He had considered killing him on their journey, but no chance that did not threaten his own life had presented itself. The life of Thomas Percy was a very important thing, and soon to become even more important. Once Catesby had been disposed of, and the other plotters either killed or handed over to authority — Cecil had wanted some two or three at most, no more, if possible — then Percy would return in triumph to London bringing Catesby's body slung over a horse. He had thought on that, and thought that it would look best stripped to its shirt, as it would have been for an execution. He had reminded himself that he must drape the body over a horse as soon as possible after Catesby's death, before it froze in death and stuck out on either side like a bar across the saddle. In the midst of that triumph, he and Cecil would discuss the details he would give about the treachery of the ninth Earl of Northumberland, how the evil Earl had unwittingly placed in the hands of his kinsman the details of the treachery and the revolution he planned — his kinsman, who having handed the fate of the ninth Earl over to Cecil would, of course, become the tenth Earl of Northumberland. Had he riot always claimed, even to the ninth Earl himself, that his branch of the family was older than that represented by the ninth Earl? Well, now he would prove it.
The powder they had taken from Hewell Grange had been loaded into an open cart. The drenching rain had soaked it. Their plan now was to rest for as long as it took to get their breath back, and then dash into Wales to gather support and await news of the landings and the Spanish troops that Percy had lied about to
Catesby. There never were any plans for invasion, and never any knowledge of any part of the plot by the ninth Earl — a delicious irony which Percy intended to savour when he became the tenth Earl.
Yet they might have to make a stand at Holbeache. The Sheriff of Worcestershire was on their trail. A servant who was probably running away had run into the Sheriff's party, over a hundred men, and gone back to Catesby as the lesser evil. Catesby and Wintour were convinced they could beat off the Sheriff's party, who would be untrained men in the face of a determined, well-armed opposition fighting defensively and for their lives. It was a classic situation — thirty men defending who were fighting to keep their lives, a hundred or so attacking who could only lose them.
'The powder from Hewell Grange is soaked through. If this place is put to siege, we might have need of it.' Percy spoke gruffly, in the old-soldier manner he had adopted from the outset with the conspirators.
'What do you suggest — warm it with a match?' It was Digby, a pale imitation of himself.
'Almost. It's wet enough to make spreading it out before the hearth safe enough. If Tom manages to bring back some extra people, the more dry powder we can show them the more likely they are to think we've a chance.'
He was surprised they agreed to it, but it was exhaustion speaking through their actions, and despair. Any action seemed to put back the tide of hopelessness.
They spread the powder out on to the stone hearth, moving the rushes aside first. The fire was well established, the wood seasoned and long since past spitting. Catesby, Rookwood and Grant took seats at the long trestle table to one side of the fire, hastily drawing up plans for the defence of the house. Henry Morgan, one of the few from the Dunchurch 'hunting party' who had stayed with them, joined them, as did Percy, for a while. Robert Wintour was huddled in a corner.
'I had a dream last night.' His sepulchral tones startled the men by the table, all of whom looked up.
'I saw church steeples bent awry, and sad, terrible faces inside the churches, looking out. Faces of despair.' Was he talking to himself, or to them? It could have been either. The men turned back, one by one, to their crude plans for defence. The problem was that few of them knew the house, and the owner was out of it with Tom Wintour.
Percy stood up, announcing he was going to piss. As he went to the door, it opened in his face, and the frightened figure of a servant came into the Hall, a huge pile of fresh logs held in front of him, half covering even his face. Percy pushed him aside, causing him to stumble and drop the top two or three logs. The servant mumbled apologies, as scared as the rest of the Holbeache servants, placed the remnant of his load on the floor and scrabbled to pick up the lost logs. A few of the conspirators glanced his way, disinterested, and looked away. Very carefully the servant made his way to the side of the hearth. He stopped as he saw the powder laid out, carefully moving round the black earth piled on the floor. He bent to lay his logs on top of the others on the side of the hearth, but the top log seemed to leap out from the pile of its own accord and fell into the fire. It crashed into the flames, dislodging embers that flew almost gently through the air and landed red among the black of the powder. The servant, who could see what was coming, flung the rest of his logs forward and dashed for the protection offered by the side of the jutting stone fireplace.
