Chapter Eight.
The Fifth of November.
“Better to have dwelt unlooked for in some forest’s shadows dun,
Where the leaves are pierced in triumph by the javelins of the sun!
Better to be born and die in some calm nest, howe’er obscure,
With a vine about the casements, and a fig-tree at the door!”
The Earl of Salisbury sat in his private cabinet in Whitehall Palace. He was Robert Cecil, younger son of the great Earl of Burleigh, and he had inherited his father’s brains without his father’s conscientiousness and integrity. The dead Queen had never trusted him thoroughly: she considered him, as he was, a schemer—a schemer who might pay to virtue the tribute of outward propriety, but would pursue the scheme no less. Yet if Robert Cecil cared for any thing on earth which was not Robert Cecil, that thing was the Protestant religion and the liberties of England. (Note 1.) The present Sovereign was under pre-eminent obligation to him, for had he not cast his great weight into the scale in his favour, the chances were that James might very possibly, if not probably, have been James the Sixth of Scotland still. Lord Salisbury was in person insignificant-looking. When she wished to put him down, his late mistress had been accustomed to address him as “Little man,” and his present master termed him “my little beagle.” His face was small, with wizened features, moustache, and pointed beard; and though only forty-five years of age, there were decided silver threads among the brown.
He looked up in surprise at the announcement that Lord Monteagle requested permission to speak with him quickly. What could this young Roman Catholic nobleman want with him at nine o’clock in the evening—a time which to his apprehension was much what midnight is to ours? Perhaps it was better to see him at once, and have done with the matter. He would take care to dismiss him quickly.
“Show my Lord Monteagle this way.”
In another moment Lord Monteagle stood by the table where Salisbury was seated, his plumed hat in his hand.
“My Lord,” said he, “I entreat your Lordship’s pardon for my late coming, and knowing your weighty causes, will be as brief as I may. A letter has been sent me which, in truth, to my apprehension is but the prating of some fool; yet seeing that things are not alway what they seem, and that there may be more in it than appeareth, I crave your Lordship’s leave to lay it before you, that your better judgment may pronounce thereupon. Truly, I am not able to understand it myself.”
And the nameless, undated letter, on which the fate of King and Parliament hung, was laid down before Salisbury.
The Lord High Treasurer read it carefully through; scanned it, back and front, as if to discover any trace of origin: then leaned back in his chair, and thoughtfully stroked his moustache.
“Pray you, be seated, my Lord. Whence had you this?”
Lord Monteagle gave such details as he knew.
“You have no guess from whom it could come?”
“Never a whit.”
“Nor you know not the writing?”
“It resembleth none hand of any that I know.”
There was another short pause, broken by Lord Monteagle’s query, “Thinks your Lordship this of any moment?”
“That were not easy to answer. It may be of serious import; or it may be but a foolish jest.”
“Truly, at first I thought it the latter; for how could the danger be past as soon as the letter were burnt?”
“Ah, that might be but—My Lord, I pray you leave this letter with me. I will consider of it, and if I see cause, may lay it before the King. Any way, you have well done to bring it hither. If it be a foolish jest, there is but a lost half-hour: and if, as might be, it is an honest warning of some real peril that threatens us, you will then have merited well of your King and country. I may tell you that I have already received divers advices from beyond seas to the same effect.”
“I thank your Lordship heartily, and I commend you to God.” So saying, Lord Monteagle took his leave.
The Sunday passed peacefully. Thomas Winter, in his chamber at the sign of the Duck, laid down a volume of the writings of Thomas Aquinas, and began to think about going to bed; when a hasty rap on the door, and the sound of some one being let in, was succeeded by rapid steps on the stairs. The next moment, Thomas Ward entered the room.
“What is the matter?” said Winter, the moment he saw his face.
“The saints wot! A warning letter is sent to my Lord Monteagle, and whereto it may grow—Hie you to White Webbs when morning breaketh, with all the speed you may, and tell Mr Catesby of this. I fear—I very much fear all shall be discovered.”
“It’s that rascal Tresham!” cried Winter. “He was earnest to have his sister’s husband warned, and said he would not pluck forth not another stiver without our promise so to do.”
“Be it who it may, it may be the ruin of us.”
“God forbid! I will be at White Webbs with the dawn, or soon after.”
Before it was light the next morning Winter was on horseback, and was soon galloping through the country villages of Islington, Holloway, and Hornsey, on his way to Enfield Chase. In the depths of that lonely forest land stood the solitary hunting-lodge, named White Webbs, which belonged to Dr Hewick, and was let in the shooting season to sportsmen. This house had been taken by “Mr Meaze” (who was Garnet) as a very quiet locality, where mass might be said without being overheard by Protestant ears, and no inconvenient neighbours were likely to gossip about the inmates. In London, Garnet was a horse-dealer; at White Webbs he was a gentleman farmer and a sportsman. Here he established himself and somebody eke, who has not yet appeared on the scene, and whom it is time to introduce. And I introduce her with no feeling save one of intense pity, as one more sinned against than sinning—a frail, passion-swayed, impulsive woman, one of the thousands of women whose lives Rome has blighted by making that sin which was no sin, and so in many instances leading up to that which was sin—poor, loving, unhappy Anne Vaux.
