Black Powder (20 page)

‘But she is, I'm telling you.' Hunt picked up the knife and jabbed the blade into the arm of the chair. ‘Your friend and Mister Browne shipped her to London in the back of their cart. A contact of mine saw everything.'

‘You're lying! If she came with us, I'd have known.'

Hunt levered the knife out of the wood and dangled it between his thumb and forefinger. The blade glowed red in the light from the fire. ‘These are ruthless clever men, Tom. They will have kept her quiet by drugging her.' He shot him a look. ‘You have intelligence, lad. I can see that. So' – he tapped his forehead – ‘use it.' He cleared his throat and frowned. ‘During your journey, no doubt you were kept well away from the contents of the cart?'

Tom chewed at his lip. It was true he'd never seen what was under the sailcloth. And there was the time in the chalk pit when he'd caught Browne fiddling with the ties of the sack and been warned off. And the mandrake potion. What if it hadn't been for Browne's toothache after all? But Cressida had gone to fetch Sergeant Talbot. He'd seen her leave with his own eyes. He shot a look at Hunt. For some reason the man was trying to set him against the Falcon. Well, he wasn't going to fall for it. He folded his arms tight across his chest. ‘So where is she now?'

Hunt laid the knife back down on his chair arm and
fixed him with a flinty stare. ‘I was hoping
you
might be able to shed some light on that, Master Garnett. She will be somewhere under lock and key.'

The doubt bubbled up again. That noise in the roof last night. What if it hadn't been the wind?

‘But I don't understand.' He shook his head. ‘Why would they want to take her? And who are you anyway?'

Hunt pursed his lips. ‘I cannot tell you that, but you should know I go about the King's business.'

‘What?' Tom's legs buckled. He sank back down in the chair.

‘It's true. But I'm afraid matters are at too delicate a stage for me to say more. I do not yet know all Cat and his gang have planned. Although I worked hard to persuade them to let me join them, they have kept certain crucial facts from me – no doubt because I am a newcomer and have yet to prove myself. But one thing is sure. These men will stop at nothing to get their own way. And as Montagues, you and your cousin are useful bargaining tools to bring others into line.'

‘I'm a Garnett, not a Montague!'

Hunt's eyes flashed silver. ‘You may have been born a Garnett. But your uncle is a Montague and one of the most powerful lords in the land. Your new friends will not hesitate to use you and your cousin as bait to secure his support and that of the other Catholic nobles. Now tell me.' He bent over him and grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘While you were staying at Cowdray, did you come across anything unusual in your uncle's household?'

Tom shrank back in his chair. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘Oh, I don't know. Perhaps the arrival of strangers or a whispered conversation you weren't meant to hear.'

A sudden spark flashed through him. He knew where he'd heard that voice before. The stranger who'd met with Mandrake outside Cowdray's walls. Hunt was the other spy.

He pulled a face. ‘There was a man . . .'

Hunt squatted down in front of him, eyes gleaming. ‘Go on, lad.'

‘I overheard him talking . . .'

‘To who?' Hunt gripped the arms of the chair.

He'd got him now, like a fish on a hook. ‘Mandrake, our tutor. They met in secret the night I arrived. He worked for a man he called the Master.' See what he made of that!

Hunt's gaze remained steady, but two spots of pink appeared on his cheeks. ‘Interesting.' He dropped his hands to his side and stood up. ‘But not what I am looking for.' He pressed his lips into a hard line. ‘I have risked a lot in coming here. Too much maybe . . .' His pale forehead creased into a frown.

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

Tom jerked his head up. The Falcon. It must be! He leapt to his feet.

Hunt barred his way and fixed him with a stare. ‘What I have told you is the truth. You should not meddle in this business. The consequences will be nothing but deadly. Find your cousin and leave this place as soon as you can.' He slid the muffler back over his mouth and nose and pulled on his hat. ‘And know this.' His eyes glittered with warning.
‘If you follow these men, there can be no hope for your father.' He handed him back the knife.

Tom swallowed hard and looked down at the blade. His father's initials shone back at him in the firelight.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

Hunt glanced over his shoulder. ‘There is a back way?'

Tom wavered.

‘Quick, lad!'

‘Yes, but you'll have to climb a wall . . .'

Hunt nodded, then wrapping his cloak about him, he slid out through the door and was gone.

Tom stared after him, head spinning. If Hunt was one of Cecil's spies, then the Falcon and his friends were in danger of being discovered at any moment. He had to warn them before it was too late. Except . . . He frowned. It was true; Hunt had risked a lot coming here. What if he'd spoken the truth? What if the Falcon and Browne really had captured Cressida? And what if the gang had something far worse than Cecil's kidnap planned? Beads of sweat pricked his top lip. He glanced up at the ceiling. There was only one way to find out.

The hammering at the door grew louder. He gritted his teeth. His search would have to wait until later. He stumbled down the passageway, snatched the key from its hook and unlocked the door.

‘Zounds! What does a man have to do to get himself heard?' The Falcon pushed past him into the passageway. ‘I hope you have that fire blazing. I've been a-hunting at the butchers and got us something tasty for the pot. Catch!' He
turned and swung a brown furry shape at him.

Tom's fingers closed round the coney's limp body. He stared into its sightless black eyes.

The Falcon frowned. ‘What's wrong, Soldier? Seen a ghost? Come on.' He slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let's go inside and cook this up. And then you must change into these.' He thrust a bundle at him. ‘You and I are going on a journey.'

A flutter started up in Tom's chest. ‘What . . . what about the tunnel?'

The Falcon shook his head. ‘Our plans have changed. I'll tell you more on the way.'

‘Where are we going?'

He shot him a mysterious look. ‘All in good time, Soldier. All in good time.'

