"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 (_nee_ 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.