The Falcon laughed. ‘You ride Shadrach?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. My horse is a wild one and would not take kindly to another man’s weight on him.’
Browne jerked up from the seat. ‘Do you doubt my horsemanship?’
‘Not at all. All I meant is that we cannot afford any accidents. Now, down you get, Master Garnett.’
‘What?’
‘You will travel this next bit of the road with Mister Browne and Goliath.’
Tom’s chest tightened. ‘Can’t I come with you?’
‘No. We don’t want to attract any undue attention. A man and a boy on a cart will pass unnoticed in the bustle of the marketplace. A man and a boy on a horse will not.’
Tom glanced at Browne. The black scowl on his face showed he was as pleased as he was at the news.
The Falcon twisted round in his saddle. ‘Come now. We’re wasting valuable travelling time.’
Slinging his bundle over his back, Tom slid down from the saddle and hobbled over to the cart.
‘Until later then. Yaaa!’ The Falcon flicked Shadrach’s reins, dug in his spurs and set off in the direction of the town.
Tom looked up glumly at the empty seat next to Browne. He was about to climb on board when the tail of a whip flashed across Goliath’s back. The horse and cart lurched forwards leaving him standing in the middle of the road. He curled his fingers tight against his palms. Why did the man have to be so mean to him? He shook his head. Folding his arms across his chest, he stumbled after them.
They travelled in silence in the dull grey afternoon light, past fields of ragged grass and hedges filled with brambles. As Tom found his stride, his legs and arms loosened up and he began to feel less stiff. The church bell rang out again. Three strikes. Back at Cowdray lessons would be nearly over for the day. He didn’t miss them one little bit, or that slimy snake, Mandrake – in spite of his bad-tempered travelling companion.
The cart rumbled past a line of cottages and splashed through a shallow, sandy ford. Tom jumped across the river using a row of stepping stones. He was cold enough already without giving his feet a soaking. The grey flint bulk of a church rose up on their right. The town looked busy for the time of day, although some of the shopkeepers were already pulling in their goods and closing the shutters.
As they turned into the main street a rosy-faced woman walked past them, a basket strapped to her back. ‘Apples,’ she called. ‘Come buy my sweet apples.’ A grey-whiskered man stepped out of a shop and lifted up a tray of pies from the wooden window counter. Tom’s stomach churned. It seemed an age since they’d last eaten. He’d give anything to sink his teeth into a juicy bit of spiced meat and pastry and let Jago have something tasty too. But he had no money. Browne and the cart trundled on ahead of him. No point asking him.
He swallowed back the saliva and plodded on up the hill, past women carrying baskets of eggs and men driving geese and cattle before them. The cart picked up pace as it crested the hill, threatening to leave him behind.
‘Wait for me.’ He ran alongside it, gasping for breath.
Browne glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. ‘’Tis no concern of mine if you can’t keep up. I never wanted you along anyway.’ He pulled a lace kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his forehead and the back of his neck, then flicked the whip across Goliath’s back. The cart groaned on.
At the first crossroads out of town, Browne turned Goliath down a small, stony track, through a copse of birch trees and into a chalk-walled hollow in the hillside. He tugged hard on the reins, jumped down from the seat and strode round to the back of the cart.
Tom’s mouth filled with water again. He was so hungry! Thirsty too. Perhaps Browne was fetching some provisions? He hesitated, then followed.
Browne had the sack laid out on the ground and was halfway through untying it. He jumped up as Tom approached. ‘Keep away!’ He planted himself in front of it, arms clamped across his broad chest, daring him to come closer.
‘I . . . I thought there might be something to eat.’
Browne’s eyes grew hard and narrow. ‘Well, you thought wrong. I don’t like your prying ways, boy. If it were up to me, I’d have left you to the mercy of that ruffler. But luckily for you, my friend seems to think himself your protector. While we are getting our cargo to safety, I will humour him. But be assured’ – he curled his top lip to reveal a row of dog-like teeth – ‘things will change when we meet the others.’
Tom frowned. ‘Others? What others?’
