“It looks, sir, as though your endeavours are taking their toll,” observed the new arrival.
“There is many a draught in that old house,” replied Sir Henry, “and they are not good for the bones.” He looked up from the warrant and let out a curse at his own stupidity. “Hell’s teeth, the draught!” He tossed the rolled parchment back to Noyce and, without a “by your leave”, put spur to horse. He had not gone far before Noyce followed, beckoning his men to do the same.
*
Noyce’s arrival might have caused Sir Henry considerable discomfort, but his appearance was having an equally dramatic effect on the watcher at the window. From there, he could only guess at the nature of the conversation which had just taken place. No doubt the luckless Sir Henry had explained how the man known to him as Jonathan Noyce had fallen into his company two weeks previously, not long after learning from a local informant that refugee plotters might be hiding in his county. In turn, Noyce would have explained that, after spending weeks searching Holbeach and nearby houses, he too had received word that the notorious Nicholas Owen and two priests, all of whom were suspected plotters, had been run to ground at Hindlip Hall.
With the men fast approaching, the watcher turned and began to run along the gallery, glancing through the windows as he passed them. Armed with Mrs Habingdon’s information, which had already guided him to the four empty priest holes, his course was pre-determined. As though on ice, his boots skated across the boards and he turned into a smaller hallway before bursting through a door.
*
The pounding of feet, booted now, grew louder, striding across the floor in a fashion so determined that there could be little doubt about the final destination: his hiding place. All of a sudden, the ends of the earth seemed closer than Owen had imagined. With no weapon at hand he uttered a final prayer. But even now, as the light began to break in through the gap in the shifting timbers, it came to him that a locking device on the interior could prevent such an uninvited entry. But it was too late. There would be no more building projects. The enemy had breached his defences and he was about to be taken. He pressed himself against the back wall, determined to make his extrication as difficult as possible, and watched as the man who would be claiming bounty on him showed his face in the entrance.
“Mr Quick!” exclaimed Owen, scarcely able to believe his eyes. “Gads sir! I thought … I thought you were a priest hunter.”
“There hangs a tale,” said the breathless man in the aperture. “This is far too small,” he said, shaking his head in disappointment at the sight of the crouching man on the other side. “There is barely room for one in there, let alone the two of us.”
Owen had been holed up for so long, that the implication of this observation appeared to pass him by. “What of our friends?”
Quick tried to ignore the miasmic stench emanating from the freshly exposed hiding place. “Never mind them. We have enemies a plenty about to enter the house. We need another hiding place. As the house seems riddled with them I trust you can oblige?”
Owen nodded. “I was not far from trying to remove myself from here to there, when you made your entrance.”
“Then we must move quickly,” said the man, who for days had been known as Mr Noyce but was now answering to Mr Quick. After checking that the coast was still clear, he reached in a hand and pulled the hunchback from his refuge. “The silver, you have the silver?”
In response, Owen produced a bag, which he had some difficulty lifting. Quick took it from him and closed the hole behind them. As they moved off with Owen in the lead, it was obvious that days of confinement and immobility had taken their toll. He was limping along on stiff limbs, when a sprint was required. Quick, perhaps eager to live up to his true name, did what he could to help him along and speed their progress.
Quick served as crutch to his companion and struggled to keep a grip on the bag as they hobbled down the hall. At the top of the stairs they halted, the sound of raised voices giving away the presence of men in the vestibule below. But there was also a woman’s voice. It was Mrs Habingdon delivering a tongue-lashing. “Mr Noyce has been in my house for these three days past, prying into crack and crevice and now you tell me that this is Mr Noyce? Have you lost your senses Sir Henry, or are you incapable of telling one man from another? It bodes poorly sir for the execution of justice in this county, indeed it does!”
They did not wait to hear Sir Henry’s reply, and thanks to the ever resourceful lady of the house and her raised voice, knew better than to descend the stairs. “This way,” whispered Owen, gesturing along the landing. With the movement returning to his legs he guided them to the rear of the house to a more modest set of stairs. “For the use of the servants,” he said as they made their way down. Quick glanced out of a window and was perturbed to see any chance of slipping out through a back door denied them, as soldiers took up fresh positions in the rear court. On reaching the ground floor they disappeared down another flight of stairs and entered into the under-croft.
*
Sir Henry was the first to enter the room but Noyce, still unaware of the reason for the Justice’s agitation, was not far behind. Although in disarray, the bed-chamber was an elegant room, which was why Sir Henry had commandeered it on his arrival at the house. Garments lay scattered throughout, but in the absence of his man-servant and dresser – and Mrs Habingdon’s unwillingness to provide such – how could he be expected to keep the place in order? The drapes hanging from the beams of the four-poster were billowing like sails in the wind. Sir Henry drew his sword and approached the bed. He pulled back one of the drapes and let out a gasp.
