they must take their chance with the rest? I can show you the texts that…'
'Faith! Damn your stupid texts! And damn the stupid priests who read them! Hold off that, will you? I'm no scholar of theology. Yet if you really do believe that the Bible sanctifies such an act, let Francis Tresham for the first time take on the robes of a saint. The Bible be damned. I tell you this act is an act of madness, as well as an act of murder! It'll kill us all!'
'Are you then willing to be the only Catholic in England too much of a coward to take up the cause? Are you willing…'
'Hold off again!' Tresham had never before interrupted Catesby, never mind doing it twice in quick succession. Few had, when he was in full force, or seeking to get there. A force of nature, his father had once described him, not entirely approvingly as he had seen every servant girl go weak at the knees in his presence. 'You can forget the old cowardice trick.. It's been used once before, and it doesn't work. Remember poor Tom in the orchard?'
Years ago at Harrowden three of them had planned a raid on a neighbour's orchard, seeking the sweet apples that were his pride and joy. When they had seen the neighbour working in a far corner of the orchard the other two, one of whom was Tresham, had argued for strategic retreat. Catesby had roundly accused them of being cowards, at which the other boy, Tom, had leapt the wall and crept towards the trees. His howls as the neighbour had laid a springy branch with far more force than was necessary across his buttocks had kept Catesby and Tresham company as they huddled on the other side of the wall. 'I hear Tom speaking to me,' an angry Tresham had whispered harshly to Catesby, 'telling me how much pleasure he takes in being a hero!'
Back in the present, Tresham was too angry to be diverted from his point. 'This isn't about cowardice. Have you thought, man, that the nation will be appalled to think such an act could be undertaken in the name of religion — a religion that preaches peace to one's neighbour! Every act of repression, every crippling penalty, will be justified by reference to this act of evil. Common folk will rise up against us! More than common folk! Every decent person in the kingdom will want our blood in revenge! This won't save Catholicism! It'll ruin it for ever! Axe you mad?'
If any of Tresham's passion was penetrating Catesby's self-belief, it was not clear to Tresham.
'It must needs be done,' he said, calmly. 'It's the necessity for all Catholics. We're forced to dangerous measures. We've no choice.'
'And what support will you get? Where are your troops, your invading armies? Do you think Spain has signed a treaty so we can go to war again?'
'The Spanish troops in Dover will march to Rochester and strangle London at the neck of the Thames. Percy's hordes from the north will march, and Catholics from Europe will flock to our support!'
'And on whose word will these mighty offers march? Has the King of Spain told you in person that his troops will be at your beck and call? Has mighty Percy told you his peasants will march in winter to uphold your glorious act, those peasants he hasn't seen for most of his life! Have the commanders in Europe given you their word in writing they'll make that perilous voyage to put out a fire in London that'll never cease burning! You're mad, cousin, mad!'
Catesby seemed unmoved. There was a strange light in his eyes, an almost unnatural calm in his manner. 'Fawkes is a soldier, a man of tried and tested mettle. He's been in Europe. He brings us word from the most high sources that the Spanish troops will act in our favour. He also brings word that Sir William Stanley will bring the English Regiment over to aid us. As for the Earl of Northumberland, he speaks through Thomas Percy, in whom his actions show complete trust.'
'Fiddle-faddle! This Guy Fawkes, who is he? I guarantee you he's as close to the King of Spain as my nose is to my arse! Stanley is a clapped-out old man looking for a pardon and a safe return home, and God help us all if Percy's on your side. Why, that sweating idiot would betray his own mother for a farthing and a pint of piss!'
'Calm down, cousin. Here, take a drink.' Tresham noted for the first time the jug of wine placed in advance in the room, and the exquisite goblets, new like everything else in the house. 'This is new to you. To others of us, those who've lived with it a long time, the shock isn't so great. Give it time. Give us, your friends of long standing, some of that time. Surely we're owed that much.'
