Guy Fawkes lay back as the litter carried him out of the city, shaking his head. Already been exiled once, he’d have to flee again to Normandy within hours, a fugitive forever. But he was still in London, and by the Saints, he’d see an end to the Protestant King. He could do that much. The man was so vain, he’d go ahead with the State Opening even if he did know there was a plot against his life.
The litter came to rest as the weary porters laid it on the ground. The coats of several softly whinnying horses steamed damp in the night air while men conversed urgently.
Percy immediately took a bridle from a man who held horses a few paces away, and mounted.
“I’ve decided to go back,” said Fawkes. “We’ve come this far, and we’re still free. We can do it.”
“What do you mean?” Percy looked down at his co-conspirator.
“It can’t be all for nothing,” Fawkes replied. His voice held hope - Fawkes wasn’t going to let himself disbelieve. Their Catholic mission was God-supported, after all. “Did you ask for the door to be locked as we escaped? If it’s still secure, we can be sure the King hasn’t yet found us, whatever he may suspect.
Percy shook his head. “I’m not taking any further part,” he said, defiantly. “You’re on your own. Good luck – you’ll need it. He suddenly dug in his heels and the horse leaped forward, bearing him away southward.
Fawkes saw other horses being turned and ridden off too; the litter lay abandoned. As the hoofbeats died away, he stood alone on the road. They hadn’t even left him a mount.
The man who’d agreed to kill a King smiled ruefully and shrugged. He didn’t need a horse. Not yet. Afterwards, perhaps. He pulled the peasant robe tighter around his body. It wasn’t far to walk back. He could reach the Abbey before dawn.
However, as the sky lightened, activity around Parliament increased. Fawkes had to move furtively. Soldiers tramped past him as he stepped out of view behind loaded wagons rolling into Parliament Square. Once below ground, however, the damp and the silence reassured him that little had changed. Without a spotter, he’d have to sneak out to watch for the King’s arrival. But that wouldn’t be for hours yet.
Fawkes chose a cask to breach and twisted his knife between two staves until he forced a gap. When the time came, he’d lift the cask and cascade its contents in a thick trail back towards the door. He’d not get beyond the Abbey before it blew, but in the confusion which would follow, he reckoned he could get away, perhaps through Little Deans Yard.
Just then, Fawkes heard a measured tramp made by many boots. He stepped back from the barrels and looked towards the door through the dusty gloom as pike-carrying men spilled through the opening.
“The King’s Yeomen,” he breathed, knowing he was trapped.
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