Black Powder (19 page)

The Falcon frowned. ‘If they heard the fall . . . Well, 'tis a chance we will have to take. Now for heaven's sake, Soldier, let's get out of this living grave, before it locks us in for good.'

A shiver of pride rippled through Tom. Soldier. No one had ever called him that before. He liked how it sounded.

‘Yes, sir.' He reached for the shovel and set about digging his friend free.

Chapter Twenty-five

A
fire crackled in the kitchen hearth. Tom huddled beneath a blanket, sitting as close to the curling orange flames as he dared. The coating of mud had tightened on him as it dried, making it feel like a second skin. He shifted to get more comfortable and groaned. Everything ached.

He closed his eyes and imagined himself in the kitchen back at home. Mother would be getting the dinner ready. And when Father got back from the harbour, he might tell them a sailor's tale of the New World or pull an exotic fruit from his sack. Like the oranges at Yuletide, or maybe even a pomegranate. Tom's tongue tingled at the thought.

A thud jerked him back to the small, mean kitchen of the lodging house. A piece of glowing wood rolled towards him across the stone hearth, sending out a shower of sparks. He kicked it away with his boot and frowned. Harry Browne
had made the cave-in happen on purpose. He'd been trying to kill him, he was sure of it. Perhaps the Falcon too. And he'd nearly succeeded. What if he'd got plans to come back and make sure the job was done? Tom shivered and hugged the blanket tight against him.

A pair of footsteps clattered down the stairs. The kitchen door swung open and the Falcon strode in, spurs clinking. He was dressed in a fresh shirt and breeches, his hair roughly combed and his face washed clean of all traces of mud. He snatched a grey leather jerkin from a nail on the wall then glanced at Tom and frowned.

‘I must go to Mister Cat's lodgings across the water in Lambeth and give him the bad news. Our mission is in grave jeopardy. We need to act swiftly if we are to catch our prey in time.' He shrugged the jerkin on, buttoned it quickly and snatched up his gloves from the table.

Tom scrambled to his feet. ‘How long before we can start digging again?'

The Falcon swung round. His frown deepened. ‘I don't know. There's a good deal of mud to excavate to get back to where we were. And we'll have to shore up the roof and sides to make it safe. But one thing's for certain, 'twill need more than you and I to get things back on track.'

Tom's heart sank beneath its own load of clay. They had been hours away from capturing Cecil. If he left London before they had a chance to take him, what would happen to Father then? His shoulders slumped.

The Falcon ruffled his hair. ‘You saved my life back there. And for that I will always be grateful.'

Tom flashed him a look. He hadn't mentioned Browne yet. But he must know the cave-in was his fault?

The Falcon's eyes narrowed. ‘Does something ail you, Soldier?'

‘It's nothing. Just that . . . Mister Browne, I think he made the tunnel roof collapse on purpose.'

The Falcon's jaw twitched. ‘Why do you say that?'

‘He knew it was gravel above us. But he sliced straight into it. I . . . I think he meant to kill us.'

The Falcon rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. ‘'Tis true Browne and I don't always see eye to eye. And he does not like your joining us – he has made no bones about that. But my skills make me key to the success of our venture. He knows that. And to murder an innocent boy?' He shook his head. ‘I don't think even he would stoop that low.'

‘So why didn't he stay and help me dig you out?'

‘Because for all his bragging, he's a coward at heart. Still' – he raked some stray bits of grit from his beard – ‘I will do what I can to keep him away from you. In the meantime, I must to Mister Cat's with all speed.' He slapped his gloves against his thigh. ‘And you should get cleaned up before that mud sets and turns you into a marsh boggart or worse.' He turned to go.

‘Wait. Could you get this to my mother?' Tom pulled a sheet of folded paper from beneath the blanket. ‘It's a message. Telling her I'm safe.'

The Falcon's gaze sharpened. ‘What have you said? Nothing about our mission, I hope? If it were to fall into the
wrong hands . . .'

Tom shook his head. ‘I've told her I've come to London to save Father. And that she mustn't worry. That's all.'

The Falcon snatched it from him and scanned the words. ‘Where did you get the tools to write it?'

‘I mixed the ink from soot and water and made a quill from a crow's feather I found in the yard. The paper's from this.' He slid his mother's prayer book from his mud-crusted doublet.

‘Most resourceful. Well, I will see what I can do. Portsmouth, isn't it?'

He nodded. ‘She's staying with the Fosters in St Mary's Street.'

The Falcon slipped the letter inside his jerkin. ‘One of my comrades knows a bargeman. He might be able to find a way of getting it along the coast.'

A warm glow spread through Tom's chest. At least now Mother would know he was safe. ‘Thank you.'

The Falcon nodded then furrowed his brow. ‘It must wait though. I have more urgent business to attend to first.' He pulled on his gloves. ‘I'll be back before nightfall. Listen for the signal. Three knocks. You remember? Admit no one who does not use it. And lock the door from the inside with the key when I leave.'

‘What about Mister Browne?'

‘I will look out for him. But Mister Cat had other duties planned for him, so it would surprise me if he shows up here again today. Besides, having caused the earth-fall, he will be keen to steer clear for a bit, knowing how quick to temper
I and my small pointy friend can be.' He patted the dagger at his waist and gave a grim smile.

