There was total silence.
'Is this some joke?' Monteagle demanded of the company. 'Some idiotic pasquil to stop me from my duty?' There was no-one who felt able to answer. The silence lengthened.
'Saddle my horse,' said Monteagle, quietly. 'I ride to Whitehall. Now.'
Without a further word, he swept out of the room. Behind him his company for supper looked and waited for who would say the first word.. It was a long time in coming.
Gresham watched from the alleyway a short distance up from Monteagle's house. He heard the yelling and the stirring in the stables, saw the lights move back and forth in the darkened yard, heard the rasping sound of rough bolts being drawn back on stable doors. With a spurt of mud Lord Monteagle and two other horsemen sped out of the house, and down the street in the direction of Whitehall.
The cold had taken all feeling out of Gresham's feet, and his hands were little better. The old serjeant who had coached him in the Netherlands would be chiding him now, were he alive. ‘Yer have to keep the blood flowing inside yer limbs if yer want to stay alive’ he would have said, 'and stop someone shedding it outside yerbody!'
Well, the business was under way. It had a power and a force of its own. Gresham saw history like a great river, with estuaries beyond number flowing in intricate patterns away from the main course and then, after interminable rambling, back in again. He did not have the arrogance to think that he could stem that river, unlike many men. He knew that at times he had placed a dam across one of the estuaries, blocked the course it would otherwise have run. So the water would not take the course it would otherwise have done. Perhaps it would go where he willed it to go. Yet water, and rivers, had minds of their own. No man could determine Fortune. All one could do was try.
Gresham did not see Tom Ward retire to his own small chamber, produce a pen and paper and write a hasty note, which he then sealed with a copy of his master's seal. The various marriages between the Ward and the Wright families had cemented a relationship which had gone back decades. God only knew what the letter Ward had given to his master meant for Kit and Jack Wright, but if there was devilment afoot Tom Ward guessed they would be in it to the hilt. The man who had given him the letter had mentioned Catesby. Well, Tom Ward knew Catesby was at White Webbs, most likely with one or both of the Wright brothers, from what he had heard. Ward scribbled down the barest details of the letter and its disclosure, and sealed what he had written. Within minutes of his master's riding forth, one of the strongest riders in Monteagle's employment was similarly pounding through the mud, this time on Ward's orders to head for Enfield. Within hours Catesby would know of the letter.
It was a shaken and dishevelled Monteagle who loudly demanded entry to the Chief Secretary's private apartments at Whitehall. Yet he was not as dishevelled as on a previous appearance, not far from this very spot. To his shame and chagrin he had fallen into the Thames and nearly drowned during the Essex rebellion, being dragged out looking little better than a corpse. Even now as he was rowed up the Thames the cry would come across the river from an anonymous wherry, 'I thought that's one as preferred to swim the river!', followed by a guffaw of laughter.
These were not the rooms to which he had been taken, several years before, in fear of his life. His reception there had been as icy-cold in tone as he had expected, but very different in content. Cecil had recruited him as an informer with the clinical certainty of a surgeon sawing off a leg. What choice did he have? The deal allowed him to retain his religion and its observance, and acquire the state he thought had been lost for ever. In return he only had to keep Cecil informed — and as Cecil had said, that information was more likely to preserve both the peace of the nation and peace for Catholics than it was to disrupt. Well, if ever he was to prove that true it was now.
The door swung open into the brightly lit room. A supper such as he had just left was about to be served on a sumptuously carved table. At its head sat Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, Chief Secretary to King James I. It was not the sight of Cecil that took Monteagle aback. It was his guests. Edward Somerset, Earl of Worcester. Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton. Thomas Howard, Earl of Suffolk. Four of the most powerful men in all England, and three of them known as either Catholic or Catholic sympathisers.
The irony of it would have struck Monteagle less forcibly had he noticed the letter on the table between the four noble Lords, a letter written on paper from the Spanish Netherlands, in a broad, large and almost child-like hand. Cecil had turned it over, face down, smoothly as Monteagle had burst into the room. It read:
'My Lord, were you and my Lords of Northampton, Suffolk and Worcester to meet for supper on Saturday evening at your palace in Whitehall you will find a message come to you there that will preserve your souls as good food preserves the flesh, and do much to preserve the nation and your self.'
