Black Powder (17 page)

‘We intend to kidnap him and send him to the Spanish King to deal with as he sees fit.'

A lump formed in Tom's throat. He swallowed against it. ‘But . . . but won't King James be angry?'

The Falcon's eyes flashed orange in the oil lamp's glow. ‘Once rid of that black spider and his web, the King's sight will clear and he will see the justice of our cause. Besides, we have an ally in the Queen. 'Tis no great secret that, in spite of outward appearances, she is a follower of the one true faith.'

Robin Cat furrowed his brow and cupped his chin in his palm. ‘So tell me, where does our young friend here fit in?' But the curl of his lips and the amused look in his eyes told Tom he already knew the answer.

‘'Tis obvious. He can help us dig the tunnel that will take
us beneath Cecil's house and up into his cellar.'

A tunnel? Tom's eyes widened.

‘Ah yes, the tunnel.' Robin Cat's smile broadened. ‘The Falcon is right. We are full-grown men and not accustomed to such confinement. Whereas you, on the other hand . . .' His eyes flitted over him. ‘You are nimbler and will fit better into tight spaces.'

The man next to Tom grunted. ‘Puny, more like.' More sly laughs.

‘Manners, friends!' Robin Cat shot them a warning look. ‘I did not mean that at all.' He clutched Tom's arm. ‘You are both brave and strong. We have heard of your exploits on the road. Standing up to cut-throats and the like. A man after my own heart.' He gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.

Tom frowned. ‘But what about my father?'

Robin Cat laughed. ‘And shrewd too! Fear not. The first thing the King will do when we have freed him of that crookback Cecil's influence will be to pardon all those who have been imprisoned for their faith, your father included. Eh, my friend?'

The Falcon hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

‘So, Tom.' Robin Cat fixed him with his sharp green gaze. ‘Are you with us?'

The others watched him, waiting for his answer.

Tom's frown deepened. It wasn't what he had expected. But this Cecil was the cause of much misery. Everybody said so, even the Viscountess. It was because of him Father and the priest were locked up in prison. For England to be rid
of him would surely be a good thing. And if Robin Cat was speaking the truth, once Cecil was out of the way, Father would be a free man. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath. ‘Yes.'

‘Good lad.' Robin Cat lifted the jug and recharged every-one's mugs. ‘A toast. To our mission. May it be the success we all hope and pray for.'

The Falcon ruffled Tom's hair. ‘Well done, boy. You'll not regret it.'

Three short raps sounded on the door.

‘Who's that?' The Falcon leapt to his feet and drew his dagger.

‘Hold, man.' Robin Cat jumped up and put a hand on his arm. ‘'Tis a friend. They have given the signal.'

The Falcon frowned. He sheathed his dagger, strode to the door and opened it. Two men stepped inside. The first Tom didn't recognize. He was dressed in a black cloak and tall felt hat, the lower half of his face covered by a muffler. But his stomach knotted at the sight of the second's grim face and silver-grey locks.

‘Mister Browne!' Robin Cat gave a tight smile. ‘And this must be Mister Hunt. Though he is so well wrapped against the November chill, it is hard to be certain.'

The Falcon gave the newcomer a black look. ‘Mister who?'

‘George Hunt. Our newest recruit.' Browne pulled off his hat and threw it down on the table.

The man called Hunt touched a pale finger to the brim of his own hat, but left it and the muffler on.

The Falcon narrowed his eyes. ‘I thought for security's sake we had agreed to stick at the numbers we already have.'

‘You can talk.' Browne mopped his face with his kerchief and helped himself to a mug of ale. ‘You gave us no warning about this one.' He scowled at Tom, then turned to Robin Cat. ‘I trust you will be sending our little friend back where he came from with all due haste.'

Robin Cat's eyes sparked with a green-gold fire. ‘You are mistaken, Harry. The boy has agreed to join us on our mission. The one to save the King from the clutches of that fox Cecil. His small hands will prove most useful to us in our tunnelling work.'

