Black Powder (8 page)

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.

A rustle of silk brought him back to the room with a start. He spun round. The Viscountess stood before a small alcove next to the door, her face caked with white powder. She gestured with her cane for him to join her.

He edged towards her, eyeing the black stick nervously. What if he was wrong? What if she'd sent for him because she'd found out about Jago and wanted to give him a good whipping?

She stepped into the alcove and nodded at a large silver crucifix on a table set against the wall. ‘I have been praying.' She picked up a string of jet-black rosary beads from a glass dish and raised them to her lips. ‘It is only the Lord God who can help us at such times.' Her voice was quieter than before: cracked-sounding.

The hairs on Tom's neck prickled. A sudden surge of sourness hit the back of his throat. Something was wrong. He swallowed hard, trying to force the taste back down.

The Viscountess took a deep breath and fixed him with her flint-grey eyes. ‘There is news.'

‘Of Mother?'

‘No, boy. Your father.'

His heart jolted. ‘Where is he? Can I see him?'

The old woman shook her head. ‘I am afraid that will not be possible. He and the priest . . .' She ran the beads clicking between her fingers. ‘They are taken.'

A loud rushing noise filled his ears. ‘Wh-what do you mean, taken?'

Viscountess Montague gathered up the beads. Then turning back to the crucifix, she raised a bony hand and crossed herself. ‘Your father is in London, imprisoned in the Clink.'

Chapter Twelve

T
om's knees buckled beneath him. He fell against the table, head spinning. The crucifix wobbled then toppled and hit the floor with a clang.

A hand gripped his arm. ‘Sit.' The Viscountess steered him to her chair by the fireplace and pushed him down.

His fingers sank into the softness of the cushion beneath him, but it might as well have been a bed of nails. He slumped forwards and buried his head in his hands.
Please, God. Don't let it be him. Let it be someone else. Please!

‘Look at me boy.'

He raised his head. The Viscountess stood over him wearing the same grim look as before. A stab of pain shot up from the pit of his stomach and rippled through his chest. So it was true.

‘I – I want to see him.' He made to stand, but his legs were too shaky to hold him. He collapsed back in the chair.

The Viscountess sighed. ‘That is impossible. Your father is accused of treason and held on the orders of the King's chief minister and spymaster, Robert Cecil. He may receive no visitors before his trial.'

Hot tears scalded his cheeks. ‘It's my fault. It's all my fault.'

‘Your fault? How could it be?' Furrows appeared in the white powder covering her forehead.

‘I told the constable.'

‘Told him what?'

‘Which way . . .' He bit his lip to stop it from trembling. ‘Which way Father and the priest went.'

She shook her head. ‘That's as may be, but the truth is your father has brought this on himself. And with the King so stirred up on religious matters by Cecil, he is set to pay the highest price.'

His heart lurched. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Cecil hates all Catholics with a vengeance and has convinced the King we mean to kill him and put a Catholic king on the throne of England instead. There have been two plots against the King already, one hatched and led by priests. For anyone found harbouring a priest . . . and worse, a Jesuit, which this Father Oliver appears to be . . . the sentence can only ever be one thing.'

The floor began to sway. A black mist swirled up in front of him. He scrunched his eyes tight shut, but the mist seeped under his eyelids. It twisted and writhed into the shape of a man swinging from the end of a rope. Father . . .

‘No!' His eyes snapped open. But he knew what she said
was true. And now the worst had happened. He gave a low groan.

‘Let it be a lesson to you, boy. These are dangerous times. If you want to live through them, you must be cautious. You can never let your guard down.'

Her words spun around him like leaves in a storm. Lessons, caution. What did any of that matter when Father might hang?

‘But . . . can't my Uncle Montague help him?'

‘He has already secured your mother's freedom, thank the Lord. I believe she has been taken in by some friends of yours, the ones caring for your younger brother. But as for your father . . .' The Viscountess shook her head again. ‘My grandson would risk too much.'

‘Please . . .'

‘You must understand the world we Montagues live in.' Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

A ball of anger tore through Tom. He understood all right. A palace filled with gold and silver and a whole army of servants, but still they wouldn't lift a finger to save Father.

The Viscountess turned to the fireplace and prodded at the cold, grey ashes with her cane. ‘When our Protestant King came to the throne, he was well disposed to your uncle, in spite of their differences in matters of faith. But as every Catholic knows, he was persuaded by those who would destroy us to bring in new and harsher laws. Your uncle himself spent some time in prison for objecting to them until eventually, thank the Lord, the King agreed to his release. Now Cecil and his lackeys are sowing rumours
that Catholic plotters are seeking to make mischief again and relieve the King of his throne. If your uncle was seen to be pleading for the life of a suspected traitor at a time like this . . .'