A Catalogue of Catastrophe, page 30
part #13 of Chronicles of St. Mary's Series
‘You’re a pain in the arse,’ I said, because he was. And he was right, as well.
‘Nearly there,’ he said, raising the lantern. Our talk had taken us through Charterhouse, the site of a Carthusian monastery.
Not seeing why he should be the only one flinging around Fun Facts, I chipped in with a few of my own. ‘Apparently, Thomas More came here a lot. The monastery was dissolved by Fat Harry and the prior hanged, drawn and quartered, after which the site was purchased by Lord North.’
‘Any relation?’ enquired Markham.
‘No idea. Probably.’
‘Wonder how she’s getting on.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about Miss North. Save your concern for the poor sods in the Time Police.’
We both laughed and I suddenly felt a little better. Still knackered but slightly more cheerful.
‘Nearly there,’ said Markham, again.
Hoxton was very much what estate agents would describe as an up-and-coming location. Still in the country but conveniently close to London, it was popular with members of the aristocracy, courtiers and foreign ambassadors who were snapping up property as fast as it could be built. Not least because its seclusion gave Catholics the privacy to celebrate Mass – forbidden throughout the country.
Even through the mist I could see this was an unexpectedly prosperous village. The main street was actually paved, which was more than could be said for most of London. I counted nearly twenty big houses along the main street. Mostly built of stone, with tiled roofs. Proud homeowners had set torches or lanterns to burn beside their front doors so we weren’t in complete darkness.
Lord Monteagle’s house was diagonally opposite as we lurked in the shadow of a large tree.
‘That’s the difference between rural and urban lurking,’ said Markham chattily. ‘This is a much healthier environment. More scenic, too.’
Lord Monteagle had a nice house. A very nice house. We knew it was his because of the crest over the door. Also stone built, gabled at each end, with three storeys. Two long wings led back from the street and framed a central door which was covered by a small porch. A burning torch had been thrust into the ground to light the way up the three semi-circular steps that lifted it above the level of the muddy cobbles.
No lights showed anywhere, but probably the servants would have put up the shutters as soon as darkness fell.
‘Are they in?’ whispered Markham. ‘Suppose they’re out.’
‘They must be in,’ I said with far more confidence than I felt. ‘Where else would they be? The weather’s awful – I’m frozen, by the way – the king’s away hunting and Parliament hasn’t opened yet. They’ll be inside, by the fire, drinking wine and looking forward to their dinner. As I wish I was.’
I didn’t mean to snap. Meddling with History always makes me nervous. My little heart was pounding away.
‘No sign of anyone anywhere,’ he said, peering up and down the street.
That was another thing. In the original version, the letter was delivered to Thomas Ward, one of Monteagle’s servants. If no opportunity presented itself, then we were going to have to bang on the door which was a little more obtrusive than I was happy with. And which door? Front or back? It would make a difference. Front door would mark out the letter as important but we weren’t dressed for that. They might take one look and set the dogs on us, in which case the letter would never be delivered. If we nipped down the alley on the right-hand side of the house and banged on the servants’ door, then no, they probably wouldn’t set the dogs on us, but that approach marked the letter as not that important. It might not be taken directly to Monteagle, it might be set aside for a while. Or even mislaid. Or not delivered until it was too late.
I peered up and down the street. Everything was silent. Not even a dog barked. The night smelled of smoke, horses and cooking. For how long could we safely stand here? Would the village employ a night watchman?
‘I’m going to knock at the front door,’ said Markham. ‘We can’t stand around all night. Someone will report us. Or set the dogs on us. Monteagle’s not likely to answer his own door so I’ll just hand the letter to whoever does.’
A sensible course of action. I should agree. Except . . .
I put my hand on his arm. ‘Wait.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Just give it a minute.’
‘Max . . .’
‘I don’t know why. Just . . . wait . . . please.’
We stood silently. Water dripped off something. Me, probably. Long minutes passed. Neither of us moved an inch.
And then . . .
‘Someone’s coming,’ hissed Markham. ‘I can see a light.’
A man was approaching the Monteagle house. Could this be Thomas Ward? I could make out a tall-crowned hat and a good thick cloak. He was on foot – his footsteps ringing loud in the cold night air – and he was carrying a small keg under one arm.
My mind was still running on gunpowder. ‘Oh my God, Insight are blowing up Lord Monteagle.’
‘No,’ said Markham, in the sort of voice you use with a not very bright puppy who still hasn’t quite mastered not peeing in the corner. ‘He’s been to scrounge a keg of spirits for his master. Brandy, probably.’
My legs sagged with relief. Actually, nearly all of me sagged with relief.
‘Don’t sag too soon,’ warned Markham. ‘He might not be part of the Monteagle household.’
‘If luck is on our side, then he is.’
‘Luck is something we shouldn’t push.’
‘Who are you and what have you done with the real Markham? Look – according to contemporary reports, at around seven, a footman is approached by “a man of indifferent stature”. That could easily be you. You charge him to put the letter into his lord’s hands presently and he does so. By then we’re halfway home and looking forward to a nice cup of tea.’
