Free Marbeck and the King-in-Waiting by John Pilkington

feet, he turned sharply as someone ran towards him, then saw it was Poyns.
    â€˜Are you hurt?’
    â€˜The boy …’ Marbeck began.
    â€˜Forget him. Come away – quickly!’
    He hesitated, but seeing no sign of Henry, moved off with his companion. Someone shouted after them, but they were soon in the trees and away from the firelight. Stumbling in the dark, they eventually saw a glow from a torch and headed towards it. Others were doing the same: they heard footfalls, and a woman weeping as she ran. Soon they were on the track leading out of the wood. A few minutes later, their shoes soaking wet from crossing the meadow, they reached the Godmanchester bridge and halted.
    â€˜They were hired men,’ Poyns said. ‘Sent to break up the meeting …’ He bent to regain his breath. ‘They’ve taken Gow prisoner.’
    â€˜What of Henry – did you see him?’ Marbeck asked.
    The other shook his head. ‘It was a melee. Some people got hurt, but most ran away. Gow might have done so too – his followers tried to resist, but they were scared off.’
    They started walking, but as they crossed the bridge both slowed down. On the Huntingdon side there were torches, and several men standing to bar their way. At sight of them one called out.
    â€˜Come forward and show yourselves!’
    Marbeck turned to Poyns. ‘Can you sing
O Mistress Mine
?’ he asked.
    â€˜Are you in jest?’ Poyns retorted. But seeing Marbeck’s expression, he gave a nod. They walked on until they found themselves facing three or four townsmen in plain garb, who looked ill at ease.
    â€˜State your names and your business.’ The leader, a morose fellow, held a stave which he levelled at Marbeck.
    â€˜Richard Strang, player upon the lute,’ Marbeck said. ‘This is my friend … Wisbech. We’re entertainers—’
    â€˜Do you trifle with me?’ The constable glowered at him. ‘You’ve been at the meeting in the woods – you went to hear the separatist devil Gow.’
    â€˜We did,’ Marbeck admitted. ‘But out of curiosity … it was an idle notion, nothing more. I thought to make a ballad of it. Let me assure you, we’re not of his persuasion.’
    The men exchanged looks, but their spokesman remained sceptical. ‘Entertainers, you say?’ He surveyed them in the torchlight. ‘Where do ye lodge?’
    â€˜At the George,’ Poyns replied, before Marbeck could. ‘If you search our chamber you’ll find my friend’s lute. He’s a fine player … favoured by many of the gentry.’
    â€˜Then what do ye here, in Huntingdon?’
    â€˜I thought to call at Hinchingbrooke,’ Marbeck said, silencing Poyns with a glance. ‘I would present myself to Sir Henry Cromwell – he’s sheriff of this county, is he not?’
    At that the other men shifted their feet. ‘He was,’ the leader answered. ‘Not any longer …’ He hesitated. ‘See now, I’ve a mind to let you go, if you’re what you claim to be,’ he said finally. ‘Even though I—’
    But he broke off as, without warning, Marbeck launched into the opening of
O Mistress Mine
. It was Feste’s song from the play of
Twelfth Night
, which he had seen only the year before, at the Globe Theatre in Southwark.
    O Mistress Mine, where are you roaming?
he sang.
Oh stay and hear, your true love’s coming …
Whereupon Poyns joined in, in a passable tenor:
    That can sing both high and low,
    Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
    Journeys end in lovers meeting,
    Every wise man’s son doth know …
    â€˜Enough!’
    They stopped, eyes on the constable, who looked embarrassed. His fellows, however, seemed to have enjoyed the recital. ‘Let ’em pass,’ one said. ‘They’re harmless.’
    After a moment the other gave a nod. But as he moved aside, Poyns,