“You and I?” Ratsey choked on his porridge. “You’re mad! Why should I care if they hang the boy? They’ll be doing me a favour.”
“Is that your answer?”
“Yes. I always liked Tom. To be honest with you, I was never looking forward to murdering him. But what on earth makes you think I’d want to help him?”
This was the moment Moll had been dreading. She knew she’d taken a huge chance coming here. But she needed Ratsey’s help and this was the only way. “I know who you are, Ratsey,” she said. “But I also know who you used to be.”
Ratsey’s eyes narrowed. The smile faded from his lips. “What the devil are you talking about?” he asked.
“I’m talking about Captain Ratsey. The famous soldier who fought in the Irish campaigns and single-handedly captured the fort at Smerwick.” She nodded gravely. “Oh yes, I’ve heard all the stories about you,” she went on. “People talk about Sir Francis Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh. But you could have been a bigger hero than either of them.”
“Could have been! Could have been! But that was then!” Ratsey threw down his spoon. “That was a long time ago. Now I’m Ratsey the robber. Ratsey the killer. It’s too late for me now.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This could be your last chance!” Moll reached out to take his arm but Ratsey pulled it away. “People like us, Ratsey – pickpockets and highwaymen. What sort of life do we have? Always afraid. Always on the run. Until one day they catch up with us and then…” Moll drew her hands to her throat. “But this is a chance to do one good thing. To be remembered as heroes. To make something of ourselves.”
Ratsey fell silent. “So what are you suggesting, Moll Cut-price?” he demanded at length. “We just walk into Newgate and pull Tom out?”
“No. We go to Whitehall – to the Queen.”
“What? Old Queeny!”
“Yes. We’ll tell her she’s made a mistake. We’ll make her listen to us…”
“You think they’ll even allow us in?”
“I know how to get us in, Ratsey. But I can’t do it alone.” Moll gripped his arm and this time he let her. “Doesn’t Tom deserve a chance?” she said. “You said you liked him. Save his life and maybe you’ll be saving your own. Think of what you were. Think of what you still can be.”
Ratsey sighed. “My father always said I’d come to no good,” he said. “He said I’d end up on the wrong end of a rope.”
“So prove him wrong.”
Ratsey thought for a long minute. He stuck a finger in his porridge and stirred it, then licked the finger. The porridge was cold. He sighed again. Then, finally, he saluted. “All right. All right. Captain Ratsey reporting for duty,” he muttered. “Now tell me. What’s the plan?”
There were fourteen prisons in London but Newgate was the most feared. It was reserved for the very worst criminals and all of them arrived in the knowledge that they would not be staying long. Nine steps led to the way out. A rope and a trapdoor. Tom, however, was about to set the record for the shortest stay of all. And although the guards argued about this, they were fairly sure that he would be the youngest person they had ever hanged.
Tom awoke in a small, square cell, lying on a thin layer of straw with a tattered blanket over his legs. A small, barred window – another square – looked out on to grey sky and little else. He was not alone. A short, round man was lying on a bench, his knees tucked into his ample stomach, snoring loudly. Tom sat up. His shoulder, where he had been shot, still hurt dreadfully and there was no movement at all in his right arm. He was filthy and his head ached.
The man on the bench grunted, sat up and rubbed his eyes. Tom barely glanced at him but the man gazed at Tom, shook his head, then… “My dear fellow!” he exclaimed. “It’s John, is it not? No, it’s not. It’s Tim! No, it’s not. It’s Tom!” He smiled. “There have been so many boys. So many charming boys. I’m afraid I get a little hazy with names.”
Now Tom recognized his cell-mate. The last time they had met, he had been interested in removing Tom’s legs. The man was James Grimly. “What are you doing here?” Tom was so astonished that the words just tumbled out.
“A most serious misunderstanding with the authorities. They take a dim view, it would seem, of my … adjustments. Quite why, I cannot say. I feel London will be a much less cheerful place without Grimly’s boys. But there you are.” He sighed. “One or two of my boys became rather ill,” he admitted. “In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, they died. So now they’ve decided to adjust me.” He ran a finger across his throat. “Permanently.”