He nodded. ‘Give me your cloak.’
‘What?’
‘It’s more respectable than mine. Hand it over.’
I unfastened it and passed it to him. He swirled it around his shoulders. He was right. With his hat pulled low and his scruffiness concealed by the cloak, he looked nearly presentable. Which, with Markham, is about the best you can ever hope for.
‘Got the letter?’
His face changed. He began to pat himself down.
I watched with increasing panic.
‘Um . . .’ He patted himself down some more.
I couldn’t believe it. This could not be happening. We had a God-given opportunity . . . ‘You idiot,’ I hissed, ‘don’t tell me you’ve lost the bloody letter.’
‘Um . . .’
‘You’ve lost it, haven’t you?’ I stared wildly around as if I might see it lying somewhere in the dark. ‘How could you be so . . . ?’ And then I realised. ‘Bastard.’
He was laughing at me. ‘That’s better. There’s the Max we all know and love. Ricocheting between ice-cold calm and flat-out panic.’
I went to punch his lights out but he’d already stepped into the street.
The servant – Thomas Ward, I hoped – was approaching the alleyway. Obviously, he’d use the servants’ entrance.
Markham raised his hand. ‘Ho there, good fellow.’
There’s no escape. I think Lady Amelia rubs off on everyone, sooner or later.
The servant stopped, peering suspiciously. Sensibly Markham made no move to approach, giving him time to assess the stranger accosting him.
I held my breath. Would he just walk away? And if he did stay, would he take the letter? And if he took the letter, would he simply throw it away as soon as we disappeared back into the night? We had no money with which to bribe him. A huge oversight on our part. Would he shout for the watchman, sound the alarm? Would we end up, yet again, running for our lives?
Slowly Markham held out the letter. ‘Lord Monteagle. His life depends upon it. Deliver it to his hand this night, I charge you.’
The servant glared suspiciously. I really didn’t blame him. He was in a Catholic household. These were suspicious times. For all he knew this was one of Cecil’s traps.
His next actions confirmed this. Firmly shaking his head, he took two steps back and refused to take the letter.
I couldn’t believe it. We’d striven to overcome every obstacle. We’d identified the pivotal point, run the risk of returning to St Mary’s, forged the letter, braved London at night, found Monteagle’s house, attempted to hand over the letter – and then the bloody servant wouldn’t accept it. I don’t know if it was because he was naturally cautious, or because Markham hadn’t greased his palm or what, but the bugger wouldn’t cooperate at all, backing away, waving his hands in refusal, and when Markham tried to force it on him, he let it fall to the ground. Fortunately, it wasn’t raining and the street was damp but not puddle-ridden.
I scampered to pick it up before something terrible happened to it because there are no do-overs in History. If anything went wrong then we were buggered. That’s an historical technical term.
‘I come from London,’ said Markham, speaking quietly to make him listen. ‘I have an urgent letter for my Lord Monteagle. As he values his life, he must have it in his hand tonight.’
The servant shook his head and went to turn away.
Shit.
Markham raised his lantern. The Bristol accent had disappeared. ‘Thomas Ward.’
The servant stopped dead, visibly shocked at both the tone and that Markham knew his name.
‘Do you travel with my lord to London for Parliament?’
Grudgingly the servant nodded.
Markham stepped closer, saying softly, ‘Make your goodbyes before you go, Master Ward. Neither you nor your master will survive the day.’
He turned his back and pulled his cloak around himself, saying curtly to me, ‘Come.’
Still clutching the letter, I fell in beside him, sick at heart and wondering what the hell to do next.
‘Wait.’
We turned.
The three of us stared at each other.
‘Don’t move,’ whispered Markham to me.
Still Thomas Ward hesitated. I held my breath. We’d come so far, overcome so much – to fail now was unthinkable. Had I overestimated the benevolence of History?
I began to formulate alternatives. Knock him on the head, and Markham could deliver both the keg and the letter and hope no one noticed who he was. I couldn’t see that working at all.
Knock him on the head and leave him on the doorstep with the letter lying on his chest, bang on the door and run away. That would be one way of getting Monteagle to read it, I suppose.
Back out in the road, Thomas Ward had edged away. Markham followed him but slowly, maintaining at least two sword lengths between them.
I passed the letter to Markham who held it out, angling it so the red sealing wax was visible in the flickering light. The two figures stood motionless. I gave Markham full credit for not trying to force him into a decision. To wait, patiently, for the man to come to him.
Time ticked on. Somewhere in the distance a dog rattled his chain and barked. How long before someone realised Thomas was taking an age to fetch the brandy and came out to look for him. For God’s sake, we were trying to save hundreds, possibly thousands of lives here, but he had to take the bloody letter first. So much hung on such an insignificant action. I willed him. Reach out. Take the letter. Deliver it to your master.
Finally . . . finally . . . Thomas Ward – remember his name because he’s one of the most important people in History – it’s not always about kings and battles – reached out towards Markham. Markham himself leaned forwards, the letter in his hand. The gap closed. Markham released the scroll and stepped back.
