The Gunpowder, Torture and Sorrow. Book 1 of the ‘Short Stories Collection’ by Jake Murphy Copyright 2011 Jake Murphy Smashwords Edition Smashwords Edition, License Notes Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support. The Gunpowder, Torture and Sorrow. Who’s that which knocks? Oh say, my Lord, I come: I know that call, since first it made me know Myself, which makes me know with joy to run Lest he be gone that can my duty show Jesu, my Lord, I know thee by the cross Thou offe’st me, but not unto my loss. Sir Everard Digby, Tower of London. Here in the dark dungeon, face down, I lie. Here, where the air is humid and the stone floor is cold, I tremble. I feel around, for there is no light to guide me, and feel only the cold, damp stones beneath me. Here, where criminals await their most deserved fate, I agonize. Like all traitors awaiting execution, here I despair. But I am no traitor; I am a crusader, a pilgrim, a man of God, a man of true faith. Why then, am I here? Why then, are the men of God and of true honour to rot in the Tower while heretics (and traitors!) sit in the Privy Council? The world, I think, is broken. Guido is my name, Guido Fawkes, man of courage, of true heart and of faith. A traitor to some and a hero to others. I was born in the year of our Lord 1570 by the grace of God in Stongate, York. I’ve endured what I can only call a short and exhausting life. It’s all a blur of shattered memories and fragmented dreams: the war in the Low Countries, my long service to the first and second Lords Montagu, my meeting with Robert Catesby in the ‘Duck and Drake’ inn, our plotting, my failure, and the subsequent torture…Oh God! The torture! The men of the Tower pride themselves in inflicting the most agonizing pain, more than a man can survive, yet here I lie. I have no doubt that it was through the work of God that I lived through it, enduring, to the very last scream. Such mercy has been granted to me by Him, that all doubt I have ever had that my labour in the Lord’s name was wrong has vanished, for now I see that it was all good and Godly. But alas, it was not to be. To blow up the Lords and Commons, that was my task. My sole destiny commanded by God and by which the full reason of my existence could be explained, was to wipe this country clean of its malicious King and sect of heretics. For what are King James I of England and his barbarous and savage ilk, but envoys of Satan? So malicious are their intentions, so evil is their resolve that they plan to butcher every catholic in England. Oh Lord! Mercy upon thy faithful subjects! So, vowing to not rest until every one of these monsters be dispatched to the deepest pit of hell, my fellow conspirators and I met in… us conspirators? Nay, we are envoys of the true God and faith, so how can we be known as conspirators, traitors, and plotters? But it is indeed what they call us, those evil men who sit beside the King, and would have the world know that we were cowards and damaged mercenaries. Are we really just mercenaries? Nay, we are crusaders! Gentlemen of arms to the one and only Lord! As I was saying, before being confronted with evil tongues, that my friends and I we met in secret (for who knows how vast the tentacles of Protestantism extend…) at the ‘Duck and Drake’ inn, in London, and we began our preparations. I was chosen to place the gunpowder beneath their lordships’ great chamber and send them all to St Peter’s gate, so there they may try and explain their actions and beg for His pardon. It was truly an honour, and I vowed then and there to carry out God’s work swiftly and to the fullness of my considerable ability. As for the others, their parts in this venture were thus: Sir Abrose Rookwod would provide horses for an uprising in the Midlands of England after my great deed be accomplished, a rebellion prepared by Sir Everard Digby, Francis Tresham, John Grant and others. It seemed to us all an invincible plan. I can still see their faces now: nervous, but ready to begin our godly task together. Oh, my school friends! My soul mates, my ilk! Brothers in arms, we were, most of us in the Low Countries fighting Spain before we all defected. In the mists of this disgusting and savage war was I, both Tomas and Robert Wintour, and the noble Thomas Percy, cousin to the Earl of Northumberland, recently constable of Alnwick Castle. Fought we did in that war, with bravery, with honour, every last man. But now I ask, in all humility, how can honourable men prevail, in a dishonourable venture? Oh yes, we all love our country, but fighting for England was to fight for Protestantism! Every blow of our sword, every ounce of gunpowder shot at the Spaniard was a blow against Rome! Some of us had already been dedicated long before to the salvation of our beloved Country, in a venture now known as the Essex rebellion. Our leader Robert Catesby was there, yes, and so was Francis Tresham. During this I travelled to the Spanish court and so did the great man of letters Thomas Wintoun, who being skilled in many languages, was a dedicated helper to try and raise a rebellion with help from the Spanish. But no such help came. The court of Filip III was bankrupt and war torn, they had lost most of their gentlemen and arms in the war and had lost most of their revenue in the disaster that was the Great Armada. The invincible, the careless Armada! To pieces it was torn, by the wind and the waves of that foul sorceress Queen Elizabeth! Elizabeth! How ironic that a name we all Catholics grew to fear had also sprung new hopes for us all; for the name Elizabeth is also the name of the princess that was to be our queen if our venture had succeeded. Oh! If only our venture had succeeded! Elizabeth, also the name of one