I whispered, “Brown,” to check the room for any eavesdroppers. My vision showed tables, tankards, and mud on boots and cloak hems. None were near us.
“I’ve thought long on this, Francis.” Catesby folded his weathered hands on the table. “The plot is beyond our personal cares. We must pray that White Light will guide the innocents away from Parliament that day.”
“Aye,” Father said.
Again Catesby delivered words like a doctor delivered an antidote to sick veins. The table calmed, but no one seemed completely settled.
That was the nature of the plot.
Unsettling.
There was no clear way out that would leave anyone—least of all me—guiltless or at peace. Catesby asked us to sacrifice not only our lives for Keeper freedom but our own consciences and morals.
During the long route back to the Whynniard house, Father and I walked in silence. I focused mainly on whispering, “Black,” so as not to stumble on the less familiar path. Father kept the pace slow enough that I could pick my way with some amount of ease.
He seemed energized—not a good time for me to confess my new stance on the plot. But as we walked, I wondered if I even should share about my bond with White Light. He and Catesby just might kill me and move forward with the plot.
After all, Father had said a passionate, “Aye,” when Catesby said the plot was beyond our personal cares. Would Father remain loyal to Catesby, or would he be loyal to me?
I wasn’t willing to find out.
My thoughts searched for alternatives. Tresham feared for the Baron. I feared for Emma. Was there some way that I could expose the plot without exposing those involved? Could I possibly save everyone’s lives and remain anonymous?
We arrived at the Whynniard house, but Father went right back out again to share Catesby’s plans with Wintour at the Duck and Drake.
I was alone.
And I knew what I needed to do.
With color whispers, I made my way to the desk and withdrew a slip of parchment. I dipped my quill into the ink, set the nib to paper, and scratched out:
To my lord, the Baron Monteagle . . .
Thirty-Seven
Ten days until Parliament
I’m sorry, Father.
I’m sorry, Catesby.
I’m sorry, Wintour and Percy and Jack and Norwood and Keyes and Bates and Kit.
I’m not sorry, Dee.
The streets were oddly silent even though it was not yet seven in the evening. I stuck to the shadows as though I were on a mission to rescue Keepers, but this mission was far deadlier and more worthwhile.
If all went as hoped, both Keeper and Igniter lives would be saved. I’d chosen my words as carefully as a king chooses his guards, leaving the message anonymous but informative enough to do the job.
. . . I advise you, if you value your life, to devise some excuse to be absent from this next Parliament . . .
The Baron supped from the plate of self-preservation. He would read that as a warning, just as I intended.
. . . there shall be a terrible blow . . .
This would give him an idea of an attack. An assassination.
. . . the danger is past as soon as you have burnt the letter . . .
It would bring home the importance of the warning—and hopefully keep anyone from recognizing my handwriting. Even if he didn’t burn the letter, I’d only ever written to Emma, Norwood, and Father.
. . . make good use of it.
The Baron had committed himself to King James. I trusted he would report the warning to the king. Then word would reach Catesby that the king suspected an attack and all would settle.
When this started, Catesby said the Gunpowder Plot was his last attempt. If it failed—if the flame was snuffed—it would all be over. Permanently, I prayed.
“Black, Black, Black,” I muttered to keep an eye on the road and alleys around me, though the shadows were hard to make out through the darkness of my own blindness. I switched to “Brown, Brown, Brown,” and caught a bit more of the road under the sparse candlelight flickering through windows.
I arrived at the Monteagle house on the Strand, but the windows were dark and shuttered. Blast. They must be supping in Hoxton for the night. I hadn’t intended to be out so long. I continued along the lane, remembering the many times I’d walked this route to report as Emma’s escort.
Now, with any luck, I would be her savior.
I would leave the letter at the door or through a window. But when I reached London’s Gate, a cloaked figure conversed with the gate guard. I couldn’t risk being seen by anyone, so I ducked into the shadows and listened.
“Finishing up some evening duties,” the man said. I knew that voice.
“It’s good to see you again, Ward,” the guard said.
I threw my hood over my face and yanked my hat down over my eyes. I couldn’t have run across a more perfect interruption.
You’re welcome.
I swallowed a laugh and waited for Ward to pass through the gate. After giving him a minute’s head start, I followed through. Then I broke into a jog, muttering color names with each step so as to keep myself from tripping. It didn’t fully eradicate the mishaps, but eventually I saw his brown cloak ahead. I put on a burst, tugging my cloak up.
“Sir,” I called in as low a voice as I could muster. “Are you servant to the Baron Monteagle?”
Ward turned just as my view faded. “Aye, who asks?”
“Brown,” I whispered for a final burst of sight, then to Ward, “There is a message for him. Take it with haste.” I shoved the letter into his hand and then departed before he could question me further. He called after me, but I turned a corner and then navigated the shadows until I knew he’d not find me.
My heart pounded so fiercely, I forced several deep breaths to keep myself from growing ill. I’d done it. There was no going back. I’d betrayed everyone.
I’d betrayed Father.
But I was saving Emma. I was saving all of the members of Parliament. And in the end, I was saving Father and Catesby and the others.
