Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting Read Free Page B

But he was restless, and would not wait for the morrow. He resolved therefore to walk downriver to Putney, take the ferry across the Thames and make his way to the house of Lady Celia Scroop in Chelsea.
    Relations between Marbeck and Lady Scroop, widowed for more than two years now, had grown somewhat strained of late. Since the death of her husband in the Low Countries, a change had come over the woman. Though somewhat relieved by his death (had she not secretly wished for it?) she had become withdrawn, even towards Marbeck. Indeed, she had appeared almost to discourage his visits, rare though they were; his sorties as a Crown intelligencer often took him far afield. On returning from Derbyshire he had sent a message, however, and was relieved to receive a reply bidding him come to her soon. Now, he thought, was as good a time as any. In the light of this evening’s conversation, he had resolved not to remain under the Crofts’ roof a moment longer than necessary. So while most of the household were preparing to retire for the night, he slipped out through a side door and left by the stable yard. Within the hour he had crossed the river on the last ferry, and a short while later arrived at the door of Scroop House, where as always he was admitted.
    Lady Celia was up, of course. Her habits, forged during the long years of her late husband’s absences, had not changed. She often sat with her waiting-woman until the small hours, even until dawn. Marbeck found her in a small but comfortable chamber with a good fire burning, and made his bow. But as he straightened up, he received a shock.
    In a matter of months, he saw, his lover and friend had aged. Not only had the spark in her eye dimmed: her face was drawn, even gaunt. More, the smile with which she usually greeted him was absent. Instead she nodded and remained seated, while her woman rose and, having thrown a brief look at Marbeck, left the room without a word.
    â€˜I ask your pardon for not coming sooner,’ was all he could say.
    She did not reply, merely beckoned him forward. He took the seat left by her servant, but first he bent forward and kissed her on the lips. To his relief she returned the kiss, then gestured to a jug that stood on the small table between them. Marbeck poured wine into two cups, but Lady Celia waved hers away.
    â€˜I have drunk enough today,’ she said. ‘But take what you will.’
    He took a sip, searching for the words. But before he could speak, she forestalled him.
    â€˜There’s a message for you. A boy brought it, then hurried away. I’ve kept it a week.’
    He frowned. ‘Here? But from who—’
    â€˜I know not,’ she broke in. ‘Perhaps someone who knew where you would be, sooner or later. As they knew to trust me to deliver it, with my usual discretion.’
    Suddenly his mind was racing. Had there been word from Cecil after all – was he fretting over nothing? A week … his frown deepened. He had already informed Master Secretary of his whereabouts by then; why send word here, instead of to Croft House?
    â€˜Where is it?’ he asked.
    â€˜In my chamber, under lock and key.’
    He met her gaze in silence. His affection for her was as great as ever, but it was now mingled with pity. What had happened to her? He longed to ask questions, but felt he must tread carefully.
    â€˜Shall I wait here while you fetch it?
    At that she smiled, though somewhat wanly. ‘Why this sudden delicacy? In times past you’d have had your hands on my person by now.’
    â€˜Your person?’ Marbeck managed a smile of his own. ‘Now who’s being delicate?’
    As quickly as it had appeared, her own smile faded. ‘I’ve things to tell you,’ she said after a moment. Somewhat relieved, he gave a nod. At the same moment he noticed a thin streak of silver in her hair, caught by the candlelight.
    â€˜It’s my son Henry,’ Lady Celia went on.