'Will it work?' Jane had asked.
'Who knows?' said Gresham. Jane's hand was stained with ink, crooked with the time she had spent crouched over the paper. He leant over and placed his hand over her own. His hand was cold, hers warm. 'The presence of the three great Catholic Lords when the letter's delivered will serve two purposes, if it can be engineered. It'll force Cecil into action even if he's biding his time to implicate Raleigh in some way. It'll clear the Catholic Lords of any involvement.'
'If I was Cecil,' said Jane, 'I'd think some madman wanted all four of us together to assassinate us.'
'You'd need an uprising to do that, and an army to go with it. The request's for them to gather in the heart of Cecil's stronghold, not for him to come unarmed to a field in Islington at midnight. No, there are two key words in it for Cecil — "souls" will tell him it's to do with Catholics. I'm sure he doesn't know details of the plot, but if all London is buzzing with rumours that there's a plot of some sort he must have heard something, and he'd be madder than he is to ignore anything linked to those rumours. And we've mentioned his "preservation". There's nothing closer to his heart than that. It might work. We're not lost if it doesn't. The presence of the Catholic Lords is a bonus, not the main prize. The main prize is to get that powder removed and the plotters dispersed.'
Monteagle knew nothing of this. He had steeled himself to present before the Chief Secretary, and now found himself facing a court consisting not just of one but four of the people in the strongest position to influence his life, career and prospects.
The slippery element in Monteagle that had let him survive as long as he had came to his rescue. He bowed low to all four men. Collecting himself, he asked if-it were possible for him to have a private word with his Lordship, with no disrespect, of course, intended to the other three noble Lords.
Cecil glanced at the other three, nodded briefly to them, and motioned Monteagle over to a side room. The servants had laid the wine there, before bringing it in to the supper, and one of them scuttled out as if branded as Cecil swept into the room.
Give me your damned message, Cecil was tempted to say, so that I can at least know where I stand in a business that is becoming too complicated for its own good. But, of course, he said nothing, merely enquiring politely about Lord Monteagle's health.
Lord Monteagle's health, he mused, would not stand many more rides such as he had clearly just made. He was having trouble catching his breath, the mud was caked up his waist and sweat dripping down his cheeks on to his beard. Monteagle was pouring out the story, offering Cecil the letter finally, after he had given a highly embossed version of its contents.
A slight shudder passed through Cecil as he saw the hand on Monteagle's letter, matching that on the paper turned over on his table.
'Thank you, my Lord,' said Cecil carefully, refolding the letter. 'It is good that you have brought this to my attention, whatever the consequences might be.' He nodded to Monteagle, ushering him out and back into the main chamber. The three Lords waited like gargoyles on a Cathedral wall, only their flickering eyes betraying their tension.
Without a word, Cecil handed the let
ter to Northampton. Northampton's ferocious ambition was widely known at Court, being born out of so many years in the wilderness during Elizabeth's reign. As a convert will cram a lifetime of passion into whatever years remain him, so Northampton was determined to make the best of what time remained to him by the political fireside. The letter was passed round to the other two, who read it in silence. Unknown to Monteagle, Northampton glanced down at the earlier letter, lying in the centre of the table, eyebrows raised. No, Cecil's eyes signalled, let that remain between us, not between ourselves and this young Lord.
'Government receives many such letters, my Lord Monteagle, as you may well know,' said Cecil finally, breaking the long silence.
Monteagle was visibly deflating in front of the harsh glare of power. His shoulders slumped. Had he made a complete fool of himself?
'Yet I have had word for some months past of scheming abroad, scheming, I fear, from those of your faith. We will show this to His Majesty, expose it to his wisdom and invite his view. Plots are as fruit, my Lord. They need time to ripen.'
Show it to His Majesty? Tonight? Tomorrow? Had he done the right thing to ride through the night and interrupt this supper? Or would his letter be placed in a pile of submissions or petitions, to be dealt with in due time and in due order?
