The Arcadian Press

Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November

A man riding a horse in front of a house in the rain.

Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November

By Ethan Bever

A dark black horse with two riders swept through the hills and mountains at such a furious rate that even the lightning and thunder of the night seemed helpless to impede the horse. His riders fell off and cried out for him, and he came back for them. He galloped so fast with such a wind that he didn’t get wet.

They hastily arrived at a manor house in Hoxton, London. They slipped off the horse and frantically knocked on the door until a servant opened it. “Lord Harington sends us, and we have an urgent letter for Lord Monteagle.”

“Please wait here, and I’ll tell my lord.”

Lord Monteagle indignantly turned to his servant as he tried to finish swallowing his bite of cutlet, and asked, “On what occasion do they come?”

“They have an urgent message for you, my lord,” said the servant.

“Let them come in,” said Lord Monteagle with a sigh, regretfully dropping the napkin on the table. 

The servant hurried back to the door and said, “You can come in now.” He then escorted them to Lord Monteagle in the dining room. 

“My lord, we have an urgent letter given to us by Lord Harington, and he told us to hand it to you,” said one of Lord Harington’s servants. 

“Where did Lord Harington get the letter?” inquired Lord Monteagle.

“He got it from a stranger telling him to deliver it to you.”

Inscribed on the letter was: “My Lord, out of the love I bear to some of your friends, I have a care of your preservation. Therefore, I would advise you to devise some excuse to shift your attendance at this parliament, for God and man hath concurred to punish the wickedness of this time and think not slightly of this advertisement, but retire yourself into your country, where you may expect the event in safety. For though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they will receive a terrible blow this parliament, and yet they shall not see who hurts them. This counsel is not to be condemned, because it may do you good and can do you no harm; for the danger is passed once you have burnt the letter. And I hope God will give you the grace to well use it, to whose holy protection I commend you.”

Lord Monteagle, an English Catholic baron, pondered, “It seems to me that something dreadful will happen on the opening day of parliament. Who in the whole world would want to do such a distressing deed? This letter instructs me to flee to the countryside and burn it, but I feel obliged to inform my king, though he is away on a hunting trip.”

Finally, he decided to give the letter to the 1st Earl of Salisbury, Lord Cecil, who was in charge while the king was away. Lord Monteagle dismissed Lord Harington’s servants, saddled his fastest horse, and rode away to White Hall. “Lord Cecil, I have an urgent warning for you,” called Lord Monteagle. 

A tiny man with a hunched back and sharp, piercing eyes replied, “What is the dire matter of which you speak?”

Lord Monteagle quickly passed Lord Cecil the letter and related the story. “Shall we search the House of Lords immediately?” he asked.

Lord Cecil responded, “Wait to search under the House of Lords to prevent scaring off the conspirators.” He fell into deep thought, then proceeded, “Right now, it is the 26th of October, and the king is away on a hunting trip. I will send word to him as soon as he comes back on the 4th of November. Meanwhile, we will hire more spies to observe their actions.”

In the quiet town of Chastleton, Oxfordshire, a tall and muscular man was sitting at his mirror with servants busily putting on his long red tunic. They fitted on his sheepskin cloak lined with stoat fur and fastened it with a glittering golden brooch. They pulled up his clean pair of white hose and thick leather boots. Then he slipped his golden crucifix around his neck, and one servant asked, “Would you care for your hat, Mr. Catesby?”

“Of course, Albert,” responded Catesby cheerfully, putting on his leather corsair with the stoat’s fur lining. 

Robert Catesby walked into his grand dining hall and sat down to an extravagant lunch. On the table were venison stew in a golden bowl, cinnamon manchet bread with cheese on a golden plate, and a golden cup of raspberry wine with a dollop of honey. As he dipped his golden spoon into his stew, he thought, What should I say to the Jesuit priest Garnett at our upcoming meeting? I really need his support to get more soldiers!

“Servants, prepare me a coach,” Catesby ordered. Then he hastened out of his massive manor to get into the waiting coach. “Coachman, go to Packwood House in Baddesly Clinton, Warwickshire!” he commanded. 

At last, he came to a red-bricked manor with picturesque stained glass designs on the windows. Catesby got out of the coach and walked up to the dark green door. He rapped on it until a maid opened it. “I, Catesby, am here,” he said, “and I have a meeting here.” 