The Hon. Anne Vaux was a younger daughter of William Lord Vaux of Harrowden, and Elizabeth Beaumont, his first wife. Like many another, she “loved one only, and she clave to him,” whose happy and honourable wife she might have been, had he been a Protestant clergyman instead of a Jesuit priest. That Anne Vaux’s passionate love for Garnet was for the man and not the priest, her own letters are sufficient witness, and Garnet returned the love. She took a solemn vow of obedience to the Superior of the Jesuit Mission in England, in order that she might be with him where he was, might follow his steps like a faithful dog, that his people should be her people, and his God her God. But where he died she could not die. To “live without the vanished light” was her sadder destiny.
At White Webbs, she passed as Mrs Perkins or Parkyns, a widow lady, and the sister of Mr Mease. She received numerous visitors, beside Mr Mease himself,—Catesby, who does not appear to have assumed any alias, Mr and Mrs Brooksby (the latter of whom was Anne’s sister Eleanor), Tresham, the Winters, and two dubious individuals, who passed under the names of Robert Skinner and Mr Perkins. The former was accompanied by his wife, real or professed; the latter professed to be a brother-in-law of “Mrs Perkins,” and is described as “of middle stature, long visage, and somewhat lean, of a brown hair, and his beard inclining to yellow,”—a description which suits none of the conspirators whose personal appearance is known.
At White Webbs, accordingly, Thomas Winter alighted, and broke in on the party there assembled, with the startling news that—
“All is discovered! There is a letter sent to my Lord Monteagle, and our action is known.”
The party consisted of Anne Vaux, Fawkes, the Brooksbys, and Catesby, who had presented himself there a few days before, with the avowed object of joining the royal hunting-party at Royston the next day, but in the morning resolving to “stay and be merry with his friends,” he settled down comfortably, sent his man for venison, and took his ease.
The ease and comfort were broken up by this sudden and startling news.
“Pray you, flee, Mr Catesby, while you have time!” said Winter, anxiously.
“Nay, I will be further as yet,” was the resolute answer.
“What shall we now do? How say you?”
“Make sure how much is truth. Go you to Town, Mr Fawkes, to-morrow, as soon as may be, and bring us word what time of day it shall be with us. Try the uttermost; for if the part belonged to myself I would try the same adventure.”
Fawkes obeyed, on the Wednesday, returning at night, to the great relief of the conspirators, with reassuring news. There was no appearance of any attempt to meddle with the cellar; all seemed quiet in London: no excitement among the people, no signs of special precaution by the authorities. They might safely go on with the work.
On the following day, Thomas Winter returned to London, and Fawkes followed in the evening, arriving at the Chequers, in Holborn, just before it grew dark. He did not stay here, but proceeded to the house next to the House of Lords, where he slept that night in its solitary bed, turning out his supposed master, as the one bed would not accommodate both, and “when Mr Percy lay there, his man lay abroad.”
Percy, meanwhile, had not been idle. His vocation as gentleman pensioner gave him easy access to any part of the Palace; and the previous day had seen him making himself very agreeable in the apartments of the young Prince, playing with the child, and chatting in a very affable manner with his nurse.
The youthful Prince’s nurse, happily for him, was a shrewd Scotchwoman, and Percy took little by his motion, “Pray you, Mrs Fordun, whither leads that door?”
“Out o’ the chalmer, Sir,” said Agnes Fordun.
“What time doth his Highness ride forth commonly?”
“When it likes the King’s Majesty.”
“How is his Highness attended?”
“Atweel, ’tis maistly by them that gang wi’ him.”
“Is his Highness a brisk, lively child, or no?”
“He’s what a Prince suld be,” stiffly said Agnes.
Percy gave her up as impracticable, and reported to his colleagues at White Webbs that the Duke could not be compassed.
“Comes the Prince, then, to the Parliament?” asked Catesby.
Percy and Winter agreed that on this head rumour was assuming a negative aspect.
“Then must we have our horses beyond the water,” said Catesby, “and more horses and company to surprise the Prince, and let the Duke alone.”
The King returned from Royston on the 31st of October. The next morning, Salisbury requested a private audience, and in the Long Gallery of Whitehall Palace, laid before his Majesty the mysterious letter. The astute Salisbury, and also the Lord Chamberlain, had already fathomed the meaning of the “terrible blow,” and the means by which it was to be effected; but the former would scarcely have been a Cecil had he not also read his royal master. His Majesty must have the matter so communicated to him that he should be able to believe that his own supernatural sagacity had solved a mystery impenetrable to the commonplace brains of the Lords of the Council. It might be reasonably anticipated that such a warning should be no mystery to the son of Lord Darnley—that his thoughts would fly rapidly to that house in the Kirk o’ Field, where his own father had received his death-blow, and had not seen who hurt him. That the one word “Gunpowder!” should drop from white, stern lips was to be expected. But do people ever do what is expected of them by others? In this case, at any rate, nothing half so dramatic took place.
