Black Powder (22 page)

His father shook his head. ‘I brought this on myself. You were only doing what I asked – protecting your mother and baby brother.' He gave another rattling cough.

The words were meant to comfort, but the ache in his chest was stronger than ever. ‘I could have lied. Told them you'd taken a different road. William . . . he wouldn't have been so stupid.'

‘William?' His father frowned. ‘Why do you speak of
your brother?'

‘Because he was better than me. So God took him and left you with me. And . . . and he was right because I failed you.' Tom bit his lip and looked away.

‘Tom, listen.' His father's eyes shone back at him like bright stars in the gloom. ‘You must never think that. Your mother and I loved William very much. But we love you and Edward just the same. When Skinner arrested you all, you thought your mother's life was at stake. You didn't have time to think about it.' He shook his head. ‘No. If anyone's to blame, it's me.'

‘But you were only trying to help him. Father Oliver, I mean.'

‘Yes.' His father flicked his tongue over his cracked lips. ‘Except the stakes were too high. Though I was doing Our Lord's work, it was wrong of me to put you all in such danger. But tell me – what of your mother and Ned? Where are they now? You say they put your mother in gaol . . . ?'

Tom took a deep breath and told him everything. What happened after he had confessed to Skinner, how his mother had sent him to Cowdray and of what had followed.

‘She is free then?'

He nodded. ‘That's what the Viscountess told me.'

His father closed his eyes. ‘Praise the Lord. Her brother owes her that at least.'

‘But why won't they help you too?'

He shifted his knees and grimaced. ‘Given all that has happened between us?' He shook his head again.

‘What? What happened?'

His father nodded at a pail next to the wall. ‘Fetch me some water and I will tell you.'

Tom cupped his hand in the pail and scooped up a mouthful. His father drank deep, ignoring the husks of dead insects and leaves, then gave a deep sigh.

‘Your mother's family disowned her many years ago.'

‘Why?'

‘We met and fell in love, but I wasn't considered a good enough match. We realized the only way we could be together was if she ran away with me. We were married, but although we tried to make our peace with her family, they never forgave her.'

The image of his mother's portrait flitted into Tom's head. Now he knew why she had looked so sad.

‘Your mother's father died before his own father – your great-grandfather. So when
he
died, Cowdray passed to your uncle. He was always fond of your mother when they were children. She must have harboured a hope he might take pity on us, which is why she sent you there.' He frowned. ‘But Cowdray is a long way from London. What are you doing here?' He coughed. A line of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth and lodged in his beard.

Tom swallowed hard. He didn't want to lie to him. But he couldn't break his promise to the Falcon. Father's life might still depend on it.

‘I . . . er . . . Uncle Montague was coming up to Court. I stowed away on one of his wagons and bribed the turnkey with some coins I stole.'

His father's frown deepened. ‘Thieving is a sin, Tom.'

His cheeks flushed.

‘And so is lying.' He shot him a knowing look.

Tom stared at his boots.

A key rattled in the lock and the cell door banged open. His heart clenched. They'd run out of time.

The turnkey stood in the doorway. He fiddled with the bunch of keys and gave a gruff cough. ‘I'm sorry, Mister Garnett, but you and the boy must say your farewells.'

‘Father!' Tom threw himself against his father's bony chest.

‘Take care of your mother and baby brother and remember me in your prayers. And know this, son, I love you. I always have and I always will.'

Tom pulled away, blinked back the tears and looked up into his father's face. ‘I'm going to save you, I promise.'

Jagger reached for the lantern and hauled him to his feet. ‘You and whose army? We must go, sir.' He glanced over at Tom's father. ‘The other turnkey will be on duty soon. If we're caught in here, we'll all be for the gallows. Come on now, lad. Leave your father to his prayers.'

‘No! Get off me!' He kicked and struggled, but the turnkey's grip was too strong.

‘Hush, Tom. You must do as Mister Jagger says. Now, go and God speed.' His father's eyes shone back at him in the last of the lantern-light; then the door slammed shut and he was gone.

Chapter Twenty-nine

‘
W
hy didn't you tell me?' Tom rammed his knife back in his belt and glared at the Falcon.

He frowned. ‘I only discovered it when we arrived. And I thought it best you hear it from your father first.' He reached for Tom's shoulder.

He jerked away. ‘They're taking him to Tyburn the day after tomorrow. They're going to . . .' He dug his nails into his palms. ‘They're going to hang him at dawn.'

The Falcon gave a grim nod. ‘So I understand.'

‘We've got to stop them!'

‘We will, Soldier, we will. We strike at Cecil tomorrow night. That gives us time enough to save your father.'

The Falcon sounded confident, but how could he know for sure?

‘Come, now. We must make haste. There is still much to do.' With a swish of his cloak, he turned and strode back
towards the river stairs.

Tom bolted after him. ‘But what if you don't succeed?'

‘We will. Unless . . .' The Falcon whipped round, black eyes flashing. ‘Did you keep your silence, Master Garnett?'

‘Yes . . . I . . . I promised Father I'd save him, but that was all.'

The Falcon grimaced. ‘God's teeth! When we are this close.' He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘I hope for your sake you have said nothing more.'

‘I haven't! I swear it. On my life.' He made the sign of the cross above a pounding heart.

The Falcon clicked his tongue against his teeth and set off at an even faster pace.

