Black Powder (29 page)

Heart pounding, Tom peered across the water to the opposite bank. What if the Falcon had already discovered the gunpowder was ruined and gone to warn the others? And if the gang got away, would Wiseman still ask the King to free Father? Or would the hanging go ahead?

A clock chimed the hour.
One
 . . .
two
 . . .

His stomach clenched. In three hours, Father would be on his way to Tyburn. There was no time to lose. He broke free of the guard holding him, raced down the steps and jumped into the nearest wherry.

‘Steady, Mister Garnett, or you'll sink us before we've begun.' Wiseman stepped on board and hunkered down next to him. He waited until the guards had climbed into
the second wherry with Cressida, then waved a gloved hand at the wherryman. ‘Now, take us to the stairs by Westminster. We have a traitor to catch.'

Chapter Thirty-nine

T
om closed his eyes and willed the wherryman to row faster. At last, with a grinding and splashing of oars, they reached the opposite bank. He scrambled out on to the steps where they'd filled the pails earlier.

Wiseman signalled to the guards to bring Cressida then gripped Tom by the shoulder. ‘Which way now?'

He tipped his head in the direction of the main street. ‘Up there, then right.'

As they made their way over the slippery cobbles, he remembered what the Falcon had said about locking himself in. He glanced at the guards. They looked strong enough to break down any door. He shivered. What would they do if they found him?

They reached the top of the alley and turned on to the street. It was deserted, save for the shadowy figure of a fox which skittered away as they approached.

‘In here.' Cressida pointed at the gatehouse.

The guards shoved them through the arch and into the moonlit courtyard.

Tom jerked to a stop. ‘It's . . . it's over there.' He nodded at the cellar door.

‘All right. Wait here.' The spy's voice was ice cold.

‘But—'

Wiseman's jaw hardened. ‘It's best you don't come in with us.'

‘Why? What are you going to do to him?'

‘Nothing – unless he resists us. But if he does, my men are instructed to use whatever force they need.'

The knot in Tom's stomach tightened. He clutched at the spy's cloak. ‘You . . . you won't kill him?'

Wiseman yanked it free and fixed him with a hard-eyed stare. ‘The man is an assassin and a traitor. Surely you don't approve of what he and his friends are doing?'

‘No, but—'

‘Good. Because if you did, I would be forced to arrest you too. Now stand aside and make sure you and your cousin keep out of our way.' He waved a hand at the guards. They dragged the pair of them back beneath the gatehouse arch.

‘Follow me, men.' Wiseman strode across the courtyard. When he reached the cellar door, he stood aside and gave a quick nod. One of the guards marched up to it, tried the latch then pounded against it with his fist.

Silence.

Tom's breath caught in his throat. He slid back out into
the courtyard with Cressida close on his heels.

Wiseman stepped up to the door and rattled the latch. ‘Open up, in the name of the King!'

It stayed shut.

‘Kick it down.'

The guards raised their boots and slammed them into the wood – but the door held fast.

‘Wait!' Wiseman pushed in next to them. ‘After my count. One . . . two . . .
three
!'

All three turned their shoulders to the door and heaved. There was a splintering sound.

‘Again!'

This time when their shoulders struck, the wood gave an ear-splitting crack.

Cressida grabbed Tom by the arm. ‘They're through!'

His chest tightened. He took a few paces forward.

The guards kicked the door panels out with their boots.

‘Give yourself up, or it will go the worse for you!' Motioning the guards behind him, Wiseman pulled a dagger from beneath his cloak and stepped over the threshold. The two men drew their swords and followed him in.

Tom curled his fingers and held his breath.

Silence. Then shouting, the sound of scuffling and a wave of stomach-churning groans.

He flinched. It was three against one. Surely they'd overpowered the Falcon by now? He bit his lip and stared down at his boots.

A few moments later, a set of footsteps rang out on the steps.

Cressida shook him. ‘They're coming back out.'

Wiseman appeared at the cellar entrance then strode across the courtyard towards them. The guards followed, the limp body of a man slumped between them.

Tom's heart lurched. He didn't need to see the man's battered, bloody face to know it was the Falcon. As they approached, Cressida tugged him back into the shadows of the gatehouse arch.

The spy paused before it and gave the guards a stiff nod. ‘We have our bird, boys. The Master will be pleased with us.' He stood back and let them pass.

Tom shivered as the guards drew level with them. He didn't want to look but he knew he must. He sucked in a breath and raised his eyes.

The Falcon's head hung down between his shoulders. His arms flopped at his sides.

He gasped. What had they done to him?

The Falcon's head jerked up at the sound. He blinked and peered into the darkness. ‘Soldier?' His eyes widened. ‘Is that you?' He coughed, then gave a hoarse laugh. ‘I fear our friendship has been the undoing of me.' He stumbled and coughed again. A splash of blood landed on the cobbles at Tom's feet.

‘Shut up, you flea-infested cur!' The guard nearest them struck him hard across the face.

‘Yes, quiet, Fawkes, or we will be forced to silence you some other way.' Wiseman's eyes gleamed silver in the shadows. ‘Now, to the Tower with him and let's see what a good racking will do to loosen his tongue.'

‘No, please!' Tom leapt in front of them. ‘I told you. We ruined the powder. He couldn't have blown up the King if he'd tried.'

