“So what happened, Ratsey?”
Ratsey smiled. “I got bored and I ran away. I went to war.” He reached out, took the bottle and drank. For a long moment he stared into the distance and Tom could see the moon reflected in his eyes. “Captain Ratsey – that was me. I fought for the Queen in Ireland. Good old Queeny! I saw her once, you know, Tom-Tom. She was as close to me as that tree over there.” He nodded at the oak. “Glorious days! But then times got hard. No money. No food. No fun…” He jerked his head to one side as if shaking off the memory and suddenly he was business-like again. “Tell Slope that I’ll be waiting,” he said.
“Yes, Ratsey.”
Ratsey gestured with his head and Tom set off at once, scrabbling across the clearing and back up the slope. When he reached the top, he stopped and turned round. But the clearing was already empty. Ratsey had vanished as quickly and quietly as he had appeared and the burnt oak stood solitary, dead in the pale glow of the moon.
It was still dark when Tom opened his eyes the following morning. In the summer months he would be woken by the sun breaking through the cracks in the walls of the stable where he slept but in the winter it was always the cold that did it.
As he set to work, Tom thought about Ratsey and about the traveller who would be leaving for London that day. He knew what was going to happen. The same thing had been going on for as long as he could remember. But there was nothing he could do about it. It was no business of his.
Tom had just finished cleaning out the hearth – the ashes thick with fat and grease – when he became aware of voices in the main room. The first, high-pitched in anger and indignation, he knew at once. It was Sebastian Slope.
“You can’t take him!” he was saying. “I won’t let you!”
“You’ll hang if you try to stop me.”
A moment later the door opened and the traveller stormed in, already dressed in his cloak and with his sword buckled at his waist. Sebastian Slope was right behind him. The innkeeper had obviously got up in a hurry. He was wearing a dirty vest, hanging outside his trousers. His eyes were bleary and his orange hair was even more dishevelled than usual.
The traveller ignored him. His attention was fixed on Tom, kneeling by the hearth. “Tom,” he said, “do you have any possessions? Anything you call your own?”
“No, sir.” Tom was too dazed to understand what was happening.
“Then you have nothing to pack. Come with me. We’re leaving now.”
“But … my lord!” Slope’s blustering hadn’t worked so now he began to whine. “My wife and I … where would we be without the boy? We’ve treated him like a son…”
“You’ve treated him like a slave and believe me, you will hear more of it.”
“You don’t want him, my lord!” Slope was actually crying but – rather repulsively – the tears were coming out of what was left of his nose. “He’s no good to you. He’s a sneak. He’s a sniveller. If it wasn’t for Mrs S and me he’d have been hanged years ago.”
“Tell me, boy…” he said – the traveller was standing firmly between Tom and the innkeeper – “do you want to stay with this man and his wife?”
Tom wasn’t sure what to say. He certainly had no love for either of the Slopes, but to leave…? To step outside the small world of Framlingham? It was something he had never even for a minute considered.
“He wants to stay!” Sebastian Slope exclaimed. “He loves Mrs S and me. Like we was his own parents.”
“No!” Tom was amazed to find himself saying it. “I don’t want to stay.”
“Then let’s go.”
With his back turned to him, the traveller didn’t see the landlord snatch up a knife that had been lying on a table. Tom opened his mouth to call out a warning – but the traveller had no need of it. He must have heard something, for in less than a second his sword was out of its sheath. He spun round and slashed down twice. The first stroke gashed Slope’s arm, drawing a thin line of blood. The second sliced across his stomach and for a horrible moment Tom was sure it had killed him. But the blade had only cut through the waistband of his trousers. As Sebastian Slope howled in pain, they slid down to his ankles, exposing a pair of knees like over-sized conkers.
“This way, Tom.”
Not sure if he was awake or asleep, Tom followed the traveller out into the yard and watched as he saddled and made ready his horse. It didn’t take him very long. As he led the animal out of the stable, he smiled at Tom for the first time. “You’ve never ridden a horse,” he said.
“No, sir.”
