Well, it’s almost time. Four of us have gone already, I heard them being escorted to the Old Palace Yard. One, I think Francis Tresham, screamed heart-wrenchingly, whether from the effects of the torture or fear of the hereafter or despair at leaving whatever loved ones will mourn him, I could not tell. The rest went silently, feet shuffling in exhaustion from being deprived of sleep, half dragged by the guards. Myself, I intend to walk out with a swagger, head held high, to show that while they may have broken my body they have not crushed my spirit.
But I am not sure I shall fulfil this aim: after two days (two days! How quickly they passed in happier times; how cruelly slowly in this dreaded place) of the most fearful torment they could inflict - which I resisted although my bruised and battered limbs protested mightily and that treacherous inner voice urged me, “Confess! Tell them what they want to hear!” - they put me on the rack. I ask you, what man could withstand for long such pain? The lash of the whip, the rake of the cat down my back, the burning of my tender soles, all were nothing, nothing I say, compared with this! By the end, I was desperate to sign the confession - but when I tried to hold the quill, my poor hand shook so that my name was barely readable. It was enough for them.
What would my father, a respectable proctor and advocate of the consistory court at York, have made of his only son’s plight? Would he have understood? Our religious views are quite contrary. Would he, a staunch Protestant, have washed his hands of me long ago, when I first left England to stand with Catholic Spain against the Dutch? At twenty-one, I knew it all, of course. I was fighting for a just cause, and the refusal of King Phillip to support a rebellion in England against the heretic James only served to fan the flames of my passion.
Thomas Wintour it was who approached me while on campaign in Flanders. Could I be persuaded to join a select group committed to overthrowing the English King? I did not need much in the way of persuading, I can tell you! This was my chance to help to change history - well, maybe I did not consciously think that at the time, maybe I was just flattered that others thought me a useful person to become involved in their audacious adventure. I had not been in England for many years and few would know me there. I had left a youth of twenty-one and would return an imposing figure, tall and strong, with a head and beard of flowing red-brown locks. Any who might have known me in the past would scarce recognise me now. I could be anonymous.
I was invited to meet the main conspirators - Wintour, Francis Tresham, Thomas Percy and our leader, Robert Catesby - at the Dog and Duck in the Strand. I had to admit that the plot they’d already worked out was brilliant. By lucky chance, Percy had gained access to a house that belonged to Thomas Whynniard, Keeper of the King’s Wardrobe, located not a stone’s throw from the Houses of Parliament. We would dig a tunnel between the two, bring in barrels of gunpowder (sourced by yours truly who had the contacts), set the charge, beat a hasty retreat and BOOM!! End of Parliament, end of Scottish Protestant King. I was promptly installed as caretaker, John Johnson by name, to prevent unwanted visitors with curious eyes and sharp ears, and we all set to digging.
It was hard, dirty work. Each morning, early, we’d take a spade, or a shovel, or whatever we could find, and off we’d go, inching along the hollowed-out space. Progress was slow. Then, one late afternoon, we heard noises from somewhere above and to the right. I got sent to investigate and what a stroke of luck! A poor widow woman was clearing out an undercroft rented by her dead husband and where do you think it was situated? Directly beneath the House of Lords! A small sum of money changed hands and the room was ours. It was filthy and littered with odd bits of wood and rags and what else I wouldn’t have liked to guess at, but this didn’t matter - in fact, it suited our purpose.
Thank God, no more tunnelling! I made haste to acquire the gunpowder, twenty barrels at first and then another sixteen to make quite sure, concealing them as best I could among the timber and rubbish. The intention was to blow up Parliament while it was sitting in July, but another outbreak of plague delayed the opening and when I checked the gunpowder it had decayed, so I had to obtain yet more. November 5th was the new date for the state opening of Parliament. Our plan was finalised and it was agreed that, given my expertise with gunpowder, I would be the one to light the fuse at the specified time, then escape across the Thames and head for the continent. Simultaneously, a coordinated revolt in the Midlands would result in the capture of Princess Elizabeth whom we would put upon the throne in place of her heretic father.
My fellow conspirators accompanied me to the undercroft on the night of 4th November where I took up my station, armed with a slow match and a watch to alert me to the appointed hour. I felt a great burden of responsibility but also a great pride that I should be the person entrusted with this act of holy duty. I did not think of it as regicide, as the court obviously did.
So what went wrong? I ponder this as I listen for the guards walking briskly along the dank corridor to fetch me from my prison cell to meet my maker. SOMEONE betrayed us, clearly. There I am, patiently waiting to blow their Lordships to Kingdom Come, when all of a sudden I hear a tramping of boots and in bursts a veritable battalion armed with rather more than a slow match. Caught red handed. What am I doing with so much gunpowder, and in such a place, they enquire? “I intend to blow you Scotch beggars back to your native mountains,” says I. That did not go down too well and they marched me off to the Tower.
