Black Powder

by Ally Sherrick

  A rustle of silk brought him back to the room with a start. He spun round. The Viscountess stood before a small alcove next to the door, her face caked with white powder. She gestured with her cane for him to join her.

  He edged towards her, eyeing the black stick nervously. What if he was wrong? What if she’d sent for him because she’d found out about Jago and wanted to give him a good whipping?

  She stepped into the alcove and nodded at a large silver crucifix on a table set against the wall. ‘I have been praying.’ She picked up a string of jet-black rosary beads from a glass dish and raised them to her lips. ‘It is only the Lord God who can help us at such times.’ Her voice was quieter than before: cracked-sounding.

  The hairs on Tom’s neck prickled. A sudden surge of sourness hit the back of his throat. Something was wrong. He swallowed hard, trying to force the taste back down.

  The Viscountess took a deep breath and fixed him with her flint-grey eyes. ‘There is news.’

  ‘Of Mother?’

  ‘No, boy. Your father.’

  His heart jolted. ‘Where is he? Can I see him?’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘I am afraid that will not be possible. He and the priest . . .’ She ran the beads clicking between her fingers. ‘They are taken.’

  A loud rushing noise filled his ears. ‘Wh-what do you mean, taken?’

  Viscountess Montague gathered up the beads. Then turning back to the crucifix, she raised a bony hand and crossed herself. ‘Your father is in London, imprisoned in the Clink.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Tom’s knees buckled beneath him. He fell against the table, head spinning. The crucifix wobbled then toppled and hit the floor with a clang.

  A hand gripped his arm. ‘Sit.’ The Viscountess steered him to her chair by the fireplace and pushed him down.

  His fingers sank into the softness of the cushion beneath him, but it might as well have been a bed of nails. He slumped forwards and buried his head in his hands. Please, God. Don’t let it be him. Let it be someone else. Please!

  ‘Look at me boy.’

  He raised his head. The Viscountess stood over him wearing the same grim look as before. A stab of pain shot up from the pit of his stomach and rippled through his chest. So it was true.

  ‘I – I want to see him.’ He made to stand, but his legs were too shaky to hold him. He collapsed back in the chair.

  The Viscountess sighed. ‘That is impossible. Your father is accused of treason and held on the orders of the King’s chief minister and spymaster, Robert Cecil. He may receive no visitors before his trial.’

  Hot tears scalded his cheeks. ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’

  ‘Your fault? How could it be?’ Furrows appeared in the white powder covering her forehead.

  ‘I told the constable.’

  ‘Told him what?’

  ‘Which way . . .’ He bit his lip to stop it from trembling. ‘Which way Father and the priest went.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s as may be, but the truth is your father has brought this on himself. And with the King so stirred up on religious matters by Cecil, he is set to pay the highest price.’

  His heart lurched. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Cecil hates all Catholics with a vengeance and has convinced the King we mean to kill him and put a Catholic king on the throne of England instead. There have been two plots against the King already, one hatched and led by priests. For anyone found harbouring a priest . . . and worse, a Jesuit, which this Father Oliver appears to be . . . the sentence can only ever be one thing.’

  The floor began to sway. A black mist swirled up in front of him. He scrunched his eyes tight shut, but the mist seeped under his eyelids. It twisted and writhed into the shape of a man swinging from the end of a rope. Father . . .

  ‘No!’ His eyes snapped open. But he knew what she said was true. And now the worst had happened. He gave a low groan.

  ‘Let it be a lesson to you, boy. These are dangerous times. If you want to live through them, you must be cautious. You can never let your guard down.’

  Her words spun around him like leaves in a storm. Lessons, caution. What did any of that matter when Father might hang?

  ‘But . . . can’t my Uncle Montague help him?’

  ‘He has already secured your mother’s freedom, thank the Lord. I believe she has been taken in by some friends of yours, the ones caring for your younger brother. But as for your father . . .’ The Viscountess shook her head again. ‘My grandson would risk too much.’