“His Majesty made a short reply,”—which it may be was then thought such, but which now would assuredly be set down as long, wordy, and sententious.
“The incertainty of the writer, and the generality of the advertisement,” began the royal orator, “besides the small likelihood of any such conspiracy on the general body of any realm, gives me less cause to apprehend it as a thing certain to be put in execution. Considering that all conspiracies commonly distinguish of men and persons, yet seeing the words do rather seem (as far as they are to be regarded) to presage danger to the whole Court of Parliament (over whom my care is greater than over mine own life), and because the words describe such a form of doing as can be no otherwise interpreted than by some stratagem of fire and powder,—I wish that there may be special consideration had of the nature of all places yielding commodity for those kinds of attempts: and I will then deliver my further judgment.”
The man who could deliver his judgment in this stilted style of pompous word-building, in such circumstances as were then existing, would have required a powdered footman in spotless plush to precede him out of a house on fire. I must confess to a little misgiving as to the authenticity of this speech. It looks much more likely to have been deliberately penned by my Lord Salisbury in the calm of his official study, when the smoke had cleared away from the battlefield, than to have been fired off by King James in haste and trepidation—which he was sure to feel—at the moment when the letter was laid before him. The evidence that the Government account of the circumstances was drawn up with due regard to what they might and should have been to produce the proper effect on the docile public, and not very much as to what they were, is irresistible. But as no other narrative exists, we can but have recourse to the stained-glass article before us.
His Sacred Majesty having thus exhibited his incomparable wisdom, and been properly complimented and adored on account thereof, my Lord Salisbury left the gallery with a grave face, and hastily summoning the Lords of the Council, went through the farce of laying the letter before them.
“Sire,” said he, when he returned to the King, “the Lords of the Council, subject to your Majesty’s gracious pleasure, advise that my Lord Chamberlain shall straitly view the Parliament House, and my Lord Monteagle beseecheth leave to be with him.”
“Gude!” said his Majesty, who to the day of his death never lost his Scottish accent. “I wad ha’e ye likewise, my Lord Salisbury, ta’e note o’ such as wad without apparent necessity seek absence frae the Parliament, because ’tis improbable that among a’ the nobles, this warning should be only gi’en to ane.”
“Sire, your Majesty’s command shall be obeyed.”
“Atweel, let the search be made, and report to me,” said the King, as he left the gallery.
The following Monday, which was the day before the opening of Parliament, was appointed for the search.
On the Friday, Catesby, Thomas Winter, and Tresham met at Barnet, when Catesby angrily accused Tresham of having sent the warning to Lord Monteagle, and Tresham vehemently denied it.
“Marry, it must be you!” said Catesby. “The only ones that harried us touching the saving of persons were you and Mr Keyes, who would fain have saved his master, my Lord Mordaunt; all other were consenting to the general issue that the Catholic Lords should be counselled to tarry away on account of the new statutes.”
“I never writ nor sent that letter, on my honour!” cried Tresham.
Did he speak the truth? No man knows to this day.
On the Saturday, the conspirators had another scare. In Lincoln’s Inn Walks, Thomas Winter met Tresham, who told him in a terrified whisper that Lord Salisbury had been to the King, and, there was grave reason to fear, had shown him the fatal letter. Winter hastened away to Catesby, to whom he communicated the news. For the first time Gatesby’s heart failed him.
“I will be gone!” said he. “Yet—nay, I will stay till Mr Percy come, without whose consent will I do nothing.”
But money was wanted; and one of the moneyed men, who had been drawn into the conspiracy for that purpose, could alone supply it. Tresham, that one who was at hand, took Winter to his apartments in Clerkenwell (Note 2), where he counted out a hundred pounds.
The same night a letter was brought to Salisbury which had been found dropped in the street. A few words of it were in cipher. It purported to be written by E.F. Mak to Richard Bankes: and in it these words occurred:—“The gallery with the passage thereto yieldeth the best of assurance, and a safety of the actors themselves.”
“I hope to behold the tyrannous heretic defeated in his cruel pleasures.” These mysterious hints, coming so quickly after the Monteagle letter, still further alarmed and excited the Council.
The conspirators gathered on Sunday night in the house behind Saint Clement’s—Fawkes, Catesby, Thomas Winter, and the two Wrights. They were shortly joined by Percy. It was late when they parted—parted, to meet all together in this world never any more. Catesby had made up his mind to go down into the country the next day; Percy and the Wrights were preparing to follow; all were ready to escape the moment the necessity should arise, except Fawkes, who was to fire the powder, and Thomas Winter, who said he would tarry and see the end. Some had already departed—Sir Everard Digby to Coughton, the house of Mr Throckmorton, which he had borrowed—where Garnet already was.
