On the morning after the arrival of Catesby, he and Percy went down to the East Gate, hailed a boat, which ferried them across the Avon, where Laura Place now stands, and leaving Bathwick Mill on the left hand, they began to ascend the hill on whose summit once stood the yet older British city of Caer Badon.
“Mr Percy,” said Catesby, as they walked slowly upwards, “since I have tarried here, I have had some time for thought; and I can tell you, I am nigh beat out of heart touching our matter.”
“You, Mr Catesby! Truly, I never thought to see you struck into your dumps. But what now, I beseech you?”
Gentlemen did not, at that time, speak to each other without the respectful prefix of “Mister,” though they might now and then speak of an acquaintance without it. When intimacy was so great as to warrant laying it aside, the Christian name took its place.
“Well, look you here,” said Catesby. “We are all men of birth, but not one of us is a man of money. You, ’tis true, have my Lord Northumberland behind you, but how long time may he tarry? Were he to die, or to take pepper in the nose, where then are we? All is naught with us at once, being all but mean men of estate.”
“My cousin of Northumberland is not like to play that prank, or I err,” answered Percy, who well knew that Lord Northumberland was not in all cases cognisant of the use made of his name by this very worthy cousin: “as to death, of course that may hap,—we are all prone to be tumbled out of the world at short notice. But what then is your project? for without you have some motion in your mind, good Mr Catesby, I read you not aright.”
“To be sure I have,” said Catesby with a smile. “But first—if I remember rightly, your friend young Louvaine is not he that can aid us in this juncture?”
“Hasn’t a penny to bless himself with,” replied Percy, “save his wage from my Lord Oxford, and that were but a drop in the sea for us. His old grandmother can do but little for him—so much have I picked out of his prattle. But, surely, Mr Catesby, you would not think to take into our number a green lad such as he, and a simpleton, and a Protestant to boot?”
“Take into our number!” cried Catesby. “Good Mr Percy, you miss the cushion (make a mistake). A good tale, well tinkered, should serve that companion, and draw silver from his pockets any day. What we lack is two or three men of good estate, and of fit conditions and discreet years, that may safely be sworn—and I think I know where to find them.”
“I’ll lay my crown to pawn you do!” exclaimed Percy admiringly. “Pray you, who be they?”