‘What?' Browne spat out the mouthful of ale he'd just taken and stared at Robin Cat in disbelief.

‘I will explain more later. Now come. Take some refreshment.' Robin Cat pushed the pie dish towards him.

But Browne wasn't finished. He slammed his mug down, strode over to the Falcon and jabbed a finger at him. ‘If I had my way, sir, you would be locked up in Bedlam, for only a madman would risk bringing such a mewling babe into our company.'

The Falcon unsheathed his dagger again. ‘Insult me one more time, Harry Browne and you won't live long enough to regret it.'

Browne's eyes narrowed to two iron-hard points. ‘Scoundrel! It's time you learnt to show some respect for your betters.' Tossing his cloak to one side, he pulled his own blade free from his belt, flashed it up and lunged.

The Falcon sidestepped and Browne careered into the
tabletop, sending the pie plate and ale jug flying.

‘Arrghh!' Browne rebounded and twisted round, but the Falcon was quicker. He grabbed Browne's dagger-arm, thrust it up behind his back and pointed the tip of his blade at the other man's sweat-slicked throat.

‘Steady now, lads. Steady!' Robin Cat sprang forwards and pushed the Falcon's dagger down. ‘You are entitled to your opinions, Harry, but the decision has been made. Our young friend stays. Come, put your weapons away. We are all comrades here.'

The Falcon grunted, then released his grip and slid his dagger back in his belt.

Browne jerked free. He sheathed his blade, shook out his cloak and wiped his kerchief across his neck.

Robin Cat nodded at the other man, waiting patiently in the shadows. ‘And Mister Hunt stays too. He has promised us as many horses and pistols as we need. I think you will agree, my friend, we would be fools to turn down such a handsome offer.'

The Falcon shot Hunt a suspicious look, then gave Robin Cat a stiff bow.

‘Good. Now, why don't you take the boy to the lodging house and get him settled in? Time is against us and work must begin again on the tunnel first thing tomorrow, so he'll need all the sleep he can get.'

‘Come.' The Falcon snatched up their things. Then, thrusting Tom's bundle and cloak at him, he strode towards the door.

Tom hurried after him, stuffing the piece of half-eaten
pie up his sleeve. At the door, he cast a quick glance behind him. The new man had joined the others at the table, but Harry Browne stood glaring after them, his eyes cold as shards of winter ice.

He shivered. Not a man to make an enemy of. Except – the knot in his stomach grew even tighter – for some reason, it looked like he already had.

Chapter Twenty-three

I
t was nearly midnight when they finally arrived at the lodging house. The Falcon had taken so many twists and turns in the dark streets and alleys, Tom had no idea how far they were from the Duck and Drake. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn.

The Falcon helped him down from Shadrach then unhooked the bags from the saddle. ‘Let's get inside and I'll show you your sleeping quarters. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow.' He unlocked the door and gestured for him to enter.

Tom was about to cross the threshold when a small square of parchment caught his eye. He bent down and picked it up. There was a message scrawled across it in charcoal.

The provisions are in the attic.

‘Here, give me that.' The Falcon snatched the parchment
from him. He scanned the words, grunted and screwed it into a ball.

‘Is it from Mister Browne?'

The Falcon gave a brisk nod then pushed past him and disappeared inside. Tom took a deep breath and followed. A dark passageway ran through the middle of the house, with doors to the left and right. The air smelt of soot and damp. The Falcon came to a stop at the foot of a narrow staircase. ‘Up here.'

The wooden slats creaked and buckled under their weight. Tom gripped tight to a piece of rope tacked up the side of the cracked plaster wall. At the top of the steps, on a landing of rough floorboards, a rickety ladder stood propped against an open hatch in the ceiling.

‘The attic. But you'll not be needing to venture up there.' The Falcon jerked his head at a door opposite. ‘And that room is for the use of our out-of-town comrades who have no London lodgings of their own.'

Tom's heart missed a beat. Did he mean Harry Browne? He hoped not. He'd had his fill of him.