“Come this way, please,” she answered and led Catesby up some stairs and into a bedroom. It had drawn crimson curtains that made the window look as if it was stained in gore. In the corner, a walnut-colored chest of drawers stood, seeming so full that it was ready to explode at any moment. The bed had a headboard attached to the wall going up to the ceiling, with posts on each corner. Beautifully embroidered ruby-colored bed curtains were draped about each post as if all were clothed in blood. 

The maid walked over to the fireplace and slid the decorative black cast iron covering depicting a knight on a warhorse to one side. A gray-haired man in his forties crawled out over the firewood, wiping soot off his black cassock. The opening revealed a tiny stone room hardly big enough to fit anyone into it. The maid quietly exited the room, closing the door with a click behind her. 

“Good day, Sir Garnett,” said Catesby. 

“The Lord be with you,” said priest Garnett, making the sign of the cross. 

“I hope you understand that this matter is to be kept concealed,” said Catesby, bowing to Priest Garnett with a solemn face. “I need your advice on a troubling matter. Whether for the good of the Catholic faith, the time desiring an uprising, will it be lawful to destroy the innocents with the nocents?”

Priest Garnett answered, “If the Catholic faith will be highly esteemed only when the innocents were to be killed with the nocents, it is with no doubt lawful. But before we do anything, things are best settled by submission to the will of God. We must seek the Lord’s will in any matter.”

Catesby said, “I wish to destroy the House of Lords on the 5th of November, the opening day of parliament.”

The countenance of Priest Garnett tensed up with concern and horror. “I wish you first look at the lawfulness of the act itself, and then you must not have so little regard for innocents that you spare not friends and necessary persons for the commonwealth. Pope Clement VIII discourages violence to gain power because he thinks it would destroy the remaining Catholics in England.”

Catesby disputed, “I wish all English Catholics to serve the living God freely and attend Catholic Mass in public. We have been persecuted enough under King James I of England. I want freedom. I will make it happen, whatever the cost, and God will be with me, because for a good cause do I do this. I need your support to get more soldiers and let me tell you more of my plan.”

Looking terrified at the determined conspirator, priest Garnett put a stop to it by saying, “We are called to be peacemakers. Leave me in peace. Please stop this wicked act!” Catesby contemplated momentarily over the pleading priest’s words before he hurriedly darted away in a trice. 

Catesby rode straight to his manor in Ladbroke, Warwickshire. A short, portly man was pacing at the door. As Catesby got closer, he recognized him as Thomas Bates, his most loyal servant, waiting for him at the door. “I have something that I need to show you, Mr. Catesby,” said Bates. As soon as the great door of the manor clanged shut behind them, Bates handed Catesby a note that was a copy of the letter sent to Lord Monteagle. “This was given to me by Thomas Ward, a servant of Lord Monteagle. It is a copy of the anonymous letter given to him, hinting that the House of Lords will be blown up on the 5th of November, the opening day of parliament.” 

Catesby replied, “This letter, even though it implies our plan, has not a strong description of it. I will send Thomas Percy to London to visit the nobilities to find out if anything has happened because of the letter.”

Two days before the opening of parliament, Catesby called all of his accomplices to a meeting at his manor in Ladbroke, Warwickshire. There should be thirteen present at this meeting. Eight of them had already arrived. A thunderous galloping sound caught his attention as Thomas Percy charged toward his manor like a streak of lightning. As Percy got closer, he saw that his golden hair was flying wildly around the edges of his hat, and that sweat was streaming across his tall, angular face, pouring over his sharp nose like a waterfall. Thomas Percy quickly dismounted and raced up to him.

“Is there any news that the king’s nobilities are doing anything because of the letter?” Catesby asked.

“I believe the nobilities will not take any actions. I visited the 9th Earl of Northumberland, and he said he knew nothing of any disturbance, or anything like it,” said Percy. 

“Have you heard any commands made by that crookback Earl?” 

Percy replied, “Nay, nothing of the sort.” 

Then Catesby breathed a sigh of relief. “Who do you think has betrayed us by sending that letter?”

“I suspect Francis Tresham because he is the brother-in-law and best friend to Lord Monteagle,” said Percy.

In the middle of their conversation, a black-haired, clean-shaven man stepped into the manor. Thomas Percy grabbed him by the collar and pressed him hard against the wall. “Did you send the letter to your brother-in-law?” Percy ominously interrogated. 

“I have not the slightest idea of what you’re talking about,” said Tresham.

Then Percy, with a ferocious look, unsheathed his sword and raised it to Tresham’s throat. “Tell the truth or die!” thundered Percy, his voice echoing around the manor. “Tell me, did you send the letter to Lord Monteagle?”