“They’re going to hang me too,” Tom said.
“My poor fellow! What did you do?”
Tom half-smiled. “I tried to kill the Queen.”
“Good lord!” Grimly blinked rapidly. “I have to say, Tom, I’m quite shocked. The Queen!” He coughed, glanced at Tom, then looked away. “Mr Bull should be in any time now,” he said.
“Mr Bull?”
“The hangman.” Grimly smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to meet up with you! Delighted, I’m absolutely sure.”
The cart was old and piled high with loaves. As it rolled into Whitehall Palace a couple of guards wandered over and glanced at the driver, a small, plump man who was also completely white – being covered from head to toe in flour.
“You’re late!” one of the guards said.
“The oven went out,” the driver – who was also the baker – replied. “The fool of a boy fell asleep in the night.” The second guard was meanwhile searching underneath the cart. “What’s going on?” the driver exclaimed. “You know me well enough. What do you think I’m hiding?”
“We had some trouble here last night,” the first guard explained. His partner straightened up. “All right! Move on…”
The cart continued round to the kitchen entrance. The driver looked left and right, then whistled softly. A moment later, all the loaves heaved and separated as two figures, now as flour-covered as the driver, pulled themselves from under the pile.
“Thanks, Walter,” Moll said.
“You owe me one for this, Moll,” the baker muttered. He took a tray off the back. “Give me one minute.”
Moll Cutpurse and Gamaliel Ratsey looked a bizarre sight as they crept over to the kitchen of Whitehall Palace; a girl in boy’s clothes and a man in a mask, both of them bristling with weapons and covered in flour. Ratsey’s mask was a small one and suited his name for it was in the shape of a rat. Moll had tried to stop him from wearing it but Ratsey had insisted. It was either with the mask or not at all.
The kitchen was heaving with cooks, under-cooks, waiters and boys already hard at work on the midday meal. Half a deer was rotating slowly on a metal spit turned by a fat boy who was sweating as much as the meat he was cooking. Ratsey and Moll waited at the door as the baker went past them, calling out “Fresh bread!” He walked to the far side of the kitchen. Just as he reached the counter, the tray tipped and the rolls went everywhere. The baker cried out and crashed to the ground. At that moment, with all eyes on the accident, Moll and Ratsey slipped through the kitchen and out the other side.
They found themselves in a larder, filled with cured hams, salted fish and pickled vegetables. For a moment Moll thought they had walked into a cupboard but there was a second door leading out and, taking it, they found themselves in a long passage.
“Which way?” Ratsey whispered.
“Up!”
There was a staircase straight ahead of them, but before they could reach it a yeoman suddenly appeared, walking directly towards them. Moll acted at once, grabbing him by the arm and swinging him around so that his back was to Ratsey. At the same time Ratsey lashed out, his fist catching the man in his neck. Moll caught him as he fell.
They reached the stairs and hurried up them. A second corridor led directly above the first, but this one was much more smartly decorated, with tapestries, curving wooden tables and oil paintings.
“We’ve got to find the Presence Cham
ber,” Ratsey said.
“Will the Queen be there?”
“She might be. If she’s not there, we can try the Watching Chamber and if she’s not there she might be in the Great Hall.”
“If she’s not there, we’re in trouble,” Moll said.
And that was when the Gentlemen Pensioners appeared. Not just two or three but an entire platoon on a routine patrol. They had stepped out of an archway at the end of the corridor and now they were gazing at Moll and Ratsey with a mixture of astonishment and outrage.
“What was that about trouble?” Ratsey said.
“Back!” Moll shouted.
They turned and ran the way they came, aware of the thunder of feet and the clatter of weapons behind them.
“In here!” Ratsey had reached another door and, grabbing hold of Moll, dragged her in.
They found themselves in a library, a room filled from floor to ceiling with precious books, many of them bound in gold and silver, some of them also decorated with pearls and precious stones. Two windows looked out on to gardens and a tennis court but there was no way to climb down. The room had only one door and even as Ratsey slid a heavy chair across to block it, they heard the sound of the guards and the hammering of fists on wood. There was no way out. They were trapped.