'His Majesty…' stumbled Monteagle.
'Is in Royston,' answered Cecil, calmly, 'hunting. He remains there until the thirtieth, when he stays at Ware, returning to London and Whitehall the next day. There is no invisible blow waiting in the forest, I am sure,' said Cecil condescendingly, turning to the other, three Lords. He was rewarded by thin smiles from them.
'We are grateful to you for your care in this matter, my Lord. Be assured, it will not harm your credit with His Majesty. You may return to your supper with a heart and mind at rest.'
He was being dismissed. He bowed low and backed out, even as servants began to bring in the delayed meal to the chamber. It was a perplexed young Lord who rode more slowly than he had come through the dark streets, to a supper by now hopelessly spoilt.
'You didn't need to put me so close,' said Mannion, rubbing his hands by the fire. 'With the noise he made you'd have thought it was an army coming to Whitehall, not just three men.'
Gresham had stationed Mannion by the main gate of Whitehall, to check that Monteagle had gone where it was intended he go.
'What do we do now?' asked Jane.
Gresham gazed at her for a moment, then moving so quickly that she could not react he grasped her round the waist, pulled her towards him and placed a long and lingering kiss on her full lips.
'I'm not a meal to be picked up off the table when it pleases!' she exclaimed, pulling away. She had returned the kiss, though, he noticed.
'Don your serving-girl clothes!' cried Gresham. 'We go to the playhouse!'
'Can we afford to? What if we're seen?'
'After all this time in this hovel, I think we can't afford not to. We'll dress as servants and stand at the back of the Pit. And after that, we're back to the House and civilisation, I think.'
'Are we out of danger, then?'
'I'll limp back into town as if a growth has been carved out of my side and I'm only recently recovered. Wherever I go people will look at me and feel ill, though I shall of course keep to my bed for weeks on end. An invalid will present no threat to Cecil. And anyway, the plot is out — what has Cecil to fear from me?'
Robert Catesby had spent the morning trying to ease the worries of Anne Vaux at White Webbs. It did not matter if he succeeded in demolishing her fears. All that mattered was that he allayed them. Hardly a week to go, and then he could throw off this continual need to hide behind fabrication and deceit. A week from now, and the world would know the truth.
The letter arrived at midday, brought to table by Tom Bates. The messenger, a simple serving lad, had become hopelessly lost, as a result of riding through the night, and had nearly killed his mount. Catesby read the hasty scribble, expressionless, and care-fully folded it before slipping it into the large pocket sewn into his breeches. He finished his meal quietly, allowing Anne to chatter about the fate of various neighbours' experiences of childbirth and children in general. He rose from the table, thanked Anne politely and nodded to the others round the table. Tom Wintour needed no hint or secret signals to rise shortly afterwards, and join him. Not long after, the Wright brothers followed suit.
'We appear to have a slight problem,' said Catesby dryly, handing the note to Wintour, and on to the Wrights. The colour rose in Wintour's face as he read it. 'We owe a debt to your kinsman, Tom Ward, I think,' added Catesby, as first Kit and then Jack Wright took the letter. Both the Wrights had been in on the plot from its earliest days, and neither Kit nor Jack Wright would utter three words where none would do. Two strong, taciturn men, they grunted as the import of the letter sank in, and looked to Catesby.
'We're discovered!' For a brief moment, the hatred that drove Wintour to contemplate an act of mass murder showed clearly on his face. Stupidly, he turned to look over his shoulder, as if even then the troops of the King would be trampling across the lawns of Enfield to arrest them both.
'Peace, cousin,' said Catesby. 'We're safe as yet. Think. Think what it means.'
'It means Cecil and the King know about our plot!' Wintour's face was grotesque, distorted with the mix of anger and fear that coloured it dark red.
'It means no such thing!' Catesby's words were like a slap across Wintour's face. 'True, the letter sounds a warning over Parliament, but they'll look for an army to be the agent of harm, not one man in a cellar!'
'We're not named. Not any of us.' It was Kit Wright, who often spoke both for himself and for his brother.