Noyce lifted an edge of the thin wooden panel before letting it fall back on to the bed. With sword drawn Sir Henry climbed up on to the bed, cracking the panel in two as he set his feet upon it. At the head of the bed there was a hole in the wall, which had been exposed by the removal of the panel. Sitting a small distance back from the panel’s frame were sturdier timbers, sitting one on top of the other like the planks in the hull of a boat. These had been pulled aside to reveal a dark chasm through which a draught of cold air was blowing.
“Your room I presume?” said Noyce, as he kicked aside a large night-shirt while securing a view into the exposed hiding place.
Sir Henry was standing on his own pillows and peering into the darkness. He said nothing.
Noyce could barely disguise the contempt in his voice. “Then one of them was hiding less than an arm’s length away from where you have been resting your head at night.”
Sir Henry put a hand to his neck and replied bitterly, “That would appear to be the case. And thanks to this damned draught I can now barely move my head on my shoulders.”
If Noyce was wondering how Sir Henry could have failed to notice the draught previously, the sound of an empty bottle falling from under one of the pillows was enough to provide an answer. “Let us hope, sir, that your head stays on your shoulders. The king will not look kindly on failure in this matter.”
*
Owen and Quick tip-toed past the busy kitchen, where a soldier could be heard working his charm on one of the serving girls. They approached the pantry, where the day before Mrs Habingdon had directed Quick to an unoccupied hiding place. Small it may have been, but his “discovery” of that cubby-hole – along with several others, in the company of Sir Henry – had done much to impress the Justice of his reliability. The scheme had almost worked: he had succeeded in passing himself off as the country’s most celebrated priest hunter, had all but convinced Mrs Habingdon of his allegiance to her own cause and, with the soldiers out of the way, stood every chance of getting the silver off the premises. But all that had been spoiled by the appearance of Noyce.
Gratifying as it was that their destination was not the dreadfully tight space in the pantry, this more accommodating space in the scullery next door was still considerably smaller and more uncomfortable then even the rudest cell in the Tower. While incarcerated here, his devout comp
anion had his rosary beads and prayers to keep his mind occupied, but Quick needed more than incantations and baubles to distract him from the closeness of the walls. When what he had always considered to be a long line of female conquests proved only long enough to provide a pitifully brief distraction, his thoughts turned to the events of the past few weeks.
*
The taking of Guido Fawkes and his powder, sitting unburned within the confines of hoop and stave, had been only the beginning. The plot involved a dozen or more conspirators at its heart, and many more with knowledge of it. Under instruction from the Spanish Ambassador in London, Quick arrived at Huddington Court, where, with his impeccable references he was accepted into the company of thirty or more conspirators and supporters; despite being grateful for that, he couldn’t help look down on them for their naive lack of suspicion. In the event of the plot’s success, which required king and parliament by then to be blown to the high heavens, this meeting would have seen the formation of an army. At that moment their numbers were small, but spurred on by success there would have been determination and money enough to expand their ranks a thousandfold.
But king and parliament, being alive to do so, went to great lengths to broadcast their survival and to expose the plot as a failure. It was a state of affairs which made these thirty or more – not first recruits, but a gang of desperados – hell-bent on saving their own skins. It would have been good to complete his business there at a time when, at least for a man who knew his business, escape was still a straightforward matter. But the opportunity did not arise, for it was panic not planning which now dictated the course of events. Some of the conspirators had already been taken, while those with weaker resolve had given themselves up only to find their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears.
If it were not bad enough that the king’s men were casting their nets, the Catholics too, through the mouthpiece of the Archpriest Father Blackwell, were falling over themselves to damn the conspirators as traitors, while professing their unswerving loyalty to the king. Fearful that their rendezvous was compromised, Sir Robert Catesby, the chief conspirator, gave the order for departure. Some went their own way, melting into the night, but Quick had no option but to join the leaders. Their next destination was to be Holbeach House on the border with Staffordshire, and so, early in the morning of November the seventh, the party, in sombre mood, stepped out into heavy rain. Weapons previously intended for use in the uprising were now carried for personal protection, and as much powder as could be carried was transported along with the muskets in an open wagon. Though he kept a watchful eye out for their pursuers, Quick took time to study his companions carefully, looking for any sign of the documents which were the subject of his mission. But with cloaks tightly wrapped against the rain it was difficult to see who might be carrying what.
On arriving at Holbeach the following evening, the men, who were by now much reduced in numbers, heard mass said by one of the two priests in their company, made confession and set about fortifying the place. The priests and one other, the crook-backed Nicholas Owen, left soon after. Their horses were laden with the saddlebags containing the silver coins which, with a fairer wind, would have financed the uprising. It was obvious to Quick that those of his companions who remained had no intention of being taken as, in preparation for what must surely be their last stand, the wagon was unloaded and the weapons distributed. Jesuits and plotters may have it in them to be martyrs but their cause was not his. Though a clean death in battle was always preferable to the lingering agonies of torture, neither particularly appealed to Quick and so, without drawing attention to his actions, he spent what little time there was left working out a way of escape. The courtyard to the front of the house was a death trap and the back gave on to open fields, easily covered by well-deployed musketeers. The best hope lay to the side of the house where the woods were closest, and a loosened window would provide an exit. Offering to check the approaches to the house, he used the opportunity to conceal his horse among the trees.
