Black Powder (5 page)

‘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

T
he 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.'

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.