Black Powder (11 page)

‘Here, boy!' He set off into the darkness, candle held high, eyes scouring the ground for any sudden movement.

They kept on going, taking it in turns to call Jago's name. He had nearly given up hope when a shriek rang out behind him.

‘Look! There!' A flash of white shot in front of them and disappeared into an opening on their left. Cressida clung to his elbow. ‘Where did he go?'

Tom jerked up the candle and shone it into the space. ‘In here.'

‘What is it?' She peered over his shoulder into the velvety blackness.

‘Some kind of cave, I think.' He stepped inside. As the candle flame steadied, its light fell on a row of wooden barrels stacked neatly against the back wall. There, on top of the nearest one, front paws raised, eyes shining like a pair of tiny red rubies, sat Jago. ‘Hold this.' He shoved the candle at her and rummaged inside his bundle for a piece of cheese. ‘Here, boy.' He held it out and crept towards him.

Jago sniffed the air and reached for the cheese with his paws.

‘Got you!' Tom grabbed the base of the mouse's tail and scooped him up in his palm. He yanked his cloak to one side and nodded at his waist. ‘Open my pouch.'

Cressida fumbled with the strings then flashed him a look. ‘There's a knife.'

‘Take it out.'

Gingerly she lifted his father's knife out and dropped it on the nearest barrel top.

He slipped Jago inside the pouch next to the silver tinderbox.

Cressida held the flame close. ‘Where did you get him?'

‘I rescued him from a trap, didn't I, Jago?' He reached in and tickled the mouse's whiskers.

‘Jago? What made you call him that?'

‘He's named after an old sailor me and William met down at the harbour once. He was a Cornishman, from a place called Mousehole. His hair was pure white, just like Jago's.'

She glanced up at him. ‘Who's William?'

His chest tightened. He tied the strings of the pouch and snatched back the candle. ‘Stop asking me all these questions, will you?'

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? What's wrong?'

‘Nothing! I don't want to talk about it. Let's go.'

‘Tom?'

He spun round. ‘Leave me alone!'

‘But . . .' Her voice shrank to an urgent whisper. ‘But I heard something.'

He held his breath. She was right. A grinding sound echoed up the main tunnel. He stuck his head out of the cave and peered in the direction they'd been heading. A pinprick of orange light bobbed in the distance. A torch. And from the dragging and grunting noises, whoever it was, they were shifting something heavy.

He turned. ‘Grimwold?'

She stared past him, lips trembling, face white as chalk. ‘Maybe . . . but wait. There's more than one of them.'

He twisted back. A second light had appeared behind the first. One was bad enough, but whoever they were, with two of them, they wouldn't stand a chance.

He snatched up his bundle. ‘Come on! Let's get out of here!' He blew out the candle, then grabbed her by the hand and jerked her out into the tunnel. As they stumbled back up the way they'd come, she tripped and let out a moan.

‘Shhh!' He steadied her, then tugged her after him, feeling his way with his free hand.

A crack of light appeared up ahead. The door!

‘We've made it!' Shoving her through the opening, he turned and glanced back down the tunnel. The torches had disappeared. For a moment he thought he could hear muffled voices. Then . . . silence.

‘I think . . . I think they've gone.' He snatched in a breath.

Cressida fanned her face then pulled out her kerchief and dabbed at her forehead. ‘That was close. Who do you think they were?'

He took another breath. ‘I don't know. Maybe Grimwold's got some smuggling friends.'

‘What?' Her eyebrows shot up. She shoved her kerchief up her sleeve and turned on her heel.

‘Where are you going?'

‘To find Sergeant Talbot, of course. If these men are trying to steal our wine, they must be stopped at once and punished.'

‘No, wait!' He seized her arm and swung her back round. If the sergeant came stomping around down here, he might as well forget about trying to escape now, or ever.

‘Ow! You're hurting me!'

