While Jem went to fetch some ale and Mistress Foster fussed over Edward, he took his chance. Slipping out quickly through the back yard, he set off for home.
As he turned into their street, he stopped in his tracks. He’d only been gone an hour, two at most, and already someone had scrawled a grinning death’s head and the words ‘papist traiturs’ in chalk across their front door.
A shadow in the window of the house next door caught his eye. A face pressed against the glass grinned at him then melted into the darkness behind. His chest tightened. He pushed the door open, crept inside and darted upstairs to his bedchamber.
He checked Jago was safe in his box and bundled him into a blanket together with a change of clothes. Then, snatching up his waist-pouch, he shoved Father’s knife and the old silver tinderbox Mother had given him inside it and dashed downstairs. On his way out through the kitchen, he stuffed some cheese and bread into an old flour sack.
He had an idea of where Cowdray lay from what Jem had told him: he’d said it was a day’s journey by horse and cart. But on foot, if he kept moving, there was a chance he might make it by sundown.
He took one last look behind him, then darted across the courtyard, slid through the gates and set out on the London road.
As he passed the church, his mother’s last words to him echoed in his head. ‘Put courage in your heart.’ A knot formed in his throat. Courage! He hadn’t shown much of that when Constable Skinner had come calling. And, now, because of him, Father was running for his life.
But he couldn’t think about that now. Not if he was going to stand any chance of helping him. He took a deep breath and marched on.
The road was harder going than he’d thought, full of puddle-filled ruts and holes. And he soon found out he wasn’t welcome in the villages he passed through either. There were cries of ‘Beggar!’ and ‘Thief !’ and in one tumbledown place, the local children chased after him flinging handfuls of mud and dung.
A ragged man stinking of ale stopped him outside a tavern and made a grab for his sack. It was only because the man was drunk that Tom managed to get away. After that, he did his best to avoid meeting anyone else on the road, hiding in bushes until they’d gone by.
As he trudged on, the daylight faded and the shadows lengthened. Besides the ache in his legs and shoulders, his boots were pinching, and he knew without looking he’d sprouted a giant blister on the sole of his right foot. His stomach was growling too. It was no use; he was going to have to stop. He stumbled across to an old oak tree and slumped down next to it, resting his back against its mossy trunk.
Rummaging inside his bundle, he pulled out Jago’s box and slid the lid a quarter open. A whiskery nose nudged at his fingers. ‘You must be hungry too, boy.’ He reached inside the sack for the bread and cheese. ‘Here we go.’ He broke a small piece of cheese off and dropped it into the box then sank his teeth into what was left.
Jago gave an excited squeak.
‘You can have a run around when we get there, I promise.’ Tom pushed the mouse back inside, closed the lid and stuffed the box into the bundle. At least he could let Jago out. But what about Mother: all alone in some dark, stinking gaol cell with only the rats and Weasel Face for company?
He shuddered, then remembered the prayer book. He pulled it from his jerkin and pressed the soft cover to his cheek. It smelt of old leather and lavender. Please Lord, protect her and keep her safe, please.
He flipped the book open and peered at the inscription inside. What kind of man was this new uncle of his? Mother had said the Montagues were rich and powerful and Jem Foster had called them grand. As he went to close it, a piece of paper fluttered to his feet. He picked it up. There was a date scrawled on it. Beneath it someone had marked a cross. He stared at the writing. The twenty-first day of June 1604. The day William had died.
He squeezed his eyes tight shut. But it was no use. Try as he might, this time he couldn’t block the pictures that bubbled up in his head. The sweat on his brother’s pale forehead. The red flush of his cheeks. His shivers and groans as the sickness took hold. The pus-filled black buboes which meant only one thing. Plague. And then the dark, panic-filled time after, when they were locked up inside the house to prevent it from spreading. Finally, the cries of pain and tears of grief as William breathed his last, rattling breath.
