by Jo Macauley
“Oh, I know who Catesby was,” said John. “Everyone thinks that Guy Fawkes was at the head of the Gunpowder Plot, but he was just the man who was given the job of lighting the fuse. Robert Catesby was the leader – the brains behind the whole plan.”
“Of course!” Beth cried. “So what have we got? ‘Follow Catesby’s lead...’”
“That’s obvious, even if you don’t know your letters.” Ralph snorted. “Gunpowder under the Houses of Parliament! The Republicans hate our King, so he must be the ‘swine’...”
“So, we follow Catesby’s lead, which takes us into Parliament with another Gunpowder Plot?” said Beth, her eyes widening. “Can they really mean to try it again?”
John bit his lip thoughtfully. “Parliament is searched from top to bottom every Fifth of November these days and Vale would know that, no matter how hurriedly this was planned.”
An image of Big Moll flashed into Beth’s mind, and for a minute should couldn’t work out why. But then it came to her. “The King isn’t going to Parliament on the fifth anyway! He’s attending the bonfire feast at the Tower to commemorate the discovery of the Plot.”
“That’s where they’ll be lying in wait for him!” exclaimed John.
“No doubt using gunpowder removed from the Doodgaan!” Ralph added. “The barrel we found was just the leftovers – the rest will likely be hidden in the bonfire. Unless someone can stop it, the King will be blown up on the morrow!”
“No,” said Beth, gazing at the dark spire of St Martin-in-the Fields, silhouetted against the hazy daylight spreading across the eastern horizon. “We have just a few hours to act – it already is the morrow!”
Chapter Seventeen - Refuge
Beth didn’t know quite what time it was as she, John and Ralph made their way towards the Peacock and Pie in the soft early morning half-light, but few people were up and about yet. There was just the odd market trader and waterman making their way to work, and every now and then a stray dog skulking in an alleyway barked at them as they passed. Still, she was glad to be making her way home so she could recuperate fully and decide what they ought to do next after their startling discovery. When they arrived at Covent Garden, they came to a halt.
“We must go find Alan Strange and tell him about the plot to kill the King,” Ralph said.
Beth nodded. “Perhaps you ought to go. John and I may need to recover our strength a little more. We shall wait at the tavern ’til we hear what he wants us to do.”
“Very well. I’ll signal old Strange with the cathedral bell’s toll. When you hear the signal, you’ll know his instructions shouldn’t be far behind.”
Just after he had turned away and begun to head off, Beth called after him. “Ralph...”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for the blankets ... And I’m sorry I didn’t trust you earlier.”
He flashed her a dirty-toothed grin. “If you’d trusted me before you knew more about me, I wouldn’t have trusted you – because I’d have known you were a rotten spy!”
* * *
Beth sat before the wide, deep fireplace of the Peacock and Pie, glad to be finally warming herself after their freezing, watery exploits of the previous night. She had changed into clean clothes and was already feeling like she could think more clearly, ready to take on whatever they had to face next to stop the plot to kill King Charles...
Big Moll, whom they’d found already up and bustling about in preparation for the big day when they arrived, had let John go up and change into some spare clothes belonging to one of the potboys who worked in the tavern. As soon as Beth spotted him when he came back downstairs, she had to quickly turn away and suppress a giggle. The potboy was barely half John’s size, and the sleeves of the blue doublet ended well short of his wrists. The grey breeches were similarly skimpy, and the dirty white stockings came only halfway up his calves, exposing a pair of very white and rather knobbly knees.
“Something ails you, Beth?” he said through clenched teeth and a reddening face.
She wiped her eyes, gave a little cough, and turned to face him. “Just a frog in my throat...”
His eyes narrowed. “I have learned a lot about spying in a short time, and I believe I can tell when someone is telling the truth or having sport with me.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth, but he cast his eyes over his new attire and sniffed, with a twinkle in his eye, “’Tis the new fashion from France.”
They both dropped their pretences and began to laugh, and John joined her at the fire.
“I wonder what task Mister Strange will have us perform to prevent Vale’s plot?”
“Us?” Beth asked with a crooked smile. “So you are one of his spies now too?”
“I ... well ... I thought...”
“Well, John Turner, you are not one of Alan Strange’s secret agents...” She let the pause linger in the air as long as she dared. “But Captain Jack of the Revenge will no doubt be vital to the success of our mission!”
John grinned. “I cannot promise he will always be on hand, but I will always do my best.”
Beth reached across spontaneously and squeezed his hand. “You have already more than proved yourself. You really are like Captain Jack, you just need to believe it.”
He blushed and avoided her eyes – but didn’t hurry to let go of her hand. “This all seems like a far cry from my ordinary life,” he sighed. “I’ve become accustomed to just doing my frankly rather mundane work, and then coming home to six brothers and sisters all getting underfoot – well, apart from sweet Polly. Polio has shrivelled her legs, so we have to take extra special care of her. But there are nine of us with my mother and father, all squeezing into our little house in Shadwell, trying to make ends meet ... I never thought this sort of adventure was even possible!”
Beth smiled at the mention of John’s home life, and something inside her still ached for the warmth of a home with a mother and father, even if it were cramped and difficult...
