Remember, Remember...

John wasn’t happy. They were late, really late, and he knew that wouldn’t fly with Mr Percy. The delivery had originally been scheduled for five minutes after four in the afternoon, but delays crossing London to reach the mill, followed by delays loading, followed by delays...well, you get the picture. Now they would be lucky to make the delivery before four in the morning.

John checked the address for the delivery again in the low light of the cart’s lantern and thanked the good Lord that it wasn’t raining - that sort of weather was to be expected this far into Autumn, but at worst they only had to hold back the night-time chill. The fog didn’t help much either, but the nag was going so slow that they were unlikely to get lost at any kind of speed. Given how far behind time they were running, they stopped at a tavern on route and partook of some cold stew and warm beer - it sure beat going hungry and thirsty, two things they had seen enough of whilst traversing the slums of this ‘great’ city. Much of it didn’t seem so great, in John’s opinion.

It was very dark as they worked their way through the district towards the Old Palace. John had been wanting to stay as far from the river as possible, mostly due to the stench, but the further they travelled the worse the smell became.

“Bobbie,” John shook his companion awake, “it can’t be far now, but the stink is almost unbearable already. How can you sleep?” John was incredulous, “I can barely breathe!”

Bobbie rubbed at his tired eyes and stretched his aching body before replying. “Come on John, thought you were tougher than that.”

“Toughness has got nothing to do with it, Bobbie.” John gave Bobbie a less than soft punch to the shoulder, eliciting a small grunt of indignation from the recipient, “Don’t get this sort of nonsense in York.”

“We’ll be back there soon enough,” Bobbie came back, sitting more upright now, ” and you can air all your grievances direct to Mr Percy.”

“Not likely,” John shot back, “he wouldn’t much care anyway.” John looked rueful for a moment, “Strong-willed is that Mr Percy - reckon he’d overthrow the monarchy if the opportunity arose.”

The uncomfortable nature of John’s suggestion silenced both men, but Bobbie skilfully changed the subject for something more benign. “What time is it anyway?” he asked.

“Damned if I know,” John’s reply was fairly non-committal, “and working for Mr Percy, damned is probably how I will end up once this miserable life is finished.”

“Now, come on John,” Bobbie made an effort to calm his colleague, “at least you have a job, albeit far from home.” He barely missed a beat as he changed the subject back again, “Feels like a place this important could use a clock tower.”

“Why’s that?” John asked innocuously, not really caring about any answer that might be forthcoming.

“To bring a sense of community to an otherwise affluent area.” Bobbie had clearly given this careful consideration. “Build it tall, so people from further away can see from a distance; put a clock face on each side, so you can literally see the time from any angle.”

“Seems like an extravagance,” John mused, “when you consider all the other things a central government could burn money on.”

“Admittedly, it would only be for the good of London itself,” Bobbie conceded, “but if you were to have it chime on the hour, make a real noise, then even those who couldn’t see the clock could still benefit from the time structure and broader feeling of community!” Bobbie’s face was heavily animated as he spoke.

John shrugged his shoulders and considered that Bobbie clearly wasted too much effort thinking. “Hear the chimes from miles around?” John was sceptical, “Why, for that you’d need a really big be...”

John’s rebuttal to Bobbie’s grand time-keeping scheme was cut short when a Justice of the Peace stepped from round the edge of the building and startled the nag, along with the cart’s two occupants.

“What goes on here?” The peacemaker was firm in tone, but his posture suggested he’d settle for an easier night.

“Delivery, guv’nor,” said John calmly and evenly, “on behalf of Mr Percy.” John consulted his papers again, squinting in the terrible lighting, “Where can I find this store-room?” John showed the paper to the guard.

“That’s an undercroft,” the guard studied the paper as he spoke and gestured behind him, “Round the corner and it’s the fifth door along, marked ‘11’.”

“Undercroft?” queried John, “What’s that?”

“Big storage room,” the guard replied, with a slightly puzzled look, “underneath the palace.”

