The Falcon released him. ‘Thief ?’ A grim smile flickered across his lips. ‘That’s one thing I’m not. Quickly now. Jagger’s shift finishes shortly. After that, our chance will be gone. And remember, say nothing to your father about us or our mission. Like every prison in London, the Clink is infested with Cecil’s spies. The less he knows of our venture the better.’
‘But what shall I say if he asks how I got here?’
‘I am sure you’ll think of something. Now, your word as a soldier.’ The Falcon held up the palm of his right hand.
Tom paused for a moment. Father didn’t approve of liars. But if it was a lie to keep him safe . . . that had to be all right, didn’t it? He uncurled his fingers and raised his right hand. ‘I swear.’
‘Good.’ The Falcon gave a sigh then clapped him on the back and pushed him through the door.
Tom stumbled into a small, dark courtyard, enclosed by a set of high stone walls. A burly, wild-haired man stepped out of the shadows to meet them. A lantern swung from his right hand.
The Falcon gave him a brisk nod. ‘This is my friend, Mister Jagger. He will take you to your father.’
The man grunted and rattled a set of keys at his belt.
The hairs on the back of Tom’s neck prickled. ‘Aren’t you coming too?’
‘No.’ The Falcon’s jaw tightened. ‘You will have much to say to each other and ’tis best done in private. I’ll wait outside.’ He pulled a small leather pouch from beneath his cloak and handed it to Jagger. ‘For your trouble and to keep the prisoner in food and drink.’
There was a chinking sound as the turnkey’s great fist closed round it.
‘Now go. And don’t forget, Soldier: nothing about our mission.’
Tom sucked in a breath and nodded.
The Falcon shook Jagger by the hand, then turned and marched back across the courtyard. A small figure darted in front of him and opened the door to let him pass, then bolted it shut behind him.
Tom glanced around him. There was no way out except through the door. If this was a trap, he was caught good and fast.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Jagger raised his lantern and gave Tom a black-toothed grin.
‘Follow me.’ He marched through a low archway and disappeared into the building beyond.
Tom wavered then hurried after him, nose pricking at the sour-smelling air. The light from the turnkey’s lantern bounced along a narrow passageway, its walls lined with a row of bolted doors. As they passed the first door, it rattled and a low moan sounded from the other side.
‘Quiet, wretch!’ Jagger pulled a heavy-looking stick from his belt and banged it against the wood.
As if at a signal, a clamour of rattles and moans started up from behind the other doors, pierced by ragged cries of ‘Help!’ and ‘God save us!’
Tom shuddered. It was how he’d imagined Hell to be, but worse.
Jagger struck another door with his stick. ‘Troublemakers, the lot of them. Excepting your father. I shall be sad to see him go. A proper gentleman, he is.’
Go? Tom grabbed his sleeve. ‘They’re letting him out? When?’
A strange look flitted across the turnkey’s face. Then his eyes softened. He ran a hand across the line of black whiskers sprouting from the back of his neck. ‘Best your father tells you himself.’ He lurched on down the passageway, banging his stick against more doors and yelling for silence.
Tom stumbled after him, heart pounding. He couldn’t believe it. Father freed? It was more than he could have hoped for. With any luck, in a day or two’s time, they’d be on their way home! And it meant other things too. No more having to help Cat and his men kidnap Cecil. And no more keeping clear of Harry Browne. Of course, he’d have to say goodbye to the Falcon. But his friend would be pleased for him. He knew he would. A sudden thought struck him. What if it was because of the Falcon Father was going to be set free? A surge of gratitude flooded through him.
Jagger came to a stop outside the final door in the row. ‘This is it. I’ll have to search you before you go in. House rules.’ He put the lantern down and ran his palms across Tom’s shoulders and down his arms. ‘Ah! What’s this?’ He pulled back his cloak and yanked the knife from his belt. ‘On a rescue mission, were we?’ His eyes narrowed.
Tom clenched his jaw. ‘No! My father gave it to me. It was a present.’ A sudden jolt ran through him.
