Now, at last, he came into his own, and was the leader.
So, when Catesby asked him, ‘What is your vote? Stay or fly?’ he swelled out his chest, laid a complacent hand upon his beard, and answered: ‘Stay.’
‘Your reasons?’
‘The Government are worse frightened than we. They know that harm is intended, but know not whence, or at whose hands. They make a pother, and hope to scare us. If we fly, we expose ourselves, and, once separated, deliver ourselves into their hands. Put a bold face on it, friends, and stay.’
Catesby drew a deep breath.
‘Thank you. That is my own opinion.’ He looked at Winter, who did not speak. ‘We will face it out.’
A short consultation followed, and, as a safety measure, it was arranged that the conspirators should withdraw separately from London, but not go far. Fawkes had been sent his orders, and could accomplish alone all that remained to do.
Thus, if the plan succeeded, they would be near at hand to take part in further action. If, on the contrary, things went wrong, they would have a good start. A rendezvous in the country was fixed, and relays of horses arranged.
Thus, prepared for all eventualities, they parted. Next evening, the fourth, Catesby went to join Sir Everard Digby, and Percy went to the house of his employer, the Earl of Northumberland.
The blow was to be struck on the fifth.
Chapter Nineteen
The same morning found Guy at his post in the conspirators’ house. For four days he had seen nothing of his comrades. A letter, brought by the now agitated Bates, had been his only communication with them. It had merely confirmed his instructions, giving him the exact time for touching off the powder. Guy read it once, smiled, and burnt it.
The lonely vigil was a strain, even for his iron nerve. Not daring to leave the house, he sat, all day long, and listened, with hearing preternaturally sharp, to the noises in the street. Every heavy step made his muscles go tense. When it passed he sweated with relief.
On the night of the third, it blew hard, and Guy had no sleep at all, hearing a thousand noises, and never knowing what was the source of each. When morning came at last, wild and showery, with ragged clouds that hurried across the sky, he rubbed his red-rimmed eyes, rose stiffly, made his meal, and then, with food and lantern, went down and took up his quarters in the cellar.
Here he lost count of time. He looked every now and then at his watch, until, finding his nerves more and more jumpy, he cursed himself for a brain-sick idiot, put it by, and extinguished his lantern.
The darkness was comforting. No sounds penetrated down here, but the muffled rumble of wagons on the cobbles. He wished he had come before. It was cold, but not so cold as might be expected. He stood up, wrapped his cloak about him, and lay down. Bundles of fuel were not an ideal bed, but he had known worse in Flanders.
Weariness stole over him. His nerves, taut for so long, began to relax. Before he realized, he had dozed off. A rat, scratching in the corner, half roused him; but warmth and sleep had hold of him, and, after a brief argument with himself, he fell asleep in earnest. Soon there was no sound in the cellar but the industrious scratching of the rat and Guy’s slow breathing.
Then—it seemed only a minute since he had closed his eyes—he started to his feet, every nerve a-tingle. His sixth sense had heard a suspicious noise, and, though he had no conscious idea what it was, he was awake and alert, his heart bumping in his chest.
For a few seconds he stood motionless. There was no sound at all. Very cautiously, feeling the way with his toes, he stepped over to where his lantern lay, and, working quickly, struck a spark. By great good fortune, it took light almost at once. Muttering a prayer of thanksgiving, he rose to his feet. Then suddenly, close at hand, came an unmistakable noise and the sound of a man’s voice. In the house next door. His sense had been right!
With a fresh thanksgiving—for to be found in the dark would have been fatal—he tore off his cloak, and then, beginning to whistle, started to collect an armful of faggots. Hardly had he begun when a voice sounded close at hand, and a light appeared in the open doorway.
Guy needed all his strength of will, in that instant, not to glance at the corner of the cellar where the powder lay. It was entirely hidden, he knew, covered up safe behind stacks of fuel. But the impulse to look and reassure himself was almost irresistible.
