Black Powder

by Ally Sherrick

  ‘I’ll wear my own, thanks.’

  ‘Those grimy old things?’ She pulled a face like a cat sniffing a bowl of sour milk. ‘Joan fetched them away when you were sleeping and put them on the fire.’

  ‘What?’ He stared wildly around the room. His boots were still there, and so was his waist-pouch, but everything else was gone. ‘She had no right!’

  ‘You are a Montague, so you must dress like one.’ She gave a prim smile. ‘Besides’ – her eyes took on a distant look – ‘it’s fun to dress up and pretend to be someone else. Actors do it all the time.’

  He snatched up the ruff and hurled it across the room. ‘I’m a Garnett, not a Montague!’

  She blinked and arched her eyebrows. ‘Tsk. What a temper! I’m surprised you want to stay a Garnett, when your father is being hunted down like a common criminal.’

  ‘Don’t you talk about Father like that!’

  She frowned. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’ She twisted a blonde curl round her little finger. ‘Anyway, you had better get dressed. Granny says you must join us for prayers in the chapel.’ With a swish of her skirts she turned and walked back to the door. ‘I will wait for you outside.’

  Tom waited until she had gone, then fished Jago out from his sleeve. He held his soft, silky body against his cheek and breathed in his mousy smell. ‘If they think they can keep us prisoner here, they’re wrong, boy.’ He glanced down at his nightshirt then back at the over-stuffed doublet and puffed-up breeches and groaned. Right now though, it looked like he didn’t have much choice.

  Tom sat in the candlelit pew next to Cressida. He gawped up at the chapel’s stained-glass windows and the ceiling decorated with gold stars and flying angels. The pleats of the ruff dug into his throat. Stupid fancy clothes. He stuck a finger behind it and stretched his neck. He felt like a pheasant, pinned and stuffed for the cooking pot.

  A finger poked him in the ribs. ‘Keep still! Granny doesn’t approve of people fidgeting during the service.’

  ‘And she doesn’t approve of girls climbing up towers either, does she?’

  A look of panic flashed across Cressida’s face. ‘If you dare tell . . .’

  ‘What? You can’t make things any worse for me than they already are. What were you doing up there anyway?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Cressida pursed her lips then clasped her hands together and bent her head.

  Tom sighed and shot a look at the statue-still back of the Viscountess in the pew in front. Was there anything she did approve of ? He slid his tongue between his teeth and pulled a face. As if sensing it, the Viscountess swung round. He jerked his head down quickly and pretended to pray.

  The sickly-sweet smell of candlewax and incense enveloped him, tickling his nose and making his eyes water. A low murmur started up in front of him. He sneaked another look up. The Viscountess sat with her neck craned forwards, head pressed against her hands, muttering a prayer. He frowned. How could she call herself a Christian when she’d refused to help Father? He stared at the golden cross on the altar and the row of grim-faced saints set in the niches behind it. They looked as angry as he felt. The sooner prayers were over and he could get out of here, the better.

  His waist-pouch jiggled against his hip. He stole a quick glance at Cressida; she was busy praying too. He undid it, slid his fingers inside and let Jago climb out on to his palm. What would ‘Granny’ do if she knew he’d brought a mouse into church? He stroked the top of Jago’s head and smiled. Our secret, boy. Our secret.

  He dropped him back in the pouch and was about to retie it when a shuffle of footsteps and a whisper of voices sounded in the passageway outside. He jerked his head up. A crowd of men and women had appeared in the chapel doorway. At first he thought they must be servants, but some of the women were carrying babies and there was a bunch of children with them too.

  He watched open-mouthed as they shuffled their way down the aisle to the empty pews in the main part of the chapel. Now it was his turn to nudge Cressida. ‘Who are they?’

  She threw a glance at them and shook her head.

  ‘Come on, tell me.’

  She hesitated then heaved a sigh. ‘Townsfolk. People who have stayed true to the faith.’

  ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘They’ve come to hear the Mass, of course.’

  He frowned. So the man outside the gate last night had been speaking the truth. He licked his lips. ‘But that’s forbidden.’

