Black Powder (4 page)

‘What do you mean?' He shook his head. She wasn't making any sense.

‘Open it to the first page.'

He did as she told him. Beneath the printed title someone had written a short neat inscription in black ink:
To my dearest sister, Anne, as a token of love on her birthday – Anthony M., Cowdray House, December 1588
.

His frown deepened.

She cleared her throat. ‘It was a gift. Your uncle gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. The day before I left my family home for good. It's him I want you to go to now.'

His eyes widened in amazement. ‘I've got an uncle? You never told me! Who is he? What's he like?'

His mother's cheeks flushed pink. ‘I know and I'm sorry. When I left Cowdray, I severed all ties with my family. I thought it best to put that part of my life behind me.'

Tom looked down at the inscription again. ‘But why? I don't understand.'

She furrowed her brow. ‘It's complicated. Now is not the time for explanations.'

‘But if you haven't seen him for all these years, how do you know he'll want to help us?'

‘I don't. But' – her eyes took on a faraway look – ‘I was always his favourite sister. He used to call me his own dear
Nan. I pray God that in spite of the trouble that has passed between us, he will take pity on us now.'

‘But even if he agrees, what can he do? Father's broken the law. If they catch him with the priest, they'll hang him for sure.' Tom chewed on his lip, trying desperately to stifle more tears.

His mother sat up straight and jutted out her chin. ‘Listen to me, Tom.' Her eyes shone back at him. ‘My brother Montague is a rich and powerful man. In spite of the fact he is a Catholic, the King still counts him a friend.'

Tom gasped. ‘The King?'

She nodded. ‘Your uncle is a nobleman. He moves in the highest circles. If anyone can save your father, he can.'

‘But—'

Footsteps echoed down the passageway outside. His mother looked quickly over her shoulder. ‘We're running out of time.'

Tom bit his lip. There was so much he wanted to ask her. But she was relying on him. He couldn't let her down. ‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Go to the Fosters. Jem Foster knows where Cowdray lies and his wife will look after Edward. They are good people and I'm sure when they hear what has befallen us, they will help. You know their house, down near the harbour?'

He nodded.

‘Good. Now, quickly.' She jerked her head at the prayer book. ‘Hide the book. Only bring it out again when you reach Cowdray and have found your uncle. If he doubts
your story, it will help prove to him that what you say is true.'

He slammed it shut and stuffed it inside his jerkin. A few moments later, Weasel Face burst into the room.

‘You've had yer chance for sweet farewells.' He grabbed Tom by the arm and pulled him towards the door.

‘Wait!' He yanked free and ran over to where Edward lay whimpering in his blanket on the floor. He gathered him up and glanced at his mother. ‘What if they hurt you?'

‘They won't. Not now that you've told them what they wanted to know . . .' A look of anguish flashed across her face.

Tom hung his head. She didn't need to say any more. In betraying Father, he had betrayed her too.

‘I'm sorry.' His mother's voice was gentle. ‘Do not blame yourself, Tom.' She fixed him with a burning blue gaze. ‘And remember, never give up hope. The path before you will be filled with many tests. But you are your father's son. Put courage in your heart and, with the good Lord's help, you will overcome them.' Her eyes glittered with tears. ‘Now' – she nodded at Edward – ‘take your brother and go.'

Chapter Six

W
hen Tom reached the Fosters' house and told them his story, they were shocked. Jem offered to take him to Cowdray the next day, but he couldn't afford to wait. Father was in danger
now
. There was only one thing to do: he would have to make the journey on his own.

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

T
he 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 street
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.'