Tom tried to wriggle free but the sergeant’s grip was too strong.
‘Nephew?’ The girl threw back her hood and shook her curls free.
Tom raised his eyebrows, surprised. From her tone she’d sounded older. But seeing her face in the lantern-light, she looked more his age.
‘He claims this is the proof.’ Sergeant Talbot jerked his head at the prayer book.
The girl frowned. ‘Give it to me.’ She stepped through the door, put the lantern down and held out her hand.
Reluctantly Tom handed her the book. She scanned the inscription, then looked up, eyes gleaming gold in the torchlight. ‘How did you come by this?’
‘Like I said, it’s my mother’s.’ He made to snatch it back.
The sergeant yanked him close. ‘You cheeky snipper-snapper. Stand clear, mistress. It’s time I sent this young cur packing.’ His grip tightened.
The girl’s frown deepened. ‘Hmmm. It is the lord my father’s writing.’ She put her head on one side and fixed Tom with a hard stare.
His cheeks burned. He looked away.
‘Let him pass. I will take him to Great-Grandmother. We will see what she has to say.’ Before he could stop her, the girl slid the prayer book inside her cape.
The sergeant shook his head. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mistress Cressida.’
The girl glared at him. ‘I did not ask for your opinion, Sergeant.’ She glanced at Tom. ‘Follow me and we’ll see if Granny believes your story.’ She picked up the lantern and with a swish of her cape, turned and glided back inside.
Tom clenched his jaw. ‘It’s not a story.’ He hesitated, then made to follow.
The sergeant grasped him by the collar. ‘You’re lucky, boy. But the Viscountess is a shrewd one. If she suspects you of lying, make no mistake, she’ll call the constable and he’ll throw you into the town gaol.’ He shoved him through the doorway and in beneath the gatehouse arch. ‘Hurry along now. You don’t want to keep your sweet little cousin waiting.’
Tom stumbled after the girl, stomach churning. He’d only just got here and already he’d let Mother down. She’d told him to give the prayer book to no one but his uncle. What if this Viscountess person refused to believe him and had him locked up like the sergeant said? What chance would he have of rescuing Father then?
Stepping through the arch, he found himself in a large courtyard surrounded by high walls studded with rows of candlelit windows and topped by more great stone battlements. In front of him, water splashed from the statue of a man holding a pitchfork into a polished bronze bowl.
‘Over here!’ The girl’s voice rang out above the noise.
He spun round, but there was no sign of her. If this was some kind of trick . . . He turned back to face the fountain. Then he saw her, a dark shape hovering beneath the shelter of a stone porch.
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Keep up, or I will have to get the sergeant to escort you after all.’
He paused, took a deep breath and limped across the cobbles towards her. ‘Where are we going?’
She frowned. ‘I told you. To see my great-grandmother. Hurry up! It is nearly eight o’clock. She will be taking her supper soon and doesn’t like being interrupted.’ She pushed on the oak door behind her. It swung open with a creak and she disappeared inside.
Tom followed. A cold dark passage stretched away in front of him, its walls lined with heavy wood-panelling, its floor paved with large slabs of stone. His nose pricked at the smell of soot and beeswax.
‘This way.’ The girl led him along the passage before stopping at a fancy metal gate set into a stone arch. She lifted the latch and gestured for him to go through. The room beyond was in shadow, but from the great swoop of the window arches and the echo of his boots on the polished floor, he knew it was big. As big as the nave in St Thomas’s church. Maybe bigger. He glanced about him. A row of dark panels hung on the walls beneath the windows. He guessed they must be portraits, though it was too dark to make out the faces. In between them, sitting on slabs of stone, were a line of carved stags, each with a set of spiked horns and a pair of glittering black eyes.
‘This is the Buck Hall, for obvious reasons.’ The girl pointed at the stags then lifted her arms and spun round on the spot. She seemed to have forgotten he wasn’t to be trusted. She pointed at a bow and quiverful of arrows slung round the neck of the nearest stag. ‘And those’ – she said, sounding particularly pleased with herself – ‘were a gift to my great-grandfather from Good Queen Bess to thank him for the excellent hunting when she was his guest here.’