Ratsey threw himself into the chair, adding his weight to the barrier while Moll checked the windows, quickly returning with a shake of her head. Outside, the hammering stopped. The guards knew where they were. All they had to do now was wait.
“Well, so much for that,” Ratsey muttered. It was impossible to see his face behind the rat mask but he sounded only a little bit depressed. “It looks like we’re stuck.”
“Maybe we can explain…” Moll began.
“I wonder if we’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered?” Ratsey mused. “I always wondered what it would be like…”
Outside the door, the hammering started again but this time with some solid metal tool. A panel of wood splintered. An axe-head jutted through. Ratsey drew his sword. Moll drew hers. And then one of the bookshelves swung open and a man stepped into the room.
He was an old man, dressed in a black robe, with a beard reaching down to his chest. Curiously, he was smiling. Even more curiously, he was holding a cat.
“Moll Cutpurse and Gamaliel Ratsey, I believe,” he said. He spoke with a Welsh accent. “You’d better come this way. The guards will be breaking in any minute.”
A second axe slammed into the door. Another panel of wood cracked open.
“Who are you?” Moll demanded.
“And where did you come from?” Ratsey asked.
“I’m not sure we have time for introductions,” the old man said.
The door was struck twice more. One of its hinges shattered. Now they could hear the guards, shouting in triumph.
“This way!” The old man gestured at the secret passage behind the bookshelf. Moll and Ratsey exchanged a glance, then ran in. The old man and the cat followed them. The shelf of books swung shut behind them.
“Follow me,” the old man said.
They were in a narrow passage lined with bricks on both sides and lit by a series of oil lamps. It seemed to run the entire length of the palace with other passages and even staircases leading off. It was almost like a secret palace within the palace, a hidden network connecting every room in the building. The old man knew exactly where they were going. Humming softly to himself, and still carrying the cat, he hurried on ahead, not even pausing to check that the other two were behind. At last he stopped beside a large panel of wood.
“This will lead you into the Presence Chamber,” he said. “I can’t promise that the Queen will be there. You may have scared her away with all the fuss. But you may still find what you want.”
“Who are you?” Moll asked.
“My name is John Dee.”
Ratsey was suspicious. “How did you know who we were? And why are you helping us?”
“Either we can spend all day talking or you can go in there and save the boy,” Dee replied. He paused for a reply but there was none. “I’ll wish you a good day,” he said.
“Good luck!”
Dr Dee turned and walked away from Moll and Ratsey, heading back down the passage. For a moment neither of them spoke. Either they were going mad or the last words had just been spoken by the cat.
At length, Moll laid a hand on the wooden panel and turned to Ratsey. “Are you ready?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
She pushed.
The Presence Chamber was full that morning: Privy Councillors and Clerks, Gentlemen Ushers and Grooms, Bishops and Ambassadors. But even as Moll stumbled through a curtain and into the centre of the darkly panelled room, she realized that she had failed. The throne was empty. There was no Queen.
For a moment, everyone froze. To the assembled courtiers it was as if two nightmare creatures – one with the face of a rat – had suddenly been conjured out of thin air. As Moll and Ratsey stood there, taking everything in, the spell was suddenly broken. Swords and knives were drawn. Doors crashed open and soldiers appeared, running and shouting. Ratsey had a knife in one hand and a sword in another. Moll also held a dagger. But it was useless. They were completely surrounded. And they were outnumbered by at least fifty to one.
“Put down your weapons!” someone exclaimed.
“This is the Queen’s Presence Chamber!”
“Traitors!”
Ratsey twisted round, his knife raised. “I’m not a traitor!” he said.
“We came to see the Queen!” Moll cried, knowing it was useless. The guards were already moving in. She and Ratsey could kill one, two, three of them. But it wouldn’t do any good. They would be cut down where they stood.
“Where did you come from?” A man who looked as if he was in charge had forced his way to the front of the circle. It was the man with green eyes who had spoken to Tom only the night before. “What do you want with Her Majesty?”