Chapter Twenty-seven

T
om glanced at the Falcon as he busied himself with stirring the coney stew. What was the new plan? And if Cecil was leaving the city soon, shouldn't they be making haste with it? He fingered the handle of his knife. And what about Hunt? Should he tell the Falcon he'd been here? No. He couldn't risk it. Not until he knew for sure Hunt had been lying about Cressida. But what if they didn't come back to the lodging house?

‘Here!' The Falcon thrust a bowl of stew at him. ‘You deserve this, Soldier.' He helped himself to a bowlful, sat down and began to eat.

Tom's mouth watered at the rich smell of rabbit meat and onions. He dipped his spoon into the steaming mixture.

The Falcon winked at him. ‘Good, eh?' He shovelled a final spoonful into his mouth, licked his lips and jumped
up. ‘Now, I must check on some equipment.' He swiped a bunch of keys from the shelf above the fireplace and ladled some more stew into a fresh bowl. ‘I'll take this with me for sustenance. In the meantime, Soldier, change into those clothes I brought you and be ready to leave when I say. No need to bring your mouse.'

‘But . . .'

‘Trust me. We will only be gone a few hours and he will be safer here.' The look the Falcon shot him told him he didn't have any choice.

Tom frowned. He wasn't happy about leaving Jago behind, but perhaps it was for the best. He glanced at the bundle lying on the table. Where was the Falcon taking him? He sighed. Best finish his stew then change. He'd find out soon enough.

The streets around the lodging house were as twisted and tangled as a rat's nest. The occasional flicker of a candle flame in a window did little to light their way. More than once Tom found himself squelching through piles of stinking black gutter muck. He pressed his nose into the sleeve of the woollen shirt the Falcon had brought him.

‘So . . . so where are we going?'

The Falcon shook his head. ‘I'll tell you later, once we're across the river. This warren is a breeding ground for eavesdroppers and spies.'

A sudden thought sent an icy prickle down Tom's spine. What if the Falcon knew all about Hunt's visit? Had seen him arrive at the house and, suspecting something, decided
to get Tom out of the way before he found Cressida? He bit his lip. No. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. The Falcon was trying to help him. His hoity-toity cousin was tucked up safe in her feather bed at Cowdray and as soon as they got back to the lodging house, he'd prove it.

‘Stop lagging behind, or it will be midnight before we get there.' The Falcon waved him on and strode off down a narrow alley on their right.

Tom hurried after him. It was danker down here and the air smelt even more strongly of river. He shivered and pulled his cloak tight about him. In the distance, a night-watchman called the hour of seven. A dog barked. Another answered it and soon the air was full of yips and howls. As they turned a bend, a stretch of glittering black water came into view. He gaped open-mouthed at the lantern lights of a hundred wherries which dipped and darted across it like moths.

‘Careful. Watch where you tread. The river mud makes the way slippery.' The Falcon gripped him by the arm and steered him down a set of steps towards the swirling current.

Hunt's words wormed their way back into his head.
Danger. Ruthless. Stop at nothing . . 
. His chest tightened. What if the Falcon had brought him down here to drown him?

‘No, please!' He jerked away, but the Falcon's grip tightened.

‘Keep still or you'll topple us both in.' He raised his right hand as if to strike him.

Tom flinched. He opened his mouth to cry for help but
his tongue was stuck fast to his teeth. He closed his eyes and waited for the blow.

‘Over here!' The Falcon's voice boomed across the water. A creak of wood echoed back at them above the slapping waves. Tom flicked his eyes open. A small boat appeared out of the gloom, a lantern bobbing from a stick fixed to its stern.

A wherry. The Falcon had been calling for a wherry. Tom bowed his head and muttered a quick prayer of thanks.

The Falcon released his grip and stepped down into the boat. He turned and held out a hand.

Tom faltered.

‘What's wrong? Not a bad sailor, are you?'

He shook his head.

‘Come on then. We must make haste.'

He gritted his teeth, took the Falcon's hand and jumped down beside him. The boat rocked from side to side.

‘'Tis not a long crossing. You have my word on it.' The Falcon turned to the wherryman. ‘The stairs by St Mary Overie in Southwark, and sharp about it.'

The wherryman nodded. He waited for them to sit then dipped his oars and turned the boat out into the surging current.

After a good deal of rowing, they neared the arches of the bridge they'd crossed the night before. The rush of the river was louder here and circles of foam spun about them. The Falcon's words about boat wrecks and drowning rang in Tom's ears. He shuddered. Surely the wherryman wasn't going to try his luck riding the rapids? He held his breath
and gripped the boat's rough wooden sides.

Suddenly the wherryman raised an oar. The boat swung a half turn. Quick as lightning, he sliced both oars into the inky tide and rowed hard towards the opposite bank.

Tom puffed out a breath and fixed his eyes on the shore. A church tower loomed up before them. It was the one they'd passed last night, before they'd crossed the bridge. At last, after what seemed like hours later, the boat bumped against a set of steps. The wherryman reached for the ring on the wall next to them, ran a length of rope through it and tied it fast.

‘St Mary Overie.'

The Falcon handed the man a coin and leapt out of the boat. ‘This way.' He nodded at the flight of steps in front of them. Tom followed him up them, legs shaking, grateful to be back on dry land.

When they reached the top, the Falcon turned to him. ‘I'll tell you now who I have brought you to see.' He clasped him tight by the shoulder, black eyes gleaming. ‘'Tis your father.'

Tom's breath caught in his throat. Father? But how? He scanned his face for a sign he was lying.

The Falcon smiled and shook him gently. ‘'Tis true, Soldier. After I met with Mister Cat in Lambeth, I made some enquiries and discovered your father is still being kept in the Clink.'

A rushing sound filled his ears and bright lights danced in front of his eyes. He stumbled backwards in a daze.