There was a blinding flash, and a sucking roar. For a brief instant Holbeache was turned into Hell. From a scene of almost peaceful domesticity the Hall was reduced to smouldering ruin. Panelling had caught fire, and those upright in the room were rushing to smother the small flames. The peculiar, acrid stench of powder mingled with the stench of burnt flesh and smouldering wood. John Grant was sitting on the ground, making small keening noises, rocking backwards and forwards, his hands clutched to his eyes.
They were burnt out, even blacker than the surrounding skin in his crisped, baked face, his hair, eyebrows and beard half gone and scorched. The man Morgan still had some sight, but was badly burnt. Catesby and Rookwood were badly scorched, both in obvious severe pain.
The two Wright brothers had been dozing in a corner, now jerked into wakefulness by the blast of fire. Percy rushed back into the room. Robert Wintour had escaped the worst of the searing heat, huddled in his corner. He was standing now, staring wild-eyed at the devastation. He stuck his arm out, a shivering finger pointing at Catesby and the others.
'The faces! The faces!' he said. 'The faces in my dream! These are the faces!' He waited, as if for an answer. His hand dropped to his side. He raised his eyes, locked them on to the pain-filled vision of Catesby. 'Well,' he said, in a low voice of total hatred, 'you have your blast now, cousin!' He turned and left.
There had been exhaustion, some despair and fear (in the room before, but also some bravado. Now there was nothing. It was as if they realised it was over. It had to be God's judgement. Those who had intended to blow up their enemies by powder had themselves been blown up. The link was too clear, too obvious.
Catesby was recovered enough to speak. The fire had caught the one side of his face, pulling up his lip so that it seemed he had a permanent snarl. Robert Catesby. Jack Wright. Kit Wright. John Grant, writhing on the floor, hands fluttering at the wet bandage round his destroyed eyes. Ambrose Rookwood, moaning as the cold of the bandages touched his burnt flesh. Thomas Percy. With the exception of Rookwood and Wintour, the men stood at the end of the affair almost as they had stood from its outset.
'We are too few to fight.' Thomas Percy spoke the obvious.
'Then we must die fighting.' It was Catesby. No-one raised his voice against him.
Tom Wintour stopped as he, entered the hall, his face draining of all blood in shock. He ran to Catesby, looking in horror at his ravaged and twisted face. If only he had brought good news! There was no help coming. Sir John Talbot had not even let them inside his house, but shouted them off as he might a carrier of the plague. A fleeing servant had told them of the explosion, and Stephen Littleton, the owner of Holbeache, had slipped away from his side. Everard Digby had gone. Tom Bates, the ever-faithful servant, was also missing.
'Where is my brother?' It was Tom Wintour, his eyes roaming the room.
'Gone.' It was Kit Wright. 'With all the others.' Robert Wintour had waited this long in his life to take a decision of his own.
Henry Gresham had picked himself up from the side of the fireplace, where the blast had thrown him. He was bruised badly enough, but nothing was broken. The heat had
singed the back of his head, in between the collar of his jerkin and his bonnet.
He had intended only to eavesdrop on the plotters. The smell of the powder had hit him even through the door. In an instant he was back in the Netherlands, and it was as if the pain that had been his constant companion then for months came back to hit him also. Picking up the logs strewn outside the door and going in had been a terrible thing for him to do. When he had met Percy his heart had stopped, but Percy was not the type to recognise a lowly servant.
He had wanted to be sick as he had contemplated the fire, the powder and the need to fling his log into the midst of the fire. Yet the irony, the awful, dreadful irony, of firing these men up with powder, the sheer justice of it, had driven him. Loose powder does not explode, he knew, but burns off in an instant, developing a searing heat and light.