He shivered and flicked his eyes open. Everything had changed after that. No more games of leapfrog and stopping the sinking of old King Henry’s flagship, the Mary Rose. No more beachcombing on the shore for Spanish treasure and playing at being fish in the shallows. And no more William to stick up for him in fights with the other boys in their street.
Mother and Father had changed too. Mother had become nervous and sad, wanting him to stay at home and help her with the chores. As for Father, he’d barely been able to look at him in those first few weeks after William had died. Even now, a year and more later, he was always so stern-faced, as if judging him and finding a lack.
Tom sighed and slid the prayer book back inside his jerkin. Time to go. Taking a last mouthful of bread and cheese, he picked up his bundle and scrambled down on to the road.
Slowly the sun sank below the horizon. The hoot of an owl sounded from a nearby copse of trees. Night was drawing in. It couldn’t be much further, could it? He shivered and plodded on, willing himself forwards step by painful step. Just when he thought he couldn’t go any further and would have to bed down in a pile of leaves, a string of distant lights came into view, winking out across the fields.
Midhurst: the town closest to Cowdray. It must be! His stomach fluttered. Now all he had to do was find his uncle’s house. Then with his and God’s help, he would make everything right again.
Chapter Seven
The blister stung more with every step Tom took. He gritted his teeth and hobbled on, past a row of half-timbered cottages, some in darkness, others with windows lit by flickering candles. Further on, he came to a crossroads. He stopped and looked about him. Which way now?
‘Lost, are you?’
He spun round.
A figure pulled away from the porch of a building opposite. ‘’Tis not a night for a boy to be travelling alone.’ The man’s voice was flat and iron-edged: not like the soft country burr of the locals.
The sound of music and merrymaking wound through the air from the half-open door behind him.
‘Where are you bound?’ The man towered above him, blotting out the night sky.
Hugging his bundle, Tom took a step back and peered up at him. The man wore a thick, curling beard. That much he could see. But the rest of his face was in shadow, hidden by his hat and the upturned collar of his cloak.
‘What’s wrong, boy? Lost your tongue?’
He licked his lips. ‘To – to Cowdray, sir, to see my uncle.’
‘Your uncle, eh? And who is he?’ The man lifted a slim white pipe to his mouth. He sucked on it and blew a puff of grey smoke into the air. A glint of gold shone back from the little finger of his left hand.
The sweet smell of tobacco pricked Tom’s nose. He clenched his jaw tight shut. He’d had his fill of roadside encounters.
‘Rather keep your counsel, would you? A sound position when there are so many spies and ne’er-do-wells about.’ The man gave a low chuckle, swirled his cloak about him and turned back towards the tavern door.
‘Wait!’ Tom stumbled after him. ‘Do you know the way?’
‘Hmmm.’ The man raised his hand to his chin and raked his fingers through his beard. ‘Some might regard me as a stranger in these parts, but as a matter of fact, yes I do.’ He pulled on the pipe again and blew a smoke ring at him. ‘What’s it worth?’
Tom stifled a cough and gripped his bundle tighter still. ‘I – I don’t have any money.’
The man’s eyes flashed black in the glow of embers from his pipe. He looked him up and down and laughed. ‘If we meet again, you can repay me then. Your thanks will do for now. Cowdray lies up yonder.’ He pointed up the s
treet with the stem of his pipe. ‘There’s a causeway at the edge of town. Follow it across the water meadows. You shall come on the house, by and by.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Tom nodded and limped on up the road. When he glanced back, the man had vanished.
He had been so outlandish, and had disappeared so quickly, that he wondered if he’d imagined him. He shook his head. He was so tired he couldn’t be sure. But the man’s directions proved real enough. Just beyond the last cottage, he spotted the start of a gravel track. He followed it up on to a causeway, lined on each side by a row of tall, leafless trees.
The meadows beyond were dotted with shimmering pools. A scattering of early stars reflected in them like strange, ghostly jewels. The dank air clutched at his face and neck, sending a cold shiver down his spine. He swallowed. Courage. I must have courage.
