Black Powder (12 page)

The smuggler cocked an eyebrow. ‘Prison, eh? What's his offence?'

‘He sheltered a man who needed his help.'

‘That is no sin.' The smuggler frowned. ‘There must be more to it.'

Tom pulled his cloak tight around him. The old Viscountess was right. He needed to be careful. What if this smuggler was a Catholic-hater too? He clamped his jaw tight shut.

Rough fingers lifted Tom's chin up. ‘Tell me.' The smuggler's grip was firm but there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes.

His shoulders slumped. He was tired of trying to hide things. He opened his mouth and let the words spill out.

‘The man was a priest. Father said he'd come in secret by ship from France.'

‘A Jesuit . . . I see.' The smuggler pursed his lips. The skin beneath his right eye jumped and twitched as though some creature was burrowing beneath it, trying to get out. ‘And how did he and your father meet?'

‘By accident. Down at the harbour in Portsmouth. We live there. Father works for a merchant. The priest was sick. Father rescued him and brought him back home.'

‘So what are you doing here at Cowdray?'

His chest tightened. ‘Father tried to get the priest to safety. After they'd left, the constable and his men came for Mother, me and Ned – I mean Edward; he's my little brother. The constable questioned us and threw Mother in
gaol and . . .' He shivered again at the memory of the treacherous words he'd spoken that had sealed his father's fate. If he confessed the truth, the smuggler would surely run him through. Not just for being a spy and a Catholic, but a coward too.

‘Go on, boy.' The smuggler's tone had changed, grown quieter, softer even. ‘I have no quarrel with papists.'

Tom drew in a breath and carried on. ‘He . . . he let me and Edward go. Mother told me to come here and ask my uncle for help. Except . . .' He curled up his fists. ‘Except, he's away at court and the old lady, the Viscountess, is in charge.'

‘So?'

‘She's arranged for Mother to be freed, but she won't help Father.'

‘Why?'

‘She says he's shown poor judgement.' He looked down and began picking at the knot on his bundle. The man might not hate Catholics, but it didn't feel right to share his new-found family history with a stranger.

The smuggler clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘The Viscountess was always a hard one.'

‘You know her?' Tom jerked his head up.

The smuggler shifted on his haunches and grimaced. ‘I was once in the employ of the old Lord Montague, the present lord's grandfather. I came here as a young man seeking to make my way in society by working for a noble family. But we didn't . . . how shall I put it? Warm to each other. He dismissed me after a few months' service. When he died, I returned for a while to work for your uncle. And after that'
– his eyes took on a faraway look – ‘I followed a different path. But that's another story.' His gaze sharpened and focused back on Tom. ‘Well now, Master Spy, I find myself in a fix.'

‘Wh-what do you mean, sir?'

The smuggler flipped Tom's knife in the air and caught it by the handle. ‘Your story sounds plausible enough. And the offer of payment for your freedom is an attractive one. But unless you happen to have some gold stashed in that pack of yours, I don't see how you can keep to your side of the bargain.'

Tom struggled to his knees. ‘But if you'll just wait, I can go and get it.'

‘From the Viscountess?' The smuggler snorted. ‘I think that unlikely. As I said before, she is no friend of mine. No.' He tapped the side of his sharp, beaked nose. ‘Another course of action is required.'

Tom's stomach twisted inside him. So the man was going to kill him after all. He closed his eyes and steeled himself for the blow.

Laughter echoed around him. A hand slapped him hard across the back. He flicked his eyes open.

‘You misjudge me, Master Spy. I'm not going to run you through. Rather tie you up awhile. And don't worry. That old rascal Grimwold will find you eventually, though you must pray he beats the rats. Now' – he pulled the torch up from the ground and got to his feet – ‘I have wasted enough time blathering. London is at least two days' hard journeying and I have an urgent appointment to keep there.'

London! A bolt of excitement shot through Tom. If he could get the smuggler to take him with him, he could seek out his uncle and beg him to save Father himself. But could he trust him? He glanced at the man's smoke-stained hands and scarred face. His stomach knotted again. He knew what Mother would say.

The smuggler pulled a length of rope from his belt.

Quick, Tom. Decide!

‘Wait!' Heart thrumming, he grabbed his bundle and jumped to his feet.

‘What is it?'

‘The other night, you said . . . you said if we ever met again, I might repay you for the favour of setting me on the right road to Cowdray.'

The smuggler nodded slowly as if remembering. ‘You are right, Master Spy. I did.' He shot him a glance. ‘So what did you have in mind?'

‘If you take me with you, I'll . . . I'll keep watch, fetch firewood, find water, look after your horse, get supplies for you and the other smugglers.'

‘Smugglers, eh?' A smile curled across the man's lips. He gestured at his bundle. ‘What's in your pack anyway?'

Tom held it close. ‘Clothes and some things from home.'

The smuggler frowned. ‘Planning on making a journey, were you?'

He shrugged.

The smuggler tugged on his beard and sighed. ‘The business with your father troubles me. And it would seem the mistress of this place has been less than kind to you. I do not
like injustice. Besides' – he raised the torch and looked him up and down – ‘you may be of use to me after all.'

Hope sparked inside Tom. ‘Do you really mean it, sir?'

The smuggler tilted his head to one side, then gave a quick nod. ‘I will take you with me to London and in return you will work your passage as you have promised.'

‘Yes, sir!'

‘And if you prove yourself a worthy travelling companion, I'll do what I can to assist you in this business with your father.'

His heart jolted. ‘You mean . . . help get him free?'

‘I can make no promises.' The smuggler threw him a mysterious look. ‘But, God willing, there might be a way . . .'

Tom's jaw dropped. This was even better than he'd hoped for. A wave of happiness surged through him. At last something good had happened. ‘Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!'

