Think, Tom Garnett! Think! He dashed back inside and scanned about him. A set of three pails stowed by the wall next to the storeroom arch caught his eye. Robin Cat had said they were near to some river stairs. He ran over and snatched up the pails.
‘Here.’ He kept two of them and threw the other one to Cressida.
She pulled a face. ‘What am I meant to do with this?’
‘Come with me. I’ve got an idea.’ He ran back to the door.
Reluctantly she followed. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’ He climbed back up the steps.
She hesitated.
‘Hurry. You heard what he said. He’ll be back soon.’ Darting outside, he raced across the courtyard and poked his head through the gatehouse arch. To his left stood a row of crooked houses. To his right the walls of a great stone hall soared into the night sky. It was the same building he’d seen from the lodging house yard.
Cressida pulled up alongside him and peered over his shoulder. ‘That’s Westminster Hall. And the House of Lords where the Parliament meets is above the cellar.’ She tapped him on the arm and pointed back at the building they’d just come from. ‘I saw them once before when I came up to London with Mother to visit Father and we went to one of Mister Shakespeare’s plays. A tragedy. It was so sad.’ She gave a loud sigh. ‘I kept the playbill as a souvenir.’
He rolled his eyes. There she went again talking about Mister Shakespeare and plays and stuff when they had more important things to think about. Like saving the King from certain death. He glanced back at the building’s arched windows and shuddered. There wasn’t a moment to lose.
‘Which way to the river?’
‘This way I think.’ She led him out through the arch and on to the street and signalled at a narrow alley to their left. A distant sloshing sound echoed along the walls of the mean-looking houses that lined it.
‘Come on then.’ He tugged her arm but she dug her heels in and refused to move.
‘Do you want to save the King, or not?’
‘Of course I do. But I don’t see how going down a slimy alleyway that leads nowhere is going to help. We don’t have the money for a wherry. You said so yourself.’
‘No. But river water is free.’
Cressida’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Surely you’re not expecting me to swim across?’
He sighed. The potion Browne had given her had turned her soft in the head. He lifted up the pails he was carrying and slammed them together. ‘Wetted gunpowder doesn’t light.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘If you think I’m going to haul great pail-loads of water up and down this . . . this open sewer.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He ripped the pail from her hand. Why had he ever thought she would help? He turned and slithered down the alley without a backward glance.
The damp air wound around him and slid down the back of his neck. His teeth began to chatter. He tightened his grip on the pails and followed the smell of the river until he came to a dark-shuttered tavern. The slap-slap of water drew him down a flight of steep steps next to it. When he reached the bottom one, he squatted and peered into the swirling current below him. A shiver rippled through him as he remembered the Falcon’s words about dead men’s bones.
A rumble of thunder filled the air. He jerked his head up and stared at the opposite bank. The lights of houses and taverns winked back at him in the darkness. Father was out there somewhere, all alone in that stinking cell. His heart clenched. He’d promised to save him, but what were his chances of doing that now?
A splash of cold water hit his forehead and ran down the side of his cheek. He blinked and shook himself. If he didn’t fill the pails and get them back to the cellar fast, he’d be a traitor twice over. Setting two of them down, he gripped the third and dipped it into the inky-black depths. He’d nearly filled it when a sudden surge of water yanked at the rope handle, tugging it from his grasp. As he made a swipe for it, his boots slipped from under him. He tumbled forwards, arms flailing and . . .
SPLASH!
He hit the surface and went under. A torrent of ice-cold water flooded his nose and mouth forcing the breath from his lungs. He hung there for a moment like a piece of seaweed, twisting and turning in the murky current. Then a jolt in his chest jerked him up.
WHOOSH! His head broke the surface again. He gulped in a mouthful of frost-filled air and blinked.
Once . . .
Twice . . .
Three times . . .
Out of the darkness, a glint of something metal.
A ring. An iron ring dangling from the wall to his right.
