Authors: Ken Follett
‘In that case,’ said James with more than a hint of menace, ‘by God’s blood, you’d better catch the swine.’
30
When the plotters heard about the Monteagle letter, on Sunday, 3 November, they started to accuse one another of treachery. The atmosphere became poisonous in the Wardrobe Keeper’s apartment. ‘One of us did this!’ Guy Fawkes said belligerently.
Rollo feared that these aggressive young men would start fighting. ‘Never mind who did it,’ he said hastily. ‘The man was certainly a fool rather than a traitor.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because a traitor would have named us all. This idiot just wanted to warn Monteagle off.’
Fawkes calmed down. ‘I suppose that makes sense.’
‘The important question is how much damage has been done.’
‘Exactly,’ said Thomas Percy. ‘Can we now go on with this plan, or should we abandon it?’
‘After all we’ve done? No.’
‘But if Cecil and Willard know . . .’
‘I hear the letter was vague as to details, and Cecil isn’t sure what to do about it,’ Rollo said. ‘There’s still a strong chance for us. We can’t give up so easily – success is within our grasp!’
‘How can we check?’
‘
You
could check,’ Rollo said to Percy. ‘Tomorrow morning, I want you to go on a scouting expedition. Visit your relative the earl of Northumberland. Think of some pretext – ask him for a loan, perhaps.’
‘What’s the point?’
‘It’s just a cover story, so that he won’t guess that you’re really trying to find out how much the Privy Council knows.’
‘And how will I learn that?’
‘By his attitude to you. If you’re suspected of treachery, the earl will almost certainly have heard a rumour by now. He’ll be nervous in your presence and eager to get you out of the house as fast as possible. He might even give you the loan just to be rid of you.’
Percy shrugged. ‘All right.’
The group split up, leaving Fawkes in charge of the apartment. Next morning Percy went off to see Northumberland. On his return Rollo met him in a tavern near Bishop’s Gate. Percy looked cheerful. ‘I found him at Syon Place,’ he said. Rollo knew that was the earl’s country house not far west of London. ‘He refused point-blank to give me a loan, told me I was a scapegrace, and invited me to dinner.’
‘He has no suspicion, then.’
‘Either that or he’s a better actor than Richard Burbage.’
‘Well done.’
‘It’s not really conclusive.’
‘It’s strongly suggestive, though. I’ll go and give Fawkes the good news.’
Rollo headed across London. He did not feel safe – far from it: Ned Willard was coming too close for that. However, the stag was still ahead of the deerhounds, just. And he needed to stay ahead only a little longer – a few hours. By this time tomorrow it would be done.
But when he came within sight of the House of Lords he suffered a nasty shock.
At the rear of the building, where the storeroom entrance was, several well-dressed men were emerging from the upstairs debating chamber via the back door and coming down the wooden exterior staircase. Rollo could not recall ever having seen that door used.
He recognized the man leading the party. It was the earl of Suffolk, who, as Lord Chamberlain, had to make arrangements for the opening of Parliament.
With him was Lord Monteagle.
Rollo cursed. This was bad.
He stepped back around a corner out of sight. He fought down an urge to flee. He had to find out exactly what was going on. Whatever these men were doing was a terrible danger to his plan. He watched, half concealed, ready at any moment to run for his life.
They came down the steps and went to the double doors of the storeroom where the gunpowder was hidden. They were silent and alert, Rollo noted. Suffolk tried the door and found it locked. After some discussion, he ordered a servant to break it open.
So, Rollo thought with a sinking heart, this is a search party. It was maddening. Surely his plan would not be frustrated this easily?
Suffolk’s servant deployed a crowbar. Rollo had not reinforced the door: the place was a storeroom, not a treasury, and the installation of iron bars or elaborate locks would have attracted attention. So the door came open with no great difficulty.
The group went inside.
Rollo hurried to the Wardrobe Keeper’s apartment and ran through to the new passage Fawkes had created. He silently opened the door to the storeroom and looked in. The room was dim, as ever, and the lanterns of Suffolk’s search party lit the large space only feebly.
However, they had seen Guy Fawkes.
God save us, Rollo prayed silently, or we’re done for.
