Embedded Files
Volume 1 | Issue 4 - Leaders
Article by Amy Calladine. Edited by Harriet Di Francesco. Additional Research by Helen Midgley.
On a cold November morning in 1605, the city of London awoke to some startling news. A man, Guido Fawkes, had been found crammed into a rented vault under the House of Lords, along with thirty-six barrels of gunpowder. Had he been successful in detonating these, he would have ripped through the foundations of parliament, killing King James I and scores of assembled MPs. Nowadays bonfire night is all about toffee apples and sparklers, but a little over 400 years ago the picture couldn’t have been more different.
The Gunpowder Plot was conceived amidst the tense religious climate of Early Modern England. After the rapid changes implemented by the Henrican reformation spiritual belief became a powerful marker of political and national allegiance. To live openly as a Catholic was to live a life of constant fear. The lurid details of popish plots were splashed across printed broadsheets and fervently recounted in the city streets. Into this scene steps Robert Catesby, the enigmatic son of Catholic nobility who masterminded an ambitious scheme to rewrite the nature of spiritual and secular authority.
When we think about the 5th November Catesby’s isn’t the first name which springs to mind. It is Guy Fawkes who has become the unfortunate poster boy of failed conspiracy. However, if we peel back the layers surrounding the events of 1605, we are left with a remarkable story of sedition, secrecy and betrayal in which Catesby, not Fawkes, takes centre stage.
In the eyes of contemporaries, Catesby was a handsome and charming man. From a young age, he had moved in the elite circles of the Royal court gaining a glamorous, but dangerous, reputation. According to Antonia Fraser, Catesby was the sort of person whom people would willingly follow to their death. This devastating personality was intensified by searing religiosity and a burning desire for revenge.
Robert’s aristocratic lineage and powerful connections plunged him into a climate of furtive secrecy from childhood. His father, William, was a notable supporter of the Jesuit mission. Born out of the Counter-Reformation, these radical Catholic priests provoked great fear and suspicion, relying on the support of established families like the Catesby’s to abet their mission. The ingenious ‘Priest Holes’ carved into the twisting passages of sixteenth-century manor houses are products of this acute climate of fear and deception. At a time when oaths and allegiances were spoken in whispers and the threat of capture was ever present.
Turning the clock forward to May 1604, we find a group of men assembled in one of London’s many drinking establishments. Huddled around a table in an upstairs room, Catesby revealed his daring plot to blow up King and Parliament and restore the ascendancy of the Catholic faith. If everything went to plan, the chaos of the explosion would allow for James’ Catholic daughter, the nine year old princess Elizabeth, to be crowned head of state.
For eighteen months, Catesby led the conspirators in meticulous preparation. From his rented accommodation in Lambeth, across the river from the houses of parliament, large quantities of explosives were gradually accumulated. A stroke of luck came with the sale of a lease on one of the storage vaults under the House of Lords.
As the months wore on, the plotters diligently ferried barrels of gunpowder from Lambeth to the vaults, obscuring their whereabouts behind piles of firewood. The little boat going to and from the Houses of Parliament would have been unnoticeable amidst the chaos of the crowded Thames. Everything was slipping neatly into place. Or so it seemed.
The turning point came twelve days before the planned attack. A mysterious letter came into the possession of Lord Monteagle, an eminent Catholic politician, who was due to attend the State Opening of Parliament on the 5th November. The anonymous message urged Monteagle to stay away from parliament, warning that ‘a terrible blow’ would be received. Instead of silently heeding the advice, Monteagle immediately took the letter to Whitehall Palace and the counsel of King James I.
Months of careful planning were instantly destroyed with news of Fawkes’ arrest on November 5th. Tortured for days, Guy maintained his alias of John Johnson, refusing to reveal the details of the plot and his fellow conspirators. Five days later he had caved, admitting everything. Fawkes was a broken man, his proud signature reduced to an infantile scrawl – a poignant symbol of the formidable power of church and crown.
When news of the arrest reached Catesby, a desperate flight north ensued. Retreating to the security of Holbeach House in Staffordshire, the remaining plotters were forced into a deadly waiting game. By November the 8th it was all over. Fatally wounded in the inevitable shoot out with the King’s troops, Robert was at least spared the horror of a public execution.
The life of Robert Catesby was turbulent to say the least. As leader of one of the most infamous terrorist plots in British history, it is striking how few of us recognise his name. The old adage that history is written by the winners seems to ring true once again. With the state-sanctioned festivities of 5th November elevated to symbolic status, it is easy to forget the story behind the myth. If we are to glean anything from the failed conspiracy of the Gunpowder Plot, it will not be understood amidst the fireworks and festivities. At its most simple, and its most devastating, the story of Robert Catesby is a poignant example of the dangers of politicised religion and the complicated, human face of radical insurgency.
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