Black Powder (16 page)

They set off again at a light trot. A few moments later, the Falcon steered Shadrach away from the grand paved road and down a side street of dingy-looking houses.

They were halfway along it when a door on their right burst open, shedding a pool of yellow light on to the mud-slicked cobbles. A man stumbled out followed by a storm of jeers and cock-crows.

The Falcon laughed. ‘Our destination betrays itself.'

They rode past him and pulled up in front of a large gate set into a wall. The Falcon leant forwards and banged against it with his gloved fist. With a jangle of metal and a scrape of wood, the gate swung slowly open. A pale-faced boy gripping a flickering candle peered up at them.

‘We're closed.'

‘You know me, lad. I have business here.' The Falcon leant down. His face and beard glowed orange in the light from the flame.

The boy's eyes widened. ‘Yes, sir.' He leapt smartly to one side.

They passed beneath an arch and into a cobbled courtyard, lit by a line of blazing flares. Two rows of crooked galleries, one stacked above the other, ran round the inside of the yard with space against the back wall for stabling.

The boy darted alongside them and held out a grubby hand. ‘Take your horse, sir?'

The Falcon dismounted, tossed the boy a coin and handed him Shadrach's reins. Clutching his bundle, Tom slid down from the saddle and made to follow.

The Falcon raised a hand. ‘Wait here, Master Garnett.
My friends are not expecting you. I must prepare the way.' Spurs chinking, he strode across to a small oak door set into the wall of the arch. As he opened it, a low hum of voices spilled into the yard. Then the door slammed shut and both man and voices were gone.

Tom took a step and winced. His legs felt stiff as a pair of skittles. He clapped his arms round his chest and peered at the row of doors and windows set into the gallery walls.

‘Those be lodgings for gen'l'men.' The boy stepped out in front of him wiping his hands down the side of his breeches. ‘Your master sometimes takes a room here.'

He bristled. ‘He's not my master.'

‘Begging yer pardon, I'm sure.' The boy's eyes flashed over his clothes. ‘You might want to clean yourself up a bit before you goes in there. Mister Hackett, the landlord, he ain't much keen on beggars.' He scooped up a fistful of straw from the ground and offered it to Tom with a cocky grin.

Tom glanced down at his dusty makeshift cloak and mud-spattered boots. The boy was right. He was a mess. He hesitated then snatched the straw and used it to scrub off the worst of the muck.

‘Your master and his friends – they seem like a fine bunch of fellows.' The boy shoved a piece of straw in his mouth and chewed on it. ‘Secretive, though.' He narrowed his eyes.

‘What d'you mean?'

‘Nothing. Just, well, they don't mix with the other drinkers. They're in there now.' The boy tipped his head towards the inn. ‘Tucked up in their usual dark corner, like
rats in a hole.' He gave him a sly smile.

Tom balled up his fists. ‘What are you saying?'

The boy raised his hands and took a step back. ‘No need to take offence.' He flicked the coin the Falcon had given him into the air and caught it one-handed. ‘I'm mighty thirsty, so if you'll excuse me, good sir . . .' He gave a mock bow then pushed past him towards the inn door and disappeared inside.

Tom wished he could follow the boy into the warm, but the Falcon had said to wait. He kicked at the straw, then trudged over to the stables. Shadrach stood in one of the stalls feeding from a leather pail. Tom's stomach grumbled. He'd give anything for a slice of pie and something to drink. How long was the Falcon going to be? He shot a look back at the door, but it stayed firmly shut. He sighed and slumped down in a pile of fresh straw. A tapping sound came from Jago's box.

‘I'll get you out in a moment, boy.' He buried his face in his cloak, closed his eyes and drifted into a fitful sleep.

A crunch of footsteps woke him.

‘This is no time for napping.'

He blinked. ‘I wasn't . . . I was . . .'

The Falcon yanked him to his feet, black eyes sparking. ‘Save your excuses for another time.' He strode over to Shadrach and unhooked the bags from the saddle. ‘Now hurry, we have kept my friends waiting long enough.'