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘You must understand the world we Montagues live in.’ Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

  A ball of anger tore through Tom. He understood all right. A palace filled with gold and silver and a whole army of servants, but still they wouldn’t lift a finger to save Father.

  The Viscountess turned to the fireplace and prodded at the cold, grey ashes with her cane. ‘When our Protestant King came to the throne, he was well disposed to your uncle, in spite of their differences in matters of faith. But as every Catholic knows, he was persuaded by those who would destroy us to bring in new and harsher laws. Your uncle himself spent some time in prison for objecting to them until eventually, thank the Lord, the King agreed to his release. Now Cecil and his lackeys are sowing rumours that Catholic plotters are seeking to make mischief again and relieve the King of his throne. If your uncle was seen to be pleading for the life of a suspected traitor at a time like this . . .’

  ‘Traitor?’ Tom leapt to his feet. ‘But he’s not! He was just trying to help the priest find the right road. And what about Father Chasuble? He’s a priest. So if Father’s a traitor, that must make you one too.’

  The Viscountess’s back stiffened. She swung round and fixed him with dagger-sharp eyes. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘It’s true though, isn’t it?’ He glared back at her.

  ‘Silence!’ She raised a hand. ‘I will suffer no more of your insolence. You should be grateful we have given you shelter.’

  Grateful? He snorted. That was the last thing he felt. ‘I hate it here. I’m leaving.’ He shoved the chair aside and made to barge past her.

  ‘No!’ She swung her cane out in front of him, barring his way. ‘You will stay here at Cowdray in our safekeeping until your uncle comes back from court. She reached for a small silver bell on top of a nearby chest and shook it. ‘Joan!’

  The door creaked open and the servant stepped inside. ‘Yes, My Lady.’

  ‘Keep watch on Master Garnett while I summon one of the other servants to help. Then take him to his room and lock him in.’ She gave Tom a cold-eyed stare. ‘We will see what time spent in quiet reflection does for his manners.’

  Tom sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the gloom. The worst had happened. Father had been taken and thrown into gaol. But in spite of everything, the Viscountess had made it clear the Montagues still weren’t going to help. Which meant it was down to him to save Father.

  A tide of panic surged through him. What was he going to do? He took a deep breath. Courage, Tom Garnett. You’ve got to show courage.

  A rustling noise came from Jago’s box. He pulled back the lid and lifted the mouse out. He stroked his head then pressed Jago’s damp nose to his own and stared into his beady eyes.

  ‘Mother’s safe with the Fosters, but Father needs my help more than ever. We’ve got to get out of here now, boy.’

  He glanced at the locked door and frowned. There had to be another way. He darted over to the window, opened it and peered into the gathering shadows below. It was a long way down. Too far to jump. He sank his shoulders. He was about to shut the window again when a pale gleam of metal caught his eye. A drainpipe. Hope bubbled up inside him. He pushed the window open wider to get a better view. It was within reach – just – and it looked as though it ran all the way down to the cobbles below. It was dark out there, but if he took it slowly . . .

  ‘Come on, boy.’ He scooped
Jago back into his box. ‘We’ve got some climbing to do.’ He bundled the box up in his nightshirt along with the candle from his bedside and the bread and cheese Joan had brought up earlier, then glanced down at his doublet and fancy breeches and frowned. He was going to need something warmer and less conspicuous for the journey.

  A wooden chest stood at the foot of the bed. He opened it and rummaged through the pile of linen inside until his fingers closed round the ends of a brown, wool blanket. He yanked the ruff from his neck, threw the blanket round his shoulders and knotted the ends together. Then, kicking off his thin silk slippers, he slid his feet inside his own boots and fixed his waist-pouch on to his belt. At least now he didn’t look like a puffed-up gamecock.

  Slipping the prayer book inside his doublet, he slung his bundle over his shoulder and crept back to the window. No sign of anyone. And in the poor light, he’d be harder to spot. All the better to make his escape.

  ‘Let’s go, boy.’

