Guy Fawkes | Plot | 3
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Wondery Plus subscribers can binge entire seasons of British Scandal early and ad-free. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Just a warning before we start, this episode contains descriptions of torture which some listeners may find disturbing. Oh, thanks, Matt. I thought I'd lost that wallet. Cheers. Thank you. No worries. I knew it was yours just because, obviously, your photo ID in here, but I am slightly confused by some of the names on these. What do you mean? Well, on your driving licence.

It's your photo, but the name is Alison Gaddafi. Yeah. It's probably just a typo. They maybe couldn't read my handwriting or something on the form. Yeah, good point. Sorry, just on your Blockbuster membership card, the name's Alicia al-Baghdadi. Yes, yes. That is just a nickname from school. Okay. I didn't know they let you do that. So there is just one other one that slightly bothered me. On your membership card of that coffee place you go to...

Your name's Alios the Jackal? Ah yes, that is my married name. I didn't know you got married. Well, I'm sadly no longer with Mr Jackal. I'm so sorry. I feel like a fool for bringing this up. No, it's fine. November the 7th, 1605, London. Robert Cecil's carriage thunders through the narrow winding alleyways. He presses his face against the window, eyes darting through the haze.

He watches as merchants lock their doors early, as soldiers patrol in double ranks. Two days have passed since the failed gunpowder plot, but he knows they'll strike again. His spy network has reported whispers of another attack, this time within the walls of Hampton Court Palace. There's even talk of a Catholic army gathering in the north. His mind races as he snaps at the driver. "Faster!" King James wants answers, and he has none to give.

What is it? Speak! Sir, there are rumours of men gathering near St Paul's. Armed men, sir.

Cecil sees the fear etched on the guard's face. How many? His voice sounds sharper than he intended. We don't know, sir. Word came just minutes ago. He clenches his fists as he slams the carriage door shut. He must reach St Paul's before it's too late. A few minutes later, Cecil leaps out as the carriage skids to a stop near St Paul's churchyard. He races towards the soldiers stationed at the gate. Sir, there's nothing here. No armed men. It appears it was just a false alarm.

Cecil feels anger rise in his throat. I will not have this realm torn apart by your incompetence. I love a false alarm. The relief. Come on, Cecil. At that point, you should say thank God for that. It's like someone cancelling on you on the night. It's just lovely. Oh, what? Oh, no, just me.

Have I showed my introverted hand? Oh yeah, that drives me mad if people cancel on the night. I just think it's the biggest treat you can give someone. Okay, next time we arrange to meet, you're going to get a heck of a treat. But then Cecil's anger turns to panic. Is this some kind of distraction? He strides past the soldiers searching for something, anything that would make sense of the situation. He has to think clearly. Then from the corner of his eye...

He sees one of his informants rushing towards him through the gravestones, face pale with urgency. "Sir Cecil." "Out with it, ma'am." "Sir, we think we've identified the prisoner. We've caught his powder dealer. His name? His name is Guido." Cecil lets the name roll on his tongue. "Guido." He feels his eyes widen. The informant interrupts his contemplation. "Guido Fawkes."

Cecil rests his hands on one of the gravestones, looks up at the darkening sky. It's time to make this Papist talk and shut down this Catholic uprising once and for all.

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So Matt, when they told me we were doing this one, I thought, this is a story I will not need to brush up on. We all learnt about the gunpowder plot in primary school. But if we cast our minds back to the end of the last episode, Guy was being tortured by the King's spymaster. Yes, that is the sort of gory detail we were not taught by Mr Kelly at school. And I think that that was a dereliction of his duty. He should definitely have found a way to describe in

in detail, torture and capital punishment with year two. You should. I mean, ironic because he did give me the cane. How old are you? I was just very naughty. We obviously know how this story ends. We've been reminded every year of our lives. But at this point in the story, whose side are you on? It's a bit difficult because they are torturing Guy Fawkes, which I do disagree with on the whole. And King James, obviously, I don't...

I don't agree with hereditary power in principle. And he's not united the country. Catholics are still being persecuted. But Guy Fawkes and his men want to blow up Parliament. And I don't agree with terrorism. I certainly don't agree with blowing up one of the most beautiful buildings on the planet. So...

Basically, I feel in summary, you're just pretty glad you weren't alive in 1605. Yes, I am delighted to live in an era of basic human rights, better sanitation and itsu. I know you mean that. This is episode three, Plot. Early morning, November the 5th, 1605, London. Thomas Percy paces the creaking floorboards of his secret lodgings. Guy was due to meet him an hour ago with news of the plot's success.