Chapter Twenty-two

T
he Falcon led Tom inside and down a narrow, wood-panelled passage. A warm glow of orange light spilled from a doorway up ahead. As they drew near it, the hum of voices became a buzz. A man in a velvet doublet and breeches stumbled out into the passage and lurched past them, hand pressed to his mouth.

The Falcon clicked his tongue. ‘A gentleman in his cups is a sad sight indeed. Come. This way.' He steered Tom through the door and into a low-ceilinged hall lit by the sooty flames of dozens of candles.

The stink of tobacco smoke, hops and stale sweat made Tom's head spin. He muffled his nose with his sleeve and glanced around. A handful of well-dressed men stood propped against a low wooden counter on his left. Behind the counter, two potboys in aprons ran up and down filling jugs of ale from barrels on a rack. To his right, groups of men
sat at long tables lifting mugs of beer, drawing on clay pipes or sinking their teeth into crusty brown pies dripping with meat juice. His mouth watered. If he could only have a bite . . . He scanned the men's faces wondering which of them were the Falcon's friends.

‘We have a private room at the back,' the Falcon called over his shoulder. ‘You can't hear your thoughts in here, let alone your words.' He walked swiftly towards a low wooden door set in a wall next to the fireplace. He raised his fist, rapped three times and paused, then lifted the latch and stooped inside.

Tom faltered for a moment, then took a deep breath and darted in behind him. He blinked. The room was in darkness, save for the glow of an oil lamp set on a table at its centre. Round the table four hunched figures sat deep in conversation, their voices low and urgent-sounding.

‘Give me your bundle and your cloak.' The Falcon held out his hand.

‘But . . .'

‘You can have them back when we leave.'

Reluctantly Tom unhooked his bundle from his shoulder then tugged the blanket over his head. The Falcon stowed them behind the door next to the saddlebags. He rejoined Tom carrying the leather water bottle and cleared his throat. ‘Here is the boy.'

The conversation stopped. One by one the men raised their heads. Shadows leapt like black and gold serpents across their faces.

The Falcon nudged him. ‘Step closer. They'll not bite.'

Tom licked his lips. The frowns the men wore suggested otherwise.

The man nearest to him pulled out his stool and stood. He was tall and square-chested with shoulder-length fair hair. A neat gold moustache and beard forked over the top of his starched white ruff. The front of the black leather doublet he wore glinted with a scattering of silver-painted stars.

‘Come.' He beckoned with his finger.

Tom didn't move.

The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you a man or a mouse?'

One of the others made a squeaking noise and the room filled with laughter.

Tom crossed his arms and stuck out his chest. He wasn't going to stand there and let them call him a coward. Not after all he'd been through. He took a step forwards. ‘A man, sir.'

‘The right answer, for I am Robin Cat and it would grieve me to have to eat you before we had become properly acquainted.' The man's green eyes twinkled and a smile flickered across his lips.

Tom's cheeks flushed. ‘I'm not a fool, sir.'

‘Well said, Master Garnett.' The Falcon gripped his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

‘Zounds, man!' one of the others muttered. ‘Anyone would think you were his father.'

The Falcon fixed the speaker with a hard stare. ‘The boy has spirit and should be commended for it.'

‘We admire spirit, don't we, friends?' Robin Cat walked
up to the Falcon and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come and join us. You and the boy must be hungry after so much time on the road.' He led them over to the table, pulled out two stools and signalled to one of his companions to pour the Falcon a mug of ale.

The Falcon passed Tom the bottle of water. He uncorked it and took a swig.

‘Eat!' Robin Cat gestured at a dish piled high with wedges of spicy-smelling meat pie.

Tom held back but then hunger got the better of him. He grabbed a slice and crammed it in his mouth. The taste of beef and onions exploded on his tongue and a trickle of warm meat juice ran down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and took another bite.

‘Good, eh?' Robin Cat winked at him and sat back down. ‘Now, Tom, is it?'

