Black Powder (24 page)

Tom forced his lips into a smile. Except smiling was the last thing he felt like doing. The decoy hadn't worked. A bolt of fear shot through him. Unless he could find a way to escape, he'd have no choice but to go along with whatever Cat and his gang had planned.

Chapter Thirty-two

T
he men talked into the night. The sound of their voices drifted up the stairs and wound in to where Tom sat huddled under his blanket in the sleeping chamber. He strained to hear what they were saying, but it was no use; he couldn't make out their words. He sank his head between his shoulders. He still didn't have a clue what their true plan was. And in just over a day's time Father would go to the gallows. He shivered and closed his eyes.

An image of a young woman flickered in front of him, her pale face framed by wisps of blonde hair. It was the girl in the portrait at Cowdray. Except now her blue eyes brimmed with tears. As he watched, the tears spilled over her lashes and trickled down her cheeks, dissolving them into mist.

Mother?
He reached out but she was gone.

He flicked open his eyes and listened. The men were still
talking down below. There'd be no chance of rescuing Cressida while they were here. He wrapped himself in the blanket and closed his eyes again.

This time, sleep came quickly.

Monday 4 November

A pale grey light shone in through the window. He blinked and rolled over. The space where the Falcon slept was empty. He leapt to his feet, tiptoed across to the door and pressed his ear to it.

Silence. Had they gone? If they had, now was his chance. Snatch Cressida, then leave, find his uncle and raise the alarm. But he had to be sure. He was about to lift the latch when a pair of footsteps started up the stairs. He shrank back and held his breath.

The footsteps came to a stop outside. The latch rattled and the door swung open. A shadow slanted across the floorboards.

‘Where are you, Master Mole?' Harry Browne's voice rang out icy cold.

A shiver rippled down Tom's spine. He slid into the gap between the door and the wall.
Don't let him spot me, please
.

Browne stepped into the room and looked about him, then marched over to the mattress. He kicked at the blanket and threw a glance up at the window.

Seizing his chance, Tom dashed for the door.

‘No you don't.' A hand yanked him back by the belt, swung him round and shoved him face down on the mattress.

‘Leave me alone.' He made to roll away, but Browne's boot pinned him to the spot.

‘My comrade should've cut your throat when he first clapped eyes on you. Snooping about in that tunnel and poking your nose into our business when it didn't concern you.' The boot pressed harder. ‘But instead, the fool let sentiment get the better of him and now we have a spy in our midst.'

‘But I'm not a spy!' He tried to wriggle free.

Browne jerked him back down. ‘You may have survived my slip with the shovel yesterday, Master Mole, but this time, I fear, you won't be so lucky.'

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Tom's face. ‘Wh–what are you going to do?'

Browne seized a thick wooden club from beneath his cloak. He traced a gloved finger over its pitted surface. ‘You will find out soon enough. But first I'm going to put you to sleep again.' He curled his lips into an unpleasant smile, jerked back the club and brought it down with a crack.

A bolt of pain shot through Tom's head. Then a tide of blackness flooded in and swallowed him whole.

He woke with a start and winced. His head was pounding fit to burst and his mouth had been filled with what tasted like a plug of wet sawdust. He made to scoop it out, but his hands were tied fast behind his back. He jiggled his feet. His ankles were bound together too. A bolt of panic shot through him. He flared his nostrils and sucked in a breath.
Stay calm. There's a way. There has to be
.

He wriggled his wrists. The rope burned his skin. The more he tried to free himself, the tighter it dug. He shrugged off the blanket that covered him, rocked himself into a sitting position and jabbed his tongue against the plug. Not sawdust; cloth. He gagged, pursed his lips and coughed. Once. Twice. Three times. At the fourth try, the cloth sprang free. He spat it out and gulped in a mouthful of air. There was a strange taste in his mouth. From the cloth or something else? His arms and legs felt strangely heavy too. Had Browne given him some of the mandrake oil to keep him quiet?

He took more deep breaths, trying to clear his head. His nose filled with the smell of damp earth. He peered about him. Faint shafts of grey-blue light shone through a row of slits in the wall opposite. He glanced up at the vaulted ceiling. It looked like some kind of cellar. The one next door to Cecil's palace? But why would Browne take him there? And how long had he been unconscious for? He shivered. He'd find out soon enough.

A series of low groans echoed around him. He froze. What was that? Had Browne locked him up with some kind of wild animal? He jerked up his knees and got ready to kick. ‘Come near me and—'

Something clammy clutched at his wrist.

‘Get off me!' He yanked free, heart pounding.

A pair of eyes gleamed back at him. Human eyes. ‘Hmmph. Hmmph.'

‘Cressida?' He peered into the shadows. She was lying on
her side, half wrapped in a dirty blanket, hands tied behind her, a kerchief knotted across her mouth. ‘Hold still.' He crawled alongside her. Then, sitting with his back to her, he positioned his hands in front of her mouth and tugged at the kerchief until it came free.

She licked her lips and let out another groan.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes. Apart from being tied up like a common criminal.' She struggled up and glanced round. ‘Where are we?'

‘I don't know. Some kind of cellar, I think.'

‘How did we get here?'

‘Browne. He must have brought us in the cart. I'm sorry.' Tom pulled a face. ‘I was going to come back for you, but they stayed up talking most of the night. Then Browne hit me with a stick and knocked me out.'