  ‘We have our own rules here at Cowdray. You’ll find out soon enough.’ She gave him a sly smile. ‘Look, here comes Father Chasuble now.’ An elderly black-robed man with stooped shoulders stood in the doorway a silver chalice draped with a white cloth in his hands. Head bent low, he tottered down the aisle towards the altar.

  A priest! What was he doing here? Tom glanced nervously back at the doorway, half expecting a troop of soldiers to come clattering through it. But no one else appeared. The room fell silent as Father Chasuble reached the altar and bowed. He placed the chalice on the altar top and bowed again, then made the sign of the cross with his right hand.

  ‘Why hasn’t he been arrested?’ Tom whispered above the drone of the priest’s voice.

  ‘Arrested?’ Cressida arched a pale eyebrow. ‘That will never happen. Don’t forget, we are Montagues.’ She stuck her nose in the air and tossed her curls.

  A fresh jab of anger spiked him. ‘But that’s not fair!’

  ‘Fair? What on earth do you mean?’ Cressida gave him a puzzled stare.

  Tom shook his head. What was the point? He glanced at the back of the Viscountess’s bowed head. How could she get away with harbouring a priest right under the nose of the law, when ordinary people – people like the Cresswells and his parents – were being so cruelly persecuted? And she’d accused Father of showing poor judgement for helping Father Oliver. He balled his fingers into fists. If those men last night were spies and they reported her, it would serve her right! After a few nights spent in a gaol cell with only the rats for company, maybe she’d think twice about refusing to help him. Not that that would be any use to Father. He slumped against the back of the pew.

  A white furry body scooted across his knee. Jago! No! He jolted up and made a grab for him. But it was too late. Jago sprang to the floor, jumped over his feet and disappeared beneath Cressida’s skirts.

  Tom flashed her a look. She had gone back to praying. He stared at the silk folds of her dress, willing Jago to reappear.

  But he didn’t.

  Suddenly Cressida’s cheeks flushed pink. Her head flew up and she let out an ear-piercing scream.

  Father Chasuble stopped in mid-sentence. Everyone turned and stared.

  Cressida jumped to her feet. She clawed at her dress and screamed again.

  Father Chasuble dropped his prayer book and made the sign of the cross. A baby started crying. The people in the congregation began whispering to each other. Some of them made to leave.

  Tom dipped down and shook the bottom of Cressida’s skirts. A white shape plopped out next to his feet. Quick as a hawk, he snatched the mouse up by the base of his tail and dropped him back in his waist-pouch. Got you! He tied the strings tight, raised his head and looked around. No one else had seen. They were all too busy staring at Cressida.

  ‘Get it off, get it off!’ She bounced up and down beside him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  An ice-cold voice rang out from the pew in front of them. ‘Silence!’

  Everyone froze.

  The Viscountess stood up slowly, then turned and fixed Cressida with a hard, grey stare. ‘How dare you interrupt our service?’ Two spots of red glowed on her chalk-white cheeks.

  ‘But, Granny, I mean My Lady . . . There . . . there was something crawling up inside my dress.’

  ‘Enough of your play-acting, girl! Mister Mandrake?’

  A sallow-faced man dressed in a schoolmaster’s black gown emerged from the shadows at the far end of their pew. He gave the old woman a simpering smile.r />
  ‘Yes, My Lady?’

  Tom shivered. That wheedling voice. He’d heard it somewhere before . . .

  The Viscountess pointed the tip of her cane at Cressida. ‘Please devise a suitable punishment for my granddaughter at the end of tomorrow’s lessons.’

  ‘’Twill be a pleasure, My Lady.’ Mister Mandrake swept down into a low bow. Strands of greasy black hair swung forwards to reveal a patch of scaly red skin in the centre of his crown. As he raised his head, his yellow-brown eyes locked with Tom’s. The look he gave him was a cold, knowing one, as if he had sliced him open and discovered all his deepest secrets.

  A trickle of fear slid down Tom’s spine. He knew now where he’d heard the voice before. Last night at the gate. Which meant . . . which meant that the tutor was one of the spies.