Tom’s eyes widened and for a moment, he couldn’t help being impressed. ‘Did you see her? The old Queen, I mean.’ Even though she had persecuted Catholics, he had heard tales of her bravery, how she had rallied the troops when the Spanish Armada was threatening to invade.
The girl rolled her eyes. ‘No, silly! That was in ninety-one, the year before I was born.’
Somewhere outside a bell tolled eight times.
‘Come on, we don’t have much time!’ She marched on past a giant stone fireplace, heels clicking on the marble floor.
It was all right for her. She wasn’t the one with blisters. Tom gritted his teeth and hobbled after her.
At the far end of the hall, they passed through an arch into another passage. The girl walked towards a heavy wooden door set into the wall. She pulled off her cape and threw it over the carved chest next to it. Smoothing her gown and patting her curls, she turned and looked him up and down.
‘You might claim to be our relative’ – she wrinkled her nose – ‘but you look and smell more like a pig-herd to me.’
A surge of anger rose up inside Tom, but before he could say anything, she pointed at his bundle.
‘You can leave that out here.’
‘I’m keeping it with me.’ He gripped it to him.
She tossed her curls. ‘All right. Suit yourself !’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘What do they call you anyway?’
He lifted his head and jutted out his chin. For all her grand ways, she was just a girl. And girls didn’t scare him. ‘Tom. Tom Garnett.’
‘She can see straight through a lie, you know.’
He clenched his fists. ‘I’m telling the truth.’
The girl sniffed. ‘Great-Grandmother will be the judge of that. Well, Tom Garnett’ – she gave a sly smile, then raised a white knuckle to the door – ‘let us see whether you can convince her to keep you out of gaol.’
Chapter Nine
‘Come!’ The voice behind the door sounded strong and used to commanding.
The girl turned the handle and stepped inside. Tom drew in a breath and followed.
The room was low-ceilinged and dark, lit only by the light of a fire which burned in a stone fireplace opposite. A smell of wood smoke and dried rushes spiked his nose. He blinked and looked around him. The panelled walls were carved with thick ropes of ivy. Faces peered out between the pointed leaves. Strange creatures with sharp fangs, horns and wild staring eyes that seemed to follow his every move. He shivered. The sooner he could get help for Mother and Father and get out of here, the better. But where was she, the old woman? He glanced around nervously.
‘If that is you, Joan, you can tell master cook I shall be taking supper alone this evening. I have had quite enough of company today.’ The voice, clipped and frosty, came from behind a high-backed chair pulled close to the fire.
The girl sidled forward, signalling him to follow her. ‘Not Joan, Granny, but me.’
‘Well, and why are you here?’ There was a rustling sound and the tapping of fingers on wood.
The girl stepped round the side of the chair. ‘We have a visitor.’
‘At this late hour? Why did Sergeant Talbot not send them away? I have had my fill of our tenants complaining about the poor harvest and begging for more time to pay their rent. What can the man be thinking of disturbing my peace and entrusting a visitor to your care? You are a Montague, not a messenger.’
‘But, Granny, I think you will want to meet this one.’
‘And why, pray, do you say that?’
‘He claims he is the son of the lord my father’s long-lost sister.’ The girl frowned at Tom and gestured him to move closer.
‘What?’ A bony white hand gripped the chair arm. The silhouette of a woman rose before them like a spirit rising from the grave. Tom planted his feet further apart, determined to stand his ground.
‘What is your name, boy?’
‘Tom Garnett, of Portsmouth.’
‘Garnett?’ The woman froze for a moment, then reached for a silver-topped cane propped against her chair. She walked slowly towards him, black skirts rustling. A sudden whiff of something bitter-sweet stung his nostrils.
As she approached, the shadows fell away revealing a sharp curved nose, marble-carved cheeks and a pair of flint-grey eyes. She wore a black velvet cap on top of her head and beneath it a lace caul pulled tight over a twist of parchment-coloured hair. A jewelled crucifix swung on a chain below the ruff at her neck, its gold arms gleaming in the firelight. She stopped suddenly and slid her head towards him, like a river heron about to spike a fish. Tom licked his lips and edged backwards.