So why did my greatest moment of bravery make me feel more like a coward than ever before?
I started the slow walk back to the Whynniard house. All madness would break free over the next several days. I wasn’t ready. But perhaps bravery meant entering into a storm you already knew would destroy you.
I didn’t sleep all night. I tried not to toss or turn, though I doubted Father would have questioned the cause of my insomnia. The plot was a mere week away—and there were plenty of reasons to have an active mind.
Yet I couldn’t help wondering.
Should I have gone to him first? Ought I to have reached out to a plotter first?
If they’d suspected my doubt, they might have taken fierce action to stop me.
Morning dawned bright, according to Father, though none of it broke through my plagued eyes. I didn’t want to rise, even after the long night of unease. I didn’t want to face the day. I didn’t want to think of what color I’d need to whisper in order to see.
I went about the day on edge, waiting for a summons or a knock on the door from the king’s men. I should tell Father. I should say something and confess so he wouldn’t be taken by surprise.
But every time the words formed on my lips, I sucked them back.
I was allowed to keep my secrets—for today at least. I’d let the betrayal play out. But as the day passed, I steeled myself for the repercussions.
Father would disown me.
Jack would possibly challenge me to a duel.
Percy would kill me with or without a duel.
Catesby would hang me from the nearest sycamore.
“We are to convene at Catesby’s for supper to finalize plans before he leaves for the hunting party.” Father handed me my cloak.
The last thing I wanted to do was spend the evening with the men who might kill me. But to refuse would be even more condemning. I took my cloak.
We crossed London Bridge. I trailed behind Father, whispering, “Black,” so as to keep his cape in sight. We arrived at Catesby’s Lambeth home to a humble but hot supper of vegetable pottage with bread and ale. Wintour, Tresham, and Bates were the other plotters present. Dee never came to any of the meetings—he received reports from Bates so as not to be seen consorting with Catesby.
I was glad I wouldn’t have to juggle his threats and my betrayal with him in the room.
No one said anything out of the ordinary as we sat to supper, which meant no one knew about the letter yet. They didn’t suspect me. They were continuing on with the plot like normal. Maybe the Baron never even received the letter. Maybe Ward had recognized me and never delivered it.
I sat next to Tresham and we dug into the pottage. Barely had we taken a single bite when a knock sounded on the door.
The word “Brown” slipped from my mouth like a curse word so I could have a flash of the room. I caught enough of Catesby’s facial expression to register his surprise.
Every piece of cutlery and word of discussion stilled. Then, with a stiff calm, Catesby said, “Bates, see to the door.”
I wanted to hide. Whoever stood outside would walk in to see Catesby supping with his cousin, a plagued boy, and a masked vigilante. There would be questions. If it was the king’s guard, we were caught already.
I wasn’t ready.
I should have told Father.
Blasted White Light. I wasn’t strong enough for this.
Bates reentered the room, his boots the only set of footsteps I caught. “It is Ward, the Baron Monteagle’s servant.” His tone sounded grave. “He looks anxious and says he has important news for us.”
Ward. Ward had recognized me. Ward had read the letter. Was Ward . . . a Keeper?
“Let him in.” Catesby’s chair scraped as he stood.
I gripped the table, unsure whether to leave, to watch, or simply to shout out my guilt then and there.
A shorter stride preceded the entrance of a seventh body into the dining room. “Catesby, the Baron has had a letter warning him about a plot.”
Sometimes silence can deafen an ear greater than pistol fire. That was the case as Ward’s breathless statement crashed into the room.
I waited for his gaze to land on me, his finger to lift, Catesby’s sword to run me through. I allowed my blindness to consume me so I wouldn’t have to see it happen—wouldn’t have to see the looks of betrayal and disgust.
“Tell us everything,” Catesby said.
“Yesterday, around seven, a hooded man ran after me. He was of tall, lean stature, and after confirming I served the Baron, he shoved the letter into my hand. I could not read it as it was sealed, but the writing was of such a scrawl that the Baron called for my aid in deciphering it.”
Had he not recognized me? I whispered a few color names—enough to show me the silhouette of the scene. Everyone faced Ward. No one focused on me and Ward was intent on Catesby.
I hadn’t been found out. It was both a relief and a cause for despair.
“The letter warned the Baron not to attend Parliament because of forthcoming punishment. It urged him to retire to the country. It said something about a terrible blow.”
My limited view revealed Catesby running a hand down his face before I returned to darkness.
“The letter ended with a command for the Baron to burn the letter.”
“And did he?” Catesby asked, though I could tell by his tone that he didn’t expect the Baron to have done so, just as I never thought he would.
“No. That night he took it to Whitehall.”
My body grew numb from the frantic pumping of my emotion-filled blood. He’d done it. He’d delivered it to the palace.
“Has the king read it yet?” Catesby croaked.
“Not to my knowledge. King James returns from hunting in a few days. The letter is with the king’s man Salisbury.”
