Officially, Rollo was in London for a long-drawn-out lawsuit between the earl of Tyne and a neighbour about the ownership of a watermill. This was a cover story. His real purpose was to kill the king. For that, he needed more men.
Guy Fawkes was just the type he was looking for. Fawkes’s staunchly Protestant father had died when little Guy was eight, and he had been raised by a Catholic mother and stepfather. As a wealthy young man Fawkes had rejected a life of idleness, sold the estate he had inherited from his father, and set out to look for adventure. He had left England and fought for Spain against the Protestant rebels in the Netherlands, where he had learned about engineering during sieges. Now he was back in London, at a loose end, ready for excitement.
Unfortunately, Fawkes was under surveillance.
This afternoon he was at the Globe Theatre, on the south side of the river Thames, watching a new play calledMeasure for Measure. Two places along the bench from him was Nick Bellows, an unobtrusive man in drab clothes, whom Rollo knew to be one of Ned Willard’s street stalkers.
Rollo was in the crowd of groundlings without seats. He followed the play with disapproval. Its story of a strong ruler who hypocritically breaks his own laws was blatantly designed to encourage disrespect for authority. Rollo was looking for an opportunity to speak to Fawkes without attracting the notice of Bellows, but it was proving difficult. Bellows discreetly followed when Fawkes left his seat, once to buy a cup of wine and once to piss in the river.
Rollo still had not spoken to him when the play came to an end and the audience began to leave. The crowd choked the exit and the people shuffled along slowly. Rollo manoeuvred himself behind Fawkes and spoke in a low voice directly into his ear. ‘Don’t look around, whatever you do, just listen,’ he said.
Perhaps Fawkes had been involved in clandestine activity before, for he did as Rollo said, only giving an almost imperceptible nod to show that he had understood.
‘His Holiness the Pope has work for you to do,’ Rollo said in the same low tone. ‘But you’re being followed by one of King James’s spies, so first you have to shake him off. Go to a tavern and drink a cup of wine, to give me a chance to get ahead of you. Then walk west along the river, away from the bridge. Wait until there is only one boat at the beach, then hire it to take you across, leaving your tail behind. On the other side, walk quickly to Fleet Street and meet me at the York tavern.’
Fawkes nodded again once.
Rollo moved away. He went over London Bridge and walked briskly through the city and beyond its walls to Fleet Street. He stood across the street from the York, wondering whether Fawkes would come. He guessed that Fawkes would be unable to resist the call of adventure, and he was right. Fawkes appeared, walking with the characteristic swagger that made Rollo think of a prize fighter. Rollo watched for another minute or two, but neither Bellows nor anyone else was following.
He went inside.
Fawkes was in a corner with a jug of wine and two goblets. Rollo sat opposite him, with his back to the room; hiding his face was now an ingrained habit. Fawkes said: ‘Who was following me?’
‘Nick Bellows. Small man in a brown coat, sitting next but two to you.’
‘I didn’t notice him.’
‘He goes to a certain amount of trouble not to be noticed.’
‘Of course. What do you want with me?’
‘I have a simple question for you,’ Rollo said. ‘Do you have the courage to kill the king?’
Fawkes looked at him hard, weighing him up. His stare would have intimidated many men, but Rollo was his equal in self-regard, and stared right back.
At last Fawkes said: ‘Yes.’
Rollo nodded, satisfied. This was the kind of plain speaking he wanted. ‘You’ve been a soldier, you understand discipline,’ he said.
Again Fawkes just said: ‘Yes.’
‘Your new name is John Johnson.’
‘Isn’t that a bit obvious?’
‘Don’t argue. You’re going to be the caretaker of a small apartment that we’ve rented. I’ll take you there now. You can’t go back to your lodging, it may be watched.’
‘There’s a pair of pistols in my room that I’d be sorry to leave behind.’
‘I’ll send someone to collect your belongings when I’m sure the coast is clear.’
‘All right.’
‘We should go now.’
‘Where is this apartment?’
‘At Westminster,’ said Rollo. ‘In the House of Lords.’