Come on, guy. Where in God's name are you? Unable to bear the suspense any longer, he grabs his cloak and steps out into the brisk morning air.

I know a lot of conditions were worse in the 17th century for people living in London. But the thought of putting on a cloak is so much more enticing than me putting on a mack in a sack. Oh, do you think? I think there's been a lot of progress since then. All I'm saying is I think certain things have got worse. I definitely thought you were a cag and a bad guy. But also, I think a cloak sounds cumbersome. A wool cloak. Can you imagine if it rained? You'd just be like dragging around a pelt. Yeah, but on your family photos, you'd look great.

Percy takes in the familiar London skyline. He looks up at St Paul's Cathedral, spots a thick plume of smoke in the distance. His heart leaps. Could it be the ruins of Parliament? He almost bounces forward until he stops and stares in confusion. There's a second plume of smoke, this one coming from south of the river. He spins around as he sees a third and a fourth.

He realises with growing unease that the smoke is coming from hundreds of bonfires blazing at street corners. He turns onto Fleet Street. Snatches of conversation reach his ears. Something's happening in Westminster. The King summoned Parliament in the dead of night. A window shatters nearby, causing Percy to flinch. He looks at the shop, realises that it's a Catholic shop.

His eyes flick from one storefront to another, all smashed windows, all owned by Catholics. He pulls his hat lower, trying to blend in with the crowd as cries ring out. Death to the Papists! Percy pushes through the mob, keeping his head down. Sweat begins to soak through his fine linen shirt.

And likely the cloak, I'm just saying. Okay, I'm going off the cloak. I feel in this time a wicking layer is exactly what you'd need. But a wicking layer just what, gets sweat away from the skin? Yes. Dad's like wicking layers. Dad's talked about wicking a lot. But do you know what? That's the sort of stuff I used to wear to record this podcast. And I remember you making a comment about all my clothes having like a football crest on. And I've actually changed what I wear. Oh God.

Wait, am I your stylist? Um, is that the same as tormentor? Does that mean the same thing? I am floored by this. I think you've done my wife a huge favour. He freezes as a patrol of the King's Guard approaches, their polished breastplates glinting in the early morning light. Percy's about to duck into a nearby alley when a booming voice calls out. Thomas Percy! Percy straightens and fixes a smile on his face.

Captain, what a surprise. I was just... But the guard cuts in. I could use an extra pair of hands. There's been an attempt on Parliament. Catholic plot. We're rounding up suspects. Percy keeps his face neutral. Caught one of the bastards red-handed in the cellars. Percy feels like he's going to be sick. Caught someone? The king's guard glances at the destruction around him. Lord Cecil's got his eye on a few men.

The guard continues. Powerful, some of them, I hear. Percy taps his buckled boot on the cobbled street. He tries to focus his mind. He has to warn Catesby and the others before it's too late. A jeering crowd provides the distraction he needs. I'll manage the crowd. Can't have this rabble interfering with official business, can we? The captain nods. Tipping his hat, Percy edges back.

then slips away into a side alley and disappears into London's maze of streets. Because the real danger, he knows, is just beginning. November 7th, 1605. The White Tower, London. Guy winces as he feels his body stretch taut on the rack. I don't want to belittle the genuine suffering that people felt on this device. The first... I'll pause you there. Think about what you're going to say.

I refuse to do that. The first turn or two, you must think, I look pretty good. It would slim you off the first couple of notches, wouldn't it? You'd think, oh, actually, that's quite comfortable. A really good stretch is a nice feeling. His muscles tense. His breath hitches in his raw throat. Sweat stings his eyes as light floods his cell. He squints against the brightness, his vision swimming with dark spots.

As his swollen eyes adjust, he sees a figure silhouetted in the doorway. Even through his pain-blurred vision, Guy recognizes the fine cut of the man's doublet: the King's spymaster, Robert Cecil. Well, well. Still with us, are we? Guy's heart hammers against his ribcage. He flexes his wrists, feeling the bite of iron shackles against oozing raw skin. I know nothing!

Cecil chuckles coldly as his cane strikes the floor. "Oh, I think you do, Guy Fawkes." Guy feels a sickness form in the pit of his stomach as Cecil smiles. "Bring her in." Guy strains to see past Cecil. "Your devotion to your Catholic brothers is admirable, but is it worth her suffering?" There, a glimpse of a familiar figure. Shoulders slumped, their eyes meet.

