Uncle Edward’s mind made an effort, and pushed itself nearer to the picture, in eagerness to see. …
There was a buzzing in his ears. Light flickered and leaped. He heard a booming of voices, enormous, resonant, speaking indistinguishable words. Then, with a sudden pop, as when one emerges from a tunnel, the light broke and sight and sound rushed on him. …
Chapter Seven
The man in the tall chair leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
‘That is sad news, Father,’ he said. ‘But it does not surprise me. With this accursed pack of rogues at Westminster, what better can you expect?’
The priest sighed.
‘I had thought that, after the February decree, they would be content.’
‘Content!’ said the other harshly. ‘They will never be content. What was the decree but an excuse, and a blind!’
‘A blind, Master Catesby? I should have thought—’
‘What does it signify, to banish the priests? In itself, I tell you, that means nothing. What they want is an excuse to destroy us all.’
The third man gave a short bark of laughter.
‘They do that, without excuse,’ he said.
Catesby went on, without heeding him.
‘They know that we shall not obey: that, everywhere, up and down the country, the priests will stay, hiding first here, then there, to serve the mass. Thus they can with better face proceed against all that harbour them.’
‘They have done that this twenty years, Master Catesby,’ said the priest quietly.
‘They have. But they aim to strike higher. There are many in high station, up and down the country, against whom they have not yet dared proceed. But, now that they can claim to make felons of us all—’
‘Felons? That is a hard word.’
‘We need not stickle at a word, Father. They will not.’
‘No.’ The priest rose. ‘I fear that you are right,’ he sighed. ‘But let us not look only at the black side of the picture. God is able to shed light in the blackest darkness. He will surely deliver His flock.’
Catesby seemed about to retort, then shut his mouth with a snap. It was plain that the words he finally spoke were not those that had first leaped to his tongue.
‘That is true, Father. At the same time, it behoves His flock to do something in their own defence.’
The priest made a helpless gesture with his hands.
‘What can be done, more than we are doing? Well—I must leave you. I have much to do. When shall I see you again?’
‘Soon, I hope.’ Catesby looked at him, his brows drawn down. ‘Father,’ he said bluntly, ‘I am not satisfied with that disguise. It may be because we know you so well, and so cannot see you otherwise. But, to my mind, you look what you are.’
‘That is surely fanciful,’ smiled the priest. ‘You must not judge me by what I say and do in this room, with you who know me. You have not seen me with strangers.’
‘No. But I misdoubt you, even so. You are no countryman, with that face and those hands.’
‘My hands are, I confess, a little against me.’ The priest held them out, and looked at them, his head on one side. They were pale and bony, with blue veins on the backs: the hands of a clerk or a scholar. ‘Even so, I know enough of crops and farming to satisfy the severest questioner. And my speech is not that of a priest.’
To their astonishment, he broke into a broad Oxfordshire dialect.
Catesby started, and smiled unwillingly.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘take care of yourself, Father.’
‘I will. Good-bye, Master Catesby. Good-bye, Master Wright.’
‘Good-bye, Father.’
The priest stopped in the doorway, and pronounced a blessing on them. The two men stood up, bowed their heads, and crossed themselves. Catesby was revealed as over six feet high. He towered above his thickset companion.
There was silence for a few seconds after the priest had gone. Catesby shook himself, and sat down. The other man pulled his chair up to the table.
‘Now,’ Catesby said, ‘we can get to our business. I will not trust him with any hint of our hopes; nor Father Gerard. Neither has any stomach for strong measures. And I am persuaded that nothing else will serve us.’
‘Well,’ said John Wright, ‘you will not find me unwilling.’
Catesby gave him a single glance. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘I am glad the priest is gone. Winter should be here at any time now.’
‘What? Is he landed?’
‘I heard word that the Osprey came in to Greenwich this morning. I have a letter from him, written from Dunkirk, confirming that this is the man we need.’
‘A letter? That was surely rash.’
