The Devil and His Boy (13 page)

He remembered the muskets and crawled painfully out from under the table. The muskets weren’t there. He looked over to the side of the screen and saw Frederick and Philip, two of the actors, dressed as soldiers and carrying the muskets, waiting for their cue. He knew what was going to happen. In about one minute’s time, they would walk on to the stage. Nobody would even think of stopping them. They would raise their muskets, loaded and primed. There would be two explosions and the audience probably wouldn’t even realize what had taken place. Until they saw the Queen’s blood.

Tom had to stop them. But even now he didn’t know what to do. Shout out a warning? It wouldn’t work. The two actors would fire before the Queen had time to move. Throw himself at Frederick and Philip? No. Even assuming he could get anywhere near them, he couldn’t take on two men at once.

Tom knew the lines. The shooting was about to begin. There was no time to call out a warning. No time to try and explain.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was running – round behind the screen and out onto the stage. All the actors had their backs to him so none of them saw him as he broke into the light and kept on going. Tom just had time to glimpse Florian, turning his head towards him, his eyes widening, and next to him, Dr Mobius himself, his mouth half-open in mid-sentence. He had no real plan. All he knew was that he must put himself in front of the Queen, protect her with his own body if he had to. Only seconds remained before Mobius would fire the first shot. Even now he might be taking aim.

Tom had reached the front of the stage. Everything was a whirl. He tried to position himself, spreading his arms to give the Queen more cover. And it was then that his foot came down on a loose plank. The wood tilted and he lost his balance. With a great cry he pitched forward and, carried by his own momentum, plunged down on to the Queen herself.

Then things didn’t so much happen as explode. Tom fell on top of the Queen, knocking her chair backwards and sending her flying. There was a gasp of disbelief from the surrounding courtiers, screams from the Maids of Honour. Tom just caught sight of the Queen’s face, wide-eyed with shock. He was vaguely aware of black teeth and skin with too much make-up. To his horror, the Queen seemed to be wearing a wig which had come loose. He closed his eyes. The very fact that he was touching her was beyond belief. Actually to be lying on top of her, his body on hers, his hands around her throat … it was enough to give an Archbishop a heart attack. He couldn’t look. He didn’t dare.

But even though it had all gone horribly wrong, he knew that he had succeeded in what he set out to do. His attack had taken Dr Mobius by surprise. Already the audience had closed in on the Queen. The Gentlemen Pensioners were running in from all sides to pull him off.

Tom didn’t know if Dr Mobius had a musket now or not. But it didn’t matter.

He had no clear aim.

Dr Mobius did have a musket. He had snatched it from Frederick even as Tom ran past. Standing at the front of the stage, he waved it at the writhing, panicking mass that had been a courtly audience only seconds before. He caught sight of a stockinged leg, a jewelled foot and fired.

The sound of the explosion seemed huge and suddenly the hall was filled with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. But the shot had missed. One of the courtiers had been shot in the back of his leg. With blood spurting from the wound, he cried out and fell to the ground.

The gunshot only added to the panic in the hall. Nobody quite knew where it had come from. All they knew was that one of the actors, the boy, had gone mad and thrown himself at the Queen and now somebody else had decided to join him. At least a dozen pairs of hands had grabbed Tom and he felt himself being ripped apart while, still underneath him, the Queen had brought up her fists and was vigorously punching him on the nose and the stomach.

But at least some of the courtiers had kept their heads. The boy on top of the Queen was an outrage. But now there was a musket somewhere in the room – and that was a deadly danger. Acting out of instinct, the courtiers had moved to surround the Queen, forming a human wall for her protection. At the same time, the Gentlemen Pensioners had formed a front line, making for the stage.

Dr Mobius knew he was finished. He grabbed the second musket and once again stared into the commotion. But now there was no sign of the Queen at all. With a loud oath, he fired again, as if he could aim through so much writhing flesh and blood and still, miraculously find his target. The second shot did get some way through. It hit Tom in the shoulder. He felt it slamming into his body, white hot and furious. It was like the sting of some terrible insect. Tom screamed. At the same time he felt himself being plucked away. He opened his eyes and caught one last sight of the Queen. It was as if she were being sucked into a tunnel in front of him. A fist hit him on the side of the face. Another hand tore at his hair. He was flung to the floor, his bones crashing into wood, and when he tried to move he found that he was pinned there, held down by at least five men.