And Guy's heart shatters. Guy! Her whisper reaches him, fragile and broken. My son, what have they done to you? Don't bring his mum into it. There are rules of engagement, surely. I think that's against the Geneva Convention. Guy watches in horror as Cecil orders two guards to step forward. They drag his mother toward another rack, her feet scraping against the stone floor. The names of your co-conspirators, now!

Guy's arms burn as he struggles against his restraints, but the leather bites deeper into his wrists. He flinches as his mother's wrists and ankles are bound tight. Her breathing grows shallow. Her eyes lock onto his, wide with terror. You'll actually enjoy the first couple of turns. I can't believe you're doubling down. I actually can't believe it. You're a monster. It's like a good stretch. Mum, you'll enjoy the first couple of turns and then I might start piping up after that. The rack cranks once. Ah!

He feels Cecil's breath hot in his ear. Every moment you resist, she inches closer to death. The names. The faces of his brothers in arms swim before Guy. Catesby. Percy. Winter. Wright. Men he'd die for. Men he'd kill for. A smell of incense fills his nostrils. He thinks of the Holy Catholic Church. Of what they're fighting for. Of the revolution.

Guy, please. The sound of his mother's pleading voice breaks Guy's reverie. He looks across at her, at the agony etched across her face. Okay, Cecil, I'll tell you. Cecil thrusts a document in front of Guy's face. The words swim before his eyes, but he recognizes it for what it is, a confession. Guy's shaking hand takes the quill and painfully begins to scribble his name. Cecil's stern expression doesn't waver.

And the names, Fawkes. Slowly, Guy lowers the quill once more. He knows he's sealing the fate of his co-conspirators, his friends. But right now, all he cares about is saving the only person who's ever really cared for him. He watches, almost detached, as his hand begins to form the letters. P.E. The name comes from somewhere deep down inside. Percy. Thomas. Percy. Percy.

Is intelligence a real word? No.

Did you think I just made it up on the spot? It wouldn't be the first time. So Robert Cecil's intelligences are, I guess, the first example of something like the Secret Service. They're spies and they operate across Europe. They're sometimes merchants. They're mainly commenting on naval activities and reporting back to Robert Cecil. So they're his eyes and ears. Just such a bad job title. I'm an intelligencer. At the very least, special intelligence agent.

Rob's calloused fingers trace a scar on his face as he watches the house. Come on out, you Catholic dog. I know you're in there. Rob tenses as a cloaked figure appears and slips in the side entrance. He waits a second before crossing the street. He carefully retrieves a set of lockpicks from his coat, eases the door open, and slips inside. His hand rests on the hilt of his dagger as he surveys the moonlit interior.

Discarded papers litter the floor. Half-packed trunks spill their contents onto worn floorboards. He slips deeper into the house, until he rounds a corner and freezes outside a closed door. Rob presses himself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. His hand tightens on his dagger as the door handle starts to turn. He sidesteps across the doorframe, dagger drawn.

A startled scream pierces the air and he comes face to face, not with Thomas Percy, but with a wide-eyed chambermaid. For a split second, Rob considers silencing her there and then. But information is worth more than a quick kill. Please don't hurt me. I'm just here to clean. Rob lowers his dagger but keeps it visible.

He can smell the fear radiating off her, see the rapid pulse in her throat. Looks like I've found myself a little bird, and you're going to sing for me, aren't you, love? He takes a step closer. I... I don't know anything! Rob's eyes narrow. He's heard that lie a thousand times before. His fingers flex on the dagger's hilt. Oh, I think you do. Where's Thomas Percy? Rob freezes, hearing footsteps on the cobbled street.

His eyes dart to the terrified chambermaid as the footsteps pause just outside the front door. Not a sound, or we'll both regret it. Rob's heart pounds in his ears. He waits. Then the footsteps resume, fading into the distance. He turns back to the maid, his voice low and dangerous. I believe you were about to tell me the whereabouts of Thomas Percy.

He watches her face, noting every twitch, then slams his hand on a nearby table. He left yesterday in a hurry. Said something about meeting friends up north. Where? I think they were going out on the lashing Sheffield, but I can't remember. Is it the lead mill? He leans in closer. I overheard him mention some ass. Olbeck, I think. But please, that's all I know. Rob grins to himself. He knows Olbeck. The hunt is on.