“What’s wrong?” John asked, his eyes narrowing with concern.
“Oh, nothing. But you should count yourself lucky to have your family around you,” she replied.
“Did you...?” He hesitated, and then started again. “Did you grow up nearby? With your family, I mean?”
Beth shrugged. “Not too far. I was a foundling, left at Bow Church. But I did have a family, for a time – I was adopted.” She swallowed. “It was a happy life, but my adoptive parents died quite close to one another when I was young. I think when Mister Johnson died, his wife was left broken-hearted, literally. And after that...” She trailed off, shaking her head, and John reached out to touch her arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking at her with a furrowed brow. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Beth shook her head once more, and swiftly dashed a tear away from the corner of her eye. “It was difficult, that’s all. I was taken in by a neighbour who seemed pleasant at first, but soon I was being treated as the family slave. They were ... they were awful. Eventually I had to run away, and that’s when I joined the theatre. They were like my family during that time, and they still are, in a way. But I think it was all that experience made me so well-suited to this life,” she lowered her voice, “as a spy.” She forced a smile, and soon found it turn into a genuine grin as John returned it. “I’m tougher than I look,” she finished.
“That’s for certain,” John said, seeming relieved that she was less upset.
“And now we have a real plot on our hands. But whatever Alan Strange has in mind for us,” said Beth at last, “I think I have an idea of my own.”
“Shouldn’t we wait to see what he says? I don’t want to get the sack before he even knows I’m working for him!”
Beth laughed. “Whatever his thinking is, we know one thing: someone must get into the great bonfire feast at the Tower. I know how we can ensure it is us.”
“How?”
“Well, you have already stolen the clothes of one
of her boy servants – why not steal his job as well? They will be expecting Moll to take at least a couple of helpers with her. Why not us?”
“Even if Groby’s dead his people are bound to be there. What if we are recognized?”
“We shall just have to have our wits about us. We have overcome greater challenges.”
Moll walked past them carrying a large tray of sweetmeats in her great hands. “You two rogues warmed yer bones up yet? Goodness knows what you were up to...”
“Er, yes thanks, Moll,” Beth said quickly. “You look very busy.”
“Rushed off me feet, I am! But there’s nothing wrong with a bit o’ hard work, that’s what my old ma used to say.”
“Still, I wager you would appreciate a little help...?”
Big Moll raised an eyebrow. “You volunteering, like?”
Beth gave John the faintest of meaningful smiles. “Well, ‘the Devil makes work for idle hands’ – that’s what you always say.”
Moll threw her head back, guffawing in her unique, booming way. “Why do I always think there’s something else going on behind your words, young lady? Not been raining lately as I recall...” she said, eyeing their wet, bedraggled clothes as they hung to dry, and then Beth’s scratched face and the cuts to her knuckles. “But if you’re truly offering, I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“We are happy to help,” John chimed in.
“That settles it then, you can both come with me to the Tower!” She leaned forward and peered at them melodramatically. “But mind you behave in there. It’s the sort of place you never come out of alive if you cross them!”
“Yes, we know,” said Beth, rather more sombrely than she’d intended. “Uh, is Maisie awake?”
“Well, if she isn’t, she should be. Why don’t you go and find out, Mistress Beth?”
Beth left John sitting by the fire and made her way upstairs to the chamber where she and Maisie lodged. Watery sunlight was seeping in through the window and falling on the sleeping figure, lighting up the soft white skin of Maisie’s face and the mass of brown curls round her head scattered over the pillow. Beth hated to wake her. She bent over her friend and very gently touched her arm. Maisie’s eyelids flickered, then her blue eyes opened.
“Beth! You didn’t come home last night...”
“I ... I had a few things to take care of. I just wanted to see how you are – and let you know I’m afraid I’m going to be leaving you again for a while. I’ll be helping Big Moll at the King’s bonfire feast.”
Maisie sat up eagerly. “Can I come?”
Beth winced inwardly. She knew this would happen, but if it all went wrong, she wanted to have said a proper goodbye. Her heart sank at the thought. “It’s best if you don’t. There are still people who wish King Charles had never come to the throne – that we could go back to being a republic like in Cromwell’s time. They ... they might just do something at such a big gathering as this.”
Maisie grabbed Beth’s hand. “There isn’t going to be a big fight or something, is there? You’re not placing yourself in danger?”
“I dare say nothing will happen. I’m just saying that this is the sort of occasion where it might...” Beth forced a smile. “And anyway, who will look after the tavern while Moll’s away if you’re not here?”
“I suppose so...”
It hurt Beth to see her friend’s downcast expression, but she would rather that than expose Maisie to some of the things that had happened lately.
Suddenly she heard a sound that made her look up. Her eyes were drawn to the window and out past the rooftops and smoking chimneys towards St Paul’s Cathedral. The bells had begun to toll.
She counted five peals, a pause, then a sixth.
Ralph was sending his message to Alan Strange – their attempt to stop the plot to kill the King had begun.
