Black Powder

by Ally Sherrick

  A MESSAGE FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  Can one moment change the course of history? That’s what this book is all about! Ally Sherrick tells a rollicking tale of conspiracy, treachery and betrayal set at a time when religions were at war. One plucky boy and a brave girl stand up for each other and what is right, against all the odds. Oh, and isn’t there something about remember remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot?

  BARRY CUNNINGHAM

  Publisher

  Chicken House

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Copyright

  To Stevie who has always had faith

  With all my love

  The Year of Our Lord, 1605.

  Queen Elizabeth I, daughter of Henry VIII, has been dead for over two years. A new king, her cousin James VI of Scotland, sits on the English throne as James I of England. English Catholics have suffered years of persecution under the old Queen. Now in the minority, they are hopeful that the new King, although also a Protestant, will be more tolerant. But James and his ministers, led by spymaster Robert Cecil, reinforce the old harsh religious laws against them. Most feel there is little they can do except live quietly and worship in secret where they can.

  But there are some – more desperate and dangerous – with very different ideas . . .

  Chapter One

  Friday 25 October 1605

  The hangman stood hunched at the top of the wooden scaffold like a hungry black crow. A mob of screaming gulls wheeled above him, but his eyes stayed fixed on the noose as it swayed to and fro in the cold sea breeze.

  Tom’s heart jolted. He didn’t want to watch a man die, but if he ran away now, everyone would know he was a Catholic for sure. He gripped the handle of the pail and steeled himself.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. He craned his neck but his view was blocked by a mass of sweaty bodies.

  ‘’Ere. Climb on this, lad.’ A pock-faced man next to him seized the pail and turned it upside down. Before Tom could stop him, he’d grabbed him round the middle and heaved him up on to it.

  ‘No, it’s all right, really, I . . .’ He made to jump down, but the man blocked his way.

  ‘Your first, eh? Well, you’d better get used to it. There’s plenty more thieving Catholics around here that deserve a good hanging, and make no mistake.’

  ‘What did he steal?’

  ‘Two of the constable’s own pigs. Or so he says . . .’ The man gave a sly wink and thumped him on the back.

  Tom shuddered. Everyone knew what a bully Constable Skinner was. He bit his lip and forced himself to look out over the swarm of bobbing heads. The mutters around him grew louder and a forest of fingers jabbed the air. He sucked in a breath. A small procession of figures was heading towards the scaffold from the direction of the town gaol. As they neared it, he recognized the sandy hair and red face of Skinner. Trust him to be leading the way.

  Stumbling behind him, escorted by two grim-faced men carrying halberds, came the prisoner, head bowed, wrists shackled. Tom’s stomach twisted. Was this ragged, tousle-haired wretch really their neighbour, Henry Cresswell? It must be, because there, ten or fifteen paces behind, was Mistress Cresswell, a white kerchief pressed to her face. And, clinging to her skirts, the Cresswells’ three children – Nicholas, Peter and little Grace.

  As the group reached the scaffold, the crowd fell silent. Even the gulls had flown off.

  ‘Death to the Pope-lover!’ the pock-faced man cried. Others roared their support.

  Tom tensed. He should get away now, while he still had the chance. Before anyone recognized him. But try as he might, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the scene. Henry Cresswell jerked to a stop at the foot of the ladder and glanced wildly about him. One of the constable’s men jabbed him in the back with the point of his halberd. Slowly Cresswell began to climb.

  A lump rose in Tom’s throat. He swallowed against it, praying it was all a terrible dream. That any moment now, he’d wake up and find himself back at home in his bed. But the cries of ‘Papist devil!’ and ‘Coward!’ told him it wasn’t.

  The hangman stepped forward as the prisoner reached the top rung. He hauled him into position, grabbed the noose and thrust it over his head. He gave the knot a quick check and stood to one side.

  Henry Cresswell closed his eyes. He raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross with blood-stained fingers. The sky darkened and a rumble of thunder sounded. A shadow crept across the square, and for a moment Tom saw his own father standing there waiting to die.

  A spike of fear shot through him. He leapt down from the pail.

  The pock-faced man swiped at him. ‘Hey! Come back. You’re missing the best bit!’

  ‘Get off me!’ Tom tore free and made to run, but a sudden clatter followed by a strangled cry rooted him to the spot. The silence that followed thrummed against his ears. Then a loud cheer went up. People jostled against him, pointing and laughing, but Tom didn’t look up at the scaffold. He knew only too well what he would see.

  Instead, taking a deep breath, he tucked his head down and shoved his way back through the heaving crowd. He had almost reached the edge of the square when a piercing cry sounded above him. He glanced up. A grey-backed bird arrowed past him. Swooping over the heads of the crowd, it skimmed the top of the scaffold then soared up until it was nothing but a small black speck in the afternoon sky.