And he won't rest until Thomas Percy and his co-conspirators are in chains. November the 8th, 1605. Holbeck House, Staffordshire. Thomas Percy's horse thunders through the dense forest. His once immaculate doublet, now torn, clings to his body as he leans low over the saddle. He squints through the rain, his heart pounding in sync with the hoofbeats. He jolts forward as his horse startles. It rears on its hind legs,

Percy clings to the reins, desperately pats his horse as he brings it to a standstill. Easy now. He yanks a sodden piece of parchment from his pocket, a crudely drawn map. It's the best he could muster in his rush to escape London and reach Holbeck House. Squinting through the rain, he struggles to make out the fading ink. With a curse, he stuffs it back into his pocket. Damn this darkness. He digs his heels into his horse's flanks.

propels the beast onwards through a tangle of thorny brambles. His mind races as he thinks of Guy, the torture he's enduring. If Catesby's gathered enough men in the north to march on London, his Catholic army has promised, they might yet be able to rescue their friend and turn the tide. The trees begin to thin. Percy's heart leaps as he spots a grand house looming through the gloom. Thank God!

He bursts through the tree line. The house stands dark and silent. Percy's exhausted horse stumbles into the courtyard. Catesby, open up! Percy can't help but throw his arms around the haggard Robert Catesby the moment the door opens. But his stomach drops as he looks over his friend's shoulder, seeing only a handful of men.

Where are they? The army? We need to move quickly. Cecil has released arrest warrants. I... But Catesby cuts in, dejected. They haven't come, Percy. It's just us. Percy freezes, disbelief etched on his face. What? But you said thousands of Catholic men, ready to rise up. Catesby's voice is quiet, almost apologetic. I...

may have overestimated our support. Fury bubbles up in Percy's chest, hot and choking. He grabs Catesby by the collar. Exaggerated! Do you realise what I've risked to get here? What guy has risked? Their argument is cut short by a shout from the lookout. Riders approaching! At least two dozen! Percy's eyes light up with renewed hope. There! You see? Our allies have come after all.

Percy charges out to the courtyard, eager to greet the horsemen approaching over the hill. But his scalp tightens in creeping horror as the lantern light reveals the distinctive red and gold liveries of King James's men. Percy feels the color drain from his face. The advancing hooves grow as loud as thunder as the reality of their situation sinks in. He dashes back inside and looks at each face. Friends, brothers in arms.

"Gentlemen, this is not the end. The night is dark, but dawn always comes." He grips his pistol tighter, a smile playing on his lips. "For England, for our true faith, and for the chance that our fight here might yet ignite the spark of change!" He ducks as the first volley of musket fire shatters the windows. Percy exchanges a final look with Catesby. No more words needed.

They'll face this battle together, united to the end. He raises his pistol and then his voice and shouts over the growing noise. We are Englishmen. We surrender to no one. That famous phrase now uttered, of course, every other summer by topless men in foreign piazzas. And it makes us proud.

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January 20th, 1606. Palace of Whitehall, London. Attorney General Sir Edward Coke pauses before the ornate doors of the King's Privy Chamber. He straightens his richly embroidered black robes and strides in. At 53, Coke cuts an imposing figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, with penetrating dark eyes that miss nothing.

As Attorney General, he stands as the preeminent legal mind in the country and, in his own estimation, the greatest lawmaker of his generation. He kneels before the king, whose eyes remain fixed on an astrological chart in his lap. Coke slips thin with barely disguised disapproval. As a man of reason and law, he has little patience for such superstitious nonsense.

He feels a flash of frustration as the king mutters to himself. Mercury in retrograde. Mars ascendant. Ill omens. Ill omens indeed. Coke clears his throat, his mind already cataloguing the important matters of state they need to discuss instead of this astrological drivel. The king seems to notice him for the first time. Ah, rise, Sir Edward.

I suppose you're familiar with the name Guy Fawkes. This entire wretched affair is extremely malefic. It's shaking the very foundations of our country.

I require more than justice. I need a reckoning. King James fixes him with a penetrating look. A reckoning I want you to lead. Coke's ears prick up. Your Majesty, I assure you the full weight of the law will be brought to bear on Guy Fawkes and all of these traitors. A public trial will demonstrate the Crown's strength and the plotter's depravity.

James cuts him off. Not just depravity. They're faith, man. We must show that their treachery is rooted in their papist beliefs. I need a spectacle that will crush the very spirit of Catholicism. Well, they did try that when they crucified Jesus and it didn't work. But maybe it's been long enough. I don't know. I just want to point that out in case you've forgotten. It seems to make them stronger, sir. Coke's hands tighten imperceptibly at his sides.