of my sisters. Elizabeth and Anne both, two proud beauties who will forever carry upon themselves shame and dishonour for what I have done. It seems that their affinity towards me has not condemned them to a fate such as mine (as yet), thank God! As I lie here and weep, unable to move without excruciating pain, I know that a rope is being tied into a noose for the hanging, chains and shackles are being prepared for the drawing, and a great axe is being polished for the quartering. My inner organs will be laid out before the crowd, and my limbs cut off and set to the furthest corners of the land, as an example to all King James’ subjects. I am to be arrayed for high treason tomorrow, along with dear Robert Keys and poor Thomas Wintoun, for both of them, and most of the others, were captured by that damned Richard Walsh at Holbeche. I have only just overheard what happened in Holbeche during my trial, with the others. My dearest colleagues, having learned of my capture and the tearing a sunder of our plan, fled to the Midlands for both refuge and to ensure the uprising would be carried out anyway. It didn’t. The Midland folk did not assemble and did not rebel, so my colleagues all fled to Holbeche house, where ensued the bloodiest of sieges, trying to resist the men of the Sheriff of Worcester, Richard Walsh. All my friends fought and some of them died: Our great leader, Robert Catersby, was found shot dead holding an icon of the blessed Virgin. As for Thomas and Robert Wintoun, both John and Christopher Wright, Rockwood, Digby, even Thomas Bates, the servant who joined us by pure accident, all of them were arrested; Thomas Percy too, whose rank did not spare him from persecution; imprisoned were also John Grant, husband in law to Thomas Wintoun; and of course, Francis Tresham. Dear Francis Tresham, that traitor! That is what Thomas Wintoun dubs him at least, and more: ‘Whore to the ways of the Protestants!’ he shouts. ‘Man of too weak will and feeble mind to carry out what was intended! A rich man who was to lend us the money to carry out our Godly deeds, but alas, it was not paid. But even then did we forgive him! How merciful we were, how weak! Had we run him through, just like Percy wanted, we wouldn’t have been betrayed… betrayed, yes! By he who could not stand the sacrifice of family to save one’s own country!’ cried Thomas. ‘This was his betrayal, my friends: Mr Francis Tresham had two brothers-in-law in the House of Lords, the 4th Lord Monteagle and the 10th Lord Stourton, damm them!’ Thomas cursed as he told us, ‘Unable to stand the idea of murdering family, Tresham wrote an anonymous letter to his two relatives advising them to not be present on that day, for infortune will befall all those who do. And sure enough, one of these Lords, probably Monteagle, preferring political advancement rather than securing the salvation of the kingdom, made sure that the letter fell into the hands of Lord Salisbury, His Majesty’s Secretary of State, who ordered a search of the entire building and all those around the parliament house that very night!’ This Thomas told us, tears in his eyes of both water and blood from torture. I myself am sure it was Monteagle, since Stourton is said to be here in the Tower too for not informing Salisbury. But I cannot believe that Thresham would betray us so! I will not! I am convinced that it was Monteagle himself, oh hateful man, to improve his image in the King’s eyes, for his family’s traditional affection for the Sea of Rome had pushed him to the sidelines of Government, who doomed us all. But still, whether it had been by Lord or by Master, I’ll never know for sure. And so I was discovered keeping watch of the explosives until the next day, ready to send them all to hell once the time was right. But it was not to be. I was captured, and tortured into revealing my friends! Oh God! Tortured I was! Racked, for three full days! Oh merciful God! Spare your miserable subject from the pain of memory! It is all returning to me now, the manner of my torture: On the first day I was bold; when I was asked who I was I answered: ‘Johnson’. Ha! How cunning I thought myself to be! By disguising my identity they need never have known of our plan and of the uprising. But the rack is the most evil of tortures. They pulled my arms and legs almost completely apart all day, but still I was brave, for when asked what I was doing with all that gunpowder I answered ‘To blow all you scotch beggars back to your indigenous mountains!’ But the second day was worse. Not only was I racked even more savagely than before, but I had to endure the knowledge that the King had heard of my brave remarks and had taken an admiring to me. Christ save me! Is there anything worse than to know that your enemy respects you? T’is a thorn in my head, like our Lord Jesus Christ, bearing the crown of thorns as he, like me, awaited his fate. Distraught is the man who goes to his death knowing that his destiny has not been fulfilled, knowing that he failed to restore his country to the true faith! It hurts, to know that all you’ve ever wanted can never be had, for now I am now convinced that this great England will be heretic for ever, as long as the world does endure. The entire catholic world has repeatedly attacked to try and restore obedience, but has always failed. Rebellions have risen the people time and time again, but all to no avail. It pains me, to know that the world has given up; it has shrivelled up into a cloud of indifference and neglect. Spain, France, the Holy Roman Empire, the Papacy… they are all bankrupt in their attempts, drained of their armies in their defeats, and their lands are exhausted in their supply of males. It is the end. It is the end of the