Black Powder by Ally Sherrick Page A

shook his head and bit on his lip.
    â€˜What, then?’
    He slid his knees up and hugged them to his chest. ‘He’sin a place called the Clink.’
    The smuggler cocked an eyebrow. ‘Prison, eh? What’s his offence?’
    â€˜He sheltered a man who needed his help.’
    â€˜That is no sin.’ The smuggler frowned. ‘There must be more to it.’
    Tom pulled his cloak tight around him. The old Viscountess was right. He needed to be careful. What if this smuggler was a Catholic-hater too? He clamped his jaw tight shut.
    Rough fingers lifted Tom’s chin up. ‘Tell me.’ The smuggler’s grip was firm but there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes.
    His shoulders slumped. He was tired of trying to hide things. He opened his mouth and let the words spill out.
    â€