It was Sunday today. His birthday! The tour Father had promised him round the merchant ship was like a dream from another life. But that didn’t matter now. All he wanted was for him to come home.
Jagger rammed the knife down the inside of his boot.
Tom took a step towards him. ‘But—’
‘To avoid any accidents. You’ll get it back before you leave.’ Jagger grasped the door bolt with both hands and slid it back. Then, selecting a large rusty key from the ring on his belt, he unlocked the door, pushed it open and stepped aside. ‘A visitor for you, Mister Garnett.’
A reek of sour sweat and urine crowded Tom’s nostrils. He staggered back, gasping for breath.
Jagger shoved him inside. ‘You don’t have much time. Use it wisely.’ He thrust the lantern at him and slammed the door. A moment later, the key scraped in the lock.
The candle flame sputtered then flared up again, lighting a dirty straw-covered floor and walls smeared with what looked like the tracks of a thousand snails. Tom took a deep breath. ‘Father?’ His voice sounded small and far away, like he was calling up from the bottom of a well.
Something skittered between his feet. He twisted round just in time to see a grey tail disappearing beneath a mound of filthy rags. He edged towards them, held his breath and prodded them with the toe of his boot. They twitched and buckled. A snaggle of small dark bodies tumbled out and scuttled away into the darkness beyond.
Rats! Tom leapt back, stomach churning. A clink of chains sounded behind him. He swung the lantern round. The light fell on the figure of a man – but a man like no other he’d seen before. Dressed in nothing but a long tattered shirt, he was slumped on his knees, his grime-covered arms shackled to the wall by two heavy chains.
Tom froze. Could this really be his father? There was only one way to find out. He gritted his teeth and stumbled towards him.
‘Father?’
The man jerked his head up then turned away, eyes tight shut, face twisted in anguish.
Tom hesitated, then knelt down before him and touched his clammy shoulder. ‘Father? It’s me, Tom.’
The man kept his head turned and let out a groan. ‘Torment me not, oh Lord, by sending these devils to taunt me!’ The voice was ragged and broken, but there was no doubting it.
Tom’s eyes pricked. He blinked the tears away. He mustn’t cry. Not now. ‘Look at me, Father.’ He shook him gently. ‘I’m no devil.’
The man’s eyes flickered open. He peered back at him through a tangle of filthy hair. ‘My son? Is it really you?’
Tom’s fingers curled into fists as he stared at his father’s manacled wrists – the purple bruises and the bloody weals where the irons had pierced his skin. ‘Father, what have they done to you?’
His father’s eyes widened. ‘I have missed you . . . so much.’ He gave a rasping cough and writhed in pain.
Tom choked back a sob. ‘It’s all right. You’ll be free soon and we can go home.’
He pulled back and stared at Tom, a look of confusion in his eyes. ‘Home?’
‘Yes. Mister Jagger told me. They’re going to set you free.’
He dragged down on his chains and groaned again. ‘How could he play such a low trick?’
Tom’s blood shrivelled inside him. ‘What do you mean?’
His father spoke through clenched teeth. ‘I was tried yesterday with Father Oliver. They have sentenced us both to death.’
Tom’s stomach lurched. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. ‘You’re wrong! You’re getting out of here and then we’re going home. Back to Portsmouth. To Mother and Ned.�
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His father drew in a juddering breath. ‘I’m speaking the truth. We are to be hanged at dawn the day after tomorrow, at Tyburn.’
Tom shook his head and twisted away from him. ‘No!’
‘Yes. Now listen to me, son. You must have courage. Be strong for your mother. Remember what I said when we parted before.’ He coughed again. ‘You are the man of the family now.’
Tom slumped forwards, tears spilling from his eyes. ‘But I’m not brave, or strong, or any of those things.’ Not like William.
‘Of course you are.’
Guilt knotted itself round his heart, tighter than a noose. ‘No! You don’t understand. It’s my fault you’re here.’
‘What do you mean?’