Chapter Eighteen - The Tower
It wasn’t a long way from the Peacock and Pie to the Tower of London – but it certainly felt it, Beth decided, when you had a tray of pies balanced on your head. Big Moll had taught them the method, which was a common-enough sight on the streets of London. However, it was nowhere near as easy as Moll herself made it look as she marched ahead of them, dodging between carriages and people on horseback, and ducking under the low-slung signs hanging outside almost every shop along the way.
The Fifth of November was an eagerly awaited day of celebration, and all of London knew about the glorious feast at the Tower that would be attended not only by the great and good, but the King himself. Yet at the same time Beth knew that she and John were walking into danger, with only a vague idea of what to expect. Now that Groby was most likely out of the way, she wasn’t even too sure who to look out for. They walked along Thames Street past the Custom House, and the soaring grey walls of the impenetrable fortress came into view. Beth knew that the Tower was much more than just that. It was a citadel with inner and outer walls, protecting the Crown Jewels. It was a royal palace and armoury. It was a place of imprisonment, and execution: Moll had told her this was where Guy Fawkes had been tortured here after his arrest. They had to make sure it wasn’t also to go down in history as the place where a king was assassinated...
The guards at the Wharf Gate looked fearsome at first sight: tall and erect with their armour and pikestaffs, but it was soon apparent that they knew Big Moll well, and they ushered her straight in without a second glance at her young helpers. They made their way to the kitchens, crossing the inner ward, but as they did, John stopped and pointed at a mountain of logs, planks and other wooden scraps.
“Look over there!”
“Yes. That’s where it will happen,” Beth whispered as she followed his gaze. “The King is going to light the bonfire to officially open the proceedings. When he does, if those conspirators have their way – BOOM!”
“Unless we can prevent it...”
“We will prevent it, Captain Jack!”
When they entered the cavernous kitchens, the sights and sounds took Beth’s breath away. The heat and roaring flames from the big open fires and ovens made it seem at first like an entrance to Hell itself, and her senses were assailed by the smells of roasting and baking mingled with the odour of human sweat from the toiling staff. The cooks shouted to their skivvies, and it was all a strange mixture of pandemonium and order, with everyone scurrying about like ants yet seeming to know what they were doing. Over on the far side she saw two cooks working on the biggest hog she had ever seen in her life. One was rubbing oil onto its enormous expanse of skin, while the other sprinkled pepper and herbs along its length.
“Ain’t that a beauty!” Moll declared. “First slice will go to the guest of honour – King Charles himself!”
“You could fit the house where I live inside this place and still have plenty of room to spare!” said John, gaping at this strange new world.
Moll lifted the tray from her head as easily as man might take his hat off, and plonked it down on a long wooden table that was clean but bore the marks of many years of hot trays, sharp knives and cleavers. “Put yours beside mine,” she barked at John, seeming to come into her element in this place. “And yours over there beside that oven,” she told Beth. “Keep an eye out for ’em. Good food has been known to go missing in this place. The King will want fresh food, so there’s more baking to be done – follow me.”
Soon they had obtained the ingredients to make more pies and sweetmeats, and Big Moll left them to their tasks of preparing and chopping the herbs and vegetables while she commenced the kneading and rolling out of pastry with her burly arms and hands, humming tunelessly to herself as she worked.
As soon as she dared, Beth sidled closer to John and spoke quietly into his ear. “I’m going to slip outside to take a closer look at that bonfire. If anyone asks, tell them I needed to visit the water closet.”
John nodded without looking up or pausing from his labours. Beth slipped away from the table and headed for the exit, but she was stopped short by a b
ooming male voice aimed in her and John’s direction.
“Hey, you two – go and fetch some mead up from the cellars.” It was one of the head chefs.
Beth hesitated. “But ... I was just going to—”
“No ‘buts’ in here!” Moll cried, overhearing the conversation. “Do as the man says. Chop-chop!”
“Er, where is the cellar?” John asked.
“Outside, first door on the left,” the man told them. “You’ll need the key – here.”
Reluctantly, Beth took the big iron key, and she and John left their task and walked swiftly towards the exit. But once they were outside, Beth held John back and slowed their pace down to as leisurely a crawl as she dared without making them look suspicious.
“At least this gives us a chance to take a good look around,” she whispered.
John looked over in the direction of the gigantic unlit bonfire. “Beth, look. What are they up to?”
There were two men in guards’ uniforms lurking on the side of the wood pile furthest away from prying eyes, constantly checking over their shoulders. One stopped and crouched down and seemed to be trying to peer into the centre of the pile.
“I don’t know,” replied Beth. “But I’d wager they’re up to no good. They might be laying the gunpowder now, even. When the King lights the bonfire, the whole place – him and us included – will be blown sky-high. We have to figure out a way to stop this...”
They had come almost to a halt as they watched the guards, but the man who had been looking into the fire straightened up suddenly and looked in their direction. Beth and John hurried on, but then noticed a distant figure walking towards them.
“That’s Sir Roger Fortescue!” John said. “He’s the Commissioner of the Navy Board.”
“The man you said was present when Arthur Jones had his throat cut?”
“Yes. He was likely invited to the celebrations, but to be here so early? I think he must be right at the centre of this whole plot. But no one would ever believe us if we accused him...”
