Black Powder (30 page)

The sun rose, pale and milky, like a half-dead thing. The crowd grew restless. They began to boo and jeer.

‘Trust a papist! Can't even be on time for their own 'anging,' the man next to him yelled. He clamped a hand on Tom's shoulder and gave him a stump-toothed grin.

Tom twisted free, jutted out his chin and looked straight ahead.

‘Not one of 'em, are you?' The man seized his arm again, eyes glittering with a sudden menace.

He backed away. ‘I . . . er . . .'

A shout went up behind them. ‘Here they come!'

The man let go and turned with the rest of the crowd to face the road. Tom stood on tiptoe and followed their gaze. A knot of soldiers marched past, the blades of their halberds glinting in the dawn light. They were followed by a sharp-faced man dressed in black velvet and a pair of mealy-mouthed attendants, trotting at his heels. And finally, some way behind them, a cart, pulled by a tired-looking horse, its sides lined with a row of sharp sticks.

Tom groaned and hung his head. He couldn't do it.

The wheels of the cart rumbled closer.

His chest spiked. He had to. For Father's sake. He steeled himself and looked up again. Behind the barricade of sticks stood two ragged men, their hands tied behind their backs. The one in front had his head bowed and was praying, but the other one – his stomach twisted – the one with his eyes fixed straight ahead, was Father.

Yells of ‘Traitors!' and ‘Papist swine!' rang out around Tom. He closed his ears to them and made to push through.
But it was no use; he was pinned fast. Heart pounding, stomach churning, he watched as the cart trundled up the hill to the scaffold then lurched to a stop.

It was then he saw the two nooses dangling from the cross beam.

‘String 'em up and let's see 'em dance!' screeched a woman in front of him.

A black hooded figure peeled out from under the scaffold, dragging a ladder behind him.

The hangman! Tom's head began to spin. He had to get closer, before it was too late. He hunched his shoulders, took a deep breath and shoved his way forwards. He was almost through to the front when a row of broad straight backs pulled him up short. Soldiers. How would he ever get past them? He scanned the line looking for a break. He'd nearly given up hope when the soldier in front of him bent his head to talk to his comrade. Seizing his chance, Tom stood on his toes and forced his head and shoulders through the gap.

The hangman had climbed up the ladder on to the cart and was busy fitting one of the nooses round the neck of the first prisoner. As the man lifted his head, Tom recognized the sunken cheeks and pinched lips of the priest.

He shivered and glanced at his father. His eyes were closed too now and he was murmuring a prayer. Tom wriggled his arms free and thrust them in front of him.

‘Father! Father!' But the noise of the crowd drowned the words.

The hangman stepped back from the priest, then turned
to face Tom's father. He slipped the second noose over his head and yanked it tight.

Tom shuddered. ‘Father, please!' He clawed at the soldiers' shoulders, trying to prise them apart.

The soldier on his left swung round. ‘Get away!' He knocked him backwards with his elbow.

Tom staggered, then righted himself and barrelled forwards again.

The hangman climbed back down the ladder. He tossed it to the ground then plodded towards the front of the cart and grabbed hold of the horse's reins.

‘No!' Tom took a step back, ducked his head down and made one last charge.

‘Oof !' The soldier in front of him lurched and fell sideways.

Seizing his chance, Tom darted through the gap and hurtled towards the back of the cart.

‘Father! It's me!' He snatched hold of one of the sticks and clung to it with all his might.

‘Tom?' His father twisted round, but the rope jerked him back.

‘I'm sorry. I tried to save you but—' He gulped and sucked in a breath but the words were like stones wedged in his throat.

There was a sudden creak of wheels.

‘No, please!' He yanked on the stick and rammed his heels hard into the mud.

But it was no use. He wasn't strong enough.

The cart juddered forwards, knocking him to the ground.

His father's feet slipped out from under him. He gave a strangled cry, then he and the priest spun away, heels kicking against the air.

A stab of pain shot through Tom, sharper than the sharpest knife. He leapt up and dashed towards him, tears streaming down his face. ‘Father! I love you!'

A gloved hand shot out and seized him by the collar. ‘Make way! Make way!'

He bucked against it.

The hand gripped tighter.

A thud of boots and a clang of metal filled his ears. The crowd roared, the sky went black and Tom knew nothing more.

Chapter Forty-one

Three months later . . 
.

Friday 31 January 1606

T
he wind whistled down the chimney, sending up puffs of ash at Tom's feet. He walked over to the kitchen window and stared into the courtyard. It had started to rain. He shivered and glanced around the room. The shelves and table were bare, the pots and pans already packed away and sent down to the harbour. It wasn't home any more; but he wasn't sure how he felt about leaving it behind.

The hammering of a fist on wood echoed down the passageway outside.

‘Go and see who that is, please, while I change your brother,' his mother called from upstairs. ‘And then we must
away to the harbour.'

He ran into the passageway. A short, thickset man stood in the open doorway, his woollen cloak spattered with mud. ‘Message for Master Garnett.' He thrust a small leather pouch at him.

‘Who's it from?'

The man shrugged. ‘I'm just the messenger.' He puffed out his cheeks and clapped his arms across his chest. ‘And a soaked-through one at that. The man who gave it me in London told me I had to deliver it by today or it would be too late. Now I've done my duty, I'm off to the nearest tavern to get warm.' He tipped his hat and stepped back out into the cold, grey January day.

Tom frowned. The messenger had said London. Who would write to him from there? He was about to open the strings of the pouch when light footsteps sounded on the stairs behind him.