‘It came safe enough.’ Catesby was displeased. ‘Thomas Winter is not one to hazard our safety or his own without proper dispositions.’
‘Well—if it has come safe, we need trouble no more about it. But I have no liking for written words. More can read them than those for whom they are intended.’
‘No one has read this.’ Catesby spread out the letter on the table. ‘It was necessary that we should have more particular knowledge of the man before he came. He will be with Winter, and it would be a grievous affront to keep him outside the door, while we debated whether he was worthy to take part with us in our plan.’
‘Surely he must be worthy, or you would not have sent for him?’
Catesby controlled his temper with an effort.
‘I judged him worthy. Winter’s charge was to judge the man for himself and to inquire of others. His report is good. Do you wish to hear it?’
‘Aye.’ Wright still seemed to have some grievance. ‘I am willing to hear it. But first—tell me again—who is the man?’
‘His name is Fawkes: Guy Fawkes.’
‘What? Fawkes—my old schoolfellow? Why did you not tell me this before? I could have assured you, many times over, of his quality.’
‘You were told,’ said Catesby shortly. ‘Winter and I both told you.’
‘I swear I did not know. I heard no word of it.’ ‘Then you did not listen.’
‘I thought the man you were sending for was a Spaniard. I swear you told me some Spanish name.’
‘The man has fought with the Spaniards in Flanders, and went by the name of Guido. Maybe it is that that misled you.’
Catesby was clearly making an effort, which went against the grain, to conciliate his companion. Wright, as if anxious to meet him halfway, grasped at the excuse.
‘That was surely it. I must have heard this name “Guido”, and missed the rest. For, if I had understood, I could have told you as much of my old friend as you shall learn from a score of strangers.’
‘That is well. Meantime, what we learn of others is good. Winter, on my advice, spoke with Sir William Stanley, under whom this Fawkes served. Here is what he writes:
‘“Sir William gave me an excellent report of him. He says that not only is he valiant and trustworthy, but that his body is strong to bear hardship. Once, in an action, he went above forty-eight hours without food or sleep, fighting continuously, and showed little fatigue where other men fainted or dropped asleep where they stood. He has, moreover, great skill in martial affairs, and is most safely to be entrusted with matters of secrecy and discretion.”’
He looked up.
‘This is confirmed by Captain Owen, who says, besides: “He is in every way a worthy gentleman.” He took part in the action before Calais, and was with those who entered the town. For his skill in affairs, he was sent as delegate to the court of Spain to bring us help after the queen died. In short’—he folded up the letter —‘it is a man of courage and determination, skilled to keep counsel, and devoted in our cause.’
‘He is that, past all doubt. True, he was not born in the faith: but those that are converted are often hotter in its defence than ourselves. Hot to rashness.’
‘Which Fawkes will not be. That is why I am so well content to have this report of h
im.’ Catesby smiled. ‘With your report and knowledge, we need have no fear to take the man to us, and acquaint him with our secrets.’
‘No fear at all. Had I known it was my old schoolfellow, you need have asked no further question.’
Catesby said nothing. Wright’s blunt manner, his trick of speaking as if expecting attack or insult, tried him often: but he knew that underneath the rough, uncouth exterior beat as true and brave a heart as any in England.
‘They should be here at any moment,’ he said presently. ‘Will you drink again?’
He rose, removed the priest’s cup, and began to set places at the table.
‘Whom else do you expect?’ asked Wright, counting up the places.
‘Percy.’
A moment of hesitation before the reply, and the abruptness with which it was spoken, showed that Catesby expected that the name would not be welcome to his companion. The expectation was sound.
Wright coughed, drank, then set his cup down with a bang on the oak table.
‘I do not think it well to invite him..’
‘It is I who have invited him, not you.’
‘I would never have invited him. I do not trust the man.’