  He hoisted himself up on the window sill and swung his legs out so they were dangling over the edge. The secret to climbing is not to look down. William had told him that once when they’d scaled the old oak at the end of their street looking for a woodpecker’s nest. Now, keeping his eyes fixed on the opposite wall of the courtyard, he shuffled his bottom along to the end of the sill, pulled up his feet and lifted into a crouch. He reached for the drainpipe. The tips of his fingers brushed the cold lead. He reached again . . . Got it! He tightened his grip and counted to ten. Keeping his right foot planted firmly on the sill, he swung his body out, then in again towards the wall. Clutching the drain-pipe with both hands, he felt for a gap in the stonework with his left foot and rammed his toe in hard.

  He puffed out a breath. So far, so good . . .

  Steadying himself he dropped his right leg down and searched for another toehold. Nearly there . . .

  ‘Arrgghhh!’ His boot slipped. He jerked backwards, legs flailing, head spinning. The square edges of the drainpipe dug into his palms. His fingers cramped and his grip began to loosen. Hold on. You’ve got to hold on!

  He took a deep breath, counted to three and jabbed at the wall with his right boot. It bounced off. He licked his lips and jabbed again. This time it held. He toed over the stones with his left foot. After what seemed like an age, he found a gap. He shoved his boot in and tested it. It stayed where it was. He sucked in another breath. What if someone had heard him? He shook his head. He’d worry about that later. He gritted his teeth and fixed his eyes on the drainpipe. Then, placing one hand below the other, he started to make his way down.

  As soon as his feet touched the cobblestones, he ducked and peered about him. No one. He mopped his forehead with his sleeve and heaved a sigh. A loud squeak sounded from his bundle.

  ‘It’s all right, boy. We made it!’ He patted the side of Jago’s box.

  The clock in the gatehouse tower chimed five. Staying low, he edged along the wall, then made a dash for the gate-house arch. Still no sign of anyone. He crept up to the door in the gate, slid back the bolt and pushed it open. His heart leapt at the glimpse of the causeway beyond. He gathered his makeshift cloak to him.

  ‘This is it, Jago. We’re free!’

  He was about to step over the threshold when a thud of boots outside pulled him up short.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tom yanked the door shut and stole back into the shadows. He couldn’t risk getting caught and locked up again. He’d have to hide and wait for whoever it was to go away. But where? He scanned the courtyard. There was a low arch to the right of the gatehouse, half stacked with wood. He darted over to it. He was about to slide beneath it when a set of footsteps pattered across the cobbles behind him.

  ‘What are you doing, skulking about like a common thief ? I thought Great-Grandmother had sent you to your room?’

  His heart sank. Cressida! Slowly he turned to face her.

  ‘Nothing. I . . . I felt sick and Joan let me out to get some air.’

  ‘Really?’ Her face wore a disbelieving frown.

  He bit his lip. He had to put her off the scent. ‘Aren’t you meant to be doing extra Latin?’

  She tossed her curls and sniffed. ‘I finished that hours ago.’ She glanced at the bundle and the blanket tied around his neck. Her frown deepened. ‘Going somewhere?’

  He flushed and slipped the bundle off his shoulder. ‘No . . . I . . . er . . .’

  A rattle of metal and the creak of wood made them both jump. In a moment, whoever it was would enter the courtyard and spot them and he’d be back under lock and key.

  ‘Quick! In here!’ He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her behind the wood pile.

  Footsteps echoed beneath the gatehouse and an orange light spilled across the cobbles. ‘Who’s there?’

  Cressida made to stand but he dragged her back down.

  ‘It’s only Sergeant Talbot.’

  ‘Keep quiet.’ Tom spoke through gritted teeth.

  ‘Who’s there, I say?’

  He pressed a finger against Cressida’s lips and shook his head then closed his eyes and waited.

  Silence, then an annoyed-sounding growl, the marching of footsteps back beneath the gatehouse and the creak and bang of a door.

  He snapped his eyes open and heaved a sigh. ‘That was close. What’s he doing?’