He ducked his head down. He couldn’t bear to meet his father’s gaze.
‘What? Tell me.’
Tom gave a shuddering sigh, then forced himself to look up into his father’s grey, pain-scoured face. ‘After you left, Constable Skinner and his men came to the house and arrested us. They . . . they threatened to beat Mother if I didn’t say anything.’ A shiver of ice ran through him.
His father’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Those animals!’ He clenched his fists and groaned.
‘I was scared. I thought they were going to kill her. I . . . I told them you had taken the London road. After that, they took her to gaol.’ He hung his head and let the tears burn hot tracks down his cheeks. He thought he’d feel better if he confessed, but he didn’t. He felt ten times more a coward instead.
‘Look at me.’
Slowly Tom lifted his head. His father’s face was a ragged blur. He scrubbed at the tears with his sleeve and steeled himself. He would hear his words like a man at least.
‘You are not to blame.’
‘What?’
His father shook his head. ‘I brought this on myself. You were only doing what I asked – protecting your mother and baby brother.’ He gave another rattling cough.
The words were meant to comfort, but the ache in his chest was stronger than ever. ‘I could have lied. Told them you’d taken a different road. William . . . he wouldn’t have been so stupid.’
‘William?’ His father frowned. ‘Why do you speak of your brother?’
‘Because he was better than me. So God took him and left you with me. And . . . and he was right because I failed you.’ Tom bit his lip and looked away.
‘Tom, listen.’ His father’s eyes shone back at him like bright stars in the gloom. ‘You must never think that. Your mother and I loved William very much. But we love you and Edward just the same. When Skinner arrested you all, you thought your mother’s life was at stake. You didn’t have time to think about it.’ He shook his head. ‘No. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.’
‘But you were only trying to help him. Father Oliver, I mean.’
‘Yes.’ His father flicked his tongue over his cracked lips. ‘Except the stakes were too high. Though I was doing Our Lord’s work, it was wrong of me to put you all in such danger. But tell me – what of your mother and Ned? Where are they now? You say they put your mother in gaol . . . ?’
Tom took a deep breath and told him everything. What happened after he had confessed to Skinner, how his mother had sent him to Cowdray and of what had followed.
‘She is free then?’
He nodded. ‘That’s what the Viscountess told me.’
His father closed his eyes. ‘Praise the Lord. Her brother owes her that at least.’
‘But why won’t they help you too?’
He shifted his knees and grimaced. ‘Given all that has happened between us?’ He shook his head again.
‘What? What happened?’
His father nodded at a pail next to the wall. ‘Fetch me some water and I will tell you.’
Tom cupped his hand in the pail and scooped up a mouthful. His father drank deep, ignoring the husks of dead insects and leaves, then gave a deep sigh.
‘Your mother’s family disowned her many years ago.’
‘Why?’
‘We met and fell in love, but I wasn’t considered a good enough match. We realized the only way we could be together was if she ran away with me. We were married, but although we tried to make our peace with her family, they never forgave her.’
The image of his mother’s portrait flitted into Tom’s head. Now he knew why she had looked so sad.
‘Your mother’s father died before his own father – your great-grandfather. So when he died, Cowdray passed to your uncle. He was always fond of your mother when they were children. She must have harboured a hope he might take pity on us, which is why she sent you there.’ He frowned. ‘But Cowdray is a long way from London. What are you doing here?’ He coughed. A line of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth and lodged in his beard.
Tom swallowed hard. He didn’t want to lie to him. But he couldn’t break his promise to the Falcon. Father’s life might still depend on it.
‘I . . . er . . . Uncle Montague was coming up to Court. I stowed away on one of his wagons and bribed the turnkey with some coins I stole.’
His father’s frown deepened. ‘Thieving is a sin, Tom.’
His cheeks flushed.
‘And so is lying.’ He shot him a knowing look.
Tom stared at his boots.
A key rattled in the lock and the cell door banged open. His heart clenched. They’d run out of time.