‘He is most necessary to us. Not only is he trusty and without fear, and devoted to our cause—he has taken injury enough, and from the king himself, to warrant him in that—but his high position is of the greatest value to us. He lives at court, he hears what is doing there, and can give us intelligence of it. He has money, and, as agent to my Lord Northumberland, can get us more. We need just such a man, above all others.’
‘A man at court, I grant you. And one with money in his pocket. But I mistrust Percy. He is ill-liked, and full of spleen. I fear he may draw men’s eyes to us. He is of a jealous temper, too. I doubt he will follow any man’s lead but his own.’
Catesby, who was drawing wine in the corner, turned and looked at him squarely.
‘You must not think that I admit any man to my confidence without good thought. A minute since, you were telling me I was over-cautious. Now, it seems I am not cautious enough. ’Sblood, man!’ For the first time, anger showed in his face. ‘Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I should lightly adventure, not only our lives, but our whole cause? I have had time enough to ponder these things. You need not fear that I shall act hastily or ill-advisedly. If you are not satisfied, why, there is no constraint. You are as free to go as he to come.’
Wright’s face flushed red.
‘I hope you do not doubt either my will or my constancy.’
‘Neither. I hope, in turn, you do not doubt my good sense.’
‘No.’ Wright pushed his chair back, staring at the table. ‘But I cannot like Percy,’ he burst out again, after a few seconds’ silence. ‘I am not at ease when he is by.’
‘A soldier cannot always pick his company. When I fight side by side with a man, I ask little of him except that he be true and strong.’
‘Aye. But when I am in camp with a man, I like him none the worse for being to my mind.’
‘Be content. It is early days yet. Listen only, with a free mind: and, if you are not satisfied, you need not be committed to anything we shall plan or do.’
‘That is the rub,’ grumbled Wright. ‘I am with you to the hilt in whatever you may plan. I cannot draw back from anything that may help us and strike a blow at our oppressors. That is why I would be sure of my company.’
‘You shall be sure of it. Hark!’
Catesby stopped, and listened. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the cry of a street seller, hoarse and with little hope, from some distance off. Then a peculiar double knock sounded on the door below.
‘I will let them in myself.’
Left alone, Wright rose from his chair, and walked over to the fireplace. Though it was early May, the air was still chilly. He stood, warming his legs, and frowning. Evidently his mind was still troubled.
From below came a sudden booming of deep voices. Footsteps sounded on the stair. With an abrupt, characteristic movement, he squared his broad shoulders, and thrust out his chin. For a moment, despite his beard and the streaks of grey in his hair, he looked like a schoolboy about to meet an enemy whom he has been beaten for fighting, and so is trying hard not to fight again.
Then the door opened, and Catesby ushered in two men only, neither of them Percy. Wright gave a loud sigh of relief, and his eyes crinkled into a smile of welcome.
‘Why! Guy, my old friend! Welcome to you.’
Chapter Eight
Greetings over, the newcomers sat down at the table. They were strongly contrasted. Winter was a small man, shorter even than Wright, but a glance told that his body was strong and muscular. He was handsome, with bold, striking features, and a habit of moving his head quickly, in little jerks. His eyes were wide apart, and something in their straight stare told of a nature devout and steadfast in its belief.
The other, Guy Fawkes, was tall and lean, with a body tough as whipcord. His hair was light brown, his beard almost red. His nose was long and pointed, combining with his beard to give him an almost foxy look, which was accentuated by the brightness of his eyes. A wary man, cool, crafty, and dangerous, yet with nothing shifty or sly in his glance. Wright noted the changes in his old schoolfellow, the hardening, the look of authority, that still could not obscure the queer, sidelong grin he remembered of old, and was content.
‘We were held some days at Gravelines,’ Winter was saying, ‘waiting for a ship. It was tedious, but it gave Master Fawkes and me time to open our minds to one another. He had little news of what was happening here in England, and, in our leisure, I acquainted him, to the best of my ability.’
Fawkes nodded, as Winter was speaking. He had a curious animal attentiveness, again like a fox.