Just at the right time, he turned, to see two bearded men, well dressed, looking in at him. They were on the steps: he saw them from the knee upward. The foremost held up a lantern.
Guy, his mouth open, blinked at them. He presented a convincing picture of a serving-man surprised at his work by strangers. Actually, his heart had missed a couple of beats. He recognized the visitors at once. They were none other than Lord Mounteagle, and the Lord Chamberlain, the Earl of Suffolk.
Lord Mounteagle stepped up to the cellar floor.
‘Good day, fellow,’ he said.
Guy lifted a finger to his brow, clumsily dropping a faggot as he did so.
‘Give you good day, sir.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Might your worships be seeking somebody?’
Instead of answering, Mounteagle raised his lantern, and looked round the cellar.
‘You have a deal of kindling here.’
Guy chuckled.
‘Aye, sir. ‘Twill last the winter, and more, I reckon.’
‘Whose is it?’
‘My master’s, sir.’
Mounteagle glanced at his companion, and clicked his tongue.
‘And who might your master be?’
‘Marry, sir, ’tis Percy. Master Thomas Percy, as is steward to my Lord Northumberland.’
It was a clever touch, for it might help to explain so large a store of fuel.
‘Your master owns the house next door, does he not, fellow?’
Guy chuckled again.
‘He don’t own it, sir. He rents it.’
‘That has cellars, has it not?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Why does he not keep his fuel in his own cellars?’
‘This here be his own cellar, your worship.’
‘Yes, fellow, I know. But why does he not keep the fuel under his own house? Why needs he to take this cellar, which lies under another man’s?’
Guy allowed light to break upon his countenance.
‘Your worship means, why do he not keep the kindling next door?’ He uttered a short guffaw. ‘Why, sir, he did. But the damp do run in from the river, and the walls do sweat so, ’tis all sodden withal. I puts a load on the fire, and the smoke was fit to choke a man. “’Sblood, you blockhead,” master he says to me.’
‘Yes, yes. Never mind.’
They were standing just inside the opening, looking around, as if undecided in mind.
‘So he finds this cellar is for hire, and he bids me shift the wood. And, ever since, ’tis here we keeps it.’
He stooped, collected a large armful, and advanced towards the steps.
‘Is there aught else your worships wish to see, or may I come up now?’
‘No, no. Nothing else.’
They withdrew, and Guy heard them talking in low voices. Whistling again, Guy followed them, lumbered down the steps, and dropped his load.
Thank heaven he had insisted on cutting the doorway through the wall! Had they found a small opening only, whatever suspicions they might have had would be tenfold increased.
A terrible period followed, while Guy waited, wondering whether they were about to come with a force and take him, or whether, by some miracle, they had been satisfied. He dared no longer remain in the cellar, in case they came again. To be discovered there twice would take too much explaining. And, by the same token, he must kindle a big fire, to account for the fuel.
He set about this, getting out some old bed-hangings and draping them round the fire on chairs to dry. If questioned later, he could always say he was expecting his master.
It had been about two o’clock when the visitors
came. As soon as he had made his arrangements, and it became evident that he was not to be arrested at once, Guy decided on the bold step of leaving the house and going to give warning of what had happened. The nearest of the conspirators was Percy. It was a lucky choice on his part, for, though he did not know it, the rest were out of London.
He made his way there, with all his usual precautions against being followed, and saw Percy. Percy, though momentarily disconcerted, agreed with him that probably the two visitors had been satisfied with what they saw.
‘At any rate,’ said Guy, ‘my task is clear. I go back to my post, wait there, and, when the hour comes, touch off the powder.’
‘So. Good luck go with you.’
They shook hands, and Guy, cautiously as ever, went back to the house. He approached it as warily as an animal that suspects a trap, though with an outward appearance of carelessness: but his little signs were all intact. No one had come.
As the evening wore on, Guy felt a great reaction of spirit. The tension of mind he had been in for so long relaxed: he felt, first a great relief, then a kind of exaltation. God was on their side: they were invulnerable. Nothing could go wrong.
