Black Powder (15 page)

‘An inn in London, just off the Strand. We are set to meet some of our friends there.'

The hairs on the back of Tom's neck prickled. So Browne had been speaking the truth.

‘No need to look so worried, Master Garnett. My comrades are good fellows.' The Falcon cast a glance in the direction of the cart and frowned. ‘With one or two exceptions.' He put an arm round Tom's shoulder and pulled him close. ‘'Tis through them I hope to do what I can to get your father freed.'

A tingle of happiness spread through him. So the Falcon still meant to help him. ‘If you could, sir, I'd do anything to pay you back.'

‘I might take you up on that.' The Falcon's teeth flashed white against his beard. ‘Now eat.' He dropped his arm and turned back to the saddlebag.

Tom kicked a pile of dry leaves together, threw himself down and sank his teeth into the chicken. It tasted of melted butter and herbs. He took another bite. Something wriggled against his waist. Jago. He'd forgotten all about him. He must be hungry too. He glanced at the Falcon. He was busy pressing a pinch of tobacco into a long clay pipe. Tom reached inside his waist-pouch and scooped Jago out. The mouse blinked in the light. ‘Here, boy.' He broke off a
piece of bread and dropped it on to his palm.

A shadow fell over them. ‘So, you
do
have a friend?'

Tom's fingers closed over the mouse's small white body.

‘Let me see.' The Falcon squatted down next to him.

Tom hesitated, then dropped Jago into his outstretched hand.

The Falcon held him up by the base of his tail. ‘He's a curious-looking fellow.' He stroked the mouse's back with his little finger. A late burst of evening light caught his ring. The bird's eye sparked. Jago let out a squeak and pawed at the air.

‘Twitchy, isn't he? A bit like his master.' He winked and dropped the mouse back into Tom's palm.

Tom flushed and looked at his boots.

The Falcon settled down against a nearby tree. ‘Where did you find him?'

He looked up again. ‘In a trap in our stable. I wouldn't have been allowed to keep him normally, but things changed after . . .' A lump rose in his throat. He swallowed against it.

‘Go on.'

He took a deep breath. ‘After my brother William died.' He dropped his gaze again.

‘What happened?'

‘He caught the plague last summer.' Tom drew in another breath and let it out slowly. Speaking the words had hurt, but not quite as much as he'd thought they would.

The Falcon clicked his tongue and shook his head. ‘I'm sorry to hear it. But the Lord will have his reasons for taking
him so young. Perhaps he was too good for this earthly life?'

Tom's chest tightened. He didn't know about God, but William was Father's favourite, of that he was sure. And with good reason. His brother would never have betrayed him. Not like he'd done. His eyes pricked. He blinked and gritted his teeth. He was going to put that right though. He was determined.

The Falcon busied himself making a flame with the contents of his tinderbox. Soon the sweet smell of tobacco swirled through the twilit air. ‘Ahhh! Nectar.' He pulled on the pipe and blew an apple-sized smoke ring above his head. ‘So what sort of trade is your father in, Master Garnett?'

‘Wine and woollen cloth from Flanders.'

‘Flanders, eh? Scene of my soldiering days.'

‘Who did you fight with?'

‘The Spanish, against the heathen Dutch.'

‘Do you mean the Protestants?'

‘They go by that name too, yes.' The Falcon puckered his lips as if the taste of the tobacco was no longer to his liking. ‘I had some scores to settle.'

‘What sort of scores?'

The Falcon sighed and ran a finger round the smooth white clay of the pipe bowl. ‘I was not born a Catholic. I became one when my father died and my mother married a man of the true faith. Since then, like you and your family and so many other believers, I and my kinfolk have suffered great persecution and injustice for our beliefs. So when the Spanish King put out a call for men to help defend his territories in the Low Countries against the heretic
Protestants, I knew I must answer it. Though I did not bargain for the souvenirs I might pick up along the way. This one' – he tapped at the scar on his cheek – ‘was courtesy of a Dutchman's sword. Though, in the end, my own blade had the better of him.' He gave a grim smile.