Fawkes was standing to one side, dressed in a cloak and a tall hat, carrying a lantern. It seemed Suffolk had only just spotted him, for Rollo heard the earl say in a startled voice: ‘Who are you, man?’
Rollo held his breath.
‘I am John Johnson, my lord,’ said Fawkes. His voice was calm: he was a soldier, and had been in danger before.
Rollo wished he had not picked a name that sounded so obviously made up.
‘And what the devil are you doing here, Johnson?’
‘My master is tenant of this store, and of the apartment next door. I act as caretaker, you might say, when my master isn’t here.’
It was a perfectly sensible story, Rollo thought hopefully. Was there any reason why Suffolk should not accept it?
‘And for what purpose does your master use this vault?’
‘To store firewood, as you can see.’
The members of the group looked at the firewood stack as if they had not previously noticed it – which was possible in the dim light.
Suffolk said: ‘All this wood, just for an apartment?’
Fawkes did not respond to this rhetorical question. Rollo realized with dismay that he had overlooked this implausibility.
Suffolk said: ‘Who is your master, anyway?’
‘Thomas Percy.’
There was a little murmur of reaction from the search party. They would know Percy as a Gentleman Pensioner, and they would also know that he had Catholic relatives.
Rollo was so filled with dread that he felt nauseous. This was the moment of greatest danger. Would anyone think to look
inside
a pile of firewood? He remembered saying glibly: ‘Even if someone were to search this place, they probably wouldn’t find the gunpowder.’ He was about to find out whether that was true. He felt tense enough to snap.
Suffolk took Monteagle aside, and the two men came closer to where Rollo stood behind the half-open door. He heard Monteagle say agitatedly: ‘This involves the earl of Northumberland!’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Suffolk said more calmly. ‘We can’t accuse one of the greatest peers of the realm on the basis of an oversupply of firewood.’
‘We must do something!’
‘We must do nothing except inform the Privy Council of what we have seen.’
Rollo deduced that Suffolk had not thought of combing through the wood pile – yet.
Monteagle was calming down. ‘Yes, of course, you’re right, forgive me. I fear that all this is going to be blamed on me just because I was sent an anonymous letter.’
Rollo dared to hope that Monteagle’s distress had distracted Suffolk from the search.
Suffolk patted Monteagle’s shoulder. ‘I understand.’
The two men rejoined the group.
There was some desultory conversation and then the search party left the building. Fawkes closed the broken door as best he could.
Rollo stepped into the storeroom. ‘I heard everything,’ he said to Fawkes. ‘I was behind the door.’
Fawkes looked at him. ‘Jesus save us,’ he said. ‘That was a close call.’
*
M
ARGERY WAS LIVING
in a pit of misery. The bottom had dropped out of her world. After Ned left she drank little and ate nothing for a week. She saw no point in getting out of bed in the morning. If she forced herself up she just sat by the fireside, weeping, until it got dark outside and she could go back to bed again. Her life was over. She could have gone to her son Roger’s house, but then she would have had to explain, and she could not face that.
But two days before the opening of Parliament she was seized by anxiety. Had Ned caught Rollo, or not? Would the ceremony go ahead? Would Ned be there? Would they all die?
She put on a coat and walked along the Strand to White Hall. She did not go into the palace, but stood outside, half-hidden by the gloom of a winter afternoon, watching for her husband. Courtiers came and went in their fur hats. Margery felt faint with hunger, and had to lean on a wall to stay upright. A cold mist came up from the river, but she was already so dejected that she hardly cared.
She wished with all her heart that she had not kept Rollo’s secret so long. She should have told Ned the truth years ago. It would have been an earthquake, whenever she did it, but this was the worst time, after he had become so much a part of her that she could not manage life without him.
At last she saw him. He arrived with a small group of men in heavy coats – Privy Councillors, perhaps. His expression was grim. Perhaps it was an illusion, but he seemed to have aged in a week, his face creased with worry lines, grey stubble on pale cheeks.
She stepped in front of him and he stopped. She watched his face, reading his feelings. He was at first just startled. Then his expression changed and he looked angry. Instinct told her that he had been trying to forget about her and what she had done, and now he disliked being reminded. Was there any sign of softening, any hint of mercy? She was not sure.