  He squinted after it. A falcon? He’d never seen one in the centre of town before. A cunning-woman would call it an omen. His parents told him such talk was nonsense. So why was he trembling? He hugged his cloak to him and ran for home.

  Chapter Two

  Tom stole through the gates and across the courtyard. He was nearly at the back door when footsteps rang out on the cobbles behind him.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  His heart sank. Mother!

  ‘Nowhere. I . . .’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Tom Garnett. I sent you to fetch the water nearly two hours ago.’ Her blue eyes flashed with anger.

  ‘I did, but . . .’

  ‘So where is it?’ She put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a hard stare.

  He hung his head. ‘I . . . er . . .’ He pictured the pail lying on its side in the middle of the market square.

  Cries of ‘Hang the papists!’ and ‘Leave him for the crows!’ echoed through the gates from the street outside. He shivered.

  Her fingers forced his chin back. ‘Tell me you didn’t go
to that poor man’s hanging?’

  A twist of guilt curled through him. He tried to look away, but her grip was too tight.

  ‘How could you?’

  ‘I – I didn’t mean to, but I had to cross the square to get the water and the crowd was already there and . . .’

  She dropped her hand. ‘Poor Mister Cresswell. What will his wife do now?’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  Tom licked his lips. ‘A man in the crowd said he’d stolen two of Constable Skinner’s pigs.’

  His mother frowned. ‘There wasn’t a thieving bone in Henry Cresswell’s body. But the constable hates Catholics. And with the country so whipped up against us, it’s easy for him to accuse a man like Mister Cresswell of a crime he didn’t commit.’ She clutched at the frayed edge of her apron and twisted it between her fingers.

  His eyes widened. ‘They can’t hang you just for being Catholic, can they?’

  His mother’s frown deepened. ‘Not yet, no. But there is no doubt it has been harder for us since the new laws were passed by the Parliament in London. You know that your father risks being fined if we refuse to go to the Protestant church. And if they found us celebrating the Mass in secret, it would be prison. As for our priests? If the King’s men discover them preaching the faith, then, yes, they will hang.’ She shuddered and crossed herself.

  ‘But that’s not fair!’

  She gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s how it is. All we can do is bear it and pray that one day the King will look more kindly on us.’ She shot him a sharp look. ‘But none of this lessens the fact you were there with the rest of them gawping at our poor neighbour’s last moments.’

  ‘But I didn’t stay long enough to—’

  She held up her hand. ‘That’s enough! I’m disappointed in you, Tom. And your father will be too when he hears.’

  He groaned. Facing Mother was bad enough, but Father would be even angrier with him. More than likely he’d cancel the trip round the merchant ship he’d promised him for his thirteenth birthday next Sunday.

  ‘Don’t tell him, please. I’ll do extra chores. Chop enough wood to last us until Christmas. Fetch a wellful of water. Play with Edward every day . . .’

  His mother tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ll think about it. Now, go to your room. And make sure you remember the Cresswells in your prayers.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ He slumped his shoulders and trudged towards the door.

  When he reached his chamber he flung himself down on the bed and closed his eyes. He’d been looking forward to the trip down to the harbour for ages. If only he’d gone a different way to fetch the water. If only . . .

  A rustling sound made him start. Jago! He’d been so quiet, he’d forgotten all about him. He reached under the bed and pulled out a small wooden box. He placed it on the threadbare coverlet and slid back the hole-studded lid.

  ‘Sorry, boy. Were you asleep?’

  A pink nose poked through the gap and a pair of red eyes shone up at him. Then, in a flash of white fur, the mouse jumped out of the box. Darting inside Tom’s shirtsleeve, he tickled his way up his left arm, across both shoulders and down his right one. It was a trick they’d learnt together, not long after Tom had rescued him from one of the mousetraps in the stable.

  He was an odd colour for a mouse, but that was part of what made him special. Mother had got a fright when she discovered him running about Tom’s chamber, but it was only a few days after they’d buried William and in the end, she let him keep him.

  His brother’s pale face flickered up before him. He scrubbed at his eyes with his fists. It was bad enough trying not to think about the hanging, and now William too.

  Light paws brushed the side of his leg. He blinked. Jago sat perched on his knee, whiskers twitching, beady eyes gleaming.

  ‘Who’s a clever mouse?’ Tom ran a fingertip over the shiny patch of fur between his pale pink ears.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. A few moments later the door swung open and his mother came in carrying a bowl of steaming broth, a hunk of bread and a lighted candle.

  ‘Your father is late.’ She chewed her bottom lip. ‘He should have been back from the harbour by now.’

  She waited for Tom to scoop Jago back into his box, then, handing him the food, she took the candle to the window, pushed it open and stared out into the gathering darkness. Tom’s mouth watered at the smell of hot vegetables and herbs. He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the broth and wolfed it down. It tasted good.