‘Does it hurt?'

‘Now and again.' His face clouded over. ‘But nothing compared to the pain I feel daily for the suffering of honest, God-fearing men and women. People like your father, treated like a common criminal because he dares to stay true to the faith. We believed things might get better after the death of the old Queen – no doubt your father hoped the same?' He shot Tom a look.

He nodded, remembering the conversations between his parents at mealtimes.

‘But in spite of fine promises, they have not.'

‘Promises? From who?'

‘Those in power.'

‘You mean the King?'

The Falcon shrugged. ‘Those that advise him.'

Tom's heart jumped into his throat. He glanced over his shoulder. This was treasonous talk and they both knew the penalty. ‘But you wouldn't take up arms against him?'

The Falcon frowned. ‘Although he gave us reason to hope otherwise before he took the throne, King James has proved this past year he is no friend of the Catholics. Mark my words'– he shook his head – ‘only trouble will come of it. But I have said enough.' He tapped the bowl of his pipe against the side of his right boot, stretched out his long legs
and closed his eyes. ‘Get some sleep, Master Garnett. We will be starting off again as soon as night has fallen.'

Tom lifted Jago from the front of his doublet, opened his bundle and slipped him into his box. Then, covering himself with his cloak, he pulled out the prayer book and re-read the inscription in the dying light. Mother wouldn't approve of what he was doing. Joining up with a band of smugglers. Men who were thieves and, in Browne's case, maybe worse. But he'd done it for the best of reasons. And although the Falcon might have his grudges and secrets, he could trust him, he was sure of that now. With his help, God willing, he'd get Father freed and give him and Mother a reason to be proud of him too.

Chapter Twenty-one

Saturday 2 November

‘
W
ake up, boy. We're almost there.'

Tom's head lolled forwards. He blinked. A line of misty grey hills stretched across the horizon, studded with speckles of milky orange light. London. After another night and day's riding it must be! His skin prickled. Somewhere down there lay the Clink and Father locked away inside it. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands together.
Please, God, keep him safe
.

As they drew closer, scatterings of low cottages gave way to two- and three-storey houses which pressed in on both sides like snaggles of black teeth. The stink of rotting vegetables and manure rose up from piles of rubbish strewn across the road.

‘Welcome to Southwark,' the Falcon called back to him.
‘The lawless side of the river. Brawls and killings happen here in broad daylight. Why, even a playwright or two has committed murder in these very streets.'

Tom tightened his grip round the Falcon's waist.

He laughed. ‘Fear not, boy. You will be safe with me.'

A tide of mist surged towards them. It swallowed up houses, taverns and churches, sucking everything it touched into its clammy grey depths. Fingers of damp twisted through Tom's hair and trailed across his cheeks. He shivered and clutched his cloak tight about him.

‘'Tis only a river fog.' The Falcon's voice sounded muffled. ‘We will be clear of it once we reach the high ground about St Paul's. In the meantime we must go carefully. The streets are full of vagabonds and drunkards. And in this smoke it is easier for them to make their mischief.'

As if conjured by the Falcon's words, shadowy figures sprang up out of the fog and lurched towards them, their voices rising and falling like the calls of ghostly sea birds.

‘Help a good man fallen on hard times, sir.'

‘Take pity on a poor woman. Ten mouths to feed and not a penny in her purse.'

A bony hand shot out and grabbed Tom by the leg. ‘Show charity, noble captain. Give me a halfpenny so I may slake my thirst.'

‘Get off me!' He jerked away, but the hand gripped tighter, threatening to topple him from the saddle.

The Falcon wheeled Shadrach about. ‘Stay back, ruffian!' A flash of silver sliced through the fog. The shadow shrieked a curse and melted away.

The Falcon rose up in the saddle and peered into the mist. ‘Are you still with us, Mister Browne?'

