Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting by John Pilkington

Within minutes he was walking the bank of the River Cam, pondering their conversation. It had thrown certain matters into sharp relief, one of them being the uncertain future they and other intelligencers faced. For almost fifteen years – since his recruitment at the age of eighteen in the Armada year, when Sir Francis Walsingham ran the network with ruthless efficiency – Marbeck had known no other life than serving the Crown. If that came to an end, what would he do: return to Lancashire, and live the dull life of a second son on his family’s sleepy estate? The notion was as wearying as it was absurd.
    He halted, gazing across the swollen stream. It was mid-afternoon, and a pair of poor scholars in threadbare gowns were walking the opposite bank, heads down in conversation. He watched them for a while, memories of his own student days welling up. Even back then, he had known he would not return home … London beckoned, as it always would. But with Elizabeth gone, and a very different monarch in place …
    Restlessly he turned away, and started for the town. Just now such speculation was pointless. He would walk off his energies, and if he were recognized, what did it matter? He would smile and bluff, as he had learned to do long ago. But as he walked – by Queens’ College, then King’s, then Trinity – another matter came to mind: that of Henry Scroop.
    Now, he berated himself for abandoning the boy. For Celia’s sake he would return to Gogmagog and try again – try harder. And having formed that resolve, he picked up his pace. Soon he had walked the length of the old city, not once but twice, threading his way through the crowds in streets and market. Finally, as twilight gathered, he arrived back at the Roebuck. Ascending to his chamber he found Poyns snoring loudly, and left him. Later he returned to the room, stretched out on the floor and wrapped himself in his cloak with a spare shirt for a pillow. As sleeping-places went he had known worse, he thought, as he drifted off into sleep … only to wake the following morning with a start.
    He sat up, looked at the bed and saw it was empty. He had slept late. Stiffly he rose, and padded to the window. The town was astir. He glanced up at grey skies; somewhere a bell was clanging. From downstairs came loud voices … Frowning, he went to the door and opened it, just as feet pounded on the stairs. Poyns appeared, fully dressed and flushed with excitement – and at once, Marbeck knew what had happened.
    â€˜The Queen …?’ He stepped aside as his fellow intelligencer hurried into the room. With a nod, Poyns delivered the news.
    â€˜She died this morning, between two and three of the clock. Already Robert Carey’s riding north – he passed through St Neots a short while ago, and the word flies on the wind!’
    He paused, breathless, while Marbeck stared. ‘And James?’
    â€˜He is named successor after all. Elizabeth couldn’t speak by the end, but she made signs. Carey carries the ring they forced from her finger, by which James will know it’s true. He’s already been proclaimed in London: James the First, King of England, France and Ireland.’
    They were both silent. It was Thursday, the twenty-fourth of March: the last day of the reign of Elizabeth, and the first of James. It was also the eve of Lady Day – the start of the new year. The import was lost on neither of them.
    â€˜Well, it may be early but I think I need a drink of something strong,’ Poyns said at last. ‘Will you come down?’
    â€˜I will,’ Marbeck said.
    From outside, there came the sound of cheering. Poyns went to the window and looked out. ‘Fools,’ he muttered. ‘What do they think, that their lives will suddenly change for the better? There’s another poor harvest likely to come – can the King of Scots banish the rain? Or fill our treasury’s empty