  His mother sighed. ‘I pray he has not got himself mixed up in any trouble. It’s as bad as it was in the old Queen’s day, with spies and soldiers everywhere sniffing for signs of rebellion. And always seeking to make us Catholics the scapegoats.’ She touched her right hand to the glass.

  Tom wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Maybe he met someone off a ship and they got talking?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘Are you . . . are you going to tell him?’

  ‘Tell him what?’ Her voice was distant, as if she was thinking of other things.

  ‘About earlier? Mister Cresswell and the—’

  She spun round. ‘No. But if it happens again . . .’ Her blue eyes sparked with warning.

  ‘It won’t.’ Tom clenched his knuckles. He never wanted to go to another hanging as long as he lived.

  ‘Good.’

  A thin wail wound up the stairs.

  She gave another sigh. ‘I must see to your little brother. Now finish your broth, then into bed.’ Placing the candle in the holder on the stool by his bed, she looked back through the window one last time then slipped out.

  After feeding a few of his leftover crumbs to Jago, Tom slid the lid back over the box. He lay down and waited, listening for the ring of his father’s footsteps on the cobbles below. But the warmth from the broth stole through him and it wasn’t long before he drifted into sleep.

  When he woke, the moon was up and shining through the window, making diamond patterns on the floorboards. Voices rose up from the courtyard. Mother’s, soft and worried-sounding, then Father’s, low and urgent. Tom’s stomach fluttered. So he was back. Clambering out of bed, he tiptoed to the window and peered out.

  His mother stood in her nightshift, a woollen shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her plait of blonde hair hanging down her back. The glow from the flickering candle she held lit up the black cloak and broad-brimmed hat of his father. What were they saying? He stuck his head out further and held his breath.

  ‘But why, Richard? You know the risks. The constable already has his eye on us.’ She clutched at her husband’s arm. ‘If he finds him here, it’s the gallows for us.’

  Tom’s knees wobbled. Gallows? What was she talking about?

  His father gave a sigh. ‘I know, but the journey from France stowed away in a hold full of stinking bilge water has not served him well. And how could I leave a man of God, who has travelled here to preach the true faith, to the mercy of those rats and dogs down at the harbour?’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Here.’ His father turned. ‘Step forwards and show yourself. Don’t mind my wife’s words. She will make you welcome; you can be assured of that.’

  A black-hooded figure stumbled out of the shadows. Tom stifled a gasp. As the figure drew closer, the edges of his cloak parted and a flash of gold sparked in the candlelight.

  Heart pounding, Tom leant forwards to get a better look. A cross. So the man was a priest. Mother was right. If Constable Skinner and his men came looking and found him here, it would be his parents on the scaffold next. He stifled a groan.

  His mother turned and swung the candle up towards him. ‘Tom, is that you?’

  He pulled back quickly and ducked, but not before he caught a glimpse of the stranger’s sunken cheeks and bloodless lips. And his eyes! Jet black and full of fear. The eyes of a man used to looking over his shoulder.

  A man on the run.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday 26 October

>   Cock-a-doodle-doo! Tom started and blinked himself awake. A cold grey light spilled through the window and across his bed. He shivered and dragged the blanket up under his chin.

  Then he remembered the stranger. He jumped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs in the half-light, praying he’d gone. He was about to poke his head round the door of the main room when a clip-clop of hooves sounded outside. He dashed to the front door and yanked it open. His father stood there, dressed in his riding cloak and boots, Old Hector and Sweet Jenny at his side.

  ‘Father! Wait!’ Tom jumped down the steps and ran towards him, ignoring the scrape of cold grit on the soles of his feet.

  Sweet Jenny snorted. His father steadied her, then glancing quickly over his shoulder, put a finger to his lips and frowned. ‘What are you doing out here?’ He kept his voice low. ‘Go back inside and look to your mother. She will need your help today.’

  ‘But where are you going?’

  His father hesitated, then jerked his head at the courtyard gates. ‘Getting a friend to safety before our neighbours wake.’

  Tom followed his gaze to the dark figure waiting in the shadows. His heart missed a beat. So the priest was still here. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? The man from last night.’

  His father grabbed him by the arm and drew him close. ‘So you were awake! What did you hear?’

  ‘Ow!’ He pulled away.

  Hector whinnied and reared up.

  ‘Steady!’ His father let Tom’s arm drop and reined in the cob. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But you’ve got to promise me you will never speak of this to anyone.’ His grey eyes hardened. ‘The King’s minister, Robert Cecil, has his spies everywhere. If word were to get out we have been harbouring a—’ He checked himself and wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘I have said too much. Now go inside and comfort your mother.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Before nightfall I hope.’

  ‘Don’t go!’ Tom flung his arms round him. He pressed his cheek tight against his father’s cloak, breathing in the familiar smell of sheep’s wool and warm leather.

  ‘I have to.’ His father loosened his arms and pushed him away.