Percy spent the Monday in a visit to the Earl of Northumberland at Syon; Christopher Wright and Thomas Winter in buying articles needful for the coming journey. In the morning Rookwood accidentally met Catesby, whose spirits had risen. There was no need to fear things would go on well.
Three o’clock in the afternoon saw Lord Suffolk, the Lord Chamberlain of the Household, accompanied by Lord Monteagle, descending into the vaults of the House of Lords. They glanced into different parts, and coming to the cellar immediately under the House, the Lord Chamberlain noticed that it was apparently filled with stacked faggots.
“Whose are all these?” said he.
A tall, dark man, who had unlocked the cellar for their Lordships’ entrance, and was now standing by with the key in his hand, gave the answer, with an air of rustic simplicity.
“An’t like your Lordships, ’tis my master’s provision for the winter.”
“Who is your master?” asked the Lord Chamberlain.
“An’t please you, Mr Percy, one of his Majesty’s pensioners, that hath his lodging this next door.”
“I thought none dwelt next door. How long hath your master had the house?”
“Under your Lordships’ leave, about a year and an half; but hath deferred his lying there by reason of some occasions which caused him to be absent.”
“Well, he has laid in a good stock of fuel,” said the Chamberlain, as if carelessly; and their Lordships turned and remounted the stairs.
Arrived at a place where they might speak unheard, the noble searchers looked each into the other’s face with the same question on the lips of both.
“What thinks your Lordship of all this stock of fuel below?”
“Nay, what think you, my Lord?”
“Truly, I am very suspicious thereof.”
“My Lord, the more I do observe the letter,” said Lord Monteagle, earnestly, “and meditate on the words thereof, the more jealous am I of the matter, and of this place. Look you, this Mr Percy the pensioner and I had great dearness of friendship between us at one time; he is a near relative of my Lord Northumberland, and a Catholic. Were I you, that cellar should be thoroughly overhauled.”
“Well, let us go to the King.”
It was between five and six o’clock, and the short November daylight was over, when the searchers brought back their report to his Majesty, recounted their suspicions, and asked what they were to do.
“Gi’e me a man wi’ his heid on his shoulders,” said his Majesty, “and ye ha’ that, my Lord Monteagle. Noo, I’ll just tell ye, I ay held ane maxim, to wit, Either do naething, or do that quhilk shall make a’ sure. So ye’ll just gang your ways, and ha’e a glint ahint thae faggots in the bit cellar.”
“If it please your Highness, is there no fear that so we may give room for murmurings and evil rumours? If we search this cellar and find nothing, may not men say the Government is unduly suspicious?”
“And, under your Highness’ leave, shall it not place my Lord Northumberland in jeopardy?—he being akin to Mr Percy, and his great friend.”
“Ay, is there twa heids weel screwit on? I jalouse, my Lord Monteagle, ye’re saying ae word for my Lord Northumberland and twa for yoursel’. Be it sae: a man hath but ane life. My Lord Chamberlain, can ye no raise a bit rumour that a wheen o’ the hangings are missing that suld ha’e been in the Wardrobe in Wyniard’s keeping? Then gang your ways, and turn out the faggots.”
“And, if it might please your Majesty,” suggested the Lord Chamberlain, “were it not best some other made the search—one of the gentlemen of your privy chamber,—so as to rouse less suspicion?”
“Ay, gang your ways, and send auld Knevet down, wi’ a pair or twa o’ younger hands to toss the faggots.”
“Might it not be well also, Sire, to extend the search to the houses adjoining the Parliament House, and so make examination of the lodging where Mr Percy lieth?”
“Do sae, do sae,” responded the King. “I affy me in you: only heed this, What you do, do throughly.”
Just as the Abbey clock struck eleven, Fawkes came out of Percy’s rooms, and went down into the vault by the door which had been made the previous Easter. He carried in one hand a dark lantern, lighted, and in the other a piece of touchwood, and a match eight or nine inches in length. As he set the lantern down in the corner of the vault, he felt a touch upon his shoulder, and looked up in alarm until he met the eyes of Robert Keyes.
“Mr Fawkes, take this watch, which Mr Percy sends you, that you may the better know when to fire the train.”
Keyes spoke in a very low tone, so that he might not be heard outside. Fawkes took the watch, and secreted it carefully. Watches were rare and precious things, not carried by every gentleman even when wealthy; and Percy had bought this one for its special purpose.
Keyes departed, and Fawkes opened the door of the vault for a breath of fresh air. He had scarcely come out, and closed it behind him, when another hand grasped his shoulder, not with the light touch of his confederate.
“Who are you?” asked the voice of an old man.
“My name is John Johnson, my master; I am Mr Percy’s man.”
“Make stay of him,” said the voice; “and you, come after me into the vault.”