“I-I had no part in it,” Tresham stammered. “I swear to the Almighty God, if I have, let me be cursed!”

“Let him down,” said Catesby. “He is not the one, but who could it be?” As Percy lowered Tresham to the floor, Tresham coughed vigorously while he caught his breath.

A sly-looking man with a mustache curled at the tips and a pointed beard entered, which prompted Catesby to consider his next suspect. “Mr. Fawkes, has anyone searched the coal cellar of the House of Lords?” inquired Catesby. 

Guy Fawkes replied, “No barrels of gunpowder touched, no guards watching me, and nobody doing anything that has anything to do with our plan.” Catesby became quite perplexed by the source of the incriminating letter. 

Subsequently, a red-haired, solemn-faced man entered. Catesby greeted him. “Good day, Sir Digby. Now that we are all here, please organize a hunting party on the 4th of November for a week and invite Lord Harington. We must steal every horse that he owns and all of his neighbors’ horses as soon as he leaves for the hunting party. We will wait for Guy Fawkes’ signal to tell us he has successfully blown up the House of Lords, and then we will take Princess Elizabeth, as she now has nobody to protect her, and we shall install her as a queen in name only.”

Catesby held up his cup of wine and made a toast to each of his accomplices. “Let us give an attempt, and where it faileth, pass no further. But, gentlemen, we have not yet failed! The innocent must perish with the guilty sooner than ruin the chances of success.” 

All thirteen conspirators bumped their golden cups together, saying, “For the honor of the cross!” Then they drank their wine in one gulp.

In the garden sunroom overlooking the garden of Coombe Abbey, inside a sizable, lily-white birdcage seat, sat young princess Elizabeth, nine years of age, drinking her red berry and rose petal tea. As she sipped her tea, three doves landed on the angel fountain in the center of the garden, folding their wings and cocking their little heads from side to side. The water sprang out of the top of the fountain, making ripples in the calm water of the basin below. A gentle breeze guided the yellow chrysanthemums to wave at the visiting doves. The dainty princess picked out her favorite treat. As she sank her teeth into the silky vanilla cream and curved golden crust, a sweet, buttery flavor cascaded onto her tongue. A sudden burst of raspberry juice brought a sensation of delight.

The princess, now satisfied with her afternoon tea, walked to the stable to spend time with her favorite horse, Lightning. When she arrived, she gently stroked his neck and asked him, “You must be tired from your long journey. May I still ride you?” Lightning nodded happily and stood still so that Princess Elizabeth could climb on. He gently trotted to the garden, carrying the princess on his back. As they wandered around the garden, they were greeted by the sweet fragrance of salmon-pink roses swaying side-to-side in a rhythmic dance.

A sudden knock on the abbey’s front door brought a great surprise to Lord Harington, the guardian of Princess Elizabeth. When a servant opened the door, Digby, who was at the door, said, “Good day. I’m Sir Thomas Digby. I’m here to see Lord Harington.” 

“Come this way, please,” said the servant, leading him up the stairs and through many rooms until they got to a candle-lit living room where Lord Harington sat. 

“Good day, Lord Harington,” said Digby. “It would be a great honor if you would attend the large hunting party at Coughton Court tomorrow, the 4th of November.” 

Feeling suspicious of this cleverly planned party on such short notice, Lord Harington said, “I regretfully decline your kind invitation, Sir Digby. Arthur, please show him the way out.”

Digby rushed to tell Catesby of Lord Harington’s refusal. Catesby insisted, “Steal all the horses, anyway; what shall we gain by being idle? Send your servants to trick Lord Harington’s stable guards into drinking wine with Dwale, and then steal all the horses and all of his neighbors’ horses. When we capture Princess Elizabeth, they will have nothing to chase us with.”

As soon as the moon rose in the sky, the stable guards were nodding off, tricked into drinking much wine, and Digby’s guards were quietly marching toward the stables. They led all the horses to Dunchurch, a secluded village owned by Digby. Lightning neighed and pulled back, but they put a muzzle over his mouth and forced him on. On the way to Dunchurch, Lightning pulled and strained on the bridle so hard that the most muscular guard in Digby’s party couldn’t hold him. The moment he broke free, he galloped as fast as he could back to Coombe Abbey and stomped violently near the front door. He stomped back and forth, snorting, and turning his head vigorously from side to side. His bridle strap lashed out at the door, making a powerful whipping noise that broke through the stillness of the night.