He walked from room to room of the house, whistling his long, cool, clear bird-notes, and humming to himself:
‘When I was in the Low Countrie
I held it grievous pain
I should not for a year behold
My native home again. …’
His native home—he had not seen it for many years. But what of that? There would be few living there now whom he remembered: fewer still who might remember him. It had scant hold upon him now. He would go there one day presently, maybe, when all this business was over.
There was a soft wind blowing, mild, and smelling of the country. Guy went to the house door and looked out. It was strangely light. The moon was trying to break through the soft, scudding clouds. He went out into the middle of the street, and looked up. The moon stayed fast in the sky, while all the night rushed past.
Coming into a small, swift gap, she shone brightly on the roof of the Parliament House. Guy grinned, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Tomorrow night, that roof would not be there. The moon would see a pretty sight when she looked down.
He stared up for so long that his eyes were dazzled, and, when he stepped back into the dark shadow of the house, he did not see the men that suddenly appeared from nowhere until they were upon him, and had seized his arms.
Too late, he strove and fought, breaking loose once, with all the agility of a weasel. But they were too many, they were on him again before he could draw sword or dagger, and had pinioned him fast.
Chapter Twenty
‘Bring him in, till we get a look at him.’
The soldiers dragged Guy into the house, where a lantern was kindled, and held up in his face.
‘So.’
The leader of the men, whose name was Sir Thomas Knivet, came forward and stared into Guy’s face. He saw it, pale, sardonic, the face of a fighting man and dangerous—who is caught and does not greatly care.
‘So,’ he repeated. ‘This is the desperate villain.’
Guy showed his teeth.
‘No villain,’ he replied. ‘But desperate enough, and with good cause.’
‘Good cause indeed.’ Knivet took his words up gaily, in the opposite sense from what he had intended. ‘You may well despair—you, and all your treasonous confederates.’ He turned to the others. ‘Come—search the place. ’Tis in the cellar.’
In spite of himself, Guy started. So they knew! What had happened? Who had turned traitor?
He looked up, saw Knivet watching him narrowly, and his face closed like a trap.
Four men held guard over him, in the room, while the rest went down and searched the cellar. He heard them, clumping about, and then the triumphant cry that announced the discovery of the powder.
A few minutes later, Knivet came up again, and confronted him, breathing hard.
‘You devil of hell!’ he said. ‘Here is more than you can deny.’
‘I do not seek to deny it,’ Guy replied.
‘What, villain! Do you glory in your wickedness?’
‘I glory in what I was minded to do, and should have done.’
Knivet looked at him, drawing his brows down over his eyes.
‘You dare avouch it—the most monstrous treason that has ever been conceived?’
‘Willingly.’
‘What—no shame, no repentance?’
Guy grinned once more.
‘Yes. I repent heartily that I went out of the door. If I had been in the house, you could not have taken me. I would have blown up house, you, myself, and all.’
Knivet shuddered.
‘A desperate villain. Hold him here, till I go and give news of his apprehension.’
Knivet went off at once to the palace, and thither, a little over four hours afterwards, Guy was brought, and led straight into the king’s bedchamber.
James of England was never an impressive figure. Now, sitting up in his bed, tousled and blinking, his face greasy and his eyes bleared with sleep, he cut such a figure that Guy’s lips curled in contempt.
He had little time, however, to observe the king. The room was full, of soldiers, ministers, and heaven knew how many besides, and Guy was soon answering a crossfire of questions from everyone at once.
The more bullying and the louder their tones, the cooler he became. All chagrin at his capture had now left him. He felt instead an excitement, a sense of power over all those badly scared men, who hemmed him in, who stared at him with mingled loathing and fascination, as if he were a dangerous wild beast.
It was his hour. With real enjoyment he flung back his answers to those who questioned and abused him. His voice became more and more arrogant and exalted. But, cool soldier that he was, he kept a watch, even in the fierce joy of the moment, lest that mounting excitement should lead him to give an unguarded reply.