“It’s not difficult. You’ll sit behind me and hold on to me. You’ll soon get used to it.”
“Where are you taking me, sir?”
“To London.”
London!
London was a four-day ride away but for Tom it could have been on the other side of the planet … on the other side of the moon even. London was a city, he knew, with a tower and a river and a cathedral so great that the church at Framlingham could fit inside it. He had heard it said that crowds of people lived there; not just dozens of people but hundreds, maybe even a thousand.
He tried to speak but couldn’t find the words. In silence, he allowed the traveller to help him on to the horse and clung to the saddle, hardly daring to move. He was much higher than he had imagined and he was grateful when the traveller climbed up and sat before him.
“Say goodbye to it, Tom,” the man said. “You’re starting a new life.”
But before they could move, there was a screech and Henrietta Slope emerged from the inn. Her husband was right behind her, holding up his trousers with his good hand.
“What are you doing?” she squealed. “You’ve no right! I’ll have the law on to you.”
“I am the law,” the traveller replied. “And you have every reason to fear me. But although you don’t deserve it, I’ll play fair with you.” He threw a handful of coins into the mud. “This is for my room and board. Now be silent and let us pass.”
The traveller kicked with his feet and the horse trotted forward. At the same time, Henrietta threw herself in front of it. Tom wasn’t sure what happened next. The horse reared up and he clung on for dear life. Henrietta fell back, losing her balance. With a great scream, she crashed to the ground, slap into the middle of a pile of soft and steaming horse manure. Sebastian tried to help her but, with his trousers in a knot, he was too slow.
The horse had left the courtyard. Tom and the traveller were gone. Henrietta Slope took her husband’s hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She gazed down the road at the horse with its two figures already vanishing into the distance. “Are you all right?” Sebastian asked.
Henrietta wiped a hand across the back of her leg. “I stink!” she exclaimed.
“I know, my dear,” Sebastian agreed. “But don’t worry. The horse manure will hide it.” He held up his hand, blood trickling between his fingers. “He cut me!” he complained.
Henrietta looked at the blood, then back at the road. “It’s nothing compared to what Ratsey will do to him,” she muttered.
“Ratsey…!” Sebastian had forgotten but now an ugly light came into his eyes. He tore a piece off the bottom of his vest and wrapped it round his hand. “You think he’ll find him?”
“He’ll find him. Ratsey never misses.” Henrietta’s cheeks twitched as she tried to draw lips that weren’t there into a triumphant smile. “We’ll have the boy back – aye and that fine horse with him. And as for our brave traveller…”
“Dead meat, Mrs S.”
“Dead and buried, my beloved.”
And laughing softly to themselves, the innkeeper and his wife turned and began to scavenge for the coins in the mud where they’d been thrown.
the ambush
He was leaving Framlingham!
As he watched the last traces of the village disappear behind him, Tom still couldn’t believe it was happening. He had been born in Framlingham. He had lived his whole life there. And he’d always assu
med he would die there – probably quite soon. And not only was he leaving … he was on a horse! The Slopes could never have afforded a horse like this, even with all the money they had stolen. The only animal they’d ever owned had been a dog and that had gone mad when they forgot to feed it.
It was the man who broke the silence.
“Tom,” he said, “do you have a second name?”
“My father’s name was Falconer, sir,” Tom replied. “At least, that was what they put on his gravestone. But I’ve only ever been Tom.”
“And my name is Hawkins,” the traveller said. “Sir William Hawkins.” He smiled. “A hawk and a falcon. We make a good pair.”
Hawkins pulled on the reins and the horse stopped. He twisted in the saddle and gazed at the boy behind him. His eyes narrowed. He reached out and brushed the hair out of Tom’s eyes, his fingers stroking the boy’s forehead. “It is most wonderful,” he muttered. “You remind me of someone. I knew it the moment I first set eyes on you. But who? There’s the mystery. Who indeed?”
He turned round and the horse moved off again.
“Are we really going to London?” Tom asked.
“We are.”
“But why? What do you want with me?”