The turnkey stood in the doorway. He fiddled with the bunch of keys and gave a gruff cough. ‘I’m sorry, Mister Garnett, but you and the boy must say your farewells.’
‘Father!’ Tom threw himself against his father’s bony chest.
‘Take care of your mother and baby brother and remember me in your prayers. And know this, son, I love you. I always have and I always will.’
Tom pulled away, blinked back the tears and looked up into his father’s face. ‘I’m going to save you, I promise.’
Jagger reached for the lantern and hauled him to his feet. ‘You and whose army? We must go, sir.’ He glanced over at Tom’s father. ‘The other turnkey will be on duty soon. If we’re caught in here, we’ll all be for the gallows. Come on now, lad. Leave your father to his prayers.’
‘No! Get off me!’ He kicked and struggled, but the turnkey’s grip was too strong.
‘Hush, Tom. You must do as Mister Jagger says. Now, go and God speed.’ His father’s eyes shone back at him in the last of the lantern-light; then the door slammed shut and he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Tom rammed his knife back in his belt and glared at the Falcon.
He frowned. ‘I only discovered it when we arrived. And I thought it best you hear it from your father first.’ He reached for Tom’s shoulder.
He jerked away. ‘They’re taking him to Tyburn the day after tomorrow. They’re going to . . .’ He dug his nails into his palms. ‘They’re going to hang him at dawn.’
The Falcon gave a grim nod. ‘So I understand.’
‘We’ve got to stop them!’
‘We will, Soldier, we will. We strike at Cecil tomorrow night. That gives us time enough to save your father.’
The Falcon sounded confident, but how could he know for sure?
‘Come, now. We must make haste. There is still much to do.’ With a swish of his cloak, he turned and strode back towards the river stairs.
Tom bolted after him. ‘But what if you don’t succeed?’
‘We will. Unless . . .’ The Falcon whipped round, black eyes flashing. ‘Did you keep your silence, Master Garnett?’
‘Yes . . . I . . . I promised Father I’d save him, but that was all.’
The Falcon grimaced. ‘God’s teeth! When we are this close.’ He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘I hope for your sake you have said nothing more.’
‘I haven’t! I swear it. On my life.’ He made the sign of the cross above a pounding heart.
The Falcon clicked his tongue against his t
eeth and set off at an even faster pace.
Tom glanced after him. The Falcon had risked much to take him to the Clink – to let him see Father. He might be angry with him now, but he was his friend, he was sure of that. So Hunt must be lying. He licked his lips. He had to warn the Falcon and quickly, before the spy found out about the new plan. Otherwise Cat and his men would be captured, and Father would hang for sure.
‘Wait! There’s something I need to tell you.’ He dashed after him.
‘Not now, boy. I have more important things to think about.’
‘But—’
The Falcon stopped and spun round. ‘I said not now!’ He fixed him with a fiery stare then turned and marched away.
Tom shivered. He really was angry with him. Better wait until he’d calmed down and they were back at the lodging house. He took a deep breath and tried to imagine himself at home with Father, Mother and baby Ned. But it was no use. All he could see was Father, chained and alone in the dark, with only the rats for company.
They arrived at the lodging house just as the night-watchman called the hour of eleven. The Falcon jerked his head at the door and handed Tom the key. ‘Go inside and get some sleep.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I have urgent business to attend to before the night is out. I will be back later.’ His tone was clipped and impatient. Before Tom could reply, he slipped back into the shadows and was gone.
He hung his head. He’d have to tell him about Hunt when he returned and pray it was soon enough. He turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open and stepped into the passageway. The smell of cooked onions and spices made his mouth water. Guilt jabbed at his chest. He should-n’t be thinking of food. Not with Father lying half-starved in prison and waiting to die. But the coney supper seemed like a lifetime ago.
He headed towards the kitchen. The room was in darkness, save for the faint glow of embers in the fireplace. He walked over and peered into the cooking pot. There was still a spoonful or two of stew left. He picked up a bowl from the table. As he dipped the ladle into the pot, something white at the back of the fireplace caught his eye.
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