I was determined not to reveal names but they were wrung out of me eventually - at least, those I knew, I played no part in the Midlands revolt - and every one was rounded up and imprisoned in the Tower, except Catesby, who, rumour had it, was killed while escaping and thus avoided standing trial. It was a show trial, naturally. Eight of us were taken by barge to Westminster Hall where we were displayed on a specially made scaffold, to put the fear of God into us, I suppose. I pleaded not guilty, although I was, of course. In any event, it made no difference: we were all found guilty of high treason by the Lord Chief Justice, no less, Sir John Popham, and received the usual sentence - to be hanged, drawn and quartered. Lucky old Catesby.
Turns out the King was observing the proceedings, tucked away out of sight. I heard two of the soldiers talking afterwards. Apparently, the heretic expressed a grudging respect for me holding out so long. Well, no doubt the admiration of the monarch is a wonderful thing, but it didn’t stop him ordering the rack, did it? I wonder if he’ll sneak in to gawp at the executions. He’ll find it a fascinating spectacle to watch men just like him but for an accident of birth, writhing and wriggling at the end of a rope before the swift dagger cuts out their innards and the sharp knife severs their twitching limbs.
Ah, they have finally come for me. The four days since the trial and judgment have been interminable. I want to get it over with now. Far from swaggering out, head held high, I’m so weakened by the torture that I have to be propped up between two of them. In the yard outside, Thomas Wintour, Ambrose Rookwood and Robert Keyes are already lying strapped to wattle hurdles. The final hurdle is reserved for me. In truth, there is no need to secure any of us: we are in no fit state to leap off our comfortable resting places and flee.
As we draw near the Old Palace Yard, opposite the very place we had such high hopes of destroying, the trickle of onlookers running alongside, eager to see some good entertainment this afternoon, becomes a noisy, boisterous swell. My mind blots out the jeers and the cheers (for me or against me, who knows?) and the sight and the smell of the crowd pressing close to the condemned heroes. My world narrows to my final bed in this life; I can hear only the creak of the willows; I can sense only the pungent scent coming from the sweating buttocks of the carthorse pulling the hurdle.
We stop abruptly. We have reached our destination. Against the pale January sky, the scaffold spreads its welcoming arms. I’m forced to watch while the other three are hanged, drawn and quartered. They have saved the best for last. I need assistance to struggle up the steps. But I still have enough wits to hatch a plan. I shall climb a little higher than necessary: that way, the rope will immediately throttle me and I shall not be left to choke and splutter and endure the agony of my guts spilling out onto the ground for the curs and crows to feast on once everyone has gone home.
I regret nothing. Except - I am sorry, Father, that I have disappointed your hopes of our family line continuing down the generations. I’m afraid that the line ends here and now, on the thirty-first day of January in the Year of Our Lord 1606. In a few months, or weeks, no-one will remember the name of Guido Fawkes.
But I am not sure I shall fulfil this aim: after two days (two days! How quickly they passed in happier times; how cruelly slowly in this dreaded place) of the most fearful torment they could inflict - which I resisted although my bruised and battered limbs protested mightily and that treacherous inner voice urged me, “Confess! Tell them what they want to hear!” - they put me on the rack. I ask you, what man could withstand for long such pain? The lash of the whip, the rake of the cat down my back, the burning of my tender soles, all were nothing, nothing I say, compared with this! By the end, I was desperate to sign the confession - but when I tried to hold the quill, my poor hand shook so that my name was barely readable. It was enough for them.
What would my father, a respectable proctor and advocate of the consistory court at York, have made of his only son’s plight? Would he have understood? Our religious views are quite contrary. Would he, a staunch Protestant, have washed his hands of me long ago, when I first left England to stand with Catholic Spain against the Dutch? At twenty-one, I knew it all, of course. I was fighting for a just cause, and the refusal of King Phillip to support a rebellion in England against the heretic James only served to fan the flames of my passion.
Thomas Wintour it was who approached me while on campaign in Flanders. Could I be persuaded to join a select group committed to overthrowing the English King? I did not need much in the way of persuading, I can tell you! This was my chance to help to change history - well, maybe I did not consciously think that at the time, maybe I was just flattered that others thought me a useful person to become involved in their audacious adventure. I had not been in England for many years and few would know me there. I had left a youth of twenty-one and would return an imposing figure, tall and strong, with a head and beard of flowing red-brown locks. Any who might have known me in the past would scarce recognise me now. I could be anonymous.
I was invited to meet the main conspirators - Wintour, Francis Tresham, Thomas Percy and our leader, Robert Catesby - at the Dog and Duck in the Strand. I had to admit that the plot they’d already worked out was brilliant. By lucky chance, Percy had gained access to a house that belonged to Thomas Whynniard, Keeper of the King’s Wardrobe, located not a stone’s throw from the Houses of Parliament. We would dig a tunnel between the two, bring in barrels of gunpowder (sourced by yours truly who had the contacts), set the charge, beat a hasty retreat and BOOM!! End of Parliament, end of Scottish Protestant King. I was promptly installed as caretaker, John Johnson by name, to prevent unwanted visitors with curious eyes and sharp ears, and we all set to digging.