In his haste to warn Catesby and the Wrights, Tom Ward had written only that Monteagle's letter had advised him not to attend Parliament and had warned him of a strike against Parliament. Would Catesby's relative calm have been shattered if Ward had told him of the phrase 'terrible blow', and the letter's emphasis on the invisibility of that blow? He was never to know, never to see the letter and destined only to hear about it from a frightened servant relying on memory. That particular estuary received no dam, and its water trickled along unhindered down the path Fate had set.
'We'll know soon enough if we're discovered. Do you think if any of us are suspected Cecil and the King will leave us to go about our business? Fawkes can keep a watch oh the cellar. If there's any interest in it, then we'll know we're truly discovered, and plan accordingly. But before that, look at what this letter must mean.'
Wintour looked blankly at him.
'A traitor, Tom, a traitor! One of us must have written that letter. We've a snake in our little garden.'
The redness had begun to recede from Wintour's face, but it came back with a flood. 'Tresham! That bastard Tresham!' he roared.
'Possibly — but be cautious. Digby and Rookwood have more to lose than most of us, and wives who may fear they will lose their husbands and their livelihoods. Perhaps one of the other women… a priest who's heard too much in confession… a servant who's overheard his master… perhaps even your brother.'
'Robert! Never in a thousand years! He may be nervous, but if he isn't loyal then the Pope's not God's appointed.'
'We've to consider everyone, haven't we?' It was as if Catesby was discussing a game of cards.
'You'll call Tresham here? Now?' Wintour's face made it clear that Francis Tresham would be walking into his death when he came to White Webbs.
'Call him, yes. But not now. We're due to meet at Temple Bar on Wednesday. Tom, we must keep silent about this letter at least for a while. We must! You know the others. We can't let them think it's all over yet. Let's wait and see if a hue and cry starts. There were no names in the letter, were there? It will take time to examine, time in which we'll know if we're being followed or watched. Let's tell the others on Wednesday, and watch Tresham as a man has never been watched. Then let's decide.'
Wintour's face made it cl
ear what his decision already was. As far as Tom Wintour was concerned, Francis Tresham was a dead man. The four conspirators ordered a bottle of wine. Catesby doubted there was more to discuss, yet there would be support in the wine and in the companionship of its drinking.
Francis Tresham, unaware of the plot being hatched on his life, and blissfully unaware of the Monteagle letter, lay in his rooms at Lincoln's Inn Walk. There was a knock on the door. He leapt as if for his life, grabbing the sword that lay by the bed. His servant, the learned but dilatory Vavasour, was out buying wine. There was another knock on the door, loud and urgent. Tresham held his sword poised, and wrenched it open. Something hit him, and he was suddenly on the floor with a ringing head, his sword held in the left hand of his visitor. It was the ox of a servant, Selkirk's servant.
'My master sends you the first down payment.' He tossed a package towards Tresham. 'And I wouldn't open doors suddenly, with a sword in your hand, if I were you.'
It was a passport, a travel warrant from the Government. It permitted him to travel abroad for two years, with horses, servants and other necessaries.
'The money, and the details of the ship, come when he's finished with you. Don't run out on him, will you? I'd hate to ruin that fine doublet you're wearing.'
'Why so long?' Gresham's scalp itched so that he longed to tear the skin off his head, his head was pounding as it had not done so since the river. 'Why is nothing happening?'
Gresham had revelled in the return to the House, and Jane had gone straight to her beloved library as if it were an old friend brought back from the grave. Yet as his impatience grew it was seeming more and more like a prison, more and more like the rooms in Alsatia.
There was the tedium of keeping up the pretence to cope with. The paste that kept his skin sickly-white needed to be re-applied twice a day, and Jane had to use a thin linen cloth rather than her hands, in case they too turned white. No lump in his side was necessary, the theoretical growth having been theoretically cut out, but it was necessary to keep a supply of fresh pig's blood to stain his shirts with, the amount decreasing every day very slightly, as well as suitably gory 'dressings' to be sent out with the servants. Gresham trusted the servants in the House more than he had let Jane know, but all it needed was for one to comment in the market or on the street about Gresham's miraculous recovery for unwanted attention to be directed on to him.
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