  ‘Now go to your room, girl, and do not show your face again until morning.’ The Viscountess swept round to face Father Chasuble. ‘My apologies for the behaviour of my granddaughter, Father. Her attention-seeking ways will receive due punishment on Earth, if not in Heaven too. Pray continue with the service.’ She tapped the front of the pew with her cane and lowered herself in her seat.

  Cressida let out a sob. The congregation bent their heads again. Tom bit his lip. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. It was his fault Jago had escaped and now she was getting the blame. He reached out to touch her arm.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ Fumbling at her sleeve, she pulled out a lace kerchief and dabbed at her eyes. She gave a loud sniff, then, head held high, stepped down from the pew and glided out through the chapel door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday 31 October

  The rain rattled like nails against the schoolroom window. Tom hugged his arms to his chest and tried to blot out the sound of Mister Mandrake’s voice as it scratched and whined its way through endless Latin verbs. He’d been forced to spend another four days here, with Joan and the other servants watching his every move. Each morning he’d woken up hoping there’d be news about Mother, but it never came.

  He stared through the windowpane at the slate-grey clouds. All the while he was trapped here, Father was out there somewhere on the run – or worse. These people, they lived in another world. He glanced at the back of Cressida’s ribboned head. She hadn’t spoken to him since the business in the chapel on Sunday. But from the black looks she’d been giving him when they met for lessons, she must have guessed it had something to do with him. He couldn’t risk losing his only friend so he’d made sure all week to keep Jago safely tucked up in his box in the bedchamber, only letting him out when they were on their own.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Master Garnett?’ Mister Mandrake’s birch rod cracked down against the desk, narrowly missing Tom’s left ear.

  He jerked up, heart thumping. ‘What?’

  Cressida swung round in her chair.

  ‘What, sir?’ Mandrake bent over him, stroking the tip of the rod with a skinny finger. ‘Something tells me that you have not been paying attention to my lesson.’ A waft of mustiness rose up from the tutor’s gown. Tom wrinkled his nose. It was worse than the smell down in the crypt of St Thomas’s.

  ‘Sorry . . . sir.’ He dipped his head to avoid the tutor’s gaze. There was no way Mandrake could know he’d eavesdropped on his secret meeting with the other spy because Tom hadn’t told anyone about it yet. And the way he felt about the Montagues, he wasn’t sure he was going to either. So why was the man paying him so much attention?

  Mandrake scowled. ‘I do not like your tone, Master Garnett. It has a touch of insolence about it. So, now.’ He tucked the birch rod under his arm, stretched out his long, pale hands and examined his fingernails one by one. ‘How best to punish you?’

  Tom’s chest tightened. He stared at the pattern of wood grains in the desktop and waited for his sentence.

  ‘I know.’ Mandrake raised a thin black eyebrow. ‘How about a little extra Latin translation at the end of the lesson? You will be in good company, after the unfortunate episode at Sunday’s Mass. The young mistress is still only halfway through her penance.’ His eyes flicked snake-like to Cressida. She flushed and shoved her nose back into her book.

  The tutor gave an oily smile. ‘Yes, that will do very nicely. Now, on with your work.’ He flexed his rod and strode back to his desk.

  Tom hung his head and stared at the never-ending list of Latin verbs in front of him. He hated it here. He had to find a way of escaping. If he went back home, at least he would be there for little Ned. And with Jem Foster’s help, if he could get news of Father . . .

  The rest of the morning was taken up with repeating the names of the Kings and Queens of England, and yet more Latin grammar. He was grateful Mother had insisted on giving him lessons. He’d never have been able to keep up if she hadn’t. He had given up hope of ever finishing when a knock sounded at the door.

  Mister Mandrake hooked the ends of his greasy black hair behind his ears and adjusted the sleeves of his gown. ‘Come!’

  The door swung open. A red-faced woman dressed in an apron stepped inside. It was Joan.

  ‘I have come for Master Garnett. My Lady wishes to see him.’

  Tom’s heart leapt. News from home. It must be! He rammed his quill back into the ink pot and scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Sit!’ Mandrake shot out an arm and snapped his fingers. ‘And did she say why, Joan?’

  ‘She did not.’ Joan clamped her fleshy lips tight shut.