A muffled creak of wheels sounded in reply and the lumbering grey shape of Goliath appeared like a spirit horse before them.

‘We must get to the bridge and through the city gates before they shut them for the night.'

‘I am as aware of that as you.' Browne cracked his whip against the tired horse's rump.

The Falcon steered Shadrach round again and urged him on. The stench of muck hung heavy in the air, and cutting through it, something sharp and salty, like the smell of the harbour at home. They passed a great church, its tower twice the size of St Thomas's. A small distance on, a gate-house loomed out of the mist.

The Falcon nodded at the battlement-topped walls. ‘Pass through the gatehouse and we are on the bridge.'

Tom leant back in the saddle and peered up at it. ‘What are those?' He pointed to a line of stakes, topped with what looked like giant turnips.

The Falcon gave a deep sigh and shook his head. ‘Rather ask who. The heads of so-called traitors. Put on spikes that the crows may feast on their soft bits and men may learn a lesson.'

A surge of bitter liquid flooded Tom's throat. What if Father was dead already, his head up there now, his eyes picked clean by the birds? He swallowed hard. No. It couldn't be true. He wouldn't let it be. Father was alive, and with the Falcon's help, he was going to save him. He gripped
his bundle tight against him and focused on the road ahead.

Halfway across the bridge, at a gap between the houses and shops that lined it, the Falcon jerked his head upstream. ‘A wherry-ride up river is the place where the King and his ministers make their laws.'

Tom craned his neck.

‘You cannot see it from here, but 'tis not far from where we are bound, so you may yet get your chance.' The Falcon pulled on Shadrach's reins and nodded at the inky black current which shone through gaps in the fog below. ‘Men have died trying to shoot the rapids beneath the bridge for fun at turn of the tide. Down below in the river mud is a graveyard full of their bones.'

Tom shivered. Riding horseback might be uncomfortable, but at least you couldn't drown doing it.

Once across the bridge, the Falcon reined Shadrach to a stop and waited for Browne to catch them up. As the cart rumbled into view, Browne stood and waved them on. ‘You go ahead. I will stow the cargo in the place we discussed.'

‘What about the provisions?'

‘Don't worry, man. I will see to them later.'

‘As you wish.' The Falcon dipped his head. ‘Now, Master Garnett, we must hurry. My friends are waiting.' With a quick jab of his heels, he urged Shadrach along the road ahead.

Tom heaved a sigh of relief. He'd be happy if he never saw Browne again. Why the Falcon kept company with him was a mystery.

They followed a route of winding alleys that led up out
of the river fog and past the great cathedral of St Paul's. The street widened out beyond it and Shadrach's hooves struck stone. Tom gaped at a series of great houses, each one more magnificent than the last. As they drew level with a particularly grand set of gates topped with golden spikes, the Falcon slowed Shadrach to a walk. Tom peered through the iron bars. Beyond them stood a palace complete with turrets and rows of glittering black windows set around a fine stone courtyard.

‘Is this where the King lives?'

The Falcon snorted. ‘No. But it might as well be. Remember we spoke about that Catholic-hater, Cecil?'

He nodded.

‘Well, this grand house belongs to him.'

‘So why does he hate us so much?'

The Falcon's jaw clenched. ‘Because if we were to restore England to the truth faith again, he would lose everything his tyrant ways have gained for him. Position. Riches. Power.' His eyes narrowed to two black chips. ‘In all likelihood, his life too. Be assured, Master Garnett, that hunch-backed toad will not rest until he has rooted us out and killed every one of us.' He shot a look back through the gates then gave a grim smile. ‘It is some small comfort that my friends and I meet hard by his palace, yet he and his watchers have not yet discovered us.'

Tom frowned. ‘What do you mean?'

‘'Tis of no matter.' The Falcon kicked his heels hard against Shadrach's flanks. ‘Onwards, Shadrach. We are already late for our meeting.'