“Underneath?!!” John spluttered incredulously and looked over at Bobbie, “Hear that Bobbie? These stupid barrels will have to get downstairs!”

The guard started to move off in the opposite direction to the undercroft, shouting over his shoulder as he went, “There’s usually a plank nearby to use as a ramp!” He was determined not to get caught up helping the deliverymen.

John shook his head and muttered choice words about Mr Percy as he steered the nag as indicated by the guard. In the distance, he thought he caught sight of a shadowy figure, moving away from one of the storeroom doors.

“Hey!” he called, but the figure didn’t stop as they melted into the darkness. “Bobbie, did you see that guy?”

“What?” Bobbie was practically half asleep again, “No, I didn’t see anything. You’re probably seeing things anyway John, with the dark and fog combined.”

John wasn’t so sure, but he let it go. They approached the door to the undercroft, marked ‘11’, and pulled the cart just past the entrance, so the barrels wouldn’t have far to get to the makeshift slope. John spotted the plank adjacent to the doorway and silently pointed it out to Bobbie - he’d know what to do with it.

John pulled a second lantern from the cart and set it going from the already lit one. Carrying it above his head, he made his way down the steep, damp steps into the undercroft. He gave a low whistle when he appreciated the overall size of the room, but was surprised to find barrels already down there.

“Bobbie!” he called back up to his companion, “There’s lots of barrels already down here! Is this definitely the right place?” The last thing John wanted was to unload and then have to heave the cargo back up the steps again if it was wrong.

“John!” the hissed reply came back, “Keep your voice down, would you? Do you want more of those Peacekeepers checking our papers every 30 seconds because of your loud mouth?”

“Fine!” John didn’t lower his voice much, just enough to seem like he had obviously made an effort to acquiesce. “Well though, is this the right ‘undercroft’?” John rolled his eyes as he used the term - let’s face it, the term basically meant ‘big posh, fancy cellar’.

Bobbie had positioned the plank to act as their makeshift ramp and was making grunting noises as he lifted the first barrel into position for descent into the cellar. “Oh, John! Yes’ it’s the right one!” He sorely wanted to get the delivery started, so it could get finished and they could head back north, “Heads up! First barrel inbound!”

John stepped back as the barrel of flour hit the bottom of the ramp going quickly; the steep angle of the steps meant that it hit the ground hard, taking a lot of the momentum out. John was still glad he wasn’t in it’s way. Whilst it was still rolling slowly, John moved behind it and pushed it across to where the existing stock was stored. He returned to the bottom of the steps just in time to receive the next wooden drum.

This went on for a while, with Bobbie regularly pushing the cylindrical storage containers down to his waiting partner - as the job wore on, the time between barrels became slightly longer, as Bobbie had to work harder getting them off the wagon from further back. Each time, John set the flour container with the others and returned to wait for the next one.

Can’t be many left, John thought as he stood waiting. Waiting always feels longer than it should and John became impatient enough to look for Bobbie up at the entrance. He thought he heard muffled voices, but his own heavy breathing from the workout made him unsure. He heard the barrel at the top of the slope before he saw it - he knew straight away that he was too close to the ramp and only just dodged as the next instalment hit the bottom hard. It also caught John’s right leg as he stepped aside and almost knocked him off his feet. Damn, that’s much heavier than the others, he thought as he worked a knot out of his now tender thigh.

“Oi, Bobbie!” John shouted up, forgetting to keep his voice down. As no reply, save for the low voices he couldn’t make out continued, John worked this new barrel into place with the others, huffing and puffing at the increased weight, combined with his already tiring body.

As he stood the barrel in place, he could see a piece of string attached to the top. It ran over the lip of the vessel and looked like it was held in place by a cork set in the middle of the lid. Curious, and unable to make out the thick thread in the dim light, John recovered his lantern and held it up to get some light shining on the object in question.

What John saw puzzled him greatly. He was a flour delivery merchant from York, working for a staunchly Catholic grain merchant, which meant he couldn’t be sure what he was seeing...but he thought it looked like a fuse. As he held the end of the rope closer to the lantern for a more detailed inspection, things suddenly went black.