“It’s not for me to answer your questions, Tom,” Hawkins replied. “I was told to find you and that’s what I’ve done. But for the rest of it … you’ll have to wait until we arrive.”
Until we arrive.
But would they?
Ever since they had set out another fear had been stirring in Tom’s mind. Gamaliel Ratsey was somewhere out there. Maybe he was watching them even now. Tom glanced around him. On one side there were fields, cut into narrow strips with rough trenches in between. On the other, trees were already beginning to thicken into a wood which would soon surround them. Hawkins had spoken of the road to London, but of course there was no real road. They were following a track that was so faint it was barely a track at all. There was nobody else in sight.
“Why are we going this way?” Tom asked.
“It’s the way I came,” Hawkins replied.
“Is this the only way to London?”
“It’s the fastest way. Why, Tom? What’s the matter?”
Tom wasn’t sure how to answer. Part of him wanted to tell Hawkins all about Ratsey and to plead with him to go another way. But at the same time he was too afraid to speak. It was he, after all, who had informed Ratsey about the traveller only the night before – as he had done many times in the past. Tom had never been a willing part of it but even so he knew that if Ratsey were discovered, he would hang with him.
The forest grew thicker, the silence more profound. Above them, a black crow launched itself out of a tree with a sudden scream. Tom could bear it no more.
“Please, Mr Hawkins!” he exclaimed. “You have to go another way. You’re in danger…”
But it was already too late.
Ahead of them, a figure suddenly stepped out, something long and metallic in its hand. The horse reared and tried to find a way round. But there were thick briars on either side. There was no other way.
Gamaliel Ratsey was wearing another, even more disgusting mask. This one showed the head of a fish, but a fish that was already dead and rotting. Its eyes were white and sightless. Its lips were disfigured as if torn by the fisherman’s hook. Where its neck met Ratsey’s shoulders, blood and green slime seemed to be oozing out.
But if the mask had been designed to frighten Hawkins, this time it hadn’t worked. Quickly, he brought the horse under control, then called out, “What do you want?”
“Your money!” Ratsey replied, his voice muffled behind the mask. “All of it. Your horse also. Your clothes. I like the look of your boots. And I think, while I’m at it, I may also take your life!”
Hawkins said nothing. He jumped down from the horse, leaving Tom feeling very lost and alone. Ratsey glanced up, the blank fish eyes gazing at him. “Tom-Tom!” he exclaimed.
“You know the boy?” Hawkins demanded.
“Know him? Why, he and I are old mates. Drinking friends. And partners in crime.”
Hawkins glanced back at Tom, uncertain for the first time. “You knew he would be here?” he asked.
“I tried to warn you,” Tom answered, miserably.
“Tried to warn him, Tom-Tom?” Ratsey shook his head. “Tut! Tut! That’s not loyal. That’s not nice. But enough of this idle chat. Let’s kill this fellow, whoever he is, and then we can ride back together…”
But Hawkins had planted his feet firmly on the ground. He threw back his cloak, revealing his sword. He turned again to Ratsey. “Whatever you may say,” he said, “this boy isn’t with you. You and he are as different as night and day. I’m taking him with me. And I warn you now to let us pass…”
“Please, Ratsey!” Tom called out, though he knew it was useless. He couldn’t even see Ratsey’s face but he knew that it would be as emotionless as the dead-fish mask. And he was right.
“Please, Ratsey!” The highwayman echoed the words in a mocking falsetto voice.
Hawkins unsheathed his sword with a great flourish, the metal whispering against the leather scabbard.
Ratsey raised the weapon he was carrying and fired.
It was an arquebus, a type of musket. Tom had never seen such a thing before, never heard anything as loud as the explosion it made. At first he wasn’t even sure what had happened. It seemed to him that Hawkins had thrown his own weapon away. Then the traveller turned and to Tom’s horror, there was a great hole in the centre of his chest and blood was pouring out, soaking down into his trousers, draining out of him even as Tom watched. Behind him, Ratsey had lowered his gun and was muttering something but Tom, his ears still ringing, couldn’t hear him. Smoke curled up from the muzzle of the arquebus. Hawkins staggered towards him.