Those who know an explosion is about to take place can profit in the seconds immediately following. With no mental shock to add to the physical, Gresham was able to pick himself up in the immediate aftermath, scuttling through the door before anyone thought to ask of the servant who had caused the blow. He doubted any realised even that it had been the servant, so great was their confusion. What a pity Percy had chosen that moment to leave. Gresham was surprised by how little damage the fire had done. He could not judge at that moment the damage it had done to the spirit, as well as the bodies, of the plotters.
Gresham knew that the Sheriff of Worcestershire was hastening to lay siege to the plotters. The servant whose clothes he had taken had babbled of little else. Percy had to die at Holbeache, that much Gresham now knew. The question was how.
Thomas Percy was much taken at that moment by the other side of the question. How to preserve his life? He had believed they could beat off the Sheriff's men easily enough, with a pistol ball in the back for Catesby in the dying moments of the fight, or on their flight into Wales. That damned explosion had killed no-one, but merely increased the odds for their attackers and made the plotters vow to fight to the death. Well, so be it, mused Percy. There was risk in all things. He was playing for an earldom. He would wait for the siege, kill Catesby and then prove his credentials by firing a ball into one of the others — Tom Wintour by preference — and shouting that he was an agent of the King's. Far better than an agent of Robert Cecil for these country bumpkins.
The call to arms came some time before eleven o'clock. They propped the blinded Grant up in a corner, still moaning. Rookwood declared his intention to fight, though God knew if he could see enough to hit anyone, thought Percy. At the windows, they could see that it was more than a hundred men gathering outside. Torches lit those out of range, whilst movements in the shadow showed men running up under cover of the darkness to hide close to the walls, there presumably to make an assault through the main gate into the yard. Suddenly, a flickering light showed them more. Someone had lit a fire, almost under them. They were being smoked out. Damn! If they had more men they could have mounted a guard on the outer perimeter.
Catesby turned his head stiffly, and looked at Wintour. The latter nodded, the briefest of gestures. Grabbing their weapons, they moved out and down into the yard.
Torches had been thrown over to give light, and lay guttering on the cobbles. It was too late. Enemy men were already in the yard. As Wintour burst out of the door shots rang out, most ill-aimed and wildly high. One caught Wintour, shattering his shoulder. He shrieked, a weird, unearthly noise, fired a wild round from his pistol and hurled it to the ground, dragging his sword up to defend himself as men with pikes started to circle warily round him.
Catesby had come down the stairs hanging on the arm of Percy. Jack and Kit Wright leapt out through the door and more shots rang out. Both dropped to the ground. As if by accident it was Catesby's body that swung round and forward as they came out of the door, moments later. One shot banged viciously into the night air, but the others had fired at Wintour and the Wrights, and were clumsily reloading. It looked as if Catesby and Percy were standing back to back, but Catesby had swooned as they hit the night air and was only half-conscious.
Gresham was standing by the side of the courtyard. He had floored one of the first soldiers to creep up over the wall into the yard with one blow from the stock of the hunting rifle he had taken from the house. The helmet was too large to fit, the leather jerkin hanging off his frame. Other men flooded into the yard. Gresham saw Tom Wintour rush out and spin round in response to a fusillade of shots. Then the Wright brothers were dropped like gamebirds. Rookwood was clearly wounded, as was Morgan, stumbling around with the injured Wintour. There was a pause in the firing, partly through the need to reload, partly through the growing realisation that this pathetic band posed no threat.
A trooper had run to Gresham's side, his eyes full of the glazed fear that Gresham had been so familiar with in Flanders. His musket was unfired, waving wildly in the air. Gresham decided he might as well act to stop the boy shooting him.
'Soldier!' he snapped. 'Come to it, man! Give me your name!'
'John… John Streete, sir,' mumbled the boy, regaining a grip on his musket.
