Page 322 of A Column of Fire

‘Thomas Percy.’

There was a little murmur of reaction from the search party. They would know Percy as a Gentleman Pensioner, and they would also know that he had Catholic relatives.

Rollo was so filled with dread that he felt nauseous. This was the moment of greatest danger. Would anyone think to lookinsidea pile of firewood? He remembered saying glibly: ‘Even if someone were to search this place, they probably wouldn’t find the gunpowder.’ He was about to find out whether that was true. He felt tense enough to snap.

Suffolk took Monteagle aside, and the two men came closer to where Rollo stood behind the half-open door. He heard Monteagle say agitatedly: ‘This involves the earl of Northumberland!’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Suffolk said more calmly. ‘We can’t accuse one of the greatest peers of the realm on the basis of an oversupply of firewood.’

‘We must do something!’

‘We must do nothing except inform the Privy Council of what we have seen.’

Rollo deduced that Suffolk had not thought of combing through the wood pile – yet.

Monteagle was calming down. ‘Yes, of course, you’re right, forgive me. I fear that all this is going to be blamed on me just because I was sent an anonymous letter.’

Rollo dared to hope that Monteagle’s distress had distracted Suffolk from the search.

Suffolk patted Monteagle’s shoulder. ‘I understand.’

The two men rejoined the group.

There was some desultory conversation and then the search party left the building. Fawkes closed the broken door as best he could.

Rollo stepped into the storeroom. ‘I heard everything,’ he said to Fawkes. ‘I was behind the door.’

Fawkes looked at him. ‘Jesus save us,’ he said. ‘That was a close call.’

*

MARGERY WAS LIVINGin a pit of misery. The bottom had dropped out of her world. After Ned left she drank little and ate nothing for a week. She saw no point in getting out of bed in the morning. If she forced herself up she just sat by the fireside, weeping, until it got dark outside and she could go back to bed again. Her life was over. She could have gone to her son Roger’s house, but then she would have had to explain, and she could not face that.

But two days before the opening of Parliament she was seized by anxiety. Had Ned caught Rollo, or not? Would the ceremony go ahead? Would Ned be there? Would they all die?

She put on a coat and walked along the Strand to White Hall. She did not go into the palace, but stood outside, half-hidden by the gloom of a winter afternoon, watching for her husband. Courtiers came and went in their fur hats. Margery felt faint with hunger, and had to lean on a wall to stay upright. A cold mist came up from the river, but she was already so dejected that she hardly cared.

She wished with all her heart that she had not kept Rollo’s secret so long. She should have told Ned the truth years ago. It would have been an earthquake, whenever she did it, but this was the worst time, after he had become so much a part of her that she could not manage life without him.

At last she saw him. He arrived with a small group of men in heavy coats – Privy Councillors, perhaps. His expression was grim. Perhaps it was an illusion, but he seemed to have aged in a week, his face creased with worry lines, grey stubble on pale cheeks.

She stepped in front of him and he stopped. She watched his face, reading his feelings. He was at first just startled. Then his expression changed and he looked angry. Instinct told her that he had been trying to forget about her and what she had done, and now he disliked being reminded. Was there any sign of softening, any hint of mercy? She was not sure.

She spoke the question she had come to ask. ‘Have you found Rollo?’

‘No,’ said Ned, and he brushed past her and went inside.

Sadness engulfed her. She loved him so much.

She drifted away from the gates of the palace. In a daze of grief she wandered down to the muddy beach of the Thames. The river was tidal, and right now there was a fast downstream current, making the surface restless and troubled.

She thought about walking out into the water. It was almost dark now, and probably no one would see her. She had never learned to swim; her life would end in a few minutes. It would be cold, and there would be a long moment of gasping panic, but then her agony would be over.

It was a sin, a mortal sin, but hell could not be worse than this. She thought of a play she had seen in which a girl drowned herself after being rejected by the prince of Denmark, and a pair of comic gravediggers discussed whether she should have a Christian burial. There would be no burial for Margery if she went into the river now. Her body would be swept away by this strong current, perhaps all the way to the sea, where she would float gently down to the deep bottom, to lie with the sailors killed in the battle of the Spanish armada.

And who would say Mass for her soul? Protestants did not believe in prayers for the dead, and Catholics would not pray for a suicide. She would be damned as well as dead.

She stood there for a long moment, pulled painfully in opposite directions by her yearning for the peace of death and her horror of incurring God’s eternal wrath. At last she seemed to see her great-aunt, Sister Joan, coming towards her across the mud, not as she had been in life but walking upright, without the aid of sticks. Although it was dark, Margery could see Joan’s face, which was younger, and smiling. The vision did not speak, but silently took Margery’s arm and led her gently away from the water. As they approached White Hall Margery saw two young men walking along together, laughing raucously at something; and she turned to ask Joan whether they, too, could see her; but Joan had gone, and Margery was alone again.