A muffled squeak came from his bundle. His heart lifted. He opened it, pulled out the box and pushed back the lid. Jago peeked out, beady eyes shining and sniffed the air. Tom stroked his head. ‘Not far to go now, boy.’
They came to a small stone bridge which carried the track across a river of rushing black water. Beyond it, a building loomed above them, floating like a great grey ship on a sea of grass.
Tom jerked to a stop and stared open-mouthed at its soaring walls, the rows of gleaming black windows and the clumps of twisted chimneys dotted across its roof. Was he seeing things again? He blinked and shook his head, but the walls of the house stayed where they were. Mother had said his uncle was rich, but Tom had never dreamt anyone could be as rich as this. And she had lived here too, once. He frowned. Why would she ever have wanted to leave?
‘Best keep out of sight for the time being, boy.’ He stroked Jago’s head again, then shut him back in the box and pushed it inside his bundle.
He gazed up at the turreted gatehouse in front of him. Time to meet this mysterious uncle of his. As he started towards the pair of heavy-looking entrance gates, a light flashed from the top of the right-hand turret. He dashed over to the nearest bush and crouched down behind it. As he peered up through the tangle of twigs and branches, a small figure dressed in a cape and carrying a lantern appeared on the battlements.
A sudden gust of wind tugged the figure’s hood back revealing a pale oval face and a head of blonde ringlets. He drew in a breath. A girl. What was she doing up there?
The girl raised the lantern above her head and swung it to and fro, shining the light up and down the causeway. After a few moments, her shoulders slumped. She pulled the hood over her head, lowered the lantern and disappeared back into the darkness.
He frowned. A servant? No, she couldn’t be. Not with curls and ribbons like that. He shrugged and got to his feet. He’d find out who she was soon enough.
As he neared the gates, there was a rattle of metal and a creak of wood. A small door in the left-hand gate opened and the figure of a man slid out. Tom’s heart lurched. What if the girl had seen him hiding there and raised the alarm? He backed away, getting ready to run. But something about the way the man moved, keeping his head low and his body stooped, made him hesitate. It looked like he didn’t want to be spotted either.
The man skirted round the side of the gatehouse and along the wall of the house. Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder, he darted towards a nearby tree. As he reached it, a figure stepped out from the shadows to meet him and the pair disappeared from view.
Tom shot a look back at the door. The man had left it ajar. He should get inside, while he had the chance. But it was strange, two men meeting in secret like this right outside his uncle’s walls. What were they up to? He rubbed a hand across his forehead. There was only one way to find out. Ducking down, he crept as close as he could to the tree and held his breath.
‘What news?’ A man’s voice muffled, as if by a cloth. Impatient-sounding too.
‘The Viscount is still away in London, but there have been sightings of two strangers in town.’ The second voice scraped through the air like the point of a knife being dragged across glass.
‘Any names?’ The first man spoke again.
‘No. And they kept their faces hidden so my informant could not give me a description.’
The first man made a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘A pity. Have you found any evidence inside?’
‘Not yet. But I will keep on searching. I am expecting the usual crowd at My Lady’s not-so-secret Mass tomorrow. And I will be on the lookout for any new faces, of that you can be assured.’ The man hissed the last word like a snake.
‘Well, keep alert. I will make mention of the strangers in my next report to the Master. It might be nothing, but our friends in London have been getting more active of late – and this place isn’t known as Little Rome for nothing.’
‘So, I stay at my post?’
‘Of course.’ The first man sounded vexed. ‘Make no mistake about these papists. They are as slippery as eels. They will wriggle free unless we weave our basket tight enough to hold them. The Master has always been clear on that point.’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was disappointment in the other man’s voice.
‘Meanwhile, I will visit the local taverns and see what I can find out about the strangers. There’s always some slack-jawed fool ready to blabber for a groat or two.’
A figure emerged from beneath the tree and headed towards where Tom was crouched. Heart racing, he flung himself down behind a clump of marsh grass. What would he say if the man discovered him? The crunch of boots grew louder. He pressed himself into the mud. The man paused a few feet from where he was hiding, then marched on past. Tom heaved a sigh. That was close. He waited until his footsteps had faded into the distance, then lifted his head and peered back through the grass stalks at the house. He was just in time to see a second dark shape slip in through the gatehouse door.
