innocents for that matter. Bad enough if it's seen as the Pope's business, but better that than it becomes all England's. It can't be seen to come from any one man, or woman for that matter, because it must make them mount a general search for powder, not a single search for one man.'
'You're missing the important thing,' said Jane.
'Which is?'
'The letter must seem to come from a plotter. One of their own. An insider. They must hear the letter's been delivered and read. They must know one of their own has written it. Only that way will they not know which way to turn. They'll feel betrayed. Their insecurity will make them break, and flee for cover.'
'You realise,' said Gresham, 'that if I do that I throw suspicion on to Tresham? He's the last to join, the least committed. Monteagle's his brother-in-law. He's the one with the most to gain, as far as they can see, from the plot fizzling out. Won't they kill him?'
'He has to take his chance, doesn't he, as we all do?' There was no venom in Jane's voice. She had been on the river that night, she had read Machiavelli. She knew now that power and survival were not easy bedfellows with any simple morality. And she had taken a strong dislike to Tresham. 'Anyway, it's not that simple. Rookwood and Digby have even more to lose than Tresham. Anyone who knows Percy seems to understand why people associate treason with the family. And Tresham won't know about the letter. He'll be genuinely surprised. And if he feels the pressure building up too much, we ship him abroad. In fact, why don't we do it now? We've no further need of him.'
Gresham shook his head as if to clear it of debris. He was not thinking tonight. He knew the plot. The date was decided by Parliament, not Catesby, so he could not argue that he needed Tresham in with the plotters. Indeed, if Tresham fled it might work up an even greater panic among the plotters, force them to cancel their plans even more readily.
Yet that could wait. The important thing was the letter.
It took them two days. Firstly, the text had to be worked on and devised, a task that burnt the candles down to the base of the candlesticks. Then Mannion had to be sent, in disguise, to St Paul's to buy clean, fresh paper. One seller had a consignment fresh delivered from the Spanish Netherlands. It amused Mannion to think of the letter written on Papist paper, so he purchased it. The letter itself was written by Jane. When she had been learning to write, Gresham had come across scraps of paper in various hands, all of which he learned were Jane's cast-offs. From very early on she had shown the natural forger's instinct. She had an inventory of writing styles she could call up from memory, as Gresham had a library. of accents he could use at will. The hand she chose was clear, flowing, large. It was the old-fashioned hand of a lawyer who had drawn up a draft will for Sir Thomas Gresham, years ago. In a house where paper was never thrown away, Jane had come upon it and practised her writing on its back, deciding to copy the hand on the reverse side halfway through.
When they drew back from the table it was with almost total exhaustion. The letter lay before them, a rectangle of new paper with the clear lines marching across the page. There was a word scratched out on the first line. Jane in her tiredness had written in 'your' too early and made to throw the paper away, but Gresham had stopped her. In some way the scratched-out word made the letter look authentic, as if written in some haste. The text read:
'My Lord, the love I have for some of your friends breeds in me a care for your preservation. Therefore 1 advise you, as you care for your life, to think of some excuse to be absent from this Parliament. God and man have come together to punish the wickedness of our times. Do not dismiss what is written here, but take yourself off to the country where you may await events in safety. Even though it appears no trouble threatens I tell you this Parliament shall receive a terrible blow, and yet they shall not see who hurts them. Do not condemn this warning. It can do you no harm, and it may do you some good. The danger is passed once you bum this letter, and 1 hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it. I commend you to His holy protection.'
It was perfect, thought Gresham. It would hand Monteagle a God-given opportunity to do a service to the State which would see him set up for life. If Cecil and the King had any sense they would check and clear the cellars in ample time, and another plot would have been dismembered before it could do harm.
'Will it do?' said Jane anxiously, rubbing at her aching wrist.
