He rolled his eyes and groaned. How could she have been so stupid? He snatched up the candle they’d left burning on the shelf and darted back to the tunnel entrance.
‘You can’t go back in there. What if one of the smugglers catches you?’
‘I’ve got to. It’s Father’s.’ He clenched his jaw.
‘Suit yourself.’ She gave a loud sniff. ‘I’m going to find the sergeant.’ She marched towards the cellar door, yanked it open and, with a swish of skirts, she was gone.
Tom sucked in a breath. He had to act quickly before she managed to raise the alarm. He peered into the tunnel and listened. The noises had stopped and there was no sign of the torches. The smugglers must have gone. Gripping his bundle tight against him, he slipped through the door and made his way back along the tunnel to the cave. All he had to do now was find the knife and get back upstairs before Sergeant Talbot arrived. As he shone the candle into the hollowed-out room, a glint of silver caught his eye.
Relief rushed through him. He snatched up the knife from the barrel top, raised the worn leather handle to his lips and kissed it. I’m going to save you, Father, I promise. I don’t know how, but I will.
He was about to turn back into the tunnel when he heard a chinking sound. His heart lurched. He snuffed out the candle and dashed back into the cave. He groped towards the row of barrels. He’d almost reached them when something snagged his foot. He tripped and fell, stifling a groan.
The chinking sound grew louder.
‘Who’s there?’ It was a man’s voice. Gruff and hard.
He scrambled up into a crouch and held his breath, keeping a tight grip on his knife. A ball of flame shot up in front of him. As he staggered backwards, a rough hand grabbed him by the neck and yanked him off his feet.
‘What are you doing snooping around in here, boy?’ The hard, flat tones of the man’s voice sounded familiar.
Dropping his bundle, Tom rammed the knife behind his back and swallowed hard. ‘I – I – I was just . . .’
The smuggler thrust the burning torch up to his face. ‘Just what?’
He jerked his head away from the heat. The man’s grip tightened. The knot in Tom’s cloak dug into his throat. The walls of the cave began to spin. ‘P–p–please. I c–c–can’t breathe.’ He scrabbled at his neck, trying to free himself.
The smuggler loosened his grip and Tom dropped face first into what tasted like a pile of old sacks. He rolled over quickly, sucking in great gulps of smoky air. Slowly the walls of the cave stopped spinning. Keeping the knife pressed against his back, he made to stand.
A hand shoved him down again. ‘Not so fast! Now explain yourself, Master Spy.’
Tom blinked, then sat up slowly. A pair of coal-black eyes glowed back at him from the shadows. He shuddered. He’d seen smugglers once before when he’d peered through a spyhole in the wall of the Mermaid Tavern, but this one was more fearsome than all of them put together. Tall as a giant and wide as a ship’s mast, with red-brown hair that hung in tangles to his shoulders and a beard and moustache to match. As he swung his head towards Tom, the flame flared across his face revealing an ugly red scar on his left cheek.
Tom gasped.
The smuggler crumpled his forehead into a mock frown. ‘I am not a handsome subject for a portrait, ’tis true. But that’s what a life of adventure does for you.’ As he raked his fingers through his beard, a glint of yellow metal caught the light. The smuggler’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. ‘Pretty, eh?’ He held up the little finger of his left hand.
Tom stared at the ring. It was fashioned from gold with the image of a bird’s head stamped into it; its beak was curved like a hook, its eye picked out with a gleaming white stone.
‘Know what the bird is?’
Tom shivered and shook his head.
‘It’s a falcon. A loner. Lives in the cliffs above the sea. So quiet and careful you wouldn’t know he was there.’ The man’s eyes glittered. ‘But if he’s hungry and he gets you in his sights, watch out!’ He balled his fist and shot it at Tom’s head.
He ducked just in time.
The man threw back his head and laughed. ‘With quick wits like that, Master Spy, you may yet live to fight another day. But’– he dug the torch into the ground between them and squatted down on his haunches – ‘if your story does not please me, be warned.’ He sliced a finger across his throat. ‘For I will show you no mercy.’
Chapter Sixteen
Tom’s heart pounded against his ribs. He looked over his shoulder. There was no way out. He still had the knife, but if he pulled it on the smuggler now, he’d easily overpower him. And what if his friend was on his way back to join him? He had to think of something and quickly. He glanced at the smuggler’s frayed brown cloak and worn leather jerkin. Money. That was what men like him wanted. He would try and strike a bargain with him. Being a so-called Montague had to be worth something. He wiped a hand across his forehead and took a deep breath.
‘My name’s Tom. Tom Garnett.’
The smuggler raised his right shoulder in a shrug. ‘Should that mean something to me?’
He stuck out his chin and tried to look brave. ‘No. But I am the nephew of Lord Montague, the owner of this house. My uncle . . . he’s very rich. He’d pay you well if you let me go.’
‘Your uncle, eh?’ The smuggler’s eyes glinted gold in the torchlight.
Tom held his breath. Did he believe him, or was he working out the best way to kill him?
The smuggler’s voice cut like a blade through his thoughts. ‘We have met once before, I think.’
‘Have we?’ Tom frowned.
‘A few nights ago, in the town. You were looking for the right road to Cowdray.’
Of course! It was him. The man outside the tavern.
The smuggler scratched his forehead. ‘So if your uncle is Lord Montague, what are you doing skulking down here when you should be upstairs at his table feasting on roast beef, stuffed swan and the like?’ He jabbed a finger at the rocky roof above them.
Tom reached for his bundle. ‘I – I lost something. I thought maybe I might have left it here.’
The smuggler’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve been here before? And when, pray, was that?’
He licked his lips. ‘A few moments back. I was with my . . . my cousin.’
‘Your cousin?’ The smuggler thrust a hand beneath his cloak. ‘And where is he now?’
Tom pressed his back against the cave wall. If he knew the truth, that Cressida was fetching the sergeant, he would slit his throat then and there. ‘She . . . she’s gone, sir. She was afraid of the dark.’ He blinked and looked away.
The smuggler laughed. ‘And the spiders, no doubt. Well, ’tis no place for folk of noble blood, least of all their children.’ He relaxed his arm.
For a moment Tom forgot his fear. ‘I’m not a child. I’ll be thirteen this Sunday.’
The man gave a low whistle. ‘Thirteen, eh? Well, Master Spy, where I come from, you must earn the right to be called a man. And creeping about in tunnels, poking your nose into what doesn’t concern you, is not the way to go about it.’
His cheeks flushed. ‘I told you, I’m not a spy! I was looking for something.’ He caught a sudden whiff of peppery smoke as the smuggler pushed his face up close.
‘So tell me. Was it a wasted journey?’
Tom gripped the knife even tighter and dropped his gaze.
In one swift move, the smuggler reached behind and seized it from him. ‘I see it was not.’ He ran a sooty finger along the blade and whistled again. ‘’Tis a serious weapon for a boy. What do the initials stand for?’
Tom hesitated.
‘Come now. It is a fair question.’
‘Richard Garnett. My . . . my father.’
‘And where is he now? Upstairs carousing with your grand relations?’
‘No. He . . . he’s in London.’
‘On business?’
Tom shook his head and bit on his lip.
&nb
sp; ‘What, then?’
He slid his knees up and hugged them to his chest. ‘He’s in a place called the Clink.’
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 lon
g 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
As 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.
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