Cressida grimaced. ‘He's good at that.'

‘Did he hurt you again?' He glanced at her forehead.

‘No. Not this time. Just fed me more of that disgusting potion. Wait until my father finds out.' Her eyes filled with blue sparks, like his mother's when she was angry. ‘Anyway, never mind about him.' She tossed her curls. ‘Did you find out what the Falcon and Cat have planned?'

He shook his head. ‘No, but whatever it is, they're going to act tonight. Cat said so.' He hesitated. ‘Talking of cats, I . . . I suppose you don't know where Jago is?'

A smile flickered across her lips. ‘Don't worry. Your furry white friend is safe.'

A surge of relief rushed through him. ‘Where?'

‘In here.' She jerked her head at her left sleeve. ‘Though I think he might be asleep.'

His eyes widened.

‘These fancy dresses have their uses, you know.' Her smile broadened then shrank to a sudden frown. ‘Will the brute come back for us?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know. But I don't plan on being here if he does.'

‘We won't get very far like this.' She nodded at the rope tied round her wrists and ankles.

He sighed. She was right. A sudden thought flashed through his head. He twisted round. ‘Is my knife still in my belt?'

‘I don't know. Wait . . . Yes!'

‘Can you reach it?'

She shuffled round so they were sitting back to back. ‘I think so.' She tugged at his waist. ‘Keep still, will you?'

‘Have you got it?'

‘Nearly . . .' She gave another sharp tug. ‘Yes! Here.'

His fingers brushed against the cold, hard surface of the blade. ‘Good. Now I'll guide it to the rope . . . like this . . . and you start cutting.'

‘But what if it slips?' She sounded scared.

‘It won't if you grip it firmly.' His words were sure, but his chest was tight as a drum. He clenched his jaw. It was their only chance. He laced his fingers tight and pulled his wrists as far apart as he could. The rope juddered as the knife bit into it.

At last, after an age of cutting and sawing, his hands
sprang free. He rubbed his wrists, grabbed the knife and cut Cressida loose, then sliced through the rope at his ankles.

He jumped up. ‘Now, quickly, let's get out of here.'

Chapter Thirty-three

T
hin fingers of moonlight slanted through the window slits and across the stone floor. Tom peered about him looking for a door. He spotted an archway to their left and dashed over to it.

A patter of footsteps sounded behind him. ‘What have you found?' Cressida pulled up beside him.

He glanced beneath it. A bunch of barrels had been stacked inside and bundles of wooden faggots propped against them. ‘Some sort of storeroom, I think. Come on. Let's keep looking. There must be a way out of here somewhere.'

‘Wait.' She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. ‘What's that smell?'

She was right. He could smell it too. Rotten eggs mixed with charcoal. It was coming from a single barrel a few steps in front of them. He darted over to it. Someone had left the
lid off. He swished his knife blade through a pile of what sounded like gritty sand. The smell grew stronger. A memory flitted into his head of a trip he and Father had made down to the harbour once to watch a man-o'-war being loaded with guns and cannonballs.

He reached inside and let a fistful of the black powder trickle through his fingers. ‘Gunpowder!'

Cressida gazed at the barrels open-mouthed. As her eyes flicked back to him, his heart jolted. They were thinking the same thing.

‘So it wasn't my father's wine they were smuggling after all . . .'

He shook his head slowly, then frowned. ‘The Falcon told me he worked for your father once. He must have thought the tunnel was a safe place to hide it. Until they needed it.'

‘Needed it for what?'

Tom stared at the woodpile, then back at the barrels. A shiver of fear ran through him. There was enough gunpowder here to blow a whole army to smithereens. Except it wasn't an army above them. He staggered back from the barrels, eyes bulging.

Cressida clutched his arm. ‘Tom? What's wrong?'

‘They're not going to kidnap Cecil. They're going to blow him up. Him, his palace and everyone inside it.'

‘What?' Her grip tightened.

He clenched his jaw. There was no doubting it. These new friends of his, they were murderers, every one of them!

Cressida started. ‘What was that?' She spun round and
peered back into the main room.

Tom held his breath. A scrape of boots followed by a rattle of metal and a creak of wood. Someone was coming.

‘Quick!' He dragged her down behind the nearest stack of barrels.

A door banged open and a pair of footsteps echoed towards them. Browne. It must be. Come to finish them off. But wait. A second set of footsteps. If it
was
him, he wasn't alone. Keeping low, Tom edged along behind the barrels until he found a gap. He pressed his right eye to it and peered out. Two figures stood in the middle of the cellar, their faces masked in shadow.

‘Is all in order?' The voice, low and silky-smooth, was Robin Cat's.

The other man cleared his throat, then, spurs chinking, he turned and strode towards the barrel store. Tom yanked Cressida back against the wall.

‘Yes.' There was the thud of a fist or boot against one of the barrels. ‘There's enough powder here to blow them all sky high.'

The Falcon. Tom froze.

‘'Twill be the most explosive opening the Parliament has ever seen.'

The words sliced through Tom like a blade. He rammed his fist against his mouth. He'd been wrong. They weren't next to Cecil's palace. They were beneath the building where the Parliament was going to meet. And it wasn't just Cecil Robin Cat and his men were planning to kill. It was the King and his ministers too. And worst of all . . . His
stomach twisted. Worst of all, he, Tom Garnett, had been helping them.