Browne untied a large leather bottle from the side of the cart. ‘You’ll find out soon enough. That’s if your protector doesn’t tire of you first.’ He thrust the bottle at him. ‘Enough talking. There’s a spring further down the hill. Make yourself useful and fetch some water.’
Tom grabbed it and trudged off down the track. It wasn’t fair. What had he ever done to Browne? And who were these others? Or was he just trying to scare him off ? He gritted his teeth. Another day’s travelling and they’d be in London. He’d bear it until then, for Father’s sake. But the sooner the Falcon was back with them, the better.
He crunched over piles of dead leaves and twigs, squinting between the lines of thin white tree trunks. Where was this spring anyway? Or had Browne made it up to get him out of the way? A gust of wind carried a faint gurgling sound up from the hillside. Leaving the track, he slipped down a chalky slope and into a dank hollow filled with willow and alder. A smell of mould wafted up from the soft, boggy ground beneath his boots. He shivered. It was colder down here. Darker too. It would be a perfect place for an ambush . . .
A splash of silver caught his eye. He squelched through the mud and bent down next to a pile of moss-covered rocks. Water bubbled up from between the stones. Dipping his hand in, he scooped it to his lips. Cold and sweet. He scooped another mouthful then uncorked the bottle and positioned it beneath the flow.
He’d almost filled it when a crack of dead wood and a rustle of leaves sounded behind him.
He pulled out his knife and spun round.
‘Steady, Master Garnett. ’Tis a friend, not a foe.’
‘I . . . er . . . I know.’ He jerked back his shoulders and stuck out his chest. The last thing he wanted was for the Falcon to think him a shadow-jumping coward.
‘Good. Then put your blade away before you do me an injury and let’s go and eat.’ Seizing the bottle, the Falcon strode along the track to where Shadrach stood waiting beneath a large beech tree.
Tom rammed the knife back in his belt and hurried after him.
Chapter Twenty
Browne sat slouched against a mossy grey rock, the brim of his hat pulled over his eyes. He leapt to his feet as Tom and the Falcon approached and reached for his knife.
‘No need to excite yourself, Mister Browne. ’Tis only us.’
Browne pushed back his hat and shot the Falcon a cold-eyed look. ‘Did you get it?’
The Falcon slid a small stoppered jar from Shadrach’s saddlebag. He ran a finger across the lid and frowned. ‘The apothecary said it should be used sparingly to avoid lasting harm.’
Browne cracked his knuckles and thrust out a hand. ‘Let me have it then.’
The Falcon considered for a moment, then tossed the jar to him. Browne caught it and marched round to the back of the cart.
‘What’s it for?’
‘Mister Browne has an attack of the toothache, but it’s nothing a little oil of mandrake won’t cure.’
Tom pulled a face.
‘Does something ail you too, Master Garnett?’
‘No, but Mandrake was the name of the tutor we had at Cowdray.’
‘He did not treat you well?’
‘He didn’t, but it’s not that.’ He licked his lips.
‘What then? Come on, boy, spit it out.’
‘Nothing, it’s just that, well, I think he’s a spy.’
‘A spy?’ The Falcon’s eyes darkened. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘I saw him meet with a stranger ou
tside the gates the night I arrived at Cowdray. The stranger asked Mandrake if he’d found any evidence.’
The Falcon stiffened. ‘Evidence? What kind of evidence?’
‘I don’t know. Something that could be used against the family I think. He talked about papists and setting a trap.’
The Falcon frowned. He gripped Tom by the arm. ‘Did you catch sight of him, this stranger?’
‘No. He kept to the shadows.’
‘A pity.’ The Falcon let his hand fall.
‘There . . . there was something else.’
‘What? Tell me.’
‘The stranger talked about reporting back to a man called the Master.’
‘The Master, eh?’ The Falcon raked a hand through his red-coloured locks.
Tom’s eyes widened. ‘You know him?’
‘Not personally, no. But by reputation; although there are other less flattering names for him.’ The Falcon gave a bitter-sounding laugh.
‘Who is he?’