He nodded and gulped down another mouthful of water.

‘My friend here, the Falcon I think you call him, tells me your father is in trouble?'

‘Yes, sir, Mister Cat.'

‘Robin, please.'

‘Er, yes, sir, Mister Cat.'

The other men sniggered. Tom clenched his jaw, cursing his mistake. Robin Cat ignored them and nodded for him to go on.

‘My father . . . he rescued a priest and now he's locked up in the Clink. I came here to . . . to save him. The Falcon said you might be able to help.'

The man next to him made a choking noise, as if a piece of pie crust had stuck in his throat. The Falcon banged his mug down and glared at him. The man flushed and fell silent.

Robin Cat frowned. ‘Hmmm. I see. Well, I am mighty sorry to hear of your father's misfortune, but I don't quite see how . . .'

Tom's heart felt suddenly heavier than a sack of stones. He glanced at the Falcon, but he was staring at the oil lamp, his mouth fixed in a hard line. They had to help . . . ‘Please, sir.' He clutched at Robin Cat's sleeve. ‘I've come all this way. You're' – his voice quavered – ‘you're my last chance.'

Robin Cat's frown deepened. He stroked his moustache and turned to the Falcon. ‘What were you thinking of ?'

The Falcon took a swig from his mug, then cleared his throat and looked up. ‘As I told you before, I have made no promises to the boy. But if he agrees to help us in our mission, then surely it will be possible to secure a royal pardon for his father?'

Tom's heart lurched. Mission? What mission?

The man next to him jerked up from his stool. ‘Are you mad? How do you know we can trust him?'

‘Wait!' Robin Cat held up his hand. ‘There is a lot at stake for this boy. His father's life.' He narrowed his eyes. ‘Perhaps his own too.'

Tom loosened the collar of his doublet and glanced round the table. What was he talking about? And why were the others so angry?

‘The boy says he is no fool. So, here is my proposition.'
Robin Cat turned back to face him. ‘We will let you in on our plans, Tom, but first you must agree to help us.' His eyes grew narrower still. ‘And you must swear never to reveal them to anyone.'

Tom chewed his top lip. Robin Cat was trusting him with a secret. But what if, once he knew it, he didn't want to be part of it?

A low muttering started among the other men.

Tom flashed a look at the door. It wasn't too late to leave and seek out his Uncle Montague. But London was a big place. What if he couldn't find him, or he refused to help? Then he'd be worse off than he was now. Alone on the dark dangerous streets full of murderers and cutpurses. Miles from home . . . He glanced at the Falcon. A bubble of hope sprang up in him. He wouldn't put him in danger. He was trying to help him. That's why he'd let him ride with him to London.

The muttering grew louder.

‘Enough!' Robin Cat thumped the table with a gloved fist. ‘Or have you forgotten who is the captain here?' He glared at his men, jaw muscles twitching. They fell silent. ‘Now, Tom, do you agree?'

Tom took a deep breath and met Robin Cat's gaze. ‘Yes, sir, Mister Cat. I mean, Robin.'

‘Good. But remember, it will not go well for you if you betray us. Will it, lads?'

The others were quick to growl their agreement.

A line of sweat pricked Tom's forehead. He wiped it away with his sleeve. ‘On my mother's life, I swear I'll keep it secret.'

Robin Cat threw him a sharp-eyed look then gave the Falcon a quick nod. ‘Proceed, my friend.'

The Falcon turned. He gripped Tom by the shoulders and fixed him with a coal-black stare. ‘Remember we spoke earlier of Robert Cecil? Of his evil influence over the King? And how he wages war against us Catholics?'

‘Yes, sir.' Tom had heard enough about that man to be convinced what he said was true.

The Falcon let his hands drop, then clasped them together and twisted the ring on his little finger. ‘Our plan is simple. To purge both King and country of his poison so that we can be free to worship openly again without fear of persecution.'

Tom's jaw dropped. ‘But how?'