A servant in Coombe Abbey tumbled out of bed and ran to the source of the odd noise. Upon opening the door, Lightning charged straight into the Abbey, but obediently let the servant take off the muzzle and tie him to the railing. Even then, Lightning pounded the floor as forcefully as his hooves would let him. Subsequently, the servant shut the door and reported to Lord Harington what had just transpired.

Upon investigating the stable, the horses were gone, and the guards were sound asleep holding cups stained with wine. Lord Harington commanded, “Arthur, go check my neighbors’ horses and see if they are in their stables.” 

“Aye, my lord,” Arthur replied. He immediately hopped on Lightning and sped away.

Lord Harington came back inside the Abbey, and said, “Our horses have disappeared without a trace, and right now, Arthur is checking on our neighbors’ horses.” 

As everyone anxiously expected Arthur’s return, Arthur came charging back with Lightning, wearing a troubled expression on his countenance. “Not a single horse is left in their stables.” 

“This looks like an uprising,” said Lord Harington. “Quick! Gather all of Princess Elizabeth’s necessities and prepare a coach! We must get the princess to Coventry tonight!”

Lord and Lady Harington, along with Princess Elizabeth, scrambled into the coach. Lightning was waiting for them already hitched up to the coach. “Arthur, head to my manor in Coventry,” said Lord Harington. As the coach sped toward Coventry, the curious Princess Elizabeth peered through the open window of the coach. What met her eyes were the ominous clouds overhead growing thicker, accompanying loud, booming roars of thunder. Rain should plummet imminently but became indecisive just when it should rain the hardest, as not a single drop had fallen. The howling wind gusted toward them, dismembering the trees and wildflowers along the path, as well as terrorizing the birds so much that they flew for the nearest shelter. She couldn’t bear to watch any longer. She shut her eyes and held her doll, Cecilia, close to her chest. The softness of Cecilia’s fabric and hair reminded her of the gentle hugs from her mother, Queen Anne of Denmark.

“We have arrived,” said Lord Harington, startling Elizabeth out of her thoughts. 

He turned to Lady Harington and said, “Show the Princess to her room, will you?” He then turned to Elizabeth and bowed. “Your Grace, I will inform you of any further news of this uprising. Please sleep well tonight.” Elizabeth nodded and curtsied, acknowledging that she understood.

As soon as Elizabeth set foot in her new room, an overwhelming chill swept over her. The warmth from the newly lit fireplace could not overcome the iciness of the new bedchamber. The servants had all left, closing the door behind them, and one lone bed stood in the middle of the room, staring back at her unresponsively. She couldn’t contain it any longer. Tears flooded out of her weary eyes, forming a puddle at her tiny feet. She sat by the fireplace, her knees drawn up and her head leaning on them, seeking to drive out the iciness of the air. Her hands shook uncontrollably like trembling leaves in the raging wind. “What will happen to the king, the queen, and the princes? What will become of me?”

Without warning, a sudden gust of wind continuously pounded on the windows, ignoring the rattling plea from the windowpanes. Alarmed, she edged further from the windows. She curled up in the innermost corner of the room. The glacial white wall reminded her it resented her presence, which prompted her to move further away from it as she shifted closer to the fire. The bit of wind that forced its way in stirred up the fire, and its sparks landed on her delicate, pale skin, feeling like needles piercing into her. “Ouch!” she cried out. “Father in heaven, please save the king!” She desperately wished that the sun would rise soon to cast out the darkest night of her life.

As if to answer Princess Elizabeth’s prayers, the king returned the following afternoon. Lord Cecil immediately presented him with the letter. “Your Majesty, I received this letter while you were away.” 

“What word did you gain from your spies concerning the matter at hand?” asked King James I. 

“According to one of them, one conspirator rented a coal cellar below the House of Lords.” 

“Search the cellar and all the rooms in the House of Lords, immediately,” urged the king. “And leave no corner unsearched!” 

“Aye, your Majesty,” said Lord Cecil. He then sent a message to Lord Monteagle, saying, “The king has commanded that we search the House of Lords tonight.” Upon receiving the message, Monteagle traveled to the House of Lords with a large group of guards to begin the search.

“Lord Monteagle, you search in the cellar, and we will search the rooms up here,” commanded Lord Cecil. 

As soon as Monteagle knocked on the door of the cellar, a sly-looking man with a curled mustache opened the door with one hand to his back as if hiding something. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” asked Lord Monteagle. 