  ‘Making his patrol. He does it every evening to frighten off any vagabonds that might be lurking outside.’ Cressida narrowed her eyes and gave him a meaningful smirk.

  He clenched his fists. If she was laughing at him . . . But what did it matter? He slumped back against the wall. With Sergeant Talbot on the prowl, there wasn’t much chance of getting away from here tonight.

  She tapped him on the knee. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ His throat tightened. He reached inside his bundle and pulled out Jago’s box. As he slid back the lid, the mouse leapt free. He sprang on to Tom’s right arm and skittered up on to his shoulder.

  ‘What’s that?’ Cressida shrank back, hands clutched to her chest.

  ‘A friend.’ My only friend. He lifted Jago off gently and cupped him in his palms.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘A mouse for a friend? Whoever heard of such a thing?’ Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. ‘So it was you in the chapel!’

  He’d felt guilty then, but he didn’t now. ‘Better a mouse than no friends at all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her face wore a hurt expression. ‘I’d have plenty of friends – the Princess Elizabeth, the King’s own daughter, included – if the lord my father would let me join him at court.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he then? Here, boy.’ Pulling a small lump of cheese from his bundle, Tom dropped it in front of Jago and watched as the mouse gobbled it up.

  Cressida fiddled with one of the bows on her dress. ‘I . . . I don’t know. Because he wants to keep me safe.’ She shot him a look. ‘Not like your father who seems to have done everything he can to put you in danger.’

  Anger sparked inside him. ‘You don’t know anything about my father. He’d never hurt anyone, least of all us. He doesn’t deserve to han—’ He clamped his mouth shut. If he didn’t say the word, maybe it wouldn’t happen. His eyes blurred. He rubbed them with the back of his sleeve. ‘Come on, boy.’ He put Jago back inside the box, retied his bundle and ducked back out into the courtyard.

  A rustle of skirts sounded behind him. ‘Cousin.’ Warm fingers clutched his arm. He stiffened. ‘I’m sorry. About your father, I mean. Granny told me earlier.’

  He raised his shoulders. He didn’t care a fig what she thought.

  ‘But what good will it do if you run away?’

  He sighed, then turned to face her. ‘You don’t understand. It’s because of me Father’s in prison. I came here to put things right and get help. But your precious granny won’t lift a finger, even though Father’s so-called crime is no worse than hers.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cressida arched her eyebrows.

  ‘My
father helped a priest because he was sick and needed shelter. Your granny has a priest living under her roof and leading the Mass every Sunday. So why isn’t she in prison too?’

  She gave a small shrug. ‘Because she’s a Montague.’

  ‘That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it?’ He kicked at a pebble. It bounced across the cobblestones and smashed into the wall opposite.

  She frowned. ‘But I don’t understand? Why was it your fault your father was captured?’

  Tom’s stomach twisted. The scene in the kitchen flashed in front of him. Constable Skinner’s jeering words. Weasel Face’s fist ready to strike. And the look of horror in Mother’s eyes as he blurted out the road Father and the priest had taken.

  He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter!’ He shouldered his bundle. If he didn’t go now he might not get another chance. He turned and marched beneath the gatehouse arch.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Cressida’s voice echoed after him.

  ‘To find someone who will help Father.’

  ‘Who?’

  He clenched his jaw. Why was she asking him all these questions? ‘I don’t know. I’ll work it out along the way.’

  ‘But what about the sergeant?’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’ He reached the door, took a deep breath and made to pull it open.

  ‘Wait.’ She drew alongside him and tugged at his hand. ‘There’s another way.’

  He rounded on her. ‘What?’

  ‘Let me show you.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘If this is some kind of trick?’

  She widened hers. ‘Do you doubt the word of a gentlewoman?’

  He snorted. There she went again, making out she was better than him.

  ‘Look, Tom Garnett, I’m trying to help you, but it’s your choice. If you would rather tangle with Sergeant Talbot and his blade . . .’ She swept up her skirts and turned to go.

  A distant clump of boots sounded outside.