Wintour spoke urgently. “Catesby, what should—”
“Thank you, Ward.” Catesby’s voice moved across the room. After a moment, footsteps subsided and a door closed. Ward was gone. Then I remembered: he wasn’t part of the plot. Catesby would be foolish to admit anything or show any proper concern in front of him. But Ward was a loyal Keeper. He didn’t know the details, but he was clearly in support of whatever he suspected Catesby to be doing.
The shing of metal from scabbard broke our stunned silence, and I muttered, “Grey,” to see where the sound had come from. A silver blade hung in the air from my left, from where Wintour stood.
It pointed toward me just as Catesby returned.
“It was you,” Wintour growled.
I leaned back in my chair, but not in hopes of escaping. I didn’t even draw my own rapier.
“Traitor!” Catesby screamed from the doorway, displaying a snap in control that cleaved my heart.
I needed to explain. They needed to know the White Light was against this plot. “I—”
“No!” Tresham shouted from my side.
Was he . . . defending me?
“It wasn’t me!” A clatter of wood on wood.
“Brown,” I whispered in time to see Tresham’s figure tumble out of his seat and back against the wall. Wintour and Catesby advanced.
They thought it was Tresham?
Catesby drew his own sword. “You were concerned for your brother-in-law, the Baron. You tried to warn him. Admit it!”
“No. It wasn’t me!” Tears lined Tresham’s voice.
“Confess, or we shall hang you this moment.”
Hang? That would be the plotters’ fate should any of us get caught by the king or his men. Traitors to the crown. They were treating Tresham like a traitor to our beloved England.
Whispered color names showed me enough. Wintour with a coil of rope, Catesby holding Tresham at sword point, Tresham on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him.
I needed to speak up before Catesby and Wintour followed through.
“Do you not think Ward would have recognized me as Monteagle’s kin?” Tresham pleaded. “Or at least my voice? He said the letter bearer was tall. I am the shortest among us save Wintour!”
He took a breath. Would it be his last? Wintour already had a noose made from the rope in his hand.
“Why would I write it in a letter?” Tresham’s voice grew more and more shrill.
I needed to confess. It was devouring me more than the plague had ever devoured my skin.
“I sup with Monteagle weekly,” Tresham went on. “I could have warned him in person a hundred times over if I wanted and avoided any sort of evidence.”
At last the noose was lowered, the swords sheathed, and the tempers abated. Catesby and Wintour backed away from Tresham’s pathetic form. I’d just seen the two men who had always remained the calmest during this plot snap.
“There is a traitor in our midst.” Catesby breathed deep through his nose. “We must exercise all caution. Let’s hope the letter was vague enough to cause the king no worry.”
No. It needed to convince the plotters that our game was up. It took me three swallows before I could force out any words. “Does this not put everyone at risk? Should we—should we consider abandoning the plot?”
“Not yet, Thomas. We will see how this plays out. We need to keep our ears to the ground for any news.”
I prayed there would be news. I prayed the king would see the warning in the letter and take enough action to dissuade my friends from going through with this treason and murder.
“Guido, you must watch the gunpowder this week for any sign of inspection. It will be of great risk to you.”
“I will do it gladly and without fear,” Father replied.
No! This letter was supposed to instill fear, not bolster their mettle.
“None of us are to mention the letter to anyone—least of all to Monteagle.”
Father shifted in his chair. “What of the other plotters? Keyes, Rookwood, Percy?”
“Keep it all sil
ent for now,” Catesby commanded. “It may not be a threat to the plot in the end.”
I prayed he was wrong. If the letter didn’t work, I’d have to think of something else. And I wasn’t sure I had the stomach for more betrayal.
The next day passed with no inquiries.
And then the next.
Father checked the undercroft every evening. And every evening I prayed he’d find something.
Every evening he came back with a relieved report of safety.
I grew tenser and tenser with each passing sunset. We were at the end of October. The king would be back in London tomorrow. Then, in five days, thirteen passionate men—no longer including myself—would bury him in fire, gunpowder, and treason.
Ought I go to the king myself? Would he even believe a blind plagued boy like me? I might still be hung for taking part in the plotting. But maybe he’d offer forgiveness if I also revealed Dee’s hand in the spread of the plague.
White Light was being annoyingly silent and I didn’t want to put Emma at risk by visiting the Monteagle home, so I waited. And waited. And soon found myself in the undercroft of Parliament with Father, inspecting the barrels of gunpowder.
The room remained dark, save for a single candle. Father stood in the center of the room, mask tight against his face, sending two barrels into the air, rearranging them, and settling them down again. As long as I whispered, “Brown” repeatedly, I could see most of what he was doing.
Even through my fuzzy, shadowed view, I was left in awe of his color power.
With mere words and commands, he stacked bundles of firewood around the barrels, making sure the gunpowder was all close together so that when he lit the fuse there would be a crushing explosion.
The entire plot rode on Father lighting the match.
Keyes and Rookwood arrived in London the next day. We didn’t meet with them, nor did we mention anything of the letter.
But it was also a day on which I hoped to meet with Emma in our alley. I’d sent a caddy that morning with a verbal message: “Would Mistress Areben like a scone from Pudding Lane?” I hoped she recognized it as coming from me. I didn’t dare write a letter with my blind, messy handwriting again.
Fawkes Page 28