Yes, thought Gresham, it will do. It has the certainty of a man convinced he is right, and just the right element of lip-smacking at the thought of evil being punished. It flatters Monteagle by singling him out. Is 'a terrible blow' explicit enough? Not for a man wanting to warn the Government, but explicit enough for a man simply wanting to warn off Monteagle. Would it work when it was shown to the King, as it had to be? Yes, thought Gresham. It would appeal to King James's sense of his own cleverness. It was a riddle a child could solve, but which a King would think had required Divine intelligence to work out. If it got to the King, and to Cecil.
If it did, and it was believed, there would be no explosion, no tangle of twisted limbs, stone and beams at Westminster, no smell of fresh blood on the morning air, no weeping and mourning, no terrifying purges and counter-purges, no executions and trials. A Catholic Lord would have exposed a plot by Catholic madmen well in time for it to be defused, literally and figuratively. In doing so the essential loyalty of the Catholics of England would have been proven, Catholic families would rally round to condemn the planned act of madness and many who would otherwise die would live on, to do with their lives as they wished.
If it failed to reach Cecil and the King, if its message was not deciphered, then that was another story.
'It's magnificent. When I tire of you, you can work as a lawyer's clerk, and make eyes at all the handsome men of law.'
The eyes that glared back at him looked as if they would put to best use a barrel of powder under Gresham. She was not to be teased out of her worry.
'This is no joke!'
'What's no joke is that the job's only half done,' said Gresham. 'What if Monteagle is the man behind the plot? What if he's the puppeteer? I don't believe it, but I can't discount it. If he is, he'll read it and burn it. He might not even tell the other plotters. We must make sure as well it's placed in his hand. What if Tom Wintour as his secretary opens it, and decides to mount a witchhunt and still keep the plot alive?'
'Is nothing ever simple, in this world in which you live?' asked Jane.
'Tom Ward,' said Mannion. 'He's your answer. He runs Monteagle's house for him.'
Lord Monteagle was dining at his house in Hoxton, north of London. It was originally a Tresham house, and it had come to him when he had married Tresham's daughter. Tom Ward had just seen his master in to supper, and was checking to see that the main courses — salt beef and mustard, a leg of mutton stuffed with garlic, a capon boiled with leeks and a pike in a rich sauce — were ready to serve. It was unusual to eat so well at seven o' clock in the evening, but Lord Monteagle had been at Court, and asked for a fine supper to be served in place of the dinner he had missed. Ward felt a tugging at his sleeve.
'There's a genl'man outside says he has a most urgent message for you, sir, 'bout your sister.'
Then why the Devil can't the man come inside and give it, cursed Ward. Yet a lifetime of being a Catholic, of never knowing when he might have to hide his faith, of a religion conducted in secret, made an assignation in a dark street just another fact of life, and no rarity. He went out into the street, lit only by the light spilling over from the still unshuttered windows of the house. A man in a long riding cloak, with hood drawn about his head, was waiting in the shadows. He stepped forward, not enough to reveal his face, and proffered Ward a letter.
'This is from Robert Catesby to your master. It's a matter of life and death — true life and death, your own, your master's and those of your faith. Your master must see it now, read it now. If there's delay in this, you'll have more blood on your hands than Pontius Pilate!'
The figure turned and moved away, leaving a stunned Ward holding the letter in his hand.
He went back into the house, his mind made up. His master fawned over Catesby, and if this letter was from him then there was no reason for Ward to deny it his master, nor reason to think its origins were suspect. Ward knew, as all the Catholic servants knew, there was a stir about, wild talk everywhere. All the more reason to get the letter to his master.
Monteagle was in good form. His table was groaning with the best of food and wine, his company gathered around him, his future secure. What man would not be happy who only a few years before had been banished from London, and now found himself done honour in Parliament and made a favourite of the King? The wheel of fortune had indeed turned in his favour, from his being cast down to his heading for the topmost heights.
Ward leant over and whispered in his ear.
'What? What?' he asked, irritated at the interruption. Ward was still trying to keep his voice low. Monteagle