Into the vault went Sir Thomas Knevet, and with his men began a search among the carefully-stacked wood. It did not take long to lay bare the six-and-thirty barrels, and by drilling a small hole into two of them to make sure of the nature of their contents. Spread before them, in the full magnitude of its horror, lay the “gunpowder treason and plot,” which through the coming ages of English history, should “never be forgot.”
A slight noise overhead alarmed the searchers, who feared lest “Mr Percy’s man” might be endeavouring to escape. Sir Thomas sent up one of his men, named Doubleday, to make sure of him till his return. Fawkes, however, was still in the hands of the watchman, but on Doubleday’s appearance, he requested permission to go to his own room in the adjoining house. This Doubleday allowed, posting himself as watchmen at the door. No sooner was Fawkes alone than he took the opportunity to rid himself of the chief evidences against him, by flinging the match and tinder out of his window, which overlooked the river. In another minute Sir Thomas Knevet and his men entered the chamber.
“Know you what we have found in your master’s cellar?”
“You have found what was there, I suppose,” was the cool reply.
“Search the man,” was Sir Thomas Knevet’s order. But this indignity Fawkes resented, and opposed with all his strength. The struggle was severe, but short. He was overpowered, and bound with his own garters. They found on him the watch which Keyes had brought from Percy.
“How could you have put fire to the gunpowder,” asked Knevet, “without danger to yourself?”
“I meant to fire it by a match, eight or nine inches long; as soon as I had set it I should have fled for mine own safety. If I had been in the cellar when you took me, I would at once have blown up all.”
“Keep a strong guard on this caitiff,” said Sir Thomas, “and you, Doubleday, see to the cellar. I will to his Majesty.”
As he left Percy’s house, midnight tolled out on the clock of the Abbey. The fifth of November had begun.
Sir Thomas Knevet left his prisoner under guard, and returned to the King. Late as it was, his Majesty had not retired. The members of the Council who were at hand—for some always slept in the Palace—were called in, the gates secured, a cordon of troops set across King Street, and another at Charing Cross. The remainder of the Council in Town had been sent for, and as soon as they arrived, about one o’clock a.m., the King sat at their head in his bedchamber, and Fawkes was brought in and placed before them.
Nothing quelled the spirit of Guy Fawkes. The councillors were eager, impatient, vehement: he was calm as a summer eve, cool as the midnight snow. To their hurried queries he returned straightforward, unabashed, imperturbable answers, still keeping up his character of an ignorant rustic.
“Tell us, fellow, why that store of gunpowder was laid in?”
“To blow up the Parliament House,” said Fawkes. “When should it have been executed?”
“To-morrow, when the King had come, and the Upper House was sitting.”
“Of whom?”
“Of myself.”
“How knew you that the King would come?”
“Only by report, and the making ready his barge.”
“And for what cause?”
“For the advancement of the Catholic religion.”
“You are a Papist?”
“Ay.”
“And wherefore would you be a party to the destruction of so many of your own religion?”
“We meant principally to have respected our own safety, and would have prayed for them.”
“Your name and calling?”
“John Johnson, and Mr Percy’s man.”
“Was your master a party to this treason?”
“You can ask him when you see him.”
“Who were your accomplices?”
Then the dark eyes shot forth fire.
“You would have me betray my friends!” said Guy Fawkes. “The giving warning to one hath overthrown us all.”
It was found impossible to obtain any further information from Fawkes. Neither fear nor coaxing would induce him to name his accomplices. He was sent to the Tower, which he entered by Traitor’s Gate.
“Well, to be sure! Whatten a thingcum’s (what sort of a thing) this? Has summat happened sin’ we went to bed? Rachel! I say, Rachel, lass! come here.”
Rachel heard the exclamation when Charity opened the front door, and came running with a wooden spoon in her hand.
“See thou, lass! dost thou see all them soldiers drawn right across th’ street? Look, they’re turning folks back ’at goes up, and willn’t let ’em pass. There’s summat up, for sure! What is it, thinkst thou?”
“Thou’d best ask somebry (somebody) as comes down from ’em,” suggested Rachel: “or send in next door. Eh, Mistress Abbott will be some mad (greatly vexed), to think hoo’s missed th’ news by lying abed.”
“Ah, hoo will. Here—I say, Master! What’s up, can you tell us?”
The man addressed stopped. He had been up to the cordon, and had been turned back by them.
“Why, there’s a plot discovered,” he answered: “one of the worst ever was heard. The Parliament House should have been blown up this very morning, and you should have been in danger of your lives.”
“Lord, have mercy!” cried Rachel.
“Thanks be, that ’tis found out!” said Charity. “Be the rogues catched, think you?”
“One of ’em—he that should have fired the mine. They have learned nought of the rest as yet.”
“Well, for sure! Happen (perhaps) he’ll tell o’ t’others.”
“They’ll make him, never fear,” said the man, as he passed on.