He's no fan of the Catholics, but he refuses to bypass the law. He knows he needs to choose his words with care. Sire, if I may, the law is our surest defence against chaos. A trial conducted with utmost adherence to legal procedure will not only convict these men, but will demonstrate the strength and fairness of your majesty's rules.

The king drums his fingers on his armrest. And you can guarantee that this legal procedure will give us the outcome we require? Coke hesitates, but he also senses an opportunity. And he's an ambitious man. I stake my reputation on it, sir. It will excise this cancer from our land. Coke's words hang in the air before the king. Very well, Sir Edward.

See that justice is done. Because if it isn't, it won't just be the plotter's heads on the chopping block. Ah, when I said it would fully excise the cancer, I think we need a long trial. Very long trial. Oh God, what have I done? Coke bows. Then as he turns to leave, a flicker of anticipation crosses his face. It's time to put his skills to the test. This trial will be his blade.

to cut Catholicism from the very fabric of the nation. January 27th, 1606, River Thames, London. Guy inhales the salty air as the prison barge rounds the bend of the Thames. It's his first taste of the outside world since his arrest three months ago. He takes in the imposing silhouette of Parliament.

His eyes settle on the riverbank entrance, now heavily guarded, where he and Percy carried in 36 barrels of gunpowder. He clings to the hope, even now, that Catesby's forces will soon descend upon London, igniting the Catholic revolution he still dreams of.

Move it, Forks! The court will summon you shortly. Enjoy your last moments of peace. As the door slams shut, Guy realises he's not alone.

A figure emerges from the shadows. He hopes for a moment it might be his mother. And his heart sinks at the outline of Robert Cecil. Mr. Fawkes, so good of you to join us. Guy collapses on a small wooden stool. I've told you everything. He fixes his eyes on a spot on the floor. It's now my turn to share some information with you. Guy looks up in confusion. He notices that Cecil is holding a Hessian sack.

Guy feels his mouth turn dry as Cecil carefully unties the topknot, gently reaches inside, and then violently throws a severed head onto the stone floor with a thud. Guy falls off the stool in horror as he takes in the bluish skin and exposed spine protruding from the base of the skull. Dried blood splatters its face, matting its hair around the bulging whites of its eyes.

Guy feels himself retch and then vomit onto the floor. "I thought you'd like to be reacquainted with your good friend, Robert Catesby." "Yeah, but not like this." Guy recoils as he hears another thud. A second severed head hits the floor. "Oh, I'm not finished." Guy can't bear to look. He knows it's Percy.

He collapses to his knees, his body shaking with horror and grief. Your Catholic uprising dies with them, Fawkes, and soon with you. Guy's eyes fall on the back of Percy's head, and for the first time, he wishes he was dead too. Plead guilty, Mr Fawkes. It will lessen your suffering. Guy can't understand why Cecil hasn't killed him too.

He looks back up at the king's spymaster as he starts to realise. Is that what you need? You need me to plead guilty? In public? Guy slowly drags himself to his feet. And deny my faith? Never. You've taken their lives, Cecil. But you'll not take our cause.

Whatever side you're on in this, the stamina that he's got is incredible. Unbelievable. And the resilience. I mean, even at that point, I'd be like, OK, I'll deny it. Just let's get this over and done with quickly. I love Protestantism and I love the king. Guy watches Cecil's smirk fade, replaced by the look of cold calculation. Very well, Mr. Fawkes. As Cecil walks away, Guy is left alone with the grim evidence of his failed plot.

He knows the packed courtroom awaits, the judges, the prosecutor, and the weight of the entire English legal system. Guy knows this is his final battleground, and he intends to make one last stand, one last desperate move that might yet salvage something from this disaster. Whatever awaits him in that courtroom, he still has one last act of defiance left in him.

A few hours later, Westminster Hall, London. Sir Edward Coke's keen eyes survey the grand chamber. Ornate tapestries adorn the stone walls. High vaulted ceilings echo with whispers of anticipation in the packed courtroom. This is one of the best parts of the Houses of Parliament. It's the oldest surviving part. And when they were doing restoration work on it a few years ago...