The Falcon drew in a ratchety breath. ‘I always knew you were a clever one, Soldier. Resourceful too.' He clenched his jaw. ‘The boy speaks the truth. The powder is soaked through. Every last barrel of it.'

‘Enough, traitor!' Wiseman drew his dagger and jabbed it at the Falcon's chest then signalled to the guards. ‘Take him away.'

As they yanked him out on to the street, he lurched to one side and gave another groan.

Tom's throat tightened. He dashed after them and blocked their way again. ‘I'm sorry. I—'

The Falcon sucked in another breath then lifted his head up high. ‘It's all right. I understand. Now listen.' He fixed him with his coal-black eyes. ‘I go to meet my Maker willingly. My life in this world is done. But yours is just beginning. Make courage your watchword, Soldier. It will serve you well when all else fails.' The ghost of a smile stole across his bruised lips.

The guard struck him again. He cried out in pain then his head fell forwards and he was silent.

Tom reached out a hand, but the guards shoved him aside and marched on.

Wiseman seized him by the collar. ‘Did you not understand me before, boy? Now get out of our way. Unless you want to join your father on the gallows?' He pushed him back against the wall.

The knot in Tom's throat squeezed tighter still. ‘But . . . but you said you'd try to save my father!'

The spy waved a hand above his head. ‘Don't pester me with that now. I have a nest of traitors to uncover.'

Hot tears sprang to his eyes. ‘Please! You've got to help—'

Ignoring him, Wiseman reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a coin. He thrust it at Cressida. ‘Here. Now take the other wherry and get back to your father's house before the nightwatchman arrests you both for vagrancy.' He swished his cloak about him and strode after the guards.

Tom watched as they disappeared down the street that led to the river stairs. ‘They'll hang him, won't they?'

Cressida nodded. ‘Draw and quarter him too. That's what happens to traitors.' She glanced at him then looked away again quickly.

Tom groaned and sank to the ground. The Falcon was going to die – and so was Father. Instead of saving him, he'd let him down all over again. What was he going to do now? ‘Father . . .' He gave a shuddering sigh and let the tears spill thick and fast.

Cressida knelt down beside him. Her warm fingers circled his wrist. ‘Cousin . . . I'm sorry.'

He stared at the damp stones between his feet until they wobbled and blurred into one.

‘There must be something we can do.'

‘There isn't.' He slid his knees up, pressed his forehead against them and closed his eyes. The Falcon's last words echoed in his ears.

Make courage your watchword
.

A fluttering started up in his chest. He might not be able to save Father, but he could still go to him. Explain what had happened. Tell him he'd tried his best to save him and beg his forgiveness.

He leapt to his feet.

‘Tom?' Cressida jumped up beside him.

‘Father! I've got to see him one last time, before . . . before . . .' His eyes filled with fresh tears. He dashed them away with the back of his hand.

‘I'll come with you.'

‘No. Go back to Granny. She'll be worried about you.'

‘But you can't go on your own.'

He gritted his teeth. ‘I must. Besides, I've got Jago for company.' He patted his waist-pouch and forced a smile.

Cressida paused for a moment. Then, eyes shining, she darted forwards and gave him a quick hug. ‘Take care, Tom Garnett. I will see you back at my father's house.'

He nodded, took a deep breath and set off down the dark, gloomy street ahead.

Chapter Forty

T
he journey to Tyburn took longer than Tom expected. Partly because he lost his bearings, partly because his feet were like ice blocks and his stomach was cramping from lack of food.

He had to ask the way more than once and ducked out of sight whenever a nightwatchman approached. As the church bells tolled the start of the new day, shadowy figures began to appear on the street around him, all of them heading in the same direction. At a place where the road crossed another, the crowd thickened and spilled out into the open field beyond.

‘There 'tis. The old Tyburn Tree,' a man in front of him boomed. He swung the small boy at his side on to his shoulders and pointed up ahead of him. ‘It won't be long now before 'tis growing papist fruit.'

Tom jerked to a stop and stared up at the three-sided
scaffold silhouetted against the fading stars. His blood turned to powder inside him. So this was it. This was where they were bringing Father. The crowd surged around him, bumping and jostling against him. He clenched his fingers. If he was going to stand a chance of seeing him, he had to get closer. He pushed his way through the mass of sour-smelling bodies until he was as close to the front as he could get.

He glanced up. The sky was beginning to lighten. He felt inside his waist-pouch. Jago's tiny heart bumped against his fingers. Tom trembled and closed his eyes. Their games in Portsmouth seemed a lifetime ago.

An elbow jabbed him in the ribs. ‘Oysters! Lovely oysters!'

He snapped his eyes open. A woman stood in front of him holding out a tray stacked high with crinkled grey shells. ‘'Ere, lad. You look a likely fellow.' She chucked him under the chin with a pock-marked finger. ‘'Ow about one of these tasties to breakfast on while you watch those Catholic devils swing?' She thrust one of the slime-covered shells at him. The fishy stink made him gag. He backed away.

‘No? Well, I 'ope your belly 'olds out for the 'anging.' She leered at him then disappeared back into the crowd.

Tom closed his eyes again. His head drooped and he toppled forwards. He started and blinked himself awake. How could he let himself fall asleep when in an hour or two, Father would be brought here to die? He shook his arms and legs and gulped in a lungful of cold, damp air.