Black Powder (7 page)

Chapter Ten

Sunday 27 October

F
or 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.'

‘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.

‘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

T
he 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.