A warm hand touched his arm. ‘Who was that?'

He shoved the pouch inside his jerkin. He'd tell her about the message later, when he'd had a chance to read it. ‘Just a traveller. He was looking for a tavern.'

His mother peered out at the rainswept street. ‘Well, and who can blame him? It is not good weather for making a journey. But, for us there is no choice.' She sighed and bent to kiss his cheek. ‘Now go and fetch your things. I am almost done here and the tide will not wait for us.'

The rain had stopped by the time they boarded the merchant ship. Tom hung over its side and looked back at
the bustling harbourside. Merchants inspected barrels of freshly delivered wine or supervised the loading of bales of sheep's wool. Old sea dogs wove paths round the sacks of grain stacked on the cobbles as they headed to the nearest alehouse. And women, carrying baskets piled with onions, cockles and turnips, cried their wares and scared the gulls away with their aprons.

He glanced about him. He was alone. Now would be a good time to read the message. He reached inside his jerkin for the pouch.

‘Tom!' The figure of a girl in a blue velvet cape appeared at the bottom of the ship's gangplank. She waved at him, then threw back her hood to reveal a mass of fair curls.

Cressida! Tom snatched up Jago's new wooden cage from the deck and dashed back down the gangplank, narrowly avoiding a collision with a sailor who cursed at him before lumbering on with his load.

‘What are you doing here?' He took her hand and led her to a low wall to sit down.

Cressida's mouth curved into a smile, but her eyes were sad. ‘Granny told me you and your family were leaving. I persuaded her to lend me one of the servants so I could come and see you off.' She pointed behind her to where a grey-haired man stood holding a pair of horses by the reins. Her forehead furrowed. ‘You've heard about the plotters?'

He shook his head. ‘Only rumours. It takes months for news to reach us here.'

‘They've all been captured or killed. Their leader Robert Catesby – the one who called himself Robin Cat. And
Harry Browne, whose real name was Thomas Percy. Would you believe he was a distant kinsman of the Duke of Northumberland? The pair of them were shot dead by the same bullet. Just imagine!' She shivered. ‘Even Mister Shakespeare couldn't have come up with a better ending for them than that.'

Tom's chest tightened. ‘What of the Falc— I mean, Fawkes?'

‘He is to hang today at one o'clock in the Old Palace Yard at Westminster, opposite the scene of his attempted crime.'

A feeling of dizziness swept over Tom. He gripped the handle of Jago's cage and took a deep breath.

Cressida put a hand on his arm. ‘I'm sorry, cousin! It must remind you . . .' Her blue eyes flashed with concern.

He raised his shoulders and lifted up his chin. ‘It's all right.'

‘Do you have to go?'

He nodded. ‘It'll be better for us in France. Mother says the French King is a Catholic and people like us can live more freely there.' He frowned. ‘What about your father? Mother told me he'd been arrested.'

‘Yes.' She bit her lip. ‘And imprisoned in the Tower. That snake Mandrake must have made up some other evidence. But Granny says if my father pays a large enough fine, the King will forgive him.'

‘Do you miss him?'

She shrugged. ‘I . . . I don't know. I never saw him much. I don't think he approves of me really.'

‘Why?'

‘Because . . .' She looked down and fiddled with the ribbons on her cloak. ‘Because I told him I wanted to go to London to be an actor.'

He puffed out his cheeks. So that explained why she was always going on about acting.

She glanced back up at him. ‘It's why I call myself Cressida.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘She's the heroine of one of Mister Shakespeare's plays.
Troilus and Cressida
. Remember how I told you I'd been to the playhouse in London? Well, that's what we saw. It's a great tragedy. Although' – she twisted a blonde curl round her finger – ‘in truth Cressida is often quite badly behaved.'

‘But I thought girls weren't allowed to act.'

She frowned. ‘Not now. But one day they might.' Her eyes sparked with a blue-gold fire.

Tom shook his head. She was a strange one, this cousin of his.

She poked a finger through the wooden bars of Jago's cage and stroked his whiskers. ‘I hope your mouse has better sea legs than you.'

‘We'll find out soon enough. Won't we, boy?'

She smiled. ‘I wondered if . . . if we might write to each other?' She shot him a look. ‘I could let you know what mischief Granny gets up to next – although I'd have to use some of that orange-juice ink of hers for the secret stuff – and you could tell me all about the strange customs and manners they have in France.'

‘I'd like that.' He smiled back at her.

Cressida's cheeks flushed. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I had better go. I promised Granny I'd be back by nightfall. Thank you, cousin. It's been an adventure.' She leant forwards and brushed her lips against his cheek. And now it was Tom's turn to blush.

The sea beyond the harbour wall rose and fell in a grey swell. Tom hoped it wouldn't be too rough a crossing. A wherry on the river had been enough for him. He held up Jago's cage and peered at the pile of quivering straw in the corner.

‘Are you feeling all right, boy?'

The mouse poked his nose out, sniffed the air then burrowed back inside.

‘I didn't think so. I'll take you back down below and find you some cheese before we set sail.'

But first he had to read the message. He put the cage down on the deck and wedged it firmly in a coil of rope. Slipping his hand inside his jerkin, he reached for the pouch, untied the drawstring and pulled out a stiff square of parchment. He slid his forefinger under the blob of red sealing wax and opened it. The handwriting was thin and spidery, as if the writer had been reluctant to put quill to paper. He held it up to the light and began to read.