They found old tennis balls right up in the windows. And this used to be used Westminster Hall because it was a royal palace for big banquets and parties. And they think some of those old tennis balls might have been Henry VIII's. No. And this is the hall where the Queen lay in state, where Churchill lay in state, where the public would queue up and walk around the coffin. It's also where Charles I's trial was upon the steps of Westminster Hall. It's where Obama addressed both houses of parliament. And my favourite bit

There used to be, before they repaired the floor, this big hole in the floor, like water damage, and it was right under the spot where after Cromwell was overthrown and the monarch took back control of the country, they dug up Cromwell's bones from Westminster Abbey, put his corpse on trial, and they hung his severed head from the ceiling of Westminster Hall, and all this gunk dripped out of it, created the original hole, and then years of water damage added to it. So you could just walk through Westminster Hall...

and walk over and touch this original hole. Oh, my God. Yeah, and that's where Fawkes is. So, like, it's the epicentre of so many major moments in British history. Coke fixes Mr Fawkes with a piercing stare as he enters. A confident smile dances across his lips. This trial will be the crowning achievement of his career, a swift and decisive blow that will forever eradicate Catholicism in this country.

He just needs to extract guilty verdicts from each of the conspirators. Coke adjusts his crisp white rough. The hall falls silent, all eyes fixed upon him. We are gathered here today to address a matter of treason. His gaze lingers on Mr. Fawkes before he turns to the room, drinking in the gravitas of the moment. Coke can feel the weight of history, and he intends to make the most of it.

It is a plot so horrifying, no human tongue has ever spoken of its like. Coke faces the prisoners, his gaze locking onto forks. You stand accused of conspiring to blow up the king, lords and commons. Many of those you wish to kill are gathered here today.

He looks pointedly at several nobles in the gallery. Let us not forget, my lords and gentlemen, that this man was caught red-handed. 36 barrels of gunpowder, enough to reduce this palace, this very room, to rubble. He pauses, allowing the enormity of the crime to sink in. Shock and outrage ripple through the crowd.

before he reaches for a document on the table before him and unfurls the signed confession with a flourish. An act of treason the accused has already confessed to. The courtroom falls deathly quiet as all eyes focus on the damning piece of evidence. How do you answer these charges? His jaw clenches, a vein pulsing in his temple as he waits for the response. Not guilty.

A collective gasp passes through the courtroom. Coke feels King James's eyes bore into him from his throne in the audience. Mr. Fawkes, you were apprehended in the act. I have a confession. How can you deny your guilt? Coke leans forward, the edge of the oak table pressing into his palms. I was but a servant following orders. A servant? To God and my conscience, my lord.

You mean the Pope and his devilish doctrine? The law of England is clear on the matter of treason. I deny that my faith is treason. The law you speak of oppresses Catholics. It forces us to choose between our earthly monarch and our heavenly father.

He glances at the King, sees fury etched across James's face.

Which you can totally understand because that phrase that is used, earthly monarch and heavenly father, is a direct attack on the legitimacy of the king. Because kings and queens believe themselves not just to be appointed by God to be his people on earth, but literally descended from Jesus. So what he's saying there isn't just anti-establishment, it's

and blasphemy all rolled into one. Yes, at this point you'd be like, your lawyer probably would suggest not using such inflammatory language, but as it happens, traitors weren't allowed lawyers. So he's just, he's freewheeling. He's absolutely freestyling here. Mr. Fawkes, I must remind you that our monarch is God's representative, to which your, your faith is clearly antithetical.

Catholicism is at odds with the very structure, the very fabric of our society. Coke feels himself finding his stride. Your plot attacked God's own mandate. It would have killed innocents. How does your Catholic conscience justify such slaughter? Fawkes replies coolly, How does your law justify the slaughter of innocent Catholics? The crowd stirs.

He's got a fair point, actually. Never thought of it that way round. Does make you think, doesn't it? Coke sees some sympathetic glances towards Fawkes and realises he's losing the jury. Enough of this philosophical debate. You were caught red-handed. I ask you plainly, do you admit your guilt in conspiring against His Majesty and the realm of England? A tense silence falls over the courtroom.

I admit that I acted to defend my faith against unjust laws. If that is treason, then so be it. Coke's shoulders sag. You see before you a man who would twist the very notion of justice to justify his treasonous acts. The law is clear and it shall be upheld. As the jury retire and Forks is led away...

Coke gathers his papers with trembling hands. For the first time in his career, doubt drowns him. He wonders, has he underestimated Guy Fawkes? January 31st, 1606, Westminster Hall. Guy takes a deep, shaky breath, willing himself not to collapse as he's led back into the Great Hall to face his verdict. He feels every eye upon him, nobles and commoners alike.

The gallery is packed with a sea of faces. His eyes sweep across the room, taking in the imposing throne where King James sits. His face puce with anger. He tries not to flinch. Instead, he catches Coke's eye. A flicker of satisfaction passes through him. Guy stands tall in the dock, willing his legs not to shake, and the jury enters. Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?