It was hard, dirty work. Each morning, early, we’d take a spade, or a shovel, or whatever we could find, and off we’d go, inching along the hollowed-out space. Progress was slow. Then, one late afternoon, we heard noises from somewhere above and to the right. I got sent to investigate and what a stroke of luck! A poor widow woman was clearing out an undercroft rented by her dead husband and where do you think it was situated? Directly beneath the House of Lords! A small sum of money changed hands and the room was ours. It was filthy and littered with odd bits of wood and rags and what else I wouldn’t have liked to guess at, but this didn’t matter - in fact, it suited our purpose.
Thank God, no more tunnelling! I made haste to acquire the gunpowder, twenty barrels at first and then another sixteen to make quite sure, concealing them as best I could among the timber and rubbish. The intention was to blow up Parliament while it was sitting in July, but another outbreak of plague delayed the opening and when I checked the gunpowder it had decayed, so I had to obtain yet more. November 5th was the new date for the state opening of Parliament. Our plan was finalised and it was agreed that, given my expertise with gunpowder, I would be the one to light the fuse at the specified time, then escape across the Thames and head for the continent. Simultaneously, a coordinated revolt in the Midlands would result in the capture of Princess Elizabeth whom we would put upon the throne in place of her heretic father.
My fellow conspirators accompanied me to the undercroft on the night of 4th November where I took up my station, armed with a slow match and a watch to alert me to the appointed hour. I felt a great burden of responsibility but also a great pride that I should be the person entrusted with this act of holy duty. I did not think of it as regicide, as the court obviously did.
So what went wrong? I ponder this as I listen for the guards walking briskly along the dank corridor to fetch me from my prison cell to meet my maker. SOMEONE betrayed us, clearly. There I am, patiently waiting to blow their Lordships to Kingdom Come, when all of a sudden I hear a tramping of boots and in bursts a veritable battalion armed with rather more than a slow match. Caught red handed. What am I doing with so much gunpowder, and in such a place, they enquire? “I intend to blow you Scotch beggars back to your native mountains,” says I. That did not go down too well and they marched me off to the Tower.
I was determined not to reveal names but they were wrung out of me eventually - at least, those I knew, I played no part in the Midlands revolt - and every one was rounded up and imprisoned in the Tower, except Catesby, who, rumour had it, was killed while escaping and thus avoided standing trial. It was a show trial, naturally. Eight of us were taken by barge to Westminster Hall where we were displayed on a specially made scaffold, to put the fear of God into us, I suppose. I pleaded not guilty, although I was, of course. In any event, it made no difference: we were all found guilty of high treason by the Lord Chief Justice, no less, Sir John Popham, and received the usual sentence - to be hanged, drawn and quartered. Lucky old Catesby.
Turns out the King was observing the proceedings, tucked away out of sight. I heard two of the soldiers talking afterwards. Apparently, the heretic expressed a grudging respect for me holding out so long. Well, no doubt the admiration of the monarch is a wonderful thing, but it didn’t stop him ordering the rack, did it? I wonder if he’ll sneak in to gawp at the executions. He’ll find it a fascinating spectacle to watch men just like him but for an accident of birth, writhing and wriggling at the end of a rope before the swift dagger cuts out their innards and the sharp knife severs their twitching limbs.
Ah, they have finally come for me. The four days since the trial and judgment have been interminable. I want to get it over with now. Far from swaggering out, head held high, I’m so weakened by the torture that I have to be propped up between two of them. In the yard outside, Thomas Wintour, Ambrose Rookwood and Robert Keyes are already lying strapped to wattle hurdles. The final hurdle is reserved for me. In truth, there is no need to secure any of us: we are in no fit state to leap off our comfortable resting places and flee.
As we draw near the Old Palace Yard, opposite the very place we had such high hopes of destroying, the trickle of onlookers running alongside, eager to see some good entertainment this afternoon, becomes a noisy, boisterous swell. My mind blots out the jeers and the cheers (for me or against me, who knows?) and the sight and the smell of the crowd pressing close to the condemned heroes. My world narrows to my final bed in this life; I can hear only the creak of the willows; I can sense only the pungent scent coming from the sweating buttocks of the carthorse pulling the hurdle.
We stop abruptly. We have reached our destination. Against the pale January sky, the scaffold spreads its welcoming arms. I’m forced to watch while the other three are hanged, drawn and quartered. They have saved the best for last. I need assistance to struggle up the steps. But I still have enough wits to hatch a plan. I shall climb a little higher than necessary: that way, the rope will immediately throttle me and I shall not be left to choke and splutter and endure the agony of my guts spilling out onto the ground for the curs and crows to feast on once everyone has gone home.
I regret nothing. Except - I am sorry, Father, that I have disappointed your hopes of our family line continuing down the generations. I’m afraid that the line ends here and now, on the thirty-first day of January in the Year of Our Lord 1606. In a few months, or weeks, no-one will remember the name of Guido Fawkes.