Martin Stephen - The Desperate remedy

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.

‘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 case 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.'