The Falcon’s scar twitched. ‘Robert Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury, the King’s most powerful minister and servant.’
Tom’s heart skipped a beat. ‘The Viscountess told me it was Cecil who put my father in prison.’
The Falcon’s eyes glowed with a sudden fire. ‘Cecil is the Catholics’ greatest enemy. Pouring venom in the King’s ear about so-called papist rebellions and plots, all to turn him against the true faith.’
‘So you are a Catholic too?’
The Falcon flashed Tom a look then thumped his fist against his chest. ‘Yes, boy. Through and through.’
A moaning sound came from the back of the cart. The Falcon jerked round. ‘Is everything all right, Mister Browne?’ His voice was knife-sharp.
Browne stuck his head above the sailcloth. ‘It will be when this potion kicks in.’ He dipped out of sight again.
More moaning. Muffled this time. Tom allowed himself a secret smile. It looked like the mandrake oil was as unpleasant as the man who shared its name.
The Falcon’s jaw twitched.
The moaning stopped.
‘At last.’ He let out a sigh. ‘Now, food. A soldier cannot fight on an empty belly. Here.’ He reached inside the saddlebag and threw Tom a leg of cooked chicken and a hunk of bread. ‘’Twill build your strength for the rest of the journey. We won’t be stopping again until we reach the Duck and Drake.’
‘The Duck and Drake?’
‘An inn in London, just off the Strand. We are set to meet some of our friends there.’
The hairs on the back of Tom’s neck prickled. So Browne had been speaking the truth.
‘No need to look so worried, Master Garnett. My comrades are good fellows.’ The Falcon cast a glance in the direction of the cart and frowned. ‘With one or two exceptions.’ He put an arm round Tom’s shoulder and pulled him close. ‘’Tis through them I hope to do what I can to get your father freed.’
A tingle of happiness spread through him. So the Falcon still meant to help him. ‘If you could, sir, I’d do anything to pay you back.’
‘I might take you up on that.’ The Falcon’s teeth flashed white against his beard. ‘Now eat.’ He dropped his arm and turned back to the saddlebag.
Tom kicked a pile of dry leaves together, threw himself down and sank his teeth into the chicken. It tasted of melted butter and herbs. He took another bite. Something wriggled against his waist. Jago. He’d forgotten all about him. He must be hungry too. He glanced at the Falcon. He was busy pressing a pinch of tobacco into a long clay pipe. Tom reached inside his waist-pouch and scooped Jago out. The mouse blinked in the light. ‘Here, boy.’ He broke off a piece of bread and dropped it on to his palm.
A shadow fell over them. ‘So, you do have a friend?’
Tom’s fingers closed over the mouse’s small white body.
‘Let me see.’ The Falcon squatted down next to him.
Tom hesitated, then dropped Jago into his outstretched hand.
The Falcon held him up by the base of his tail. ‘He’s a curious-looking fellow.’ He stroked the mouse’s back with his little finger. A late burst of evening light caught his ring. The bird’s eye sparked. Jago let out a squeak and pawed at the air.
‘Twitchy, isn’t he? A bit like his master.’ He winked and dropped the mouse back into Tom’s palm.
Tom flushed and looked at his boots.
The Falcon settled down against a nearby tree. ‘Where did you find him?’
He looked up again. ‘In a trap in our stable. I wouldn’t have been allowed to keep him normally, but things changed after . . .’ A lump rose in his throat. He swallowed against it.
‘Go on.’
He took a deep breath. ‘After my brother William died.’ He dropped his gaze again.
‘What happened?’
‘He caught the plague last summer.’ Tom drew in another breath and let it out slowly. Speaking the words had hurt, but not quite as much as he’d thought they would.
The Falcon clicked his tongue and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. But the Lord will have his reasons for taking him so young. Perhaps he was too good for this earthly life?’
Tom’s chest tightened. He didn’t know about God, but William was Father’s favourite, of that he was sure. And with good reason. His brother would never have betrayed him. Not like he’d done. His eyes pricked. He blinked and gritted his teeth. He was going to put that right though. He was determined.