‘Sorry.' Reluctantly he let his hand drop. ‘But what's going to happen to me when your precious granny finds I've escaped?'

She narrowed her eyes. ‘You've got a knife, haven't you? I'm sure a boy like you knows how to pick a lock and get back inside your chamber again before you're found out.'

He clenched his fists. She was still trying to put him down, even now. But wait. A bolt of panic shot through him.

‘Where is it?'

‘What?'

‘My knife.'

Her eyes widened. A red flush spread across her cheeks. ‘I . . . er . . . I must have left it back in the cave.'

He rolled his eyes and groaned. How could she have been so stupid? He snatched up the candle they'd left burning on the shelf and darted back to the tunnel entrance.

‘You can't go back in there. What if one of the smugglers catches you?'

‘I've got to. It's Father's.' He clenched his jaw.

‘Suit yourself.' She gave a loud sniff. ‘I'm going to find the sergeant.' She marched towards the cellar door, yanked it open and, with a swish of skirts, she was gone.

Tom sucked in a breath. He had to act quickly before she managed to raise the alarm. He peered into the tunnel and listened. The noises had stopped and there was no sign of the torches. The smugglers must have gone. Gripping his bundle tight against him, he slipped through the door and made his way back along the tunnel to the cave. All he had to do now was find the knife and get back upstairs before Sergeant Talbot arrived. As he shone the candle into the hollowed-out room, a glint of silver caught his eye.

Relief rushed through him. He snatched up the knife from the barrel top, raised the worn leather handle to his lips and kissed it.
I'm going to save you, Father, I promise. I don't know how, but I will
.

He was about to turn back into the tunnel when he heard a chinking sound. His heart lurched. He snuffed out
the candle and dashed back into the cave. He groped towards the row of barrels. He'd almost reached them when something snagged his foot. He tripped and fell, stifling a groan.

The chinking sound grew louder.

‘Who's there?' It was a man's voice. Gruff and hard.

He scrambled up into a crouch and held his breath, keeping a tight grip on his knife. A ball of flame shot up in front of him. As he staggered backwards, a rough hand grabbed him by the neck and yanked him off his feet.

‘What are you doing snooping around in here, boy?' The hard, flat tones of the man's voice sounded familiar.

Dropping his bundle, Tom rammed the knife behind his back and swallowed hard. ‘I – I – I was just . . .'

The smuggler thrust the burning torch up to his face. ‘Just what?'

He jerked his head away from the heat. The man's grip tightened. The knot in Tom's cloak dug into his throat. The walls of the cave began to spin. ‘P–p–please. I c–c–can't breathe.' He scrabbled at his neck, trying to free himself.

The smuggler loosened his grip and Tom dropped face first into what tasted like a pile of old sacks. He rolled over quickly, sucking in great gulps of smoky air. Slowly the walls of the cave stopped spinning. Keeping the knife pressed against his back, he made to stand.

A hand shoved him down again. ‘Not so fast! Now explain yourself, Master Spy.'

Tom blinked, then sat up slowly. A pair of coal-black eyes glowed back at him from the shadows. He shuddered.
He'd seen smugglers once before when he'd peered through a spyhole in the wall of the Mermaid Tavern, but this one was more fearsome than all of them put together. Tall as a giant and wide as a ship's mast, with red-brown hair that hung in tangles to his shoulders and a beard and moustache to match. As he swung his head towards Tom, the flame flared across his face revealing an ugly red scar on his left cheek.

Tom gasped.

The smuggler crumpled his forehead into a mock frown. ‘I am not a handsome subject for a portrait, 'tis true. But that's what a life of adventure does for you.' As he raked his fingers through his beard, a glint of yellow metal caught the light. The smuggler's mouth twisted into a half-smile. ‘Pretty, eh?' He held up the little finger of his left hand.

Tom stared at the ring. It was fashioned from gold with the image of a bird's head stamped into it; its beak was curved like a hook, its eye picked out with a gleaming white stone.

