by Jo Macauley
Ralph was caught, painfully, between Mott and the scaffolding. He held onto the wood for dear life as Mott grunted and tugged at him, trying to pull him away and send him falling to his death. The other man was trying to grab Ralph too, his skinny pale arms lunging down from the trap door.
Ralph finally managed to break free from their grip, but he struggled to balance on the scaffolding, fumbled, and fell. Beth stifled a scream as she saw him begin to plummet – but he was falling inward, towards the hanging bell, not out onto the floor far beneath!
Ralph flung his arms around the bell and clung to it, breaking his fall. It swung wildly, tolling its deep, mournful clang through the darkened building.
“Come on! We have to run!” John urged, pulling Beth’s sleeve. “No sense in us all getting caught!”
Beth knew he was right – if she and John escaped, they might be able to rescue Ralph later. But if they were caught, they were all dead. Though her heart tightened at the thought of leaving their friend behind, they ran towards the open window and squeezed through it onto the rickety stairs as another deep deafening bonggg tolled behind them.
Beth looked back through the crack in the window desperately, but Ralph screamed at them to get out.
“Run! Save yourselves!”
Beth heard the door at the top of the stairs outside the building fly open. Heavy footsteps made the whole staircase wobble and shake, and without thinking, she jumped down the last three feet into the yard, staggering and gasping through the pot shards and nettles with John hot on her heels. She lurched for the bolt on the door that led out of the yard.
Strange, she had to reach Strange. He would know what to do...
The bell tolled again – just as thick, powerful arms grabbed her from behind. She struggled, but they were crushing her.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe.
“You aren’t going nowhere, sweetheart,” Robert Mott’s voice rasped in her ear.
Chapter Eleven - Kidnapped!
John, Beth and Ralph sat on the floor of Mott’s attic, their backs against the bare brick wall, their legs sticking straight out in front of them. Their hands had been tied up behind their backs and Mott had been none too gentle doing it. Loops of cruelly tight, prickly hemp rope dug into Beth’s wrists.
The attic was a cramped, narrow space, barely fit for habitation. The ceiling sloped diagonally down on both sides to meet the floor, with bare wooden props holding it up. The trap door, now closed, took up most of the room’s centre portion. At one dingy end of the room was Mott’s bed and the door; at the other, the empty space where the three of them now sat beneath a single grimy window.
“Who sent you?” Robert Mott demanded.
Behind him, his accomplice – the owner of the pale skinny arms that had grabbed at Ralph – clutched a pencil and paper, ready to write down the confessions that Mott was itching to beat out of them. The man looked pasty-faced and sick. Beth couldn’t tell if it was the plague, the result of the same brutality Mott had shown to the three of them, or outright terror. Mott had called the man Leighton in a moment of anger, and Jack when he had calmed down: so, Jack Leighton. He must be JL from the paper. In spite of their predicament, Beth couldn’t help feeling pleased – that only left LB unaccounted for on the mysterious list...
Not that finding another conspirator helps us right now if Mott wants to kill us, she thought. And he’ll make us talk first if he can.
“I sneaked in on a dare!” Ralph was whining. “I don’t know these two! Please, mister, you’ve got to let me go!”
“Liar,” Mott sneered. “If you don’t know ’em, why’d you shout for ’em to run and save themselves?”
“You did say you hadn’t seen him before, Rob,” Jack Leighton said cautiously, nodding towards Ralph. “He wasn’t in the Four Swans with the other two, was he?”
Of course – Ralph had been exploring the cellar while John and Beth were upstairs. Mott hadn’t seen his face. It was a threadbare gambit, but Beth prayed it might pay off. Especially if Leighton was as reluctant to shed blood as he seemed.
“Who cares if he weren’t?” Mott yelled, rounding on his accomplice. “What’s one less brat on the streets of London anyway?”
“W-we can’t kill him if he’s innocent,” Leighton insisted.
“You can’t have a revolution without spilling a bit of innocent blood!” Mott snarled. “And look at the company he keeps. Look at this lying little wretch.” He pulled John’s hair back hard, and Beth flinched.
“Robert, for pity’s sake, they’re just youngsters—!”