‘At last we found a ship to carry us.’
‘The Osprey.’
Winter stopped and stared at Catesby.
‘How did you know her name?’
Catesby’s mouth relaxed in a grim pleasure.
‘I had intelligence of her,’ he said.
‘Faith,’ said Winter, still staring at him. ‘It seems you have intelligence of everything.’
It was partly chance. But go on with your tale.’
‘We made a good voyage, fetching Greenwich this forenoon, where we took boat and oars, and have rowed ourselves hither. Good to stretch our muscles, eh, Master Fawkes?’
Guy showed his teeth in the queer, lopsided grin.
‘Good enough. Shipboard is cramped room to an active man.’
Catesby looked from one to the other, as if to see whether they had anything more to say. Then, as there seemed to be nothing more, he began.
‘I understand of you,’ he said, addressing Winter, ‘that you have acquainted Master Fawkes with something of our distresses?’
‘That is so.’
And Guy Fawkes gave a murmur of support.
‘Have you told him why we have sent for him?’
‘I have. But I thought best to leave it to you to tell him more fully.’
‘He told me,’ said Guy, in a harsh but rather pleasant voice, ‘that your sufferings were past bearing: that you were minded to strike at those who oppressed you: and that you needed my help. After that, he had no more trouble to persuade me.’
Catesby looked at him with approval.
‘You have a soldier’s brevity, Master Fawkes, I see. I have nothing to do but to speak particulars. But first, since our friend Winter went to seek you, there is worse oppression. This Act of banishment, of which we were speaking even now, is only a blind and a stalking-horse. Under cover of it, they assault and vex those of our faith up and down the land, for harbouring of priests. No matter whether the charge be true or no, it is a fine pretext to search a man’s house and seize his goods.’ He turned to Winter. ‘You knew Sir Richard Chalmers, did you not?’
‘Well, I met him at Huddington, at my brother’s.’
‘You will meet him t
here no more. He was taken, on a charge of harbouring a Jesuit priest, and cast into prison, none knows where.’
Winter appeared shocked.
‘He was a man of substance,’ he said, ‘who had good friends at court. He was a friend to my kinsman, Lord Mounteagle, and has eaten with the king himself.’
‘It is as I tell you.’ Catesby struck his fist on the table. ‘They plan to strike at all who hold the faith, and this Act gives them cover for the blow. With it as their excuse, they can reach the mightiest in the land.
‘But it is not only the mightiest at whom they aim. They do not scorn to ill-use the lowliest. One would have said that enough had been done to satisfy the sharpest malice: that it was enough for a poor countryman to forfeit two parts of his lands and leases, and all his goods and chattels.’
‘They were not content with that,’ interrupted Wright, his face darkening with anger. ‘They come to a man’s house, twice, thrice, and take all that he has, under pretence that he has kept them back the first time. No man can satisfy them. And, when a man’s land is stripped of his cattle, and he hires it out to another, they come and drive away the other’s cattle also, saying they belong to the owner of the land. So that no one dare hire the land. This has been done in my county, times out of number.’
Fawkes stuck out his lower lip, and nodded again.
‘Every week,’ Catesby continued, ‘their malice grows. Houses are searched on any pretext, and those in them, men and women, ill used. I have news of a poor woman of Cumberford, so battered and tumbled that she died four days after. But what need of instances? Everywhere it is the same. We are made outcasts. We may neither live in lawful peace, nor rear our children. They may not be christened, save privily in some closet or barn. They are taken from us, and brought up in the houses of Protestants. For schooling, we must send them abroad: and then, what profits it, when we may not put them to university or to the Inns of Court? So do our persecutors drive a wedge between us and our own flesh and blood, and make enmity between us and our children. No bond holds, no tie is safe. A father, here in London, caused his son to be whipped and burnt through the ear for being a Catholic. I tell you, Master Fawkes, except we do something to avenge ourselves and defend our faith, we are better dead.’
The Fifth of November Page 5