“To London,” he rasped. “Go to Moorfield…” He lifted a hand and with the last of his strength brought it down hard on the horse’s rump. Tom felt the horse leap forward and flailed out, searching for something to hold on to. Somehow his fingers found the horse’s mane and he knotted them into it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw William Hawkins collapse, lifeless, to the ground. And there, right in front of him, was Ratsey, the fish mask already off his head and his handsome eyes staring at him with something like disbelief.
“Tom-Tom!” he called out.
Tom couldn’t have stopped the horse even if he had wanted to. The next thing he knew, the two of them had left the ground, and soared over Ratsey. Ratsey yelled and dived to one side as the horse just missed him, its hind hooves grazing the side of his face. Tom was yelling too. He seemed to be flying. Then there was a great crash as the horse hit the ground again and if Tom’s hands hadn’t been buried in the mane he would have been torn loose from the saddle. Even so the breath was punched out of him and it felt as if every bone in his body had been rattled loose. Slipping first one way, then the other, he desperately clung on as the horse thundered through the wood, swerving past the trees, leaving its dead master in the mud behind.
As the sun set that evening, three people sat round a table in the Pig’s Head. None of them were speaking. They had not spoken for an hour.
Sebastian Slope was smoking a pipe that smelled of old straw. The reason for this was that it was actually filled with old straw – he had run out of tobacco. Next to him, Henrietta Slope was sipping a tankard of ale, a noisy business lacking, as she did, lips. Opposite them, Gamaliel Ratsey was reading a letter by the light of a candle. He had read it several times already and taken notes but the contents still puzzled him.
“So what does it say?” Henrietta demanded at last. “It’s only two pages. It can’t be that difficult.”
“Actually it’s in Latin,” Ratsey replied. “It’s also in code.” He set the pages down. “The letter contains orders,” he explained. “The traveller was a knight. Sir William Hawkins. A member of the Gentlemen Pensioners.”
“The what?”
; Ratsey sighed again. “You really do know nothing about the outside world, do you?” he said. “The Gentlemen Pensioners are the Queen’s personal bodyguard. They’re closer to the Queen than probably anyone else.”
“What? You mean…?” Sebastian had gone completely white. It looked as if he was going to be sick and sure enough a few moments later he was. “Do you mean the Queen sent him?” he continued, when he had recovered.
“The Queen or someone close to her. Yes.” Ratsey nodded. “Hawkins was sent to find a boy, the son of Robert the Falconer. Somehow he knew that Tom was the boy. His orders were to carry the boy to London and await further instructions. And that, of course, is where they were heading when Hawkins and I met – so unfortunately for him.”
“The Queen!” Sebastian Slope was having trouble breathing. His entire face was like a slice of damp cheese. “If Hawkins was a member of the Mental Intentioners…”
“The Gentlemen Pensioners…”
“If he was working for the Queen, there’ll be questions. I mean, when he doesn’t show up. They’ll send constables. And worse…”
“They’ll hang us all,” Henrietta whispered. Her fingers fluttered to her throat. “Hanged by the neck!”
“They’ll probably draw and quarter us first,” Ratsey remarked.
“Oh Gawd!” Henrietta turned round and was as sick as her husband had been a few moments before.
“It wasn’t us!” Slope exclaimed. “We didn’t kill him!” He jerked his pipe in the direction of Ratsey. “It was you! You shot him in the forest!”
For the first time, Ratsey’s eyes grew dark. He was still smiling, but suddenly there was a chill in the room. The candle flame flickered and black shadows slithered across his face. “Whatever happens, let’s remember one thing,” he said in a low voice. “We’re in this together. If one of us goes down, we all do. If they’re going to build a scaffold, it’ll be a scaffold for three.”
“They can’t tie us in with him,” Henrietta whispered. “Hawkins came here. And he left again. What happened after that nobody knows.”
The Devil and His Boy Page 3