‘'Tis empty at the moment, except for some stores. But' – the Falcon pushed open a door on their left – ‘you can join me in here if you like.'

Tom stepped inside. A shaft of moonlight shone through a small square window hole in the opposite wall. The room was about the size of his bedchamber at home and bare, apart from a heavy oak chest in the corner and a straw mattress tossed down on the floor. As he turned, he noticed someone had nailed a rough wooden crucifix above the door.

‘How many others are there?'

‘I've lost track. Since I've been gone, it would appear Mister Cat has been on another recruiting drive. I doubt you'll meet them all anyway. Not in the time we have left. Here.' The Falcon opened the lid of the chest and threw a rough woollen blanket at him. ‘You'll be a mite saddle-sore after our ride. You have the mattress. I'll take the floor.' He pulled off his cloak and boots and unbuckled his belt, lay down on the floorboards and closed his eyes.

Tom took off his own boots, dropped down on the mattress and reached inside his bundle for Jago's box. He slid the lid open, tipped the mouse into his outstretched palm and fished the slice of pie crust from his sleeve. ‘Here, boy.' He broke off a piece and held it out to him. ‘Sorry it took so long.' He watched Jago eat for a moment then stroked his head. A cold draught blew against his neck. He glanced up at the window. Did Father have a window too? If he did, perhaps the moon's bright face would give him some cheer.

But what if they'd thrown him into one of them rat pits the boys back at home were always talking about? He shuddered. He wouldn't last long in one of those. The sooner they got on with digging the tunnel the better. The sound of snoring filled the room. He glanced at the Falcon. Fast asleep. He'd better try and do the same. He dropped Jago back inside his box. ‘I'll let you out for a run tomorrow, boy, I promise.'

He pulled the blanket over his head and closed his eyes. As sleep drifted in, a grey fog rose up and swirled towards him. As it drew closer, ghostly shapes peeled out of it:
ragged men and women with hollow eye sockets and holes where their mouths should be. They snatched at his face and hair with bony white fingers. He spun round then staggered back as a dark hooded figure twisted towards him, hands clutching its neck. The figure moaned and kicked out with booted feet. Then a great shudder ran through it and it fell still. The ghosts swarmed round the figure, yanking its boots and tearing its clothes. Tom made to cry out, but his mouth was stuffed with rags. The air filled with a sudden rush of wings and the shadow of a huge bird darkened the sky. The ghosts shrank back as it swooped down and sank its talons into the man's tattered shoulder. Cocking its head, the bird stared at Tom with a black, glistening eye then stabbed at the man's face with its beak.

‘No!' He jerked up with a start and blinked. The moon shone through the window, casting a silver square on the Falcon's outstretched hand and his glittering, bird-headed ring. Tom shivered. Just a dream. Tugging the blanket up under his chin, he rolled over and scrunched his eyes shut. As he slipped into sleep, the moaning started up again. Except this time – he flicked his eyes open – this time it was real.

He lay still and listened. It sounded like it was coming from up above. He tossed off the blanket, jumped up and tiptoed towards the door.

He was halfway there when a hand shot out and clamped his ankle. ‘Where are you going?'

‘I – I thought I heard something.'

‘'Twas only the wind. Go back to sleep.' It was clear from
his tone, the Falcon expected to be obeyed.

Tom hesitated, then crept back to the mattress and lay down. He held his breath. The noise had stopped. Maybe the Falcon was right. He closed his eyes and let the sound of the other man's breathing suck him back into sleep.

Sunday 3 November

Watery sunlight shone through the window. Tom blinked and sat up. The space on the floorboards where the Falcon had slept was empty. The sound of church bells drifted in from outside. Sunday. It must be. If he was at home, they'd have had to attend the Protestant church service to avoid being fined, but he doubted that was what the Falcon had planned.

He stretched and yawned then mumbled a quick prayer, opened up Jago's box and fed him the last few crumbs of pie crust. He was about to let him out for a run around when muffled voices sounded below. ‘It'll have to wait, boy.' He closed the lid over, rammed on his boots and crept out on to the landing.