“To tell her she was wrong about Tom!”
“Who?”
“The boy! The boy who attacked her!”
“You know him? You’re part of his company?”
“Yes – we know him. No – we’re not with him.”
The man with green eyes became alert, his face suddenly grave. “Take them!” he snapped.
Before Ratsey and Moll could do anything, they were seized from behind. Their arms were wrenched back, their weapons falling uselessly to the ground. Ratsey’s mask was torn off along with Moll’s hat. In seconds, they were completely pinned down, unable to move.
“You’re making a mistake!” Moll shouted. “You’ve got this all wrong.”
“Take them to prison for interrogation,” the man with the green eyes said. “And I want to know how they got in here!”
“Yes, Lord Moorfield.” One of the guards bowed and signalled with his head. Moll and Ratsey were pulled backwards out of the room.
They had almost reached the door before Moll’s brain began to buzz.
Sir William Hawkins. His last cry: “Go to Moorfield.” Not a place! A person!
“Moorfield!” she cried out. “Tom is the boy you’re looking for. The boy from Framlingham! He’s the boy you sent Hawkins to find!”
But Moll was already out of the room.
The heavy door slammed shut as she and Ratsey were dragged away.
They knew when a hanging was going to take place. Just after eleven a hush descended on Newgate. The shouting of the prisoners, the mad laughter, the booming of doors and the rattling of chains suddenly stopped and the corridors seemed empty, haunted. Then there was a groan as one door opened. And everyone knew. They had come for Tom Falconer.
Tom stood up as the door crashed open and Mr Bull, the hangman, came in. He glanced first at James Grimly, who was cowering on the bunk with his head in his hands, then at Tom. “Good morning,” he said. “I believe you and I have an appointment.”
Tom nodd
ed. The hangman wasn’t at all what he had expected. Mr Bull was a small, neat man dressed in a blue, velvet tunic. Now he gestured with one hand and four guards marched in to surround Tom. “This won’t take a minute,” he said.
One of the guards grabbed Tom’s arms and, ignoring his wound, tied his hands behind his back. Then, with Mr Bull at the front, and the guards on all four sides, Tom was led down a corridor, past a series of barred doors. The corridor was arched, the brickwork ancient and blood red. The straw under his feet was filthy but Tom couldn’t smell it. He couldn’t hear anything. All his senses seemed to be failing him … even his sight. The darkness seemed to be rushing in.
They walked to the end of the corridor and down a staircase carved out of stone. Tom had thought they would be going outside the prison but the stairs led to another corridor and then to a final archway. The scaffold stood in a room at the far end.
The strange thing was, Tom wasn’t afraid. He was amazed. The scaffold was just how he had always imagined it. It was exactly the same as the drawings he had seen schoolboys make in Framlingham: three pieces of wood, a trapdoor with a lever and, hanging over it, a noose. As simple as that.
The scaffold had been erected in a great chamber, closed to the outside world apart from a series of small windows set too high up to see through. The chamber was shaped like the dome of a cathedral, the walls made of bare brick. The size of the place made the scaffold seem small and insignificant.
Mr Bull coughed discreetly and the party moved forward. Nine steps – Tom would count them now. He reached the first and stumbled. With his hands tied behind him and unable to balance himself, he might have fallen but one of the guards reached out and steadied him. He began to climb.
As he took the first step, a figure appeared from underneath the scaffold. This was a huge man, bare-chested, with a black hood over his face. Tom glanced enquiringly at Mr Bull who shook his head. Tom understood. Mr Bull organized the business. He was, if you like, the artist. But the actual work itself, that had to be left to a hired hand.
Tom reached the top of the scaffold and stood in the middle of the platform. He could just make out the cracks of the trapdoor that would open when the lever was pulled. The wooden planks creaked slightly underneath him. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. The hooded man had followed him up and leaned forward to pull the noose around his head. For a moment his arms, and the huge muscles of his chest, were close to Tom’s face. Tom caught the slightly bitter smell of the man’s sweat. He jerked away and felt the touch of the rope around his neck. It was hairy and tickled.