Black Powder Read Online Free Page B

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 tohis 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 atavern 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.
    â€˜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.