“Make yourself useful, you bloody fool, and go and fetch my carving knife,” Mott snarled. “I’ll soon have this one telling all he knows.”
Beth glanced anxiously over at John, and she could see he was trying not to give any sign of how terrified he must be. She longed to reach over and reassure him, but there was nothing to be done.
“Who sent you?” Mott repeated angrily.
Nobody spoke.
He pulled a chair up in front of them and sat down on it while Leighton began to rummage through some drawers. “Come on, now. I know you’re spies,” he said, suddenly sounding almost reasonable. “And you’re all as good as dead. Not a one of you is leaving this place alive. We’ll kill you one by one, make the others watch, then burn your bodies in the forge downstairs—”
“You’re bluffing!” John threw back in Mott’s face. “You need us alive. Kill us, and you’ll never know what we know!”
“I don’t need all of yer!” Mott exploded with fury. “Maybe I’ll save you for last, how about that? I’ll do the young lady first, shall I? And you can watch me. How’s that sound, Sir Galahad? Want to watch your pretty little friend cut to bits in front of you?”
Leighton silently passed Mott a long kitchen knife. Mott tested the edge on his thumb and nodded, satisfied.
“Don’t touch her!” Ralph burst out. “Don’t you lay a finger on her!”
“So, you are with them,” Mott said, his lip curling viciously. “I knew it. Lie to me again, boy, and I’ll slit your throat.”
“We’re not really going to kill ’em, are we?” Jack Leighton, said in a low voice from behind Mott, wringing his hands anxiously.
“Why not?” Robert demanded. “They deserve it. This one especially!” He stood up, strode over to John and spat full in his face. “You should have heard him, spinning his lies about his dear old dad teaching him the songs of Cromwell’s army! I bet you think you made a proper fool out of me, don’t you, boy?”
“Not any more,” John said carefully. The spittle lay white and glistening on his cheek. “It looks like you’ve got the upper hand now, sir.”
“So talk.”
John grinned. “Why don’t you fetch me a beer first? It’s your turn to buy.”
“Why, you little—” Mott swung his leg back and kicked John hard in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him and forcing tears into his eyes. Without pausing, he kicked again, this time in his thigh. He grabbed John’s shirtfront and bashed his head against the brick wall behind.
“Think this is a game, do you?” he shouted. “Think this is funny, do you? You know what you are? You’re a maggot!” He finally let John go and turned his back on them. John was left panting and slumped on the floorboards, doubled over with pain.
Beth struggled against her bonds, wishing again that she could lay a comforting hand on her friend. “Beating up a tied-up boy?” she demanded, glaring at Mott. “You’re a filthy coward.”
“He’s the coward, not me! A spineless maggot, without the guts to be a King-killer!” Mott leered. “Oh, he knows the truth of things well enough. The King’s sucking up all the wealth of this country to line his own pockets. He’s nothing but a parasite. A bloated tick. Everyone knows it. But you brats just want to serve him, like a pack of grovelling mongrels!”
“He’s our rightful King,” John groaned. “Nothing ... you can do ... will change that.”
“He’ll be d
ead before the week’s out!” Mott laughed, a harsh sound like the bark of a dog.
“Liar. There’s no true plot,” John spat blood onto the floor. “Just a drunkard’s dreams.”
He’s goading him, Beth realized. He’s trying to draw him out. Oh, John, stop being so brave! He’ll beat you to death, he means it!
“You don’t know nothing!” Mott raged. He turned and leaned back down, pressing the knife blade up to John’s throat and held it there. “The plot’s bigger than you could ever guess!”
“Is that right? Well, why don’t you tell us your precious plot, then – prove it!” John coughed. “You’re going to kill us anyway, aren’t you? Or was that just another lie?”
For a moment, Mott really seemed like he might. He wanted to boast, and it was hurting him not to. But, in the end, his anger got the better of him and he lashed out with kicks again. His heavy boots smacked Ralph in the ribs, and then, relentless, he turned and kicked Beth hard in the shin. The pain burned, but she refused to cry or even utter a sound.
“Leave her alone!” Ralph shouted.
“Robert, for God’s sake!” exploded Jack Leighton. “She’s just a girl!”