Ward looked down, examining it in the light. I was still holding my breath. If he didn’t get a move on, I was going to pass out. And then, with a brief nod to Markham, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the alleyway.
Markham stood stock-still. As did I. Somewhere a wooden door banged and then there was just the silence of the night.
We left nothing to chance. Markham shot off with his lantern to make sure Thomas Ward hadn’t just tossed it aside as soon as he was out of sight.
I drew back into the cover of the tree again, trying to picture the scene.
Thomas would get inside, put down the keg and . . . what?
Take off his hat and cloak.
Yes, and then what?
Would he take the letter to his master immediately?
Would he leave it on a table somewhere?
No – he wouldn’t do that. I was almost certain that once the letter was inside it would find its way to Lord Monteagle. Perhaps not by Thomas, who might only be an outdoor man, but a household servant certainly. It might be on its way to him now.
I pictured Lord Monteagle sitting by a leaping fire in an ornate wooden chair. There would be candles flickering in the draughts – and there would be plenty of draughts. I saw a glass of brandy winking in the firelight. He might not be able to afford glass, but in my mind’s eye he held a crystal goblet.
He might be alone – he might not. I had no idea who comprised his household. He might be waiting for his dinner. He might already be at dinner. In the original reports the letter had been delivered around seven-ish, and apart from the difference in the date – 26th October instead of 4th November – we’d adhered as closely as we could to the original version.
In my mind I saw a manservant approaching with the letter. Monteagle would examine the seal which, since it was only Markham’s thumbprint, wouldn’t give him any clue at all. Although once Monteagle had read the contents, he would understand why the writer hadn’t used his personal seal.
What would he do then?
Sit and have a think?
Finish his dinner before taking any action?
Throw it on the fire? He hadn’t in the original timeline and there was no reason he would do that now, but still I fretted.
Long, long minutes passed. Markham reappeared and joined me under the tree. ‘Nothing in the alleyway,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The letter’s definitely inside the house. And that’s half the battle.’
I nodded. He was right. In fact, the only question could be how long it would be before any action—
A door slammed somewhere. A man’s voice was raised, shouting for a horse. Another door banged. A dog began to bark and a horse neighed. I heard the sound of hooves on cobbles. Men were shouting to each other. Lights blazed as servants ran around with torches.
I couldn’t believe it. After all Thomas’s shilly-shallying around, it would appear Monteagle had no sooner assimilated the contents of the letter than he was roused to action. Popular report always said Monteagle was horrified at its contents and made haste to present the letter to Cecil, but I honestly thought he’d wait until the morning at least. It was as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat out here.
The shouting had increased. As had the sound of clattering hooves. Several men and horses by the sound of it. With one last warning shout, a gate was flung open and suddenly the now brightly lit alleyway was full of men on horseback. Three or four of them. Two held flaming torches. They paused briefly in the street, gathered themselves into a tight group and then, with a thunder of hooves, they galloped past us and off into the night.
‘Well,’ said Markham, handing me back my cloak. ‘Job done and done, I think.’
It was well past midnight when we eventually got back to the pod. We passed the time by getting lost. Twice. It’s really not easy finding your way around rural England on a dark October night. On the plus side, neither of us fell into the eventually located River Thames. As Markham said, either we were getting better at this or were so tired we couldn’t even be bothered to throw ourselves into the river properly.
We approached Westminster with some caution, fully expecting the area to be alive with torches and shouting soldiers ransacking the House of Lords, turning people out of their beds for questioning and generally Foiling the Gunpowder Plot of 1605.
Well – that wasn’t happening. No soldiers. No shouting. No searching. And definitely no Foiling.
‘What is wrong with these people?’ demanded Markham as we surveyed the empty street.
‘I don’t know and I’m too tired to care,’ I said. ‘Let’s get our heads down and talk about it in the morning.’
We didn’t even stay up for the traditional mug of tea and assignment inquest. Markham pulled out the blankets and pillows and we curled up on the floor and went straight to sleep. I did remember to lock the door but that was about it as far as security precautions went. Had Insight turned up that night we would probably have been theirs for the taking.
They didn’t, however – poor planning on their part – and both of us awoke the next morning, stiff, cold, with still damp clothes and shoes and pretty pissed off with things in general. We settled down with our early morning tea, each contemplating the other.
‘You look like shit,’ said Markham.
I nodded. ‘Feel like shit, too. You, on the other hand, look as rough as you always do so it’s hard to feel any sympathy.’
We sipped in silence for a while.
‘Well,’ said Markham, eventually. ‘Now what?’
I shook my head. A very good question to which I did not have a very good answer.
I wanted to go home. I could make a very good case for jumping away from rat-infested Westminster for the bright lights and soft beds of Home Farm. Things weren’t that simple, though. My instincts were telling me to stay put. I hate my bloody instincts.
‘Let’s go with what we know,’ he said. ‘The letter was delivered. Not fifteen minutes later a group of horsemen disappeared dramatically into the night. Heading in the right direction for London. That we know.’