‘I am Magdalen, Viscountess Montague, widow of Lord Montague’s grandfather, the first Viscount, and while My Lord and his wife are in London, mistress of this household. Explain yourself, boy.’ She struck the floor with her cane.
‘I . . . er . . .’
The girl darted forwards. ‘I took this from him, Granny.’ She waved the prayer book in the air.
‘Give it back!’ Tom made a swipe for it.
She jerked it out of his reach, gave him a triumphant smile, then curtseyed and handed the prayer book to the Viscountess. ‘There’s an inscription inside. He claims it’s from the lord my father to his mother.’
He glared at her.
‘Bring me my eyeglasses, girl.’ The Viscountess shot out a bony hand.
The girl hurried over to a large leather-topped table next to the fireplace. She rummaged through the rolls of parchment and piles of books stacked on top of it.
‘Hurry, will you?’ The old woman clicked her fingers.
‘Here they are, Granny.’ The girl bobbed back to her side and held out a piece of curved horn with two circles of glass fixed beneath it.
The old woman perched the strange-looking object on the end of her nose and scanned the page with a pointed nail. Tom was sure for a moment her eyes widened.
She removed the eyeglasses from her nose, hooked them over the black cord at her waist and snapped the book shut. ‘And how can I be sure you did not steal it?’
His cheeks flushed. What right did she have to accuse him of being a thief ? Just because he wasn’t rich like them. If he had the choice, he’d march out of the room right now. But he needed her to believe him, for Mother and Father’s sake. He gritted his teeth.
‘Mother told me she was Lord . . . I mean Uncle Montague’s favourite sister. She said he gave the prayer book to her for her sixteenth birthday, the day before she left here for good. She said . . . she said he used to call her his own dear Nan.’
The Viscountess narrowed her eyes. ‘And did she say why she left?’
He frowned. ‘She mentioned some troubles between them. She seemed sad . . .’
‘As well she might.’ The Viscountess sounded bitter. She shook her head. ‘Such a waste.’
A surge of hope flashed through Tom. ‘So you believe me?’
‘I admit the evidence you give is compelling. But why are you here?’
‘To get help. Mother is in gaol . . .’
The girl gasped and put her hand to her mouth.
The Viscountess struck the floor with her cane again. ‘In gaol? Why?’
Tom hesitated. Could he trust her with the truth? He glanced at the cross hanging from her neck. The conversation between the two men outside the gate about ‘My Lady’s not-so-secret Mass’ echoed in his ears. He clenched his fingers tight against his palms. He’d have to. How else was he going to get the Montagues’ help?
‘She and Father they . . . they sheltered a priest, and now the constable is hunting Father down.’ His bottom lip trembled.
‘What?’ The Viscountess’s eyebrows arched in horror.
He swallowed. Now wasn’t the time to confess what a coward he’d been. But at least, with the old woman’s help, he’d have a chance to put it right. ‘Mother said Uncle Montague was friends with the King and would be able to stop the constable and—’
‘Fools! The pair of them!’ The Viscountess clutched the prayer book against her crucifix. ‘What were they thinking?’ She groaned, then, letting her cane slide between her fingers, she closed her eyes and pinched the top of her nose.
What was she saying? Tom tugged at her sleeve. ‘Please, mistress . . . I mean, My Lady. You’ve got to help them!’
She snapped her eyes open. ‘It is not as simple as that! Unlike your father, we Montagues have our reputation to think of. One false move . . .’ She shook her head and gestured to the girl to pick up her cane.
‘But they might die.’ His eyes blurred with tears. He scrubbed at them with his sleeve. He mustn’t cry. Not now.
The Viscountess stroked the worn cover of the prayer book then gave a deep sigh. ‘Your mother, although estranged from us, is of our blood. I will send word to Lord Montague in London about her plight. Let us hope he can use his influence at court to secure her release. As for your father . . .’ Her mouth hardened into a thin white line. ‘He is a lost cause.’ With a rustle of skirts, she turned, walked back to her chair and sat down.
‘What do you mean?’ Tom stumbled after her.