“She’s a little vixen, is what she is,” raged Mott. “Don’t waste your pity on her.”
Leighton doesn’t have the stomach for this, Beth realized hopefully through her pain. He might be the weak link in the chain. Perhaps we can use that...
“It’s not right, I won’t stand for it—”
“You’ll damn well do as you’re bid!” Mott roared at him. “Remember your oath! And as for this guttersnipe, she’ll do as she’s bid an’ all!”
Wheeling around, he grabbed a clump of Beth’s hair, wound it round his fist for a better grip, and pulled so hard that it ripped out of her scalp. Blinding red agony tore through her and her whole body trembled, not just from the pain but from the effort of holding it in.
I won’t scream. I won’t cry. I won’t give him the satisfaction! She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but she squeezed them shut and forced herself to think past the raging fire of pain. She took several deep breaths and eventually the pain began to pass.
“We have to talk about this!” Leighton was saying to Mott. “We’re out of our depth here. Maybe we should bring in one of the others?”
“Don’t gab in front of the prisoners, fool!” Mott grunted. “Come over here.”
Mott and Leighton went and huddled in the far corner, talking in low voices. Beth’s head was pounding, but she knew this was an important chance to get information, one she couldn’t ignore. She made herself concentrate on the details of the room. She had to remember everything – any part of it might be significant later.
One bed, unmade, a simple pallet. A small chest of drawers beside the bed. A washstand. On top of it, a basin, a rusty razor and a shaving mirror, both thick with dust from long neglect. A fraying rug on the floor that just made the bare floorboards look all the more barren. Three shabby-looking chairs, the one Mott had sat on in front of them, the other two by the fire. A small three-legged pot for the coal. A stand of fire tools.
And a mantelpiece above the fire.
Sitting on it, a three-armed candlestick that was the only source of light, a bone comb, a pair of pliers probably borrowed from the foundry downstairs, and an old pewter mug bent out of shape. The clutter of a bachelor who cared little about himself or anyone else – nothing out of the ordinary, it seemed. But propped on the end of the mantelpiece was a pencil sketch on a sheet of paper. Beth saw instantly that the paper was white, though the mantelpiece would see plenty of sunlight through the window. If it were old, dust and sun would have yellowed it, so she knew it hadn’t been there for long.
She strained to see the sketch properly in the dancing light of the candles. It was some sort of map, with buildings and open areas marked out, and one wide stripe of wavy lines in the midst. Sudden excitement struck her as she recognized it. This was the same image she’d seen drawn in the dust of the window ledge! That had been a crude version of a map.
Yes – there was a building that looked like two circles, one within the other. It was very close to the wavy lines. Those must represent a river – the Thames, perhaps, or ... Did the conspirators know the King was in Oxford? It could be the Isis, the part of the Thames that flowed through there. Her heart raced at the thought.
Mott glanced back at her, his face twisted in brutal anger, and Beth quickly looked away, hoping the shadows of the candlelight had hidden where she had been gazing. If Mott knew what she’d been up to, he’d kill her for sure.
But if he had noticed, he didn’t give any sign. Instead, he seemed to be getting angrier and angrier with Leighton.
“You know we can’t let them go!” he yelled. “They’d go straight to the law!”
“B-but it’s cold-blooded murder!” whined Leighton.
“Should have thought of that before you helped me catch ’em!” Mott bellowed in his face. “Why’d you sign up with us if you don’t have the stomach for killing, eh? Eh?”
“I signed up to kill a tyrant, not a helpless girl!” Leighton retorted.
“Your fine sentiments will see us all strung up at Tyburn!” Mott screeched. “Damn your eyes, man, I’ll slaughter ’em all myself and have done!” Carving knife in hand, he came storming back towards the three of them.
Beth’s eyes widened with panic.
“Time to start spillin’ guts,” Mott snarled. “Don’t struggle and it’ll be over all the quicker...”
Chapter Twelve - Tables Turned
Mott grabbed John’s shoulder with his left hand to keep him still and drew back the knife with his right. Beth knew exactly what he was going to do. Mott would shove the blade up under John’s ribcage and into his heart. She let out a cry in spite of herself.