Wintour yelled, for Catesby, Gresham thought, and the soldiers turned towards him. Catesby emerged in the doorway, hanging off Percy. As if in slow motion, Gresham saw Percy place his pistol against Catesby's side, saw the flash and the body of Catesby stiffen and slump, mouth agape. As if in one single smooth movement Gresham brought up his gun, aimed and fired, the crack of the rifle almost simultaneous with that of Percy's pistol. Percy's mouth was also agape, he was about to shout out and cast Catesby's body to the ground. The bullet caught him and he jerked violently backwards, his inert body almost bouncing on to the cobbles.
Gresham turned to John Streete, standing gaping by his side. He pulled the boy's musket arm towards him, yanked the trigger and caught the gun as it recoiled, firing into the air.
'There, boy,' said Gresham. 'Two birds with one shot. Go on, claim the credit.'
Gresham turned, and saw Catesby crawling back into the house. The pack of soldiers were advancing on Rookwood, Wintour and Morgan. Wintour made a mad dash forward. His sword was knocked out of his hand, and a soldier, crazed with fear, was about to plunge his pike into the wounded man's midriff. There was a barked command.
'Hold. Hold! Some of these are better kept alive for His Majesty!'
Catesby had crawled just inside the door. He was holding his gold crucifix, sobbing with pain and exhaustion. He half turned as Gresham clattered through the door.
'Selkirk!' he moaned, in frightened recognition. Then the light went from his eyes. He slumped to the ground, dead. Gresham heard the noise of advancing men. Quickly, he tore a picture of the Virgin Mary off the wall where it adorned the entrance to Holbeache House, and wrapped Catesby's still warm fingers around it. As the first of the other soldiers burst in through the door, Gresham retreated into the shadows.
The soldiers were out of control. They were stripping the corpses of everything they: bore. Even Kit Wright's boots had been taken, and the silk stockings he wore under them. Percy's body, half naked, lay on the cobbles, mouth open, eyes staring. A soldier who had missed the best of the plunder gave it a vicious kick as he passed by. His head lolled back with the blow, slack, empty.
Gresham gazed back at the lights, the shouting and the smashing noises as the house was torn apart. He turned, and without a word he started the ride back to London.
Chapter 12
‘Be careful,' said Jane. 'He fooled you once.'
'Fooled me?' said Gresham. 'I prefer to think he left me asking the wrong questions for a short period of time.'
Gresham was putting the final touches to his dress. It would be his fourth visit to Cecil. He felt more in command of this one than he had with several others.
Gresham arrived, without appointment. It was a different clerk from the last time, a biddable, pleasant-mannered figure, clearly rushed off his feet and worried. The usual crush of humanity was stinking the place out, shouting its cas
e to be the only person with a real need to see the King's Chief Secretary.
'I shall take your request to the Earl, Sir Henry,' he replied to Gresham, 'but he is monstrously busy, I fear to say…'
'I do understand. Tell him Sir Henry Gresham wishes to see him, and that it concerns matters of high treason.'
The clerk's eyes opened wide, and he waddled off. He was clearly surprised on his return, and bowed low.
'Sir Henry! The Earl will see you immediately. Please follow me.'
Cecil- was crouched at the head of the table. A litter of papers filled its top half. Among them, Gresham noted, was an unsigned letter in a familiar hand. It was already known as the Monteagle Letter. Gresham had heard of its new name with a wry grin.
'Sir Henry.' Cecil's voice was flat, expressionless.
'My Lord.'
'I see you are recovered. Please accept my congratulations.'
'I was never ill. It was merely a ruse designed to divert your Lordship's unwelcome attentions away from me, while I discovered what you so clearly wished to keep from me,' Gresham answered, in a brisk tone.
'Indeed?' Cecil raised an eyebrow, maintaining his icy control. 'And did you discover this great secret?'
'Yes, my Lord, I did,' said Gresham.
'Which was?' asked Cecil, not entirely able now to keep the tension out of his voice.
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