The Falcon busied himself making a flame with the contents of his tinderbox. Soon the sweet smell of tobacco swirled through the twilit air. ‘Ahhh! Nectar.’ He pulled on the pipe and blew an apple-sized smoke ring above his head. ‘So what sort of trade is your father in, Master Garnett?’
‘Wine and woollen cloth from Flanders.’
‘Flanders, eh? Scene of my soldiering days.’
‘Who did you fight with?’
‘The Spanish, against the heathen Dutch.’
‘Do you mean the Protestants?’
‘They go by that name too, yes.’ The Falcon puckered his lips as if the taste of the tobacco was no longer to his liking. ‘I had some scores to settle.’
‘What sort of scores?’
The Falcon sighed and ran a finger round the smooth white clay of the pipe bowl. ‘I was not born a Catholic. I became one when my father died and my mother married a man of the true faith. Since then, like you and your family and so many other believers, I and my kinfolk have suffered great persecution and injustice for our beliefs. So when the Spanish King put out a call for men to help defend his territories in the Low Countries against the heretic Protestants, I knew I must answer it. Though I did not bargain for the souvenirs I might pick up along the way. This one’ – he tapped at the scar on his cheek – ‘was courtesy of a Dutchman’s sword. Though, in the end, my own blade had the better of him.’ He gave a grim smile.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Now and again.’ His face clouded over. ‘But nothing compared to the pain I feel daily for the suffering of honest, God-fearing men and women. People like your father, treated like a common criminal because he dares to stay true to the faith. We believed things might get better after the death of the old Queen – no doubt your father hoped the same?’ He shot Tom a look.
He nodded, remembering the conversations between his parents at mealtimes.
‘But in spite of fine promises, they have not.’
‘Promises? From who?’
‘Those in power.’
‘You mean the King?’
The Falcon shrugged. ‘Those that advise him.’
Tom’s heart jumped into his throat. He glanced over his shoulder. This was treasonous talk and they both knew the penalty. ‘But you wouldn’t take up arms against him?’
The Falcon frowned. ‘Although he gave us reason to hope otherwise before he took the throne, King James has proved this past year he is no friend of the Catholics. Mark my words’– he shook his head – ‘only trouble will come of it. But I have said
enough.’ He tapped the bowl of his pipe against the side of his right boot, stretched out his long legs and closed his eyes. ‘Get some sleep, Master Garnett. We will be starting off again as soon as night has fallen.’
Tom lifted Jago from the front of his doublet, opened his bundle and slipped him into his box. Then, covering himself with his cloak, he pulled out the prayer book and re-read the inscription in the dying light. Mother wouldn’t approve of what he was doing. Joining up with a band of smugglers. Men who were thieves and, in Browne’s case, maybe worse. But he’d done it for the best of reasons. And although the Falcon might have his grudges and secrets, he could trust him, he was sure of that now. With his help, God willing, he’d get Father freed and give him and Mother a reason to be proud of him too.
Chapter Twenty-one
Saturday 2 November
‘Wake up, boy. We’re almost there.’
Tom’s head lolled forwards. He blinked. A line of misty grey hills stretched across the horizon, studded with speckles of milky orange light. London. After another night and day’s riding it must be! His skin prickled. Somewhere down there lay the Clink and Father locked away inside it. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. Please, God, keep him safe.
As they drew closer, scatterings of low cottages gave way to two- and three-storey houses which pressed in on both sides like snaggles of black teeth. The stink of rotting vegetables and manure rose up from piles of rubbish strewn across the road.
‘Welcome to Southwark,’ the Falcon called back to him. ‘The lawless side of the river. Brawls and killings happen here in broad daylight. Why, even a playwright or two has committed murder in these very streets.’
Tom tightened his grip round the Falcon’s waist.
He laughed. ‘Fear not, boy. You will be safe with me.’
A tide of mist surged towards them. It swallowed up houses, taverns and churches, sucking everything it touched into its clammy grey depths. Fingers of damp twisted through Tom’s hair and trailed across his cheeks. He shivered and clutched his cloak tight about him.
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