Tom glanced after him. The Falcon had risked much to take him to the Clink – to let him see Father. He might be angry with him now, but he was his friend, he was sure of that. So Hunt must be lying. He licked his lips. He had to warn the Falcon and quickly, before the spy found out about the new plan. Otherwise Cat and his men would be captured, and Father would hang for sure.

‘Wait! There's something I need to tell you.' He dashed after him.

‘Not now, boy. I have more important things to think about.'

‘But—'

The Falcon stopped and spun round. ‘I said not now!' He fixed him with a fiery stare then turned and marched away.

Tom shivered. He really was angry with him. Better wait until he'd calmed down and they were back at the lodging
house. He took a deep breath and tried to imagine himself at home with Father, Mother and baby Ned. But it was no use. All he could see was Father, chained and alone in the dark, with only the rats for company.

They arrived at the lodging house just as the night-watchman called the hour of eleven. The Falcon jerked his head at the door and handed Tom the key. ‘Go inside and get some sleep.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘I have urgent business to attend to before the night is out. I will be back later.' His tone was clipped and impatient. Before Tom could reply, he slipped back into the shadows and was gone.

He hung his head. He'd have to tell him about Hunt when he returned and pray it was soon enough. He turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open and stepped into the passageway. The smell of cooked onions and spices made his mouth water. Guilt jabbed at his chest. He should-n't be thinking of food. Not with Father lying half-starved in prison and waiting to die. But the coney supper seemed like a lifetime ago.

He headed towards the kitchen. The room was in darkness, save for the faint glow of embers in the fireplace. He walked over and peered into the cooking pot. There was still a spoonful or two of stew left. He picked up a bowl from the table. As he dipped the ladle into the pot, something white at the back of the fireplace caught his eye.

He hooked it towards him with the handle of the ladle.
A fragment of paper, badly charred. And some words. His words.

Dear Mother,

I wanted . . .

London . . .

new friends . . .

A bitter taste flooded his mouth. His message. The Falcon had promised to get it delivered for him. But he'd burnt it instead. A sudden wave of dread rushed through him. What other lies had he told him? He shot a look at the pot of stew and frowned. That extra bowl he'd seen the Falcon help himself to earlier. What if it hadn't been for him but for someone else? Someone under lock and key.

Sliding the remains of the letter inside his jerkin, he reached up and felt for the set of keys. They weren't there. The Falcon must still have them. If he and Browne really had got Cressida shut away somewhere, how was he ever going to rescue her? A memory rippled through him. Something she had said about a boy like him being able to pick a lock. He reached for his knife. Maybe she was right.

A candle stub sat on the fireplace mantel. He grabbed it and dipped the wick in the embers of the fire. The candle caught and flared. He waited for the flame to settle, then crept out of the room and made for the stairs. A few moments later, he was standing on the landing at the bottom of the ladder. He peered up into the blackness and listened. At first, all he could hear was the wild pounding of his own heart.

He listened more closely. Wait. Yes! There it was again. The same moaning noise he'd heard the night before. The wind in the rafters? Or something else? He shivered. Time for some reinforcements. He slunk into the sleeping chamber and fished Jago out of his box.

‘Come on, boy. I need your help.' He stroked the mouse's ears, then dropped him inside his waist-pouch, crept back out to the foot of the ladder and began to climb.

The air grew colder the higher he went. A sudden draught caught the candle flame and the walls came alive with twisting black snakes. He reached the top rung and blinked. A shaft of moonlight shone through a hole in the roof above him, throwing a circle of silver on the rough floorboards ahead. Beyond it, half hidden in shadow, was the outline of a wooden door. He hoisted himself up through the hatch and edged towards it.

Another moan.

He froze. Someone or something was definitely in there. But who? Only one way to find out. Gritting his teeth, he counted to three and tiptoed towards the door. He put his ear against the wood. Silence. He waited, the breath hard as ice in his throat. Still nothing. He must have imagined it. He puffed out his cheeks and turned to go.

A sobbing sound made him start. He turned back and pressed his eye to the keyhole. ‘Wh–who's there?'

The sobbing stopped and a rustling noise replaced it.

He pulled out his knife and gripped it tight. Time to discover the truth. He thrust the blade into the keyhole and gave it a sharp twist. The lock held fast. He tried again, but
it wouldn't budge. He frowned. If only he had a set of spy keys like Hunt. He pulled the blade free then slid it in again and jiggled it up and down.
Come on. Come on
.

With a sudden click the door swung inwards. He held back for a moment, then, thrusting the blade out in front of him, he inched through the gap and into the small room beyond.

‘Is anyone there?' He held the candle above his head and peered about him. A pile of blankets lay heaped against the far wall. As he approached, a hand shot out and a splat of something cold and lumpy hit him full in the face.

‘Leave me alone, you brute!' A wooden bowl came flying through the air. He ducked. The bowl hit the wall with a clatter, then spun across the floor, rolling to a stop at his feet.

‘Stop! It's not who you think.' Tom leapt back, wiping gobbets of rabbit and onion from his cheeks.

The blankets reared up and a white face peered back at him from beneath a tangle of yellow curls. ‘Tom? Is that you?'

His stomach lurched. So Hunt was right. She'd been here all along. He groaned and sank to his knees. What was he going to do now?