‘Know what the bird is?'

Tom shivered and shook his head.

‘It's a falcon. A loner. Lives in the cliffs above the sea. So quiet and careful you wouldn't know he was there.' The man's eyes glittered. ‘But if he's hungry and he gets you in his sights, watch out!' He balled his fist and shot it at Tom's head.

He ducked just in time.

The man threw back his head and laughed. ‘With quick wits like that, Master Spy, you may yet live to fight another
day. But'– he dug the torch into the ground between them and squatted down on his haunches – ‘if your story does not please me, be warned.' He sliced a finger across his throat. ‘For I will show you no mercy.'

Chapter Sixteen

T
om's heart pounded against his ribs. He looked over his shoulder. There was no way out. He still had the knife, but if he pulled it on the smuggler now, he'd easily overpower him. And what if his friend was on his way back to join him? He had to think of something and quickly. He glanced at the smuggler's frayed brown cloak and worn leather jerkin. Money. That was what men like him wanted. He would try and strike a bargain with him. Being a so-called Montague had to be worth something. He wiped a hand across his forehead and took a deep breath.

‘My name's Tom. Tom Garnett.'

The smuggler raised his right shoulder in a shrug. ‘Should that mean something to me?'

He stuck out his chin and tried to look brave. ‘No. But I am the nephew of Lord Montague, the owner of this house. My uncle . . . he's very rich. He'd pay you well if
you let me go.'

‘Your uncle, eh?' The smuggler's eyes glinted gold in the torchlight.

Tom held his breath. Did he believe him, or was he working out the best way to kill him?

The smuggler's voice cut like a blade through his thoughts. ‘We have met once before, I think.'

‘Have we?' Tom frowned.

‘A few nights ago, in the town. You were looking for the right road to Cowdray.'

Of course! It was him. The man outside the tavern.

The smuggler scratched his forehead. ‘So if your uncle is Lord Montague, what are you doing skulking down here when you should be upstairs at his table feasting on roast beef, stuffed swan and the like?' He jabbed a finger at the rocky roof above them.

Tom reached for his bundle. ‘I – I lost something. I thought maybe I might have left it here.'

The smuggler's eyes narrowed. ‘You've been here before? And when, pray, was that?'

He licked his lips. ‘A few moments back. I was with my . . . my cousin.'

‘Your cousin?' The smuggler thrust a hand beneath his cloak. ‘And where is he now?'

Tom pressed his back against the cave wall. If he knew the truth, that Cressida was fetching the sergeant, he would slit his throat then and there. ‘She . . . she's gone, sir. She was afraid of the dark.' He blinked and looked away.

The smuggler laughed. ‘And the spiders, no doubt. Well,
'tis no place for folk of noble blood, least of all their children.' He relaxed his arm.

For a moment Tom forgot his fear. ‘I'm not a child. I'll be thirteen this Sunday.'

The man gave a low whistle. ‘Thirteen, eh? Well, Master Spy, where I come from, you must earn the right to be called a man. And creeping about in tunnels, poking your nose into what doesn't concern you, is not the way to go about it.'

His cheeks flushed. ‘I told you, I'm not a spy! I was looking for something.' He caught a sudden whiff of peppery smoke as the smuggler pushed his face up close.

‘So tell me. Was it a wasted journey?'

Tom gripped the knife even tighter and dropped his gaze.

In one swift move, the smuggler reached behind and seized it from him. ‘I see it was not.' He ran a sooty finger along the blade and whistled again. ‘'Tis a serious weapon for a boy. What do the initials stand for?'

Tom hesitated.

‘Come now. It is a fair question.'

‘Richard Garnett. My . . . my father.'

‘And where is he now? Upstairs carousing with your grand relations?'

‘No. He . . . he's in London.'

‘On business?'

Tom shook his head and bit on his lip.

‘What, then?'

He slid his knees up and hugged them to his chest. ‘He's
in a place called the Clink.'