Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting by John Pilkington Page B

said.
    He glanced towards the barn: the door was open, swaying in the breeze. From the house there was no sound. After a moment he dismounted and walked to the door, found it unlocked and entered. He wandered from room to room, but there was nothing to see. Even the furniture, sparse as it was, looked forlorn. It was as if no one had lived here.
    â€˜They’ve been burning papers – only this morning, I’d say.’
    He returned to the main room, to find Poyns kneeling by the fireplace where there was a pile of ashes. Nearby stood a basket of newly cut firewood.
    â€˜Left in a hurry, is how it looks to me,’ he added, looking up. ‘And I think your visit occasioned it.’
    â€˜I can’t see why,’ Marbeck replied. ‘They’ve broken no laws that I know of. They consider themselves devout men …’
    â€˜Unless there’s something they wish to keep secret,’ the other interrupted. When Marbeck frowned, he added: ‘You may accuse me of seeing a conspiracy behind every bush, if you will. But something smells wrong here.’ He stood up, dusting off his hands. ‘I’ve seen Gow preach, Marbeck. There’s no fathoming a man such as he. He’d cut off his own hand to prove a point.’
    Marbeck thought for a moment. ‘I’ve a mind to pick up his trail and go after him,’ he said finally. ‘Whatever Gow intends, Henry Scroop shouldn’t be a party to it. His mother would never forgive me if I let him get into trouble.’
    â€˜You and she are close, I take it,’ Poyns observed, and received a nod in return. ‘Well, I fear we must part company. I’d best go to London, see if I yet have a place in Master Secretary’s service …’ He glanced through a window. ‘But the day draws in. I’ll pass another night in Cambridge, then leave tomorrow. You?’
    â€˜I’ll do the same,’ Marbeck answered. ‘But first I’ll poke about, see if I can find anything. Shall we share a supper?’
    With a nod Poyns walked to the door. Marbeck heard him ride away. Then, after a last look round the empty house, he went outside and took up Cobb’s reins. Once in the saddle, he began to make a slow sweep about the farm, looking for signs of Gow’s departure. The meadow grass was flattened in places, but that meant little. He made a wider sweep, and finally his efforts were rewarded. The valley lay on a rough north–south axis, and at its northern end he found what he sought: mule droppings, quite fresh, along with hoof-marks. Leaving the valley, he followed the trail as well as he could in the fading light, and found that it bent north-west, away from the hills. It suggested that Gow and his company meant to pass Cambridge to the north, perhaps crossing the river at a village higher up. In that direction lay Huntingdon, which stood on the Old North Road, the ancient highway from London to York and beyond: Gateshead, Berwick-on-Tweed, and the Scottish border.
    In the gathering gloom he made his plans. There was no sense going to London; Master Secretary had shunned him, and in any case would be so occupied that Marbeck would be the least of his concerns. Whereas at Huntingdon, in the days to come, he might get news from messengers riding up and down the highway. Perhaps it would be best to head then for Scotland, as Gifford had advised. But he still wanted to find Gow and his followers, and speak once more with Henry. Having settled on his course, he rode back to Cambridge.
    At supper he and Poyns ate in silence. They sat in the crowded parlour of the Roebuck, among loud-talking townsfolk. On all sides there was only one topic for gossip: the death of the Queen, and the coming of a new king. Having finished their meal, the two intelligencers spoke low.
    â€˜I’ve heard further news,’ Poyns began. ‘All eyes look north, as we’d expect. They say James will confirm members of