“Why, my maids! are you both so warm this November morrow, that you stand at the street door?” said Edith’s voice behind them. “Prithee shut it, Charity; my mother comes anon.”
Charity obeyed, while Rachel hastily poured the astonishing news into Edith’s ears. The latter grew a shade paler.
“What be these traitors?” she said.
“They’re Papists, for sure!” said Rachel, decidedly. “Nobry else’d think of nought so wicked.”
“Ah, I reckon they are,” added Charity, clinching the nail. “They’re right naught (Note 3), the whole boilin’ of ’em.”
The news was broken to Lady Louvaine more gently than it had been to Edith; but she clasped her hands with a faint cry of—“Aubrey! If these be they with whom he hath consorted, God keep the lad!”
“I trust, Mother dear, God will keep him,” responded Edith, softly. “Would you have him hither?”
“Truly, I know not what to say, daughter. Maybe he is the safest with my Lady of Oxford. Nay, I think not.”
Now came Temperance with her market-basket, and she had to be told. Her first thought was of a practical nature, but it was not Aubrey.
“Dear heart, you say not so? How ever am I to get to market? Lancaster and Derby! but I would those Papist companions were swept clean away out of the realm. I don’t believe there’s a loyal man amongst ’em!”
“Nay, Temperance, we know not yet if they be Papists.”
“Know not if they be! Why, of course they are!” was the immediate decision of Temperance. “What else can they be? There’s none other sort ill enough to hammer such naughty work out of their fantasy. ‘Don’t know,’ indeed! don’t tell me!”
And Temperance and her basket marched away in dudgeon.
The previous evening had been spent by Christopher Wright, Rookwood, and Keyes at the Duck; and they were the first among the conspirators to hear of the discovery and arrest. At five o’clock in the morning, Christopher Wright made a sudden appearance in Thomas Winter’s chamber, where that worthy was sleeping, certainly not the sleep of the just.
“Rise up, Mr Winter!” he cried excitedly. “Rise and come along to Essex House, for I am going to call upon my Lord Northumberland. The matter is discovered, by a letter to my Lord Monteagle.”
Thomas Winter sat up in his bed.
“Go back, Mr Wright,” said he, “and learn what you can about Essex Gate.”
Off dashed Christopher, and Winter dressed hastily. He was scarcely ready when his friend returned.
“Surely, all is lost!” cried Wright, “for Leyton is got on horseback at Essex door, and as he ’parted, he asked if their Lordships would have any more with him, and being answered ‘No,’ is rode as fast up Fleet Street as he can ride.”
“Go you, then, to Mr Percy,” urged Winter, “for sure it is for him they seek, and bid him be gone. I will stay and see the uttermost.”
Away went Wright again, and Winter followed more slowly. He found the Court gates “straitly guarded,” so that he was not allowed to enter. Then he turned and went down towards the Houses of Parliament, and in the middle of King Street he found the guard standing, who would not let him pass. As Winter passed up King Street again, Silence Abbott came out of her door, having just published herself for the day, and accosted Rachel, who was busy with the doorsteps.
“Why, whatever’s all this to-do?” said she, in considerable dismay. Had she been wasting daylight and precious material for gossip, by lying in bed half-an-hour longer than usual?
“Why, there’s a treason discovered,” said Rachel, wringing out her flannel.
“Lack-a-day! what manner of treason?”
“Biggest ever was heard on. The King and all th’ Lords o’ th’ Parliament to be blown up.”
Winter hesitated no more. Evidently all was known. To save himself—if it might be—was the only thing now possible. He went straight to the livery-stable where he kept his horse, mounted, and set forth for Dunchurch, where the hunting-party was to meet. If all were lost in London, it was not certain that something might not be retrieved in the country.
It was a grievous blunder, and grievously they answered it. Had they instantly gone on board the vessel which lay moored in the river, ready to carry Fawkes away when the mine was fired, and set sail for Flanders, every one of them might have fulfilled the number of his days. It seems almost as if their eyes were holden, that they should go up and fall at the place appointed.
The first to fly had been Catesby and John Wright. Keyes followed at eight o’clock, going straight to Turvey; Rookwood at eleven, overtaking Keyes three miles beyond Highgate, and Catesby and Wright at Brickhill. As they rode together, Wright “cast their cloaks into a hedge to ride more speedily.”
Percy had spent the night in the City, but Christopher Wright soon found him, and they galloped after their colleagues. At Hockliffe Percy’s servant Story met them with fresh horses, and overtaking the others further on, they at last reached Ashby Saint Ledgers in safety.