The Viscountess fixed him with a granite stare. ‘Many years ago, he brought great grief to this house. Now, once again, he has shown himself to be a man of poor judgement.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
She shook her head. ‘For a town-bred boy, you are very naive. Your father should know better than to try his hand at priest-smuggling. With watchers everywhere, it is a dangerous business, even for those with the means to support it.’
Anger whirled up inside Tom. How dare she talk about Father like that? He glared at her, but her eyes gazed past him into the fire.
His jaw tightened. All right, if she wanted him to beg . . . He knelt down and clutched at her skirts. ‘Please. Help him. In the name of Our Lord . . .’
She pulled back and frowned. ‘No. Your father will have known what the stakes were. He must take his chances and pray that God will be merciful.’ She dropped the prayer book in her lap and smoothed the front of her gown with the palm of her hand.
A bitter taste flooded Tom’s throat. Without the Montagues’ help, what chance did Father have? He shot a look at the girl. She turned away quickly, fixing her eyes on the carving of a two-headed dog next to the fireplace. He jumped to his feet and strode towards the door.
‘Where do you think you are going?’ The Viscountess’s voice was iron-hard.
‘Home.’ He clenched his fists and kept walking.
‘To what? An empty house and a mother in gaol? Don’t be foolish, boy. You must stay here until your uncle returns. Then he can decide what to do with you. Besides, it is past the curfew now and Sergeant Talbot is under strict orders to let no one pass through Cowdray’s gates.’
Tom stopped in his tracks, shoulders slumped.
A pair of footsteps crunched slowly across the rush mats behind him. ‘Here.’ Something sharp prodded him in the back.
He spun round. The old woman lowered her cane and held out the prayer book. He snatched it from her and slipped it inside his jerkin.
The Viscountess turned to the girl. ‘Ask Joan to prepare one of the bedchambers in the North Range for him, then take him to the kitchen so he can be fed.’ She waved them away with her hand.
The girl tugged at his sleeve. Tom yanked it free and marched to the door. He’d stay here tonight, but if the high and mighty Montagues thought he was going to sit around waiting for Father to be hunted down and thrown in gaol, they were wrong.
Chapter Ten
Sunday 27 October
For a moment when Tom woke, he thought he was back in his bedchamber at home. But the silver candlestick by the bed, the heavy tapestries hanging from the walls and the sharp sting of the blister on his foot soon reminded him of the truth. His heart sank. What use was it being related to these Montagues when they refused to help? They might be going to get Mother free, but what about Father? He bit his lip and dug his fingers into the soft velvet coverlet spread across the bed. A brush of whiskers tickled his toes.
Jago. He must have left the box open last night after he’d fed him. Just as well his little friend hadn’t decided to go exploring. He pushed back the coverlet and scooped him up in his palm. ‘Hello, boy. Let’s see where we are.’ Hauling himself out of bed, he hobbled over to the window and peered through the pale green glass. The room looked down on to the courtyard and across to the gatehouse opposite. Beyond it stretched the water meadows, their pools and grasses wound about with tendrils of mist. To the left, rising above them, was a low hill, topped with trees and a huddle of grey stone ruins.
Jago raised his head and sniffed the air. Tom tickled him between the ears.
‘There must be another way to help Father, boy.’ He frowned. ‘We just have to think of it, that’s all.’ A distant bell sounded the hour. He felt a stab of guilt. He hadn’t said his prayers yet. He closed his eyes and began to mutter the words.
A knock at the door made him start. Sliding Jago into the sleeve of his nightshirt, he leapt back into bed and pulled the covers up under his chin. ‘Who’s there?’
The door swung open. The girl stepped into the room with a bundle under her arm. She was wearing a blue silk gown decorated with red bows. A pair of blue velvet slippers peeped out from beneath her skirts.
He scowled at her. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve brought you some clothes.’ She held up a mustard-coloured silk doublet, a pair of brown velvet breeches, a stiff white ruff and some black silk slippers. ‘They belonged to my elder brother when he was a boy.’ She tilted her head and looked at him. ‘They should fit. Although’ – she sighed – ‘they are not today’s fashion.’
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