He snatched. His fingers brushed against it. He snatched again but before he could get a grip, the current spun him round and swung him away.
Icy hands clutched at his legs and arms, dragging him down.
Down
and down
to the dead men.
He kicked against them.
They were strong.
Too strong . . .
He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
‘Swim, Tom! You’ve got to swim!’
The words shocked him awake. A torrent of cold river water gushed down his nose and throat. He choked it out, thrust his head back and sucked in another mouthful of air. A sudden memory of playing at being fish in the sea with William shot through him. With a kick of his legs, he turned and struck out for the bank.
He was halfway there when a giant snake came twisting through the air and splashed down next to him.
‘Quick! Grab the rope, before it’s too late!’
He swiped for it and missed, then swiped again.
This time his fingers closed tight round the rope’s tarry surface.
‘Now pull!’
Taking a deep breath, he kicked and hauled himself through the whirling black current. As he reached the stairs, the dead men snatched at him one last time, trying to pull him under.
But Cressida’s grip was stronger. ‘Got you!’ Puffing and panting, she heaved him clear of the current.
A surge of muddy river water flooded up his throat. He spat it out and fell back against the cold stone ridge of the steps.
‘That was close. Are you all right?’
He blinked and looked up into a pair of worried blue eyes.
‘Th–th–the pail. I lost it.’
‘We have the others.’ She swung the remaining two pails in front of him.
He nodded. She was right. They could still do this. He drew a deep breath, then dragged his legs up out of the water and clambered shivering to his feet.
‘It will be easier to fill them here, where the water is quieter.’ Cressida pointed to a place where the water lapped gently between the stairs and the tavern wall.
Tom coughed and hugged his arms to his chest. ‘Why didn’t I spot that before?’
‘Well, if you will go off in a huff.’ She flashed him a smile then handed him one of the pails. ‘Come on, Tom Garnett. We’ve got some gunpowder to ruin.’
They lugged pail after pail back up the alleyway, across the courtyard and into the cellar. Tom used his knife to prise the lid off each barrel before they sloshed two loads of the cold, stinking river water over the gunpowder.
Halfway through, Cressida glanced up at him. ‘Will it be enough?’
He gnawed his bottom lip. ‘It’ll have to be. We haven’t got time for more.’ As he spoke, distant chimes struck the hour. Eleven o’clock. One hour before the Falcon returned. ‘We’ve got to speed up.’ Grabbing the empty pail, he dashed back outside.
Not long after, it started to rain. They staggered up and down the alleyway, hauling yet more pail-loads between them.
‘Only five barrels left.’
Cressida groaned and clutched at her sides.
‘Are you all right to go on?’
She wiped the rainwater from her eyes and thrust her head in the air. ‘I’m a Montague, aren’t I? And Montagues never give up.’
‘You’re right. We
don’t.’ He gave a grim smile then picked up his pail and headed for the cellar door.
When they had soaked the final barrel-load of powder, he threw the pail to the floor and heaved a sigh. ‘We’ve done it. Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He draped one of the blankets over her shoulders and tied the other one round his neck.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
He frowned. ‘What?’
Cressida darted behind the woodpile and lifted up an old lantern. The shadow of a mouse sat hunched behind the horn-covered door.
‘I stowed him in here earlier. I thought he’d be safer.’
Tom bit his lip. Poor Jago. What kind of a friend had he been to him? Dragging him all the way to London, keeping him locked up in a small poky box, forgetting to feed him. And if it hadn’t been for Cressida, he would have left him behind now too. He took the lantern from her and pressed his fingers against the cover.
‘Sorry, boy. As soon as we’re safe, I’ll find you some food and—’ The words froze in his throat. Footsteps. ‘Quick!’ He yanked Cressida down behind the barrels. The pair of them held their breath and waited.
The door creaked open. A beam of yellow light danced across the walls.
The Falcon. It had to be.
As the footsteps chinked closer, Jago let out a squeak.
‘Shhh, boy.’ Tom hugged the lantern to him, trying to muffle the sound.