Robert Winter, the elder brother of Thomas, was then at Grafton, the residence of his father-in-law, stalwart old John Talbot, whither he and his wife had ridden on the last day of October. He was among the more innocent of the plotters, and had taken no active part in anything
but the mining. Riding from Grafton, on the 4th, he spent the night at the Bull Inn, Coventry, and next day reached the Hall at Ashby Saint Ledgers, where the widowed Lady Catesby held her solitary state. Lady Catesby (née Anne Throckmorton) and her worthy son were not on the best terms, having found it necessary or amusing to sue one another in his Majesty’s Law Courts; and shortly before this, Lady Catesby had been to Huddington to request Robert Winter’s assistance in making peace with her son. He was now on his way to advise her, and had heard nothing of the proceedings in London. But soon after his arrival at the Hall, four weary, bemired men arrived also. These were Percy, the Wrights, and Rookwood, Keyes having left them on the way.
“Lost, lost!” cried impetuous Percy, as he came, booted, spurred, and covered with mud, into the very neat drawing-room where Lady Catesby and her young daughter Elizabeth were engaged on their embroidery. “All is lost! the whole plot discovered. I cast no doubt proclamations shall be out by morning light to seize us all, with a full relation how short or how long we be.”
Lady Catesby exerted herself to provide for the refreshment and comfort other very unexpected guests, and they were soon on their way across the hall to supper, when one of the servants came up with a message that “one at the base door prayed speech of Mr Winter.” Robert Winter excused himself to his hostess, and going to the back-door, he there found Martha Bates, wife of the Bates who was his fellow—conspirator and Catesby’s servant.
“Pray you, Sir,” said Martha with a bob of deprecation mingled with deference, “to come into the fields by the town’s end, where is one would speak quickly with you.”
“Who is it?”
Martha glanced round, as if afraid of the chestnuts overhearing her.
“Well, Sir, to tell truth, ’tis Mr Catesby; but I pray you, let not my Lady Anne know of his being here.”
Robert Winter took his way to the place appointed, and found a group of some twelve horsemen awaiting him.
“Good even! Well, what news?”
“The worst could be. Mr Fawkes is taken, and the whole plot discovered.”
“Ay, you have heard it, then? Here are come but now my cousins Wright, with Mr Percy and Mr Rookwood, bringing the same news. What now do we?”
“What say you?”
“Well, it seems to me best that each should submit himself.”
“We’ve not yet come to that. Bid them every one follow me to Dunchurch without loss of time. Only—mind you let not my mother know of my being here.”
“To Dunchurch—what, afore supper? We were but just come into the dining-chamber, and I smell somewhat uncommon good.”
“You may tarry for jugged hare,” said Catesby contemptuously. “I shall ride quickly to Dunchurch, and there consult.”
“Well—if you must, have with you.”
“Bring some pies in your pocket, Robin, and then you’ll not fall to cannibalism on the way,” called Catesby after him. “And—hark! ask if any wist the road to Dunchurch, for I know it not.”
The question was put in vain to all the party. It appeared, when they came up with Catesby, that nobody knew the road to Dunchurch. Guide-posts were a mystery of the future.
“We must needs have a guide,” said Catesby; “but I am fain at this moment not to show myself in Ashby. Robin, wilt thou win us one? Go thou to Leeson, the smith, at the entering in of the village as thou comest from Ravensthorpe—”
“Ay, I know.”
“Ask him if he will guide us to Dunchurch, and he shall be well paid for it. He is safe, being a Catholic. We will follow anon.”
Bennet Leeson, the blacksmith at Ashby Saint Ledgers, had given up work for the day, and having gone through some extensive ablutions and the subsequent supper, now stood at his cottage door, looking out on the green and taking his rest. He was not enjoying a pipe, for that was as yet a vice of the city, which had not penetrated to rustic and primitive places such as Ashby Saint Ledgers. A horseman came trotting up the street, and drew bridle at his door.
“Give thee good den, smith! Dost know the road to Dunchurch?”
Bennet Leeson took off his leather cap, and scratched his head, as if it were necessary to clear a path to his brains before the question could penetrate so far.
“Well, I reckon I do, when ’tis wanted. What o’ that?”
“Wilt guide me thither?”
“What, this even?”
“Ay, now.”
Bennet’s cap came off again, and he repeated the clearing process on the other side of his head.
“I will content thee well for it,” said the stranger: “but make up thy mind, for time presseth.”
A dulcet vision of silver shillings—of which no great number usually came his way—floated before the charmed eyes of the blacksmith.
“Well, I shouldn’t mind if I did. Tarry while I get my horse.”
The stranger waited, though rather impatiently, till Bennet reappeared, leading a rough Dunsmoor pony, with a horsecloth tied round it, on which he mounted without saddle.
“Now then, my master. Nay, not that way! You’re turning your back on Dunchurch so.”
The horseman checked his hasty, start with a smile, and followed his guide. As they reached the other end of the village, and came out into the open, Catesby and his companions emerged from the trees, and joined Robert Winter.
“Him’s growed!” said Bennet Leeson to himself, as he glanced round at the increased sound of horses’ hoofs. “First time I ever see one man split his self into thirteen. The beast’s split his self too. Wonder if them’ll ha’ come to six-and-twenty by the time us gets at Dunchurch!”