The foreman stands, his voice clear and unwavering. We have, my lord. We find the prisoner, Guy Fawkes, guilty of high treason against his majesty, King James. A roar erupts from the spectators. Guy spots his mother's bowed head in the gallery. The chief justice raises his hand, silencing the crowd. His gaze fixes on Guy, his voice resonating through the hall. Guy Fawkes!

You have been found guilty of high treason against our sovereign Lord, King James. It falls to me now to pass sentence. You shall be hanged by the neck, but cut down while still living. The room grows deathly quiet. Guy can hear his own heartbeat, rapid and loud in his ears. You shall be taken from this place to the Tower of London.

From there you will be drawn backwards on a hurdle through the streets of London to the place of execution. He pauses, his next words deliberate and chilling. Your privy parts will be cut off and burned before your eyes. Your bowels and entrails will be removed and burned again while you yet live. Guy feels a wave of terror wash over him. Desperate to hear the words suspended for 12 months.

Then shall your head be removed and your body divided into four parts. These parts are to be disposed of at His Majesty's pleasure and your head shall be set upon a pike on London Bridge. The judge's voice softened slightly. May God have mercy on your soul. Good of him to end on a nice bit. Yours sincerely, Chief Justice. I mean...

The detail, the brutal, barbaric detail, this is the exact sentence. To have conjured that up is just so monstrous. I wonder which part of it got the first ooh from the crowd.

I'm going to go with your privy parts being cut off and burned before your eyes. This really does feel like a no ideas are bad ideas moment. A kind of blue sky thinking idea storm. What did you say? Entrails? I love that, Judy. No, I love that. No, don't. That's a great idea. What was that? Head on a spike? We don't do that anymore, do we? We went through a real head on a spike phase. I think bring it back. Left field, because I know we've got a lot of terrible stuff in already. Could we...

could we chop off his privy parts and burn them in front of his face? Gina, no matter what it is, you always want to talk about the privy parts. I think you need to look at that, actually. Guy feels the rough hands of the guards lead him away as the court erupts into chaos. Traitor! God save the king! Guy's gaze locks with coax. He doesn't see triumph in his prosecutor's eyes, but a flicker of grudging respect.

Guy thinks of the families forced to practice their religion in secret. The priests hiding, the constant fear. A grin spreads across Guy's face. He realizes that while they can execute him, they cannot kill what he represents. His act of defiance, his willingness to die for his faith, these will live on. He's no longer just a man, but a symbol. And symbols have a power all of their own.

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Guy winces as the wooden hurdle he's strapped to scrapes over London's cobblestones, each jolt sending pain through his tortured body. Icy air knives into his lungs with every hard-fought breath. The crowd's jeers blend into a dull roar as Parliament looms in the middle distance against the white sky. His heart pounds faster, but a single thought crystallises. He will not break. Not now. Not ever.

Twenty minutes later, the bells of St Margaret's toll eight, each peal echoing through Guy's battered body. He staggers forward, his chains clinking with each agonising step. Soft snow falls around him, blanketing the yard white, erasing his footsteps as he walks. Guy's gaze fixes on the gallows looming before him. Behind it stands Parliament, the building he desperately wanted to destroy.

His heart pounds, counting down the final moments. In the crowd, he looks for his mother, but his swollen eyes can barely differentiate between faces through the snowfall. An official's voice cuts through the winter air, reading the charges. Guy Fawkes, you have been found guilty of high treason against His Majesty, King James. Guy tunes out the voice, his attention drawn to the executioner,

and to the rope swaying gently before him. "The bell tolls for you, Forks." Guy bites back a groan as they guide him into position. The coarse frozen hemp of the noose scratches against his skin as the executioner loops it around his neck. The crowd falls silent, the hush only broken by the soft patter of snowflakes. Each breath he takes feels painfully loud in his own ears.

As he prepares to climb the scaffold, Guy's focus is drawn to a hooded figure in the crowd. For a moment, he thinks he sees a familiar face, perhaps a fellow conspirator come to witness his end. The figure nods almost imperceptibly, and Guy vows to not break, even now. He begins to climb the ladder, each rung creaking under his weight. His muscles scream in protest, every movement a battle against his tortured body and the pull of the rope.

Any last words, traitor? Guy reaches the highest rung of the ladder. For a fleeting moment, he stands there, an odd calm settling over him. He locks eyes with the hooded man in the crowd, a flicker of his final defiance. Not by your hand. The executioner hesitates. Guy draws himself up to his full height, takes one last look at the crowd. Ave Maria Gratia Plenum. May our lady have mercy on us all.