He frowned. The men were spies. That much was clear. But what were they doing here at Cowdray? And who were they spying for? The local constable? No, that couldn’t be it. The stranger had talked about London and called the man in charge the Master.
He waited a few moments longer then jumped up. A cold breeze blew across the meadows. He shivered and stared down at his jerkin. It was covered in a layer of stinking black marsh mud. The prayer book! If he’d got it wet . . . He rammed his fingers between the buttons, felt for it, then heaved a sigh of relief. Still dry. Without it, looking like this, he’d have a job convincing the Montagues he was anything other than a beggar-boy.
‘Come on, Jago. Let’s go and meet my uncle.’ He shouldered his bundle, took a deep breath and set off for the gatehouse door.
Chapter Eight
The door was shut when Tom reached it. He twisted the metal ring handle but it wouldn’t shift. The man must have drawn the bolt on the other side. He thumped on the wood with his fist and waited. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing.
‘Hey! Is anyone there?’ He rattled the ring. From somewhere inside came the thud of heavy boots. The footsteps got closer then stopped.
‘Who goes there?’ It was a man’s voice, gruff and unfriendly.
Tom let the ring drop. He swallowed hard then drew back his shoulders and stood tall. ‘A visitor. For Lord Montague.’
‘We aren’t expecting any visitors.’ The man sounded suspicious.
‘It’s urgent. I have news from his sister.’
‘Sister?’ A bolt rattled. The door opened a crack and a pair of eyes glinted back at him. The door opened wider. A man stepped out, flaming torch in one hand, spiked halberd in the other. ‘Lord Montague is not at home. Who are you, boy?’ He thrust the torch under Tom’s chin.
‘Watch out!’ He dodged the lick of the sooty flame. Best to try and stay on the guard’s right side. He took a deep breath. ‘Please, sir. I’m Lord Montague’s . . . I’m his nephew, Tom Garnett.’
‘Tom Garnett? Never heard of him! Now be on your way, rascal, unless you want to get better acquainted with my weapon.’ The man jerked up his halberd and pressed the cold
blade against the side of Tom’s throat.
His knees buckled. He glanced back at the causeway. If he made a run for it now . . . But no. He curled his fingers into fists. He wasn’t going to let the man beat him. Not when he’d come this far.
‘Wait, please. I’ve got something to show you.’ He shoved his hand inside his muddy jerkin and pulled out the prayer book.
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what would I be wanting with a battered old book?’
‘It’s my mother’s. She’s Lord Montague’s sister. He gave it to her, before she left. Here, look. He signed his name inside.’ He flipped to the page with the inscription and held it out.
The man lowered his halberd and peered at the writing on the page. ‘Hmmm. Very pretty, but seeing as I can’t read . . .’ He raised the weapon again.
‘But you’ve got to believe me. It’s the truth. Look, here’s his signature.’ Tom jabbed at the page.
‘Sergeant Talbot, what is going on?’ It was a girl’s voice, clear and strong. The sort of voice whose owner got what she asked for.
The guard looked over his shoulder. ‘Why, young Mistress Cressida, whatever are you doing out at this hour? I hope you haven’t been up that tower again. You know My Lady doesn’t approve.’
Tom followed his gaze. A figure in a deep blue velvet cape and hood stood in the doorway behind them, a lantern clutched tightly in her milk-white hand.
The girl from the battlements. So he’d been right. She wasn’t a servant.
‘You are not my keeper, Sergeant Talbot. I am free to climb the tower if I choose.’ The girl raised the lantern and ran the light over Tom’s face. ‘Who is this?’
‘I’m afraid ’tis a ruffian come here with mischief on his mind.’ The sergeant shoved his halberd against the door and grabbed Tom by the arm. ‘He claims he is His Lordship’s nephew, sent here by his mother.’
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