the crowd; but there was no sign of anyone who looked like Isaac Gow, let alone Henry Scroop. He caught sight of Rowan, not a dozen paces from the King, and knew the man was as tense as he was.
‘His gracious Majesty …’
There was another cheer; the mayor lifted his hands again, struggling to be heard. ‘His gracious Majesty,’ he repeated, ‘in his mercy, has agreed that citizens in sore need may come before him. If it is meet and fit, he may place his royal hand upon their person, in honour of his state and in knowledge of the blessed power of kings, that they may with God’s help be healed forthwith!’
There were cries of approval. Yet Marbeck saw several people crossing themselves openly; the old religion was strong here. Tales of ancient times, when Edward the Confessor had first touched the sick, were not forgotten. Easing forward, he saw the marshals forming a passageway to the platform: if anyone did intend harm to the King, he reasoned, there were men to prevent it. He realized his hand had gone to his sword-hilt, and hurriedly removed it. But nobody noticed: all eyes were on the King in his chair, and those who were at the front, desperate to have their kinsfolk touched. He sighed; one thing he shared with James Stuart, if rumours were true, was a deep scepticism in the efficacy of such a process. But those folk carrying children or assisting the old clearly believed … He looked away, to observe others near the platform. No weapons were in evidence: such would easily be spotted by the guards … and suddenly, doubt overwhelmed him.
Would someone like Isaac Gow – madman or not – truly attempt such a desperate act? It occurred to Marbeck that he had allowed fancy to run away with him. Had he become caught up in Rowan’s obsession with the man’s capture? Indeed – had Rowan not become somewhat unhinged these past weeks, tormenting himself for allowing Gow to escape? He strained his eyes to see his fellow intelligencer, but he was nowhere in sight. Frowning, he began to push his way through the crowd, occasioning a few rebuffs in the process. People jostled for sight of the sick, the first of whom were lining up between the rows of marshals. Now he was near the front … he caught sight of Cecil, standing beside the King. For a moment he thought Master Secretary had seen him too, but the man gave no sign.
A murmur went up: a woman with a child in her arms was allowed forward. Humbly she approached the King, and fell to her knees. Marbeck couldn’t hear what was said, but he saw the sovereign’s lips move, presumably in commiseration. All eyes were on mother and baby, and now a silence fell. Suddenly it seemed the same question had risen in every mind: would this standoffish monarch, who was said to shun contact with all but his family and favourites, put such notions aside and touch the ragged folk before him?
He did – but quickly, and with a gloved hand. Another murmur rose: surely this was not the way? People turned to one another, muttering – but Marbeck’s eyes were on the platform. He saw the woman with the child being ushered away, and understood. This was but an exercise in majesty … a new king striving to show himself one with the people. It was a pageant in itself – as much of a show as those that would follow it. His mouth set tight, he looked hard at Sir Robert Cecil, and knew. Who else but Master Secretary, weaver of intrigue, would have planned it? The monarch had to be seen in the best light … all England would hear of how James in his humility had touched the sick on his progress south.
And yet, the sick still waited in hope. Another woman had approached, leading two children by the hand. They too knelt, to receive some empty words and a touch of the King’s glove. Then they were led aside, as an old man limped forward, leaning heavily upon a raggedly dressed boy. The man used a crutch, and took a long time to reach the platform. The marshals glanced at him, then looked to see who was next in line. The boy stumbled and dropped to his knees before the King, seemingly overwhelmed by the occasion. The old man bowed but stayed upright, struggling to keep his balance. There was a moment as the King spoke up, bidding him come closer. People strained to see and hear, heads bobbing …
But Marbeck gave a start, and every sinew in his body tightened. He shouted, but few heard. He elbowed people aside, and got blows in return. Some turned to look, and fell back at sight of a man with hand on sword. Then he was at the barrier, struggling to climb it.
‘Stop that man!’ he shouted. ‘He’s an assassin!’
Someone loomed to block his way, but he downed the fellow with a blow. Then he was over the paling, advancing towards the platform – and at once marshals started towards him. But his eyes were on the lame figure, who was no cripple at all – and on the boy, who was suddenly on his feet. The King and those around him had now realized the danger, and a cry of dismay flew up: the old man’s crutch had suddenly become a blade. Half of it was thrown aside, and steel flashed in the sunlight … Isaac Gow, eyes blazing, lurched towards the monarch.
For Marbeck, time slowed to a snail’s pace. He drew his sword, knowing he was too late. Burly arms seized him … He thrust at someone, but his stroke went wide. There were screams from all sides … He saw figures in his path, and a blur of movement. He thought he heard Rowan shout … He even had time to glimpse Sir Robert Cecil, a look of horror on his features. And then to his amazement, something else: the boy – who was indeed Henry Scroop – appeared to be grappling with Gow, struggling for possession of the man’s blade. Locked as in a dance, the two impostors fell to the ground, to be overwhelmed at once by guards.
But now Marbeck too was held. He shouted again, and it was Henry’s name he called … then he was falling, bodies pressing him downwards, pinning him as if he were a madman. Someone kicked him in the ribs, someone else tore his sword from his grasp … He lashed out, but was overwhelmed. It was over: breathless and half-dazed, he was yanked to his feet; then he was being marched away, with a great roaring in his ears.
It sounded as if the crowd were shouting, Hang him!