Up on the stage, the actors were trying to fight their way out. But the two muskets, with their single shots gone, were useless now and they had no other weapons. It was all over very quickly. Only two of the actors – the two who had also played musical instruments – were killed. Later on it would be agreed that they had run on to the swords held up to stop them leaving, preferring to kill themselves rather than face imprisonment, torture and a more protracted death.

The Queen had been helped to her feet and disappeared with a swirl of silk. She was followed by bishops and courtiers, secret agents and councillors, already arguing amongst themselves, and by ladies-in-waiting who had turned into ladies-in-wailing as they sobbed in both terror and relief.

Someone rapped out an order and Tom was scraped off the floor and lifted out of a puddle of his own blood. He stood, swaying on his feet. A couple of men supported him. He could never have stood on his own. Somehow he managed to bring his eyes into focus and saw Sir Richard, standing at the edge of the crowd. The Clerk Comptroller’s face had gone completely white – all of it except for the scar which stood out, dark red and throbbing. His eyes were filled with terror.

But then another man, someone Tom had never seen before pushed his way forward. This man was dressed in black and grey with a chain of office around his neck and a sword in his belt. The man had soft, green eyes. His face was long and thin. “Who are you?” he asked.

Tom tried to answer. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

The man with green eyes looked at him more in puzzlement than in anger. “Why did you do it?” he asked.

“I didn’t…” It took all Tom’s strength to whisper the two words and even as he spoke them he knew it would be no good. Everyone in the room had seen what had happened. Nobody would believe him.

“Take him away!” the man said. “The others to the Tower for interrogation. This boy to Newgate. He has lain a hand on the most glorious person of Her Majesty. He has …
attacked
her! Such sacrilege is unheard of and we must ensure that no one does hear of it. Hang him tomorrow at first light. We’ll learn from the others the reason for what happened here.”

“Wait…” Tom began.

But already he was being dragged backwards out of the Banqueting Hall. He felt the cold night air rushing over his shoulders and its touch brought fresh pain from the wound in his back. There was a cart and a horse already waiting and brutally, like a sack of potatoes, he was thrown into the back. Two guards climbed in with him. The horse was whipped forward.

Tom thought he was going to faint with the shock, the pain, the knowledge of what was to come. The night began to spin but before he let it take him, he forced his eyes open and looked out. They had just passed through the Holbein Gate. There were a few late-night revellers on the other side, making their way home with a servant – a link boy – lighting their way. Tom lifted himself in the cart and before his two guards could stop him, called out, “Find Moll Cutpurse! Tell her it wasn’t me! Tell her that Tom—!”

Then the guards reached him, grabbed him and pulled him down and Tom could say no more. Had the link boy even heard him? Tom didn’t know and he was too exhausted to care. He closed his eyes and drifted into sleep as the cart rattled on through the night.

It
was seven o’clock in the morning and Gamaliel Ratsey was enjoying a healthy breakfast of hot porridge, bread, honey and milk in the tavern where he had been staying since his arrival in London. The owners of the tavern had let him have his bed and breakfast at a special rate. In return, Ratsey had promised not to kill them.

He looked up. Someone was standing over him, watching him with soft, attentive eyes. Automatically, Ratsey’s hand twitched for the hilt of his sword. Then he relaxed. It wasn’t a man but a boy, and not a boy but a girl. He knew at once who it was.

“Moll Cut-throat!” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise.”

“It’s Cutpurse,” Moll replied. “May I join you?”

“It looks like you already have.” Ratsey scooped up a mouthful of porridge. “Have you come to bring me the boy?”

“Not exactly.” Moll gazed curiously at Ratsey as if trying to make him out. “I have something to tell you,” she said.

“Go on.” Ratsey gave her his best, choirboy smile

“Tom Falconer is in Newgate. He’s going to be hanged at eleven o’clock this morning.”

Ratsey chuckled. “Is he, indeed? How do you know?”

“I heard last night.”

Quickly, Moll told Ratsey how she had been woken by the link boy and how, at first light she had gone to Newgate Prison to find out what had taken place. Nobody had wanted to tell her anything but she had bribed one of the guards with sixpence and heard the complete story from him.

“Tom is accused of trying to kill the Queen,” she told Ratsey now.

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Of course it is. Tom would never try to kill anyone. All he wanted to do was act in a play. But these people he got involved with … they called themselves the Garden Players, but I’ve been asking around and nobody has heard of them – and from what Tom told me they weren’t English.”

“Maybe they were French.”

“Or Dutch. Or Spanish. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Tom can’t have had anything to do with it. But he’s going to hang in less than four hours if you and I don’t do something.”

“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.”