Faith. If the evil of Protestantism can resist so, how long before the moor invades? Unable to defend ourselves, unable to fight for what we most want, for what we most believe in, we are nothing. We are dust, destined to float aimlessly into oblivion. But none of that matters to me now, for I am quite done with this world, and will soon depart from this hellish world and move on to His Kingdom, where all is right, where all is alight with silver and gold. It is untouched by evil hands and is beautiful, clean, and sublime. That is His land, where our path to Him ends. My path has been very painful, but we are meant to suffer, I am told. It tests our faith. My faith must be as solid as the white cliffs of Dover then, for my pain is great! My torturers have made sure of it! I feel around now, in my dark dungeon, separated from the rest of my men. I’m separated from other life, from other existence. There is nothing, nothing except the blackness of the inexistent. It is as though I am already in transition to the Kingdom of Heaven. The cold slab stones beneath me are cold and wet, and I feel around trying to find a stone of some sorts, or a sharp or pointed piece of metal perhaps, anything to ease my passing! I wish not to die tomorrow on the scaffold. It is not that I fear meeting my maker; it is just that I fear that I will be commanded to ask my King for pardon to ease the agony. As if the physical pain was not enough! I must also submit myself to humiliation! The stone floor is cold, and time is ticking. Here, on the floor of my cell, I weep and despair. Hark! I hear their heavy footsteps now, marching to my cell, to take me to my doom! May God have mercy on me, for I feel that my suffering has yet to begin! * Here I am now, my blooded feet dragging against the floor, and two armoured guards accompany me down the dark corridor. T’is time, they say. The night guards have given way at sunrise, and the shift changed. The new guards have come straight to my cell, turning the old keys and opening the thick oak door with great determination and sadistic glee. Down the corridor I go now, accompanied by a dozen guards; behind me is my friend, Thomas, reciting over and over again ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena…’ and also with us are Rockwood and Keys. The Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir William Waad, is in front of me. He smells nice. Amongst all this putrefaction and dung, my noble jailer has seen fit to spend the night with a jasmine perfumed courtesan. I know that perfume! It reminds me of my dearest Mary, for my wife also smelled of jasmine. Mary Pulleyn, the daughter of a grand catholic family of England. The most mesmerizing smile, the blackest of hair, the palest of skin, oh yes, that was my Mary. What on earth did she see in me? I was only a penniless and war torn soldier. But she set me right. She was so pure, so good. Even, I dare say, the Virgin Mary herself would have been jealous of her purity. She is my deity, she is my religion. To hell with Rome and Christ! I worship my Mary. Just by thinking of her the dark corridor seems to have lit up with happiness and a dazzling light, the world suddenly seems a better place to be in. If it wasn’t for her, I would be happy to die, for there is nothing else in this world worth holding on for. I remember when her emerald eyes first captured me, our gaze locked, and lo my soul was forever trapped, my free will was taken from me ‘till the rest of my days. She had captured me forever, even now, alone, unable to move, unable to live, unable to die, I am hers. Even now, when there is nothing left to me but pain and the infinite blackness of death, I am hers! What is the end of life like? I wonder. It is surely to be like slipping into the drowsiest of sleeps, or jumping into the deepest of oceans. Hear the troubled world behind you slowly growing fainter, as you venture deeper into the infinite silence and darkness. T’is the dark pit all men fear, and cling on to religion for the illusion of being saved from it. Bah! I care not for Priests nor Rome nor Trinities anymore; the truth is that we are all destined for the pit! Oh God! Why is it so? Why did I believe that I would die and be raised for heaven? I am the lowest of scoundrels, the evilest of sinners, all us men are. Protestant or Catholic, Christian or Moorish we all are tossed to the dark pit of Hell! Along the corridor I go. Dragged to my death, not by fear, but by paralysis. As they picked me up off the floor of my cell, I cried out. I screamed, for the pain was more than anything I had ever felt! The rack had accomplished its function, to make me talk, but my pain remained after the answers were given! So dragged to my death, is that how they will remember me by? Will I be remembered at all? Guido Fawkes, the man they call Guy, the traitor that tried to blow up the House of Lords. I doubt I’ll be remembered, for I have done little to deserve any praise or celebration. We’ve arrived at the end of the long, dark corridor now. My jailer Sir William is opening the last door. The door to the outside, the door to the scaffold. How fascinating this door looks; it’s old, thick and has scratch marks and signs of struggle all over it. Clearly compared to normal procedure, we must be quite dignified in our approach. Too tortured, perhaps. It’s funny, of what things imminent death makes you think of, for I shall never see a door again. Or a flower, or a bird in a tree, singing its calm tune, nor shall I ever hear the sweet voice of Mary again. Lord God, give me strength to meet this end. *** ‘Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale; who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven’. (Macbeth, Act 2 Scene 3)