Eek . . . eek.
‘Pesky rodents.’ The beam of light swung towards them.
Tom ducked, but not fast enough.
A gloved hand shot out and hauled him from his hiding place. ‘God’s teeth! What are you doing here?’
Chapter Thirty-five
Tom shoved a hand in front of his eyes to shield them from the light. ‘I . . . er . . .’
There was a rustle of silk behind him. ‘Leave him alone, you great bully!’
The Falcon drew a sharp breath. ‘The girl too. But Browne said you were both locked up in the attic. Why, the pox-ridden—’ He clenched his fist.
‘Yes. And thanks to him we know everything.’ Cressida tossed her head in the direction of the barrels of gunpowder.
The Falcon’s eyes narrowed to two black chips. ‘And pray what do you mean by that, Mistress Montague?’ He set his lantern down carefully on top of the nearest barrel.
Tom gave her a swift kick in the shins. But it was no use; she was like a river in full flood.
‘That you and your gang aim to blow up King James and his ministers when they come to the Parliament tomorrow. Which, in case you didn’t know it, is treason.’ Her eyes sparked blue and gold.
The Falcon slammed his fist against the barrel lid and muttered a curse. He glanced back at them, then sighed and pulled off his gloves.
‘You may have lived a sheltered life, Mistress Montague, but there are plenty of honest Catholics who have suffered dearly since the man you call your King took the English throne. He made promises before he was crowned, that things would go better for us. But’ – forehead furrowing, he shook his head – ‘the words he spoke were honeyed lies. Instead, he has chosen to follow the same path as his predecessor, the tyrant Elizabeth Tudor. Fining good Catholic families, imprisoning those who attend Masses and executing holy priests who dare to preach the words of the one true religion. Truly, I do the Lord’s work in ridding the country of him.’ He turned to Tom. ‘You should understand that more than most, boy. With your father locked up and about to die for an act of kindness to a priest.’
A flare of anger shot through Tom. He thrust Jago’s lantern at Cressida and sprang forward, fists raised, ‘It’s you that’s the liar! You said you were going to get Cecil out of the way so the King would listen to you. But you were planning to kill them both all along. Father will hang tomorrow. And now it’s too late to save him!’ His eyes smarted. He bit his lip and turned away.
The Falcon gripped his shoulders and swung him round. ‘It isn’t. Don’t you see? The Scotchman and that fox, Cecil, will be dead in a few hours. Then we will set the young Princess Elizabeth on the throne. And she will have no choice but to do our bidding and free your father and all those other wretched souls that have been wrongfully condemned.’
Tom widened his eyes in disbelief. Did the Falcon really think what he was doing was right? He wrenched free and glared back at him. ‘Murder is wrong. It says so in the Bible.’
The Falcon frowned. He glanced at the ring on his finger and twisted it round. The bird’s diamond eye gleamed in the lantern light, dancing strange patterns across his face. ‘You speak truly.’ He sighed. ‘But sometimes a man is forced to commit a necessary evil for a greater good.’ He shot him a look. ‘Have you not done so yourself, Master Garnett?’
Tom’s stomach twisted at the sudden memory of Mother’s tear-stained face and Skinner’s threats. But no. He shook his head. It wasn’t the same. He’d never wanted to betray Father and he’d tried so hard afterwards to make it right. Except now . . . now he never would. He blinked back the tears.
‘You don’t agree? Well, whatever you and young Mistress Montague here might think, I am not a scoundrel like Browne.’ The Falcon grasped his shoulder again. ‘I do not actively seek the death of innocents. At least, not if it can be helped.’
‘But what have the King and the others done to you?’
The Falcon’s eyes glittered black in the lantern light. ‘I have already told you why they must die. Now, stay true to me, Soldier, and I promise I will keep you and your cousin safe. ’Tis just a few short hours before I must light the fuse; though God knows I wish it were sooner. After the deed is done, we will run from here together and I will take you to your uncle’s house across the river. He is a good Catholic. When he and his friends see the way things lie, they will be swift to support our cause.’