'But what of our friends? Of Montague? Mordaunt? Of my relatives? Monteagle? Stourton? You can't kill every Catholic noble in all England!'
Tresham's heart was racing, his whole body pounding. He sat down heavily, drank deeply.
'We can try and warn some of them,' said Catesby. 'In dangerous times all men face grave dangers.'
'Money. I'll give you money.'
Catesby got to his feet, ready to embrace Tresham.
'No, not money to further this idiocy. Money to go away.' Catesby frowned. 'At least let this Parliament sit itself out, let's see what it does, what acts it passes. Who knows if the rumours are nothing but noise? Take a hundred pounds, take more. Take yourself and your hot-headed friends off to the Spanish Netherlands. Take time to think, and watch.'
'And leave thirty or more barrels of powder sitting under the Lords' chamber? Risk removing it, being discovered? To be hung, drawn and quartered on a public scaffold for not having blown our enemies to Hell? Surely not, cousin, surely not.'
Catesby was chiding him, as he might a child who had made a wrong translation.
'So, are you on our side, or a traitor to it?'
The irony of being called a traitor by a man who was about to blow up England's Government was not lost on Tresham. The heart of him wanted to cut and run, to leave the whole damned business behind him. Yet his head told him it was of no use. He had been so close to these men that he would be swept up and hung when news of it leaked out, as it surely would. This meeting with Catesby had sealed his fate, he realised. If they could condemn Walter Raleigh, what chance had he? Besides, he thought as caution tugged at the heels of his flying imagination, his only way out might be his interrogator, the gentleman with the piercing eyes and beautiful… whore? Consort? Even wife? From now on, whatever he did, he would be seen as one of the conspirators. He looked into Catesby's eyes, and realised that he had never truly known him. If he denied the conspiracy he could not even be certain that Catesby would not kill him. His calm was more terrifying than his anger would ever have been.
'You've made me a part of your confounded plot. I supped with you last week, and now I'm dined here. Laying a trail, are you, one even the stupidest hound could follow? I've known you all my life. If your plot fails, do you think any of us will escape? You've hooked me to your line, cousin, without me even knowing there was metal in the water.'
'So are you on our side, or a traitor to it?' Catesby's tone was mild, but relentless.
'I'm a coward in your cause, Robin. Nothing but a bad cause can make me a coward.'
It was starting to get dark when he flung out of Lord Stourton's house and struggled through the streets of Clerkenwell. The summer's dust and two-foot-deep iron ruts had been replaced with clinging mud and filth that threatened to go over the top of even long boots, or suck them off the feet that wore them. He found the sign of The Mermaid and doing as he had been bidden asked for the room kept by Mr Robin Cecil. The innkeeper, a surly figure, called out a tap boy and sent him to guide Tresham. He left him outside a first-floor room. Tresham knocked. There was silence. He looked around him. The wooden balcony which ran round the three sides of the inn, facing inwards into the yard, was empty. The inn seemed near deserted. Those who had colonised Clerkenwell had enough money to keep a full table at home, without need of the inn. He knocked again. Silence. He tried the door. It was open. The room inside was bare, cold. No lights, no sign of anyone having been there in days. Leaving the door swinging on its hinges, he went down the rickety steps, and out into the increasingly gloomy late afternoon. 'Your news?'
He jumped and had his sword half out of the scabbard before he recognised the figure in black.
‘Not here, surely?' Tresham stuttered. Something like a grin flickered across the face of his interrogator. He led Tresham to another room on the other side of the yard. Inside there were the remnants of a meal, a good meal as far as Tresham could see. And the woman, together with the huge man Tresham had seen before. Without a word the ox of a servant began to clear, assisted by the woman. There was an extraordinary relationship between the three of them. Master, servant and whore? Man, wife and servant? Friends? Coconspirators themselves in some plot he could only imagine? There was an ease between them that dismissed hierarchy, an intuitive understanding so at times they hardly needed to speak to each other to understand.
Tresham sat down on a stool, took the offered wine.