He returned as dawn rose, to be rewarded with a glimpse of the leather-bound bundle being examined by Catesby, in the company of fellow conspirators Digby and Rockwood. Now unfastened, the package revealed a series of parchments, which Quick was certain represented the coded agreement between the plotters and those among the Spanish court who wished to cause mischief between the Royal houses of Spain and England.
“These shall be of little help to us now,” said Catesby as he spread the half dozen or so documents across the table, rubbing his fingertips over the ornate seals and reading the contents as nothing but lost opportunities.
“Perhaps they may serve as passports,” said Digby, a man whom Quick had previously observed to be armed with an optimistic demeanour. “The king would have an interest in their contents and so we might trade them for our lives.”
Catesby rolled up the parchments and tied off the bundle. “You shall require no passport to enter through the gates of heaven, Mr Digby. Now, gentlemen, shall we break our fast and see what the day holds?”
“Two hundred men is what the day holds,” said Quick, as he stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the room. “They are no more than an hour away and, from their line of march, know well their destination.”
Catesby stepped back from the table, leaving the bundle where it lay. “I for one intend to be here to greet them.” He strode towards the door, but paused before leaving. “From your continued presence I can only assume that each of you intends to do the same.” Digby and Rookwood nodded but Quick had taken care to step back into the shadows. “Then so be it. Make sure the men know their places.”
There was a flurry of activity as the doors were bolted and the part-finished barricades of furniture completed. Quick joined the others in the main hall to find the Wright brothers breaking open casks of gunpowder. While Kit Wright took an axe to the barrels Jack Wright distributed the piles of dark powder across a sheet laid out in front of the fireplace.
Quick was horrified to see a healthy fire blazing in the grate not half a pace away from the carpet of powder. “What in god’s name are you doing?” he asked, being careful to remain at a distance.
Kit took a pause from his labours and propped himself on the handle of the axe. “The rain has soaked the powder. We should have transported it in a covered wagon.”
“And by this do you intend to dry it or blow us all to hell?”
“What choice do we have?” said Kit, who was pushing the powder around with all the nonchalance of a baker working flour. “The enemy are upon us and we have not a usable grain.”
“Perhaps we should have sent you rather than Fawkes to blow up the Houses of Parliament? If this exercise is anything to go by, I doubt whether a single stone would have been left standing.”
With their task complete, the brothers turned their attention to a large chest which Catesby instructed them to move to a window. Meanwhile, Rookwood, who was cutting fresh matches for the muskets, wandered over to check the condition of that powder which had been lying for the longest time. Quick had seen enough madness for one day and, with everyone occupied, he returned to the parlour, where the bundle was lying unattended. He had no sooner picked it up when there was an almighty roar and the shock of an explosion powerful enough to rattle the glass in the window panes.
Quick hurried back into the hall, where through a cloud of acrid smoke he could only vaguely make out the scene of devastation. After a few moments the grey veil rolled back to reveal a gaping hole in the floor where the powder had been. Flames licked over the charred boards at the crater’s edge and several pieces of furniture were on fire. Writhing bodies littered the room and the cries of men provided a high-pitched echo to the explosion. Those unharmed in the blast, which thankfully had been limited in scale by the diffuse spread of the powder on the floor, attended their injured colleagues.
Rookwood was among the casualties; his clothes were torn to rags and his flesh blackened, but with help he was able to stand.
A man called John Grant had not been so fortunate; his face was badly burned and it would be a while longer before it was realized that his eyes has been scorched out of their sockets. Catesby too was burned about the face, though after the application of a water-soaked rag it became apparent that his eyes were unaffected. Quick assisted with the injured but only after pulling the parchments from the bundle and tossing each of them into the heart of a fire which, if not quickly attended to, would engulf the entire house. The Wright brothers went for water but Quick was satisfied that the incriminating parchments were burned to ashes well before they returned to quench the flames.
“It must have been a spark from the fire,” said a sheepish Jack as he emptied a pail, and stamped at the smouldering rug beneath his feet.
“Well who could have predicted such a thing?” replied Quick, who had decided it was time to leave.
With the fire under control and those of the wounded still capable of fighting back on their feet, the final preparations were made. The muskets were loaded with the small amount of dry powder removed from the pile before the explosion, and the men took up their positions behind doors and windows. All of them, that is, apart from Quick, who took the opportunity to climb through the window at the side of the house and made good his escape. There was just enough time for him to make it to his horse and retire a little further into the woods before the first of the troops arrived. Making for higher ground, he took up a position which allowed him a view of the scene below.
He watched as the soldiers encircled the house, leaving their horses picketed at a safe distance, before moving forward to engage. One of their number – their commander, he supposed – entered the courtyard at the front of the house and yelled something. The men were too far away to make out the words, but he guessed that they were an order to the occupants to give themselves up. An answer was shouted back but again he couldn’t make it out, though he didn’t need to. On hearing it, the officer left the courtyard just in time for his men to open a withering fire on the façade of the house.
The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction Page 28