But to her shock, as Mott went to drive the knife home, Ralph brought his foot up in a vicious kick. His boot slammed into Mott’s arm with a heavy thump. His hands were tied, but Mott hadn’t bothered to tie his legs, and the kick took the evil man completely by surprise. The knife, knocked out of his grip, went flying across the room, then fell spinning to the floor, skidded and finally vanished under the bed.
Mott let go of John and grabbed Ralph by his shirtfront. A nasty grimace spread over his face as he hauled Ralph to his feet.
“Grab that blasted knife, Leighton!” he yelled to the other man. “As for you, boy, no quick and clean death for you. I’ll dash your brains out!”
To prove he meant it, he whacked Ralph’s head against the wall behind and Beth stared in anguish as she saw her friend go limp. But as Mott prepared to smash him into the wall a second time to finish the job, Ralph quickly head-butted Mott right on the bridge of the nose – he’d been faking! There was a gruesome crack and Mott fell backwards, howling, clutching his eyes. Blood poured down his face.
“I’m blind!” he roared through his bloodstained fingers. “Filthy, dirty-fighting little rat blinded me! Leighton, kill them!”
Leighton was still rummaging around under the bed, trying to grab for the knife.
Quickly, while both of the conspirators were out of action, Beth saw Ralph wrench hard at his bonds. He soon managed to pull one hand free, though it was rubbed raw and sore. He swiftly undid the other hand, just as Leighton stood up triumphantly, clutching the knife. “I’ve got it!”
“Then kill them, damn you!” Mott yelled again. He shook his head, sending droplets of blood flying, and rubbed at his eyes trying to clear the gore out of them.
Hesitantly, Leighton edged across the room, wielding the knife as if he didn’t know which end to hold it by.
“Ralph!” Beth shouted, then held her breath as Ralph made a split-second decision. He could untie them, or try to fight Leighton off. But if Leighton worked up the courage to stab him while he was untying John or Beth, he’d be defenceless.
Ralph made his choice: he took a deep breath and pulled John to his feet as
he was closest. He tugged frantically at the heavy knots, trying to free John’s hands as quickly as he could before Leighton managed to attack.
“What are you waiting for?” Mott screeched. “Useless fool, I’ll feed you to the crows!”
Ralph gave one last tug, and John’s hands were free.
“Thanks!” John gasped, rubbing his wrists. “I’m in your debt.”
“No, you’re not,” Ralph panted quickly. “We watch out for one another. That’s the code.”
Leighton lurched towards them, but he looked more uncertain than ever now that he was facing off against two of them. He jabbed at Ralph, a half-hearted effort that the boy dodged easily.
“Over there!” Beth cried, nodding towards the washstand. Ralph quickly snatched up the rusty shaving razor. Now he had a blade too. John’s eyes darted uncertainly between Beth and Ralph, unsure who to help first.
“Come a little closer,” Ralph was saying to Leighton, with a slow smile. “Let’s have it out. Blade to blade. You and me...”
Leighton’s eyes widened and he actually took a step back. His boot heels rang hollow on the trap door as he passed over it.
“Give me that damned knife, you dolt,” Mott exploded, out of his mind with rage, still squinting through bloodied eyes. He grabbed the blade out of Leighton’s hand. “If you want something done properly, you have to do it yourself!”
Leighton shrank to the back of the room, mumbling and shaking his head in fear.
Just then, seemingly struck by a sudden idea, John lunged forward and pulled the trap door open. Now there was a lethal drop between Mott and them. He’d have to edge round the side if he wanted to attack.
“John! The poker!” Beth yelled from the floor. “Grab it!”
John looked baffled for a moment, then the meaning of Beth’s words hit home. Mott was already attempting to skirt round the trap door towards him, and John darted towards the fireplace and snatched up the poker, holding it out in front of him.
While there was a distraction, Ralph took the opportunity to dash to Beth’s side, and the razor quickly sawed through the ropes binding her hands. She let out a sigh of relief, though not taking her eyes of the approaching figure of Mott. He was now edging past the fireplace. The space between the chimney breast and the open trap door was only two feet wide, and he and John faced off in the middle of it. It was like watching duellists fighting on a broad plank.