Tom locked the door as the Falcon left, then made his way back to the kitchen. He wrapped the blanket around him and stepped out into the yard. A cold wind had got up and the darkening sky was thick with heavy grey clouds. He bundled up some more faggots for the fire. The sounds of the city blew in on the breeze. The clip-clop of horses' hooves, the cries of the wherrymen out on the river, and above everything the mewing of red kites scavenging for scraps of rotten meat. He peered at the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Somewhere beyond them lay the Clink and Father locked up inside it.

He shivered. Jago. He must be starving. Lugging the faggots inside, he filled a bowl from the water pail, tore a chunk of bread from the loaf on the table and hurried upstairs. Scuttling noises came from Jago's box. He pushed the lid back. The mouse gave an angry-sounding squeak and crawled out on to his hand.

‘I'm really sorry, boy.' Tom tickled him between the ears then tipped the bowl towards him. Jago dipped his mouth in the water and drank, then nibbled greedily at the bread. ‘Now, how about that run.' He dropped Jago on to the mattress and watched as he scampered across it and jumped up on to the wooden chest. He peered up at the window, eyes shining, whiskers twitching. Tom wagged a finger. ‘No you don't.' He scooped Jago up and let him run along his arm and on to his shoulder. A damp mousy nose burrowed into the side of his neck. He giggled. ‘Stop it, will you?' He
cupped him in his hands and flopped down on the mattress.

Rat-tat! Rat-tat! Rat-tat!

He sat up. Was the Falcon back already?

‘I'll be back soon, boy.' He dropped Jago into his box, slid the lid shut and ran downstairs.

The banging started up again.

‘All right, all right. I'm coming.' He crept along the passageway to the front door. Best check first. He bent down and peered through the keyhole. But all he got was an eyeful of black cloth.

‘Who's there?'

‘A friend.' The voice was low and secretive.

His heart hammered against his chest. What if it was Browne? He shrank back from the door fingering his knife. ‘What friend?'

‘George Hunt.'

The stranger at the Duck and Drake. Tom licked his lips. Mister Cat had said they could trust him, but the Falcon hadn't seemed so sure. And he was a friend of Browne too.

‘Quickly, lad. I have something important to tell you.'

Tom frowned. He'd not heard the man speak before, but now he did, his voice sounded familiar.

‘I don't have much time.' The door handle rattled.

‘Why should I trust you?'

‘If you don't, you will be making a grave mistake.'

The door rattled again. Tom stayed where he was.

‘Very well, you leave me no choice.' A thin metal stick shot through the keyhole and jiggled up and down. The lock clicked and the door swung open. A black cloaked
figure filled the frame.

Tom reached for his knife. ‘Stop! You can't—'

In one swift move, the man grabbed his arm, tugged the knife from him and rammed it into his own belt. ‘Hold still, boy!' Keeping a tight grip on Tom, he banged the door shut with the heel of his boot and locked it fast with the strange metal stick.

Tom glanced over his shoulder. If he could make him think the Falcon was still here . . . He yanked free and dashed towards the stairs. ‘Help, sir! Come quick!'

He was halfway up the stairs when a hand clamped his shoulder and dragged him back down. ‘Nice try, Master Garnett. But I know you're alone. I watched your friend ride off on that proud horse of his more than an hour ago.'

Chapter Twenty-six

T
om made to twist free but Hunt's grip tightened. A pair of silver-grey eyes shone back at him over the top of the black muffler he wore.

‘Has Browne sent you?'

‘Harry Browne?' Hunt snorted. ‘I do not run errands for that hot-tempered fool.' He steered Tom into the kitchen and pushed him towards the chair by the fire. ‘Sit down and I will tell you the reason for my visit.'

Removing his hat, he smoothed a hand over his wispy yellow hair, then rolled back his muffler and pulled up a second chair. He glanced at Tom, then slid the knife from his belt and balanced it on the chair arm. He flicked the blade with his finger. The knife spun like a top.

‘You think the man you have journeyed here with is your friend?'

Tom clenched his jaw. ‘I know he is.'

Hunt jerked the blade to a stop. ‘Well, I am sorry to disappoint you' – he ran a hand over his chin – ‘but he is not.'

Tom jumped up, cheeks burning. ‘You're wrong! The Falcon saved my life. And he's going to help me get a pardon for Father.'

Hunt's eyes narrowed to a pair of silver slits. ‘The Falcon? So that's what he calls himself, eh? But what's this about a pardon?'

The words spilled out of Tom before he could stop them. ‘Father's been locked in the Clink by Robert Cecil for helping a priest. But he's a good man. The Falcon says when he and Mister Cat have got Cecil out of the way, they'll ask the King to set him free.'

Hunt sighed and shook his head. ‘Why does it not surprise me that this Falcon of yours would give false hope to a child? Listen.' He rose to his feet and placed a hand on Tom's shoulder. ‘He and Mister Cat's merry band are not what they pretend. They are planning a grievous blow aimed not just at the King's minister, but at England itself.'

‘I don't believe you!' Tom bunched his fingers into fists. Why was Hunt sowing these lies?

‘You should. You and your cousin are in grave danger.'

Tom frowned. Cressida? What did she have to do with any of this?

‘You remember your cousin, Mistress Maria? Though I believe she likes to go by the name of Cressida when her father is not at home.'

‘You're making it up.' Either that or he was mad.

Hunt waved a hand in the air. ‘Her play-acting is no
concern of mine. But she's here, Tom.' He peered around the kitchen as if trying to see through the walls. ‘And being kept a prisoner, somewhere in this house.'

‘That's impossible. She went back to fetch Sergeant Talbot.'