Questioned as to his associates, he was haughtily silent. He would avow nothing but his bare purpose to blow king and Parliament sky-high. To a querulous question from James himself, he merely shook his head.
‘What,’ cried Suffolk angrily, ‘do you not answer the king?’
Guy looked around the deep circle of excited faces.
‘None of you,’ he said, ‘has the right to question me. What I know is between myself and God.’
‘Blasphemous villain!’
Guy gave the speaker a contemptuous glance, and was silent.
Then one of the ministers, whom Guy did not know by sight, decided that the scene had gone on long enough. He silenced the others, and addressed Guy.
‘So,’ he said, in a level, conversational tone, ‘you confess it was your purpose to blow up His Majesty the King, and Parliament with him?’
‘I do?’
‘Why—if I may ask—did you so purpose?’
The quieter tone had its effect. Guy shrugged.
‘Dangerous diseases call for desperate remedy.’
‘Had you no more particular reason?’
‘Yes.’ Once again the crooked grin twisted his face. ‘I sought to blow the beggarly Scots back to their native mountains.’
There was a horrified gasp. All tried not to look at the king.
‘Take him away,’ said another voice.
‘One moment.’ The minister had not yet finished. ‘Did you contrive this alone, or had you accomplices?’
‘Alone.’
‘None was with you in the plot?’
‘None.’
As he gave the reply, Guy saw that they knew it was untrue.
A minute later, he was being hustled out of the royal bedchamber, on his way to the Tower.
It was close on five o’clock when they reached it, and the deputy jailer, roused from his sleep, grumbled as he opened the doors to let the prisoner in. For the moment, Guy was put in a large cell at the bottom of the White Tower, and left to meditate in solitude and dar
kness.
News of the conspiracy spread like fire in heather. Early in the morning, the streets were filled with clamorous people. The train-bands were called out, and the whole city seethed and hummed with excitement.
The conspirators had fled. Christopher Wright had the news first. He warned Winter and Percy, and rode off, as had been arranged, to join Sir Everard Digby at Dunchurch. Here they were joined by Keyes and Ambrose Rokewood.
Meanwhile the agitation in the city grew with each hour. A number of Catholics were arrested and questioned, and the rumour spread that a general rising of all Catholics was to take place. To this was joined the name of the old bogy, Spain, and, before they could be stopped, a mob went off to attack the house of the Spanish ambassador.
Among those carried off for questioning, on suspicion of being implicated in the plot, were three young men, by the names of Spens, Hooton and Belcher. Spens and Hooton were soon able to satisfy their questioners, and were liberated with a warning against associating with undesirable characters. The third, who, so several witnesses alleged, had been heard, in company with the detestable Johnson, to take the part of the Catholics, was held for further investigation.
From his cell in the White Tower Guy was taken to “Little Ease”, a space so small that a man could neither sit, nor stand, nor lie down in it. Here his hands were tied to a ring in the floor, forcing him to a cramped, bending position. After ten minutes, every muscle in his body ached.
He bore the pain grimly, knowing it to be the mildest foretaste of what he must presently endure.
Later in the morning, he was released. He could not stand at first. The jailers had to prop him up on either side, and half carry him along to the room where a tribunal had come to question him.
One fact, emerging from the questions, gave Guy hope for his comrades. His real name was not yet known.
Once again, he opposed a calm front to his questioners. One point only they gained from him, and that not until he saw that it was useless to conceal it any longer. They knew he had accomplices, and proved it to him. He admitted the fact at last, but refused to say who they were.
His spirits rose again as the inquiry proceeded, for these were reasonable men, soldiers, who knew how to use a soldier. They put their questions in a business-like way, with becoming courtesy, as a soldier will question a prisoner of war. Under such treatment, though he never abated his watchfulness, Guy became almost expansive. He even told them, broadly, how the conspiracy had failed.
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