The company, however, grew no further, and Bennet led them up to the door of the Lion at Dunchurch without any more marvels. It was now about “seven or eight o’clock in the night.” Catesby, the only one whom he knew by sight, said to the smith as he dismounted—
“Here, smith, wilt walk the horses a few moments? It shall not be forgot in the reckoning.”
The whole party then went into the Lion, where Sir Everard Digby and others awaited them. A hurried, eager discussion of future plans took place here. The drawer was called to bring bottles of sack and glasses, and before he was well out of hearing, impetuous Percy cried, “We are all betrayed!”
“Softly, an’t like you!” responded the cooler Catesby.
“We must go on now,” cried Percy: “we shall die for it else.”
“But what must we now do?” asked Rookwood. “Go, even yet, to Combe Abbey, and seize on the Lady Elizabeth?”
“We wait for you, Mr Catesby,” said Sir Everard. “You have been our leader from the beginning, and we of your following will not forsake you now.”
“Too late for anything of that sort,” was Catesby’s decision. “There are scarce enough of us, and word will sure be sent to my Lord Harrington, quicker than we could reach the place. Remember, they will go direct, and we have come round. Nay, our only way is to gather all our friends together, and see what manner of stand we can make. In numbers is our safety.”
“Every Catholic in the realm will rally to us,” said Sir Everard.
“And many Protestants belike,” suggested Robert Winter.
“Marry, we shall have brave following, ere we be twelve hours older,” said Percy. “But which way go we now?”
“Let us first cross over to Grant’s; we shall maybe increase our numbers there: then go we to Coughton, pressing such as will join us on the way.”
“Done!” said Percy, always the first to agree to anything which was action, and not waiting for events.
Outside, in the meantime, Bennet Leeson was walking the horses, as he had been requested.
“Tarry a bit, Leeson: thou hast not yet handled all thou mayest gain this night,” said a voice the smith knew.
“Why, whence came you, Tom Bates?”
“You’ve good eyes, Bennet. I’ve been behind you ever since we left Ashby.”
“By the same token, but I never saw you.”
“Well, let be seeing me or no—wilt guide me to Rugby and back here for another shilling?”
Bates and Leeson accordingly rode away to “a little town called Rugby,” where at the bailiffs house they found nine more worthies, who had finished their supper, and were playing cards. One of these gentry was John Winter—the half-brother of Robert and Thomas,—whose mother was the daughter of Queen Mary’s redoubtable Secretary, Sir John Bourne (Note 4). He was either very simple or very clever, and at this distance of time it is not easy to say which.
Bates delivered the message with which he was charged, that “the gentlemen at Dunchurch desired their company to be merry,” and the nine card-players accordingly returned with him to that place. Having paid the promised shilling to Leeson, Bates took his new convoy into the inn, whence the whole party emerged in about a quarter of an hour.
“That is for thy pains, smith, and I thank thee,” said Catesby, stooping from his saddle to put two shillings in the hand of his guide.
The whole party now rode away in the direction of Coventry.
“Well, that’s a queer start!” said the blacksmith to himself, looking first after the horsemen, and then down at the money in his hand. “If it hadn’t a-been Muster Catesby, now, and Tom Bates, might ha’ thought us ’d been out wi’ the fairies this even. You’re good silver, aren’t you? Let we see. Ay—an Edward shovelboard (Note 5), and a new shilling o’ King James, and three groats o’ Queen Bess—that’s not fairy silver, I ’count. Come along, Yethard!” (Note 6) as he scrambled on the back of his shaggy friend. “Thee and me’ll go home now. Us has done a good night’s work. They shillings ’ll please she, if her’s not in a tantrum. Gee up wi’ thee!”
Note 1. Sicklemore, one of the priests, said with a sigh, “The Divell is in that Lord of Salisbury! All our undoing is his doing, and the execution of Garnet is his only deed.” (Additional Manuscript 6178, folio 165.)
Note 2. Clerkenwell was a suburb wherein many Roman Catholics dwelt. “There were divers houses of recusants in Saint John’s Street,” among them those of Sir Henry James and Thomas Sleep, at the last of which Fawkes was a frequent visitor. Mrs Wyniard bore witness that when Fawkes paid her the last quarter’s rent, on Sunday, November 3rd, he had “good store of gould in his pocket.”
Note 3. Modern writers are apt to confuse nought and naught. At this time they were quite distinct, the former signifying nothing, and the latter (whence naughty is derived) wickedness.
Note 4. This is the gentleman described by the Hot Gospeller as coming to the door of the council-chamber, “looking as the wolf doth for a lamb; unto whom my two keepers delivered me,” and “he took me in greedily.” (Narrative of Edward Underhill, Harl. Manuscript 424, folio 87, b.)
Note 5. The shilling of Edward the Sixth acquired this popular name from being so large and flat, that it was found convenient for use in the game of shovelboard.
Note 6. The Northamptonshire pronunciation of Edward.