‘Excuse me.’ Cressida pushed in front of Tom. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘And what might that be, little mistress?’ The Falcon gave her an amused smile.
‘The lord my father will be at the opening of the Parliament with the King.’
He shook his head. ‘Not if he has taken heed of certain letters written to the Catholic lords to tell them to keep away. So’ – he threw Tom a glance – ‘what do you say, Soldier? Are you with me? Remember, if we succeed, your father goes free.’
Tom’s heart jolted. He wanted to rescue Father more than anything. But not if it meant blowing up the King. He glanced at the barrels. They’d done their best to ruin the gunpowder. If they could get out of here and raise the alarm, there might still be a way to save him from the hangman’s noose. But how were they going to escape? He licked his lips. He needed a plan and quickly.
‘Come, Soldier? Are we not friends?’
He frowned. Friends? They had been once. But wait. An idea flashed into his head. He threw back his shoulders and jutted out his chin. ‘No! I won’t do it! I won’t be a traitor. I’d rather die. So either let me go . . . or . . . or silence me now.’
‘What?’ The Falcon’s eyes blazed with a sudden orange fire.
Fingers trembling, Tom drew his knife from his belt and held it out.
Cressida gasped. ‘No, Tom!’ She leapt between them.
‘Get out of my way, cousin.’ He shoved her aside and thrust the knife hilt-first at the Falcon again. ‘If it’s a choice between being blown up and this . . .’ He gestured to the knife and fixed him with a level gaze.
The Falcon grimaced. ‘I am no child-slayer. You should know that, boy.’
‘Then let us go.’ Tom gritted his teeth, willing him to take the bait.
The Falcon’s eyes narrowed. ‘What, and have you running off to that traitor Hunt – or whatever his real name is – to tell him what we intend?’ He shook his head. ‘No, sorry. If you won’t join me, then you leave me no choice but to bind you both fast and keep you close until my work here is done.’ He made a grab for Tom.
A cry rang out behind them. ‘Take that, you fiend!’
A pail shot pas
t Tom’s right ear and smacked into the Falcon’s forehead. He groaned and staggered backwards, clutching his head with both hands. Before he had time to right himself, a second pail came flying through the air. It thudded into his chest, winding him, forcing him to his knees.
‘Run!’ Cressida snatched Tom by the arm and yanked him towards the door.
He rammed the knife in his belt and stumbled after her, then jerked to a stop. ‘Wait! Jago!’ He twisted round and darted back past the Falcon into the storeroom. Scanning desperately about him, he spotted the lantern on top of one of the barrels. He grabbed the handle and spun round just as the Falcon lurched to his feet.
‘Quick, cousin! Before it’s too late!’
Tom took a deep breath, put his head down and barrelled past him. The Falcon clutched at his makeshift cloak, but he ripped free and kept on running.
‘Wait! Come back!’ The Falcon’s voice echoed after him.
Heart racing, Tom dashed up the stairs and out through the door to where Cressida was waiting.
‘Come on!’ She lifted up her skirts and ran.
A pair of spurred footsteps rang out behind them. They careered through the gatehouse arch, out on to the street.
Tom seized her by the hand. ‘This way.’ He dipped down the alleyway that led to the river, then realized his mistake. In a few moments more, they’d be at the river steps and the Falcon would have them cornered like a pair of rats. He scoured about for a place to hide. The footsteps drew closer. A dark figure appeared at the top of the alleyway.
‘There! Look!’ Cressida pointed to a narrow gap between two tumbledown houses. They darted across to it and edged inside, pressing their backs against the wall. The footsteps echoed down the cobbles then came to a sudden stop. Tom clasped Jago’s lantern to him, held his breath and peered back into the alley. The Falcon stood almost level with their hiding place. He cast around him, eyes piercing the darkness.
Black Powder Page 18