John was brought back to reality quickly and sharply, being hauled to his feet roughly. As the fog from his vision started to clear, he could make out the shape of someone right in his face shouting at him.

“On your feet, Fawkes!” The man closest to John shouted, confusing the already dazed flourman. As his sight continued to clear, he could make out the deep red colour of their tunics , the royal blue shade of their pantaloons and discern the shine of their torso armour, reflecting what little candlelight remained. He spied his own, now extinguished, lantern on the floor near the barrel he had been inspecting.

“Who is Fawkes?” John managed to utter, as it became obvious the guardsmen believed him to be someone else.

“Don’t give us that!” Another bawled at him, as a third shoved him in the general direction of the steep stone stairs. John lost his footing any number of times as they made their way back up into the crisp November night, still thick with fog. There was a tension in the air as John made out yet more guards loosely formed around the entrance. His eyes then fell on his colleague, sprawled out in the damp mud, looking very still but breathing shallowly.

“Bobbie!” John shouted, staggering over to his friend’s inert form and getting close to check on his health. “You better not have killed him!” John looked at a number of the guards and scowled, even though he still couldn’t make out the details of any faces.

“Quiet Fawkes!” The man who was quite obviously in charge barked at him, “Would be no better than what you had planned for the King!”

“What are you on about?” John spluttered in response, “My name is Johnson and I’m just a delivery man.”

“Oh, ‘John Johnson’, I presume?” The man snorted derisively as he spoke, clearly not buying the story, “Is that the best alias you could come up with, Fawkes?”

“Who is Fawkes?” John repeated, hoping to understand what was going on, so they could clear up the confusion and hightail it away from this place. “Myself and my colleague, Bobbie Catesby, are just delivering flour to the palace stores, on behalf of Mr Percy. What has that got to do with the King?”

“Known Catholic agitator Thomas Percy?” The interrogator spat his distaste for Percy at the two conspirators before him. “We know you are Guy Fawkes, sent to blow up the Houses of Parliament, along with his majesty King James.” He shook his head, as the disbelief of the idea caught up with him. “I don’t know how you can live with yourselves.”

“Blow up the King?” John couldn’t himself believe what he was hearing, but he was too aware of Mr Percy’s anti-royalist position. “How would that work with barrels of flour?”

“We caught you literally in the process of lighting the fuse from your lantern!” The man shouted at them, although Bobbie still probably wasn’t hearing the charges levelled at them. “A fuse that led into a barrel of gunpowder, no less!”

“I’d only just seen that fuse and was trying to get a closer look in the light from the lantern...” John tailed off as the implications of the man’s words sunk in. “Gunpowder?” he said simply.

“Tell it to the King!” The man turned on his heel and started off away from the undercroft, “Bring him with me - he can explain his actions first hand to His Majesty.”

“Lord Suffolk,” a man from behind called across, as John was hauled to his feet roughly, “what shall I do with this one?” John couldn’t see the new man point to Bobbie’s slowly stirring form.

“Take him to the tower, Monteagle.” The man called Suffolk commanded, “I’ll be along with Fawkes later and we’ll see what further nonsense these two can concoct before we break them.”

John was dragged along behind Suffolk and was well surrounded by soldiers. Just as they neared a corner, they heard a shout from behind them. “Stop him!”

John turned his head sharply and saw Bobbie nimbly hop onto a carelessly abandoned horse, left by one of the guards, and bolt off in the opposite direction. “Go Bobbie!” John muttered under his breath, “Escape this hellhole!”

“Get after him!” Suffolk shouted, “He’ll head north, for York!”

As they finally rounded the corner, leaving the now almost empty cart behind, John thought he caught sight of the shadowy figure, lurking just outside the peripheral light, watching events unfold.

“Hey!” John went bolt upright, taking his captors by surprise (although not enough to let go of his bonds), and glanced around to make sure they were looking in the direction he was gesturing, “Who’s that lurking in the shadows?”

But when John looked back again, the figure was gone.