  ‘Hmmm.’ He tapped a bony finger against his own thin lips. ‘Well, I will send him along directly we have finished the lesson.’ He waved Joan from the room.

  She stood her ground. ‘My Lady says Master Garnett is to come at once.’

  Mandrake’s eyes narrowed. ‘Really? Then it must be something urgent?’

  Joan folded her arms across her chest and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but ’tis none of your concern.’

  Cressida stifled a giggle.

  Mandrake spun round. ‘Do you find something amusing, Mistress Cressida?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Good, then get back to your work.’ He turned back to Tom and frowned. ‘Very well. You may go, Master Garnett. But rest assured, your punishment will be waiting for you on your return.’

  Tom glanced at Cressida but she had her nose buried in her Latin grammar book again. He was almost at the door when a hand grasped him by the shoulder.

  ‘You were lucky today.’ Mandrake’s clammy fingers tightened their grip. ‘But don’t forget, only cats have nine lives.’

  He twisted free. Cats? Nine lives? What was he talking about? Well, one thing was for sure; he wasn’t going to sit through any more of the slimy tutor’s lessons. Not if he could help it. He scrubbed his neck with his sleeve and followed Joan outside.

  ‘Quickly, we mustn’t keep the mistress waiting.’ She let out a puff of air, then bustled down the passage, skirts flapping.

  He ran to catch her up. ‘Is it about my mother?’

  She shrugged. ‘How would I know? A messenger arrived on horseback this morning from London. That’s all I can tell you.’ She set off again.

  London? A message from his uncle. It had to be. Tom closed his eyes. Make it good news, Lord, please.

  At the end of the passage, Joan took a left turn across a narrow landing and plodded up a small flight of stairs. He followed her through a door and into a long gallery. He gazed around him at the rich tapestries and fine portraits which decorated the walls. Had Mother walked here too? It was hard to imagine her among all this grandeur.

  ‘This is no time for daydreaming.’ Joan stood at the far end of the gallery, hands on hips, foot tapping the floor.

  He jumped and hurried towards her. As he passed the final window, a small portrait jolted him to a stop. It was the likeness of a young woman, so lifelike she looked like she might be flesh and blood. He frowned. There was something else about her too. Something familiar. He stepped closer.

  She wore
a fine lace ruff around her neck. Beneath it a gold crucifix shone out from the black velvet of her gown. Her fair hair was pulled back, piled on top of her head and decorated with a band of pearls. But it was her sad-looking eyes which drew Tom most. Bright blue and almond-shaped. The same eyes that had filled with tears as he left for the Fosters nearly a week ago.

  Mother? He touched a finger to her pale cheek.

  ‘Master Garnett. Please!’

  ‘I’ll find a way to help Father, I promise.’ He dropped his hand, then, giving the portrait one last look, he turned and scurried after Joan.

  The servant bustled out on to another landing, down a polished wooden staircase and along a passage, stopping at a door halfway down. She put her head on one side, ran her eyes over Tom’s clothes and pulled a face. ‘No matter how much you dress it up, a sparrow is always a sparrow.’ She batted his shoulders and the front of his doublet with her rough, red hands.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ He shook her off.

  She sighed, then raised her fist to the door and gave a sharp rap.

  ‘Enter.’ The voice behind it rang out hard and cold as ice.

  Tom gritted his teeth. Hopefully this was the last time he’d have to face the old black crow.

  Joan turned the handle, opened the door and pushed him inside. The door banged shut behind him. He blinked. The chamber was in semi-darkness, the light from the windows blocked by the thick pieces of oiled cloth which hung across them. But he could make out enough to know it was the same room he’d been taken to that first night. He peered at the fireplace. The grate was cold and dark and the chair in front of it empty. The air smelt of old smoke and rushes and, above it, that same strange bitter-sweetness from before.

  Suddenly Tom knew what it was. Two Yuletides ago, when William was still alive, Father had come back from the harbour with a basket of flame-coloured oranges he said came all the way from Spain. There had been one each for all of them. How excited they’d been as they peeled the glowing skin and sank their teeth into the juicy sweet-sharp flesh. And how happy too.