He pushes off from the ladder, leaping into the void before the executioner has time to react. Pain explodes as the rope tightens around his neck, and he feels a strange calm as darkness closes in. They were so close to tearing this country in two. They came closer than anyone has before. A sense of grim satisfaction flickers through Guy's fading consciousness.

before the world and his dreams of Catholic revolution fades to white. Thomas Percy was killed during a shootout with the Sheriff of Worcester's men at Holbeck House on November 8, 1605. His head was later displayed on a spike at London Bridge as a warning to other would-be traitors. Robert Cecil, 1st Earl of Salisbury, continued to serve as James I's chief minister until his death in 1612.

He's known as being one of the fathers of modern spycraft. King James I used the failure of the gunpowder plot to crush Catholicism in Britain. That very year, he made it law that every November 5th, an effigy of Guy Fawkes should be burned. This was to remind the people of what happens when you try to kill a king. He ruled until his death in 1625. Guy Fawkes' legacy lives on, but not necessarily in the way King James wanted it to.

Guy has become an inspiration, his face immortalised by the anonymous mask. His likeness has been used in protests and riots across the world. OK, Matt, next week I need you to pack your waterproof, your antihistamines and a packed lunch, which I know for you means a packet of crisps and a ham sandwich, because we are going on a field trip. I can see how that sounds cool, but I do like a warm studio and I like being comfortable.

Whatever it is, can we not just do it over Zoom? No, no, no, I know, but I actually think you're going to want to come to this one because we are going to the Tower of London. Okay, that's cool. Not only that, but we are going to go into the room where Guy Fawkes' interrogation took place and we will be speaking to Dr. Olden Gregory, who knows everything there is to know about what happened to Guy Fawkes from the point he was arrested. Did he interrogate him? No, that doesn't make sense.

Follow British Scandal on the Wondery app, Amazon Music or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge entire seasons early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. From Wondery.

Wondery and Dr. Seuss from high atop Mount Crumpet, tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast. Tonight's special guest, he's the big mouth behind Big Mouth, and you can see him in the Christmas blockbuster Red One in theaters and available to stream on Prime Video now. Funny Man News!

Hey, Nicky. How you doing? Good. How are you, Grinch? Oh, I'm pretty good. I'm doing pretty good today, buddy. Are you finding everything okay in here? Yeah, it's been awesome. Thanks so much. This is going to be fun. Yeah, I think we're going to have fun. I'm really excited. I was a little nervous because you're quite an intimidating character, but I feel like we've had some good chemistry here in this pre-interview, and I think it'll be fun. Whoa. All right. Let's save it for the interview.

A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatizations are based on historical research.

If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Faith and Treason by Antonia Fraser and The Real Guy Fawkes by Nick Holland. British Scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford. Written by Andy Sheridan. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac.

Sound design by Richard Ward. For Samizdat, our producer is Chika Ayres. Our assistant producer is Redzi Bernard. Our senior producers are Joe Sykes and Dasha Lisitsina. For Wondery, our series producer is Theodora Leloudis and our managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne, Morgan Jones and Marshall Louis. Wondery.

Hello, ladies and germs, boys and girls. The Grinch is back again to ruin your Christmas season with Tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast. After last year, he's learned a thing or two about hosting, and he's ready to rant against Christmas cheer and roast his celebrity guests like chestnuts on an open fire.

You can listen with the whole family as guest stars like Jon Hamm, Brittany Broski, and Danny DeVito try to persuade the mean old Grinch that there's a lot to love about the insufferable holiday season. But that's not all. Somebody stole all the children of Whoville's letters to Santa, and everybody thinks the Grinch is responsible. It's a real Whoville whodunit. Can Cindy Lou and Max help clear the Grinch's name? Grab your hot cocoa and cozy slippers to find out.

In a quiet suburb, a community is shattered by the death of a beloved wife and mother. But this tragic loss of life quickly turns into something even darker. Her husband had tried to hire a hitman on the dark web to kill her.

And she wasn't the only target. Because buried in the depths of the internet is The Kill List, a cache of chilling documents containing names, photos, addresses, and specific instructions for people's murders. This podcast is the true story of how I ended up in a race against time to warn those whose lives were in danger. And it turns out, convincing a total stranger someone wants them dead is not easy.

Follow Kill List on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Kill List and more Exhibit C True Crime shows like Morbid early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your true crime listening.