The smuggler nodded and handed him back his knife. ‘No need for “sir”.'

‘What shall I call you then?'

The man ran a finger over his ring and gave a crooked smile. ‘The Falcon.'

‘The Falcon?'

The man's eyes took on a distant look. ‘'Tis the bird on my family's crest, and a reminder to me of happier times.'

Tom frowned. A smuggler grand enough to have a family crest?

‘Is there a problem?'

He shook his head. ‘N-no . . .'

‘Good. Now, time we were going.' The smuggler turned and ducked out into the main tunnel.

Tom held back for a moment. It wasn't too late to change his mind. If he was quick, he could make a dash back to the cellar. He rubbed his forehead. But what if the man – this Falcon – could really help him rescue Father? And even if he didn't, at least he'd be in London and could look for his uncle there. It was the only real chance he had. He couldn't let it slip. He took a deep breath, shouldered his bundle and ran after him.

The tunnel sloped uphill. As they crept along it, he thought he heard something above the chink of the Falcon's spurs. What if it was Cressida come back with Sergeant Talbot? She'd been gone long enough. He ran his tongue over his lips and glanced back in the direction of the cellar door.

A hand clamped his arm. ‘Not having second thoughts, are you, boy?'

‘No, but my cousin . . . she went off to get the sergeant . . .'

‘The sergeant?' The Falcon's eyes flashed with anger. ‘Why didn't you say so before?' He growled, then doubled his pace and hauled Tom deeper into the gloom.

Chapter Seventeen

A
s the slope of the tunnel got steeper, Tom struggled to keep up with the Falcon's great strides. At last, a faint blue circle showed ahead of them. The way out. It must be! Chest heaving, he kicked up his heels and put on a final spurt.

The circle of light grew steadily bigger and a gust of cold air stung his cheeks.

The Falcon jerked to a stop. ‘This is it. Out you go.' He thrust him through an opening in the dark hewn rock.

Long, bony fingers snatched at Tom's head and shoulders. He twisted free and spun round, fists raised.

The Falcon snorted. ‘It's not the undergrowth you should be afraid of, boy.' He swept the thick ropes of ivy to one side and pushed past him.

Tom followed, face burning. But the nip of the frost-chilled air soon cooled him down. He shivered and drew his
cloak tight against him.

‘Come on. And keep the noise down. We don't want the nightwatchman finding us.' Turning the torch upside down and ramming it into a mound of earth, the Falcon marched off down a narrow snaking path towards a clump of trees.

Tom stumbled after him. They passed beneath a tumbledown arch, its stones shining white in the moonlight. These must be the ruins on the hill he'd seen from his window. He darted a look behind. The tunnel entrance was set into the side of a steep wooded slope. He could just make out the meadow and the grey-green walls of the house beyond. How much longer before Sergeant Talbot came after them? He turned and hurried after the Falcon.

The path broadened out into a track beyond the trees. Halfway down it stood a horse and cart. Tom peered about him. So where was the other smuggler – the one he and Cressida had heard in the tunnel?

‘Hurry, boy. This is no time for sightseeing. Not if your cousin has managed to raise the sergeant.' The Falcon snatched a pair of leather gloves from beneath his cloak. He pulled them on and strode towards the cart.

Tom hoisted his pack over his shoulder and sprang after him. The back of the cart was stacked up high, its contents hidden beneath a heavy grey sailcloth fixed with ropes to its sides. His shoulders sank at the sight of the lumbering great carthorse and the cart's giant, iron-rimmed wheels. He could already feel the bumps and jolts they'd have to suffer on the journey to London.

The Falcon nodded at the cart as if reading his mind. ‘Fret not. There is a more civilized way for gentlemen.' He leapt up the side of the bank and disappeared into the trees. A moment later he scrambled down again leading a grey horse by the reins. He rubbed his gloved hand along the horse's charcoal-coloured nose. ‘Meet Shadrach.'

The animal snorted and tossed his black mane. Tom sprang back as Shadrach's front hoof pawed the ground.

The Falcon gave a low chuckle and reined the horse in. ‘A fiery name for a fiery steed.' Grasping the pommel of Shadrach's saddle, he slid his left boot into the stirrup then swung himself up on the horse's back. ‘Come.' He bent down and held out his hand.

Tom glanced back the way they'd come.

‘A problem, boy?' The Falcon fixed him with a glittering stare.

He flushed again. ‘No, I . . . er . . .'

‘Good. Then jump up behind me. Unless' – the Falcon jerked his head at the carthorse – ‘you would prefer to jolt along like a bag of bones behind old Goliath there?'

Tom shook his head, then frowned. If they were on horseback, who would be driving the cart?

A rustle of leaves sounded on the track behind them. He twisted round. A tall, bearded figure in a black cloak and hat strode down the slope towards them, a sack slung over his right shoulder. As he approached he lifted his hat and a tumble of grey-streaked hair fell about his shoulders. Tom raised his eyebrows. He moved fast for an old man. But as the newcomer reached them and the moonlight clipped his
face, he realized he'd been mistaken; he looked only a few years older than the Falcon.

‘You took your time, Mister Browne. Any trouble?'

The man shook his head. He heaved the sack on to his left shoulder, wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead then shot Tom a look and frowned. ‘Who's this young jackanapes?' It was the voice of a gentleman, but terse and ice-hard. ‘I wasn't expecting we should have company.'

The Falcon tightened his grip on Shadrach's reins. ‘Truth to tell, neither was I. But as we both know, plans can change. Young Master Garnett is a friend of mine. He will be joining us on our trip to London.'

‘Oh, he will, will he? Good of you to consult me!' Browne's eyes flashed silver in the moonlight.

The Falcon shrugged. ‘I did not have the opportunity. He has promised to be useful to us on the journey. I have offered him safe passage in return.'