“I am John Johnson, and I am guarding the firewood for my master.” answered ‘Johnson.’

“Who is your master?” inquired Monteagle. 

“Sir Thomas Percy, my lord.” 

“Thomas Percy…where have I heard that name before?” muttered Monteagle.

“We found 36 barrels of gunpowder hidden under the firewood, my lord,” said a guard. 

“What is the thing you are holding in your hand?” Monteagle asked. 

‘Johnson’ dropped it while pretending to pick up his lantern. “I laid this lantern down right before I opened the door for you, my lord,” ‘Johnson’ returned. 

A guard spotted whatever was dropped and grabbed it in a flash. “It’s a match, my lord,” said the guard, handing it to Lord Monteagle. “He must be about to blow up this Parliament. What else could he be doing? Take him to the Tower of London for further questioning!” commanded Lord Monteagle.

At the Tower of London’s interrogation room, Lord Cecil locked eyes on his newly gained prisoner. “What’s your name?” asked Lord Cecil. 

“My name? My name is John Johnson, my lord,” he answered, blinking his eyes rapidly. 

“That isn’t your real name! I have had my eyes on you ever since you traveled to Spain trying to persuade the Spanish king to invade England and install Catholic rule here,” contradicted Lord Cecil. He turned to the constable and said, “Do whatever it takes to make him reveal his true identity and the names of his accomplices.” 

“Aye, my lord,” replied the constable, as the massive iron door to the jail clanged shut with a crash that reverberated through the Tower.

Ear-piercing shrieks, groans, and howls from the Tower sent chills to the people nearby. Lord Cecil visited the prisoner again the following day. “Have you gotten any confessions?” inquired Lord Cecil. 

“Nay, my lord. He said it was a great honor to be tortured for a good cause, and he wishes to blow the Scottish king and all of his Scottish lords back to Scotland.” 

“What good cause? How is overthrowing the king whom God appointed a good cause? Continue to pressure him until he reveals his identity and that of his accomplices. The sky’s the limit,” said Lord Cecil. 

After two days of interrogation, ‘Johnson’ cried out, “I yield! I will speak! Send for Lord Cecil, and I will tell him!” In Lord Cecil’s presence, ‘Johnson’ said, “My real name is Guy Fawkes, and the name of my leader is Robert Catesby. He is leading the other eleven to abduct Princess Elizabeth and install her as a titular queen.” He lowered his head in defeat as he finished his confession. 

Meanwhile, Lord Cecil heard from one of his spies the whereabouts of Catesby. He immediately reported to the king, “Send the head sheriff Richard Walsh, along with 200 elite sheriffs, to apprehend Catesby and his co-conspirators! Royal guards! Go to Coombe Abbey to protect the Princess!” commanded the king.

Back at Catesby’s manor in Warwickshire, Thomas Bates frantically rushed to Catesby’s side and whispered in his ear, “Lord Monteagle caught Guy Fawkes, and he’s now in the Tower of London, being interrogated.” 

“Gentlemen, there is a change of plans,” declared Catesby. “We will go to Holbeach House and recruit soldiers along the way rather than abducting the Princess, as Fawkes may have revealed our plan to capture her.” Dejection swept through his accomplices as they packed their bags to head out.

Exhaustion and disappointment ensued as the conspirators tumbled into Holbeach House. “None of our Catholic brothers agree to join us, and we are low on food,” gloomily remarked Percy. 

“Our gunpowder has been soaked by the rain on our way here,” said Bates. 

“Dry it near the fire,” said Catesby.

The conspirators lugged the heavy barrels to the fireplace, and then Catesby and his men took a rest by their barrels of gunpowder. A powerful draft forced its way through a crack in the windowpanes, stirring up the fire so that the sparks fell on the gunpowder. 


Some of the gunpowder exploded, wounding and burning the conspirators mercilessly. 

“Tear off your sleeves! Wrap up our wounds!” cried Catesby. 

“Does this mean that the almighty God is displeased with us? Should we halt our plan?” inquired Tresham warily.

“Nonsense! God is on our side, and we will fight to the death!” Catesby cried. A running, scampering sound caught Catesby’s attention. He jumped up and cautiously peered out the window. Alarmed, he saw a regiment of almost 200 soldiers with Richard Walsh as the lead!

He glanced around for a way of escape, but none was to be found. “Gentlemen, we are surrounded,” said Catesby, kissing his golden crucifix. “We will not surrender!”

Outside the manor, muskets aimed. Bang! The twelve conspirators dodged the shots while returning fire. 