She spoke the question she had come to ask. ‘Have you found Rollo?’
‘No,’ said Ned, and he brushed past her and went inside.
Sadness engulfed her. She loved him so much.
She drifted away from the gates of the palace. In a daze of grief she wandered down to the muddy beach of the Thames. The river was tidal, and right now there was a fast downstream current, making the surface restless and troubled.
She thought about walking out into the water. It was almost dark now, and probably no one would see her. She had never learned to swim; her life would end in a few minutes. It would be cold, and there would be a long moment of gasping panic, but then her agony would be over.
It was a sin, a mortal sin, but hell could not be worse than this. She thought of a play she had seen in which a girl drowned herself after being rejected by the prince of Denmark, and a pair of comic gravediggers discussed whether she should have a Christian burial. There would be no burial for Margery if she went into the river now. Her body would be swept away by this strong current, perhaps all the way to the sea, where she would float gently down to the deep bottom, to lie with the sailors killed in the battle of the Spanish armada.
And who would say Mass for her soul? Protestants did not believe in prayers for the dead, and Catholics would not pray for a suicide. She would be damned as well as dead.
She stood there for a long moment, pulled painfully in opposite directions by her yearning for the peace of death and her horror of incurring God’s eternal wrath. At last she seemed to see her great-aunt, Sister Joan, coming towards her across the mud, not as she had been in life but walking upright, without the aid of sticks. Although it was dark, Margery could see Joan’s face, which was younger, and smiling. The vision did not speak, but silently took Margery’s arm and led her gently away from the water. As they approached White Hall Margery saw two young men walking along together, laughing raucously at something; and she turned to ask Joan whether they, too, could see her; but Joan had gone, and Margery was alone again.
*
I
N THE AFTERNOON
of Monday, 4 November, Rollo sat with Guy Fawkes on the floor in the middle of the storeroom and gave Fawkes his final instructions.
Rollo produced a long match made of touchwood – dried rotted wood that was highly flammable – plus a tinder box. He took out his knife and notched the match in divisions each equal to the width of his thumb. Then he said: ‘Fawkes, light the tinder, then say the Lord’s Prayer, neither quickly nor slowly but just as you would in church.’
Fawkes lit the match. ‘
Pater noster
,’ he began, and said the words of the prayer in Latin.
When he had finished the match had burned almost to the first mark. Rollo blew it out.
‘Now,’ said Rollo, ‘how many paternosters will it take you to get clean away from here?’
Fawkes frowned. ‘To leave here, close the doors, and walk to the river, two paternosters,’ he said. ‘To get into the boat, untie the rope, and deploy the oars, two more. Another six, maybe, to row far enough to be safe from the blast. Say ten altogether.’
‘Then you must cut the match to a length of ten thumb widths.’
Fawkes nodded.
Rollo stood up. ‘It’s time to broach the gunpowder.’
Fawkes pulled the table over, stood on it, and started to remove bundles of firewood from the top. He passed them down to Rollo, rather than toss them on the floor, because they were needed intact to rebuild the barrier – just in case of a second search.
Rollo had a strange feeling in the pit of his belly. It was really happening, now, at last. They were going to kill the king.
After a few minutes they had made a passage through the stack to the barrels.
Rollo had with him a crowbar and a gardening tool like a small shovel. He levered off the top of a gunpowder barrel and tipped it over, spilling the dark grey powder on the ground. With the shovel he laid a trail of gunpowder from the barrel to the front of the stack. This would act as the fuse. He had been careful to pick a wooden shovel: an iron tool might have struck sparks from the slabs of the stone floor and blown them all up in a heartbeat.
It was now terrifyingly real, and Rollo felt his whole being thrill to the knowledge. Here was the gunpowder, and the match; above was the chamber; tomorrow was the day. The explosion would rock the kingdom and end English Protestantism. The triumph Rollo had sought for half a century was within his grasp. In just a few hours, his life’s work would be done.
‘We must put the firewood back carefully,’ he said. ‘The end of the gunpowder trail needs to be just under the front bundle.’