After a considerable time of fierce, determined shooting, Tresham declared nervously, “We’re out of gunpowder!”

Catesby proclaimed, “Brace yourselves, men. We will die on our swords!” At Catesby’s signal, the twelve conspirators drew up their swords and flung open the door.

Richard Walsh shot Thomas Percy right through his heart as soon as he raised his sword. Two more sheriffs shot Catesby in his shoulders and knees, then he fell to the ground soon after in agony. Upon seeing this, the other conspirators surrendered their swords. “Seize them and send them to the Tower!” ordered Walsh.

In the dimly lit basement of the Tower, Catesby, with blood streaking continuously from his shoulders and knees, groaned in pain. He heard a creak from the bolted iron door and looked up.

“So we meet again,” said the crookback man at the door.

“Lord Robert Devereux should be in your place right now, tiny beagle-man,” said Catesby angrily. 

Lord Cecil replied, “I knew you would be relentless in your pursuit of putting a Catholic in power. My spies in Europe have told me of your sending Guy Fawkes to Spain to convince King Phillip III to invade England and establish Catholic rule here. When a peace treaty was signed between Spain and England, you were furious, so I heard. You decided to blow us all up.” With eyes wide open, Catesby shouted, “It was you! You wrote the letter and destroyed my plan!” 

“Why would you say such a thing?” asked Lord Cecil, gazing at him. 

Catesby slumped down against the rough stone wall and said, “You hide well, little beagle-man.” 

“The mills of God grind slowly, but sure,” stated Lord Cecil. 

“Nonsense! How can this be God’s punishment when I am seeking to esteem the true church of God?” cried Catesby. 

“Has your Pope supported you? Have priests, even Jesuits, supported you?” asked Lord Cecil. 

“You think I will betray my Catholic faith by telling you their names?” shouted Catesby. 

Lord Cecil said, “If they’re found guilty of subverting the king, I will hunt them down and bring them to trial.” 

Catesby retorted, “I’m fighting for freedom!” 

“Freedom? Freedom for who? If you install the Catholic rule in England, you will oppress the protestants without mercy,” answered Lord Cecil.

“Only the Catholic faith is the true church of Christ! All you protestants are heretics and deserve death!” His fists waved wildly in the air but were restrained by the manacles, making clanking sounds against the stone wall. A sensation of warmth flooded into his throat, and he coughed out copious amounts of blood, which dripped down his golden crucifix. He beheld it and then kissed it with the utmost devotion.

The following day, the constable reported, “Lord Cecil, Catesby has a high fever. His wounds are infected and will not stop bleeding. Shall I call a doctor?” 

“Nay, for a worse fate awaits him if he’s healed. I will ask the king,” Lord Cecil replied. He went to the king and asked, “Your Majesty, Mr. Catesby is wounded and severely ill. Shall I send for a doctor?”  

“You shall send for a doctor, Robert Cecil,” answered King James I. “I want him to be well on the day of his execution.” 

The constable came running into the throne room. “Your Majesty, Mr. Catesby expired just a few minutes ago,” he said, bowing before the king. 

The king’s countenance darkened. “Then keep the other rebellious brutes well until their final sentence!” commanded King James I. 

“Aye, your Majesty,” said the constable. 

“How is Princess Elizabeth?” asked the king. 

“Princess Elizabeth was temporarily moved in Coventry, but she now has gone back to Coombe Abbey,” said Lord Cecil. 

“Good work, Robert,” said the king. “I want the people of England to witness the evil of rebellion against the king whom God appointed. Hang them on the 30th of January at St. Paul’s Churchyard.  Tell the Parliament to write a law commanding that from now on, the 5th of November shall be a holiday celebrating the survival of the king. All the people of England will throw effigies of Guy Fawkes into bonfires while singing and dancing. Only a few fanatics of the Catholic faith have done this heinous act, and it is not the fault of the entire Catholic church. Ensure that the people of England understand this.” 

“Aye, that I will, Your Majesty.”

On the 5th of November of the following year, Lightning trotted towards White Hall delivering a letter from Lord Harington. He whinnied joyfully at a group of children singing:

“Remember, remember, the Fifth of


Gunpowder treason and plot

I see no reason why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, ‘twas his intent

To blow up the king and the Parliament

Threescore barrels of powder below

Poor old England to overthrow

By God’s providence he was catch’d

With a dark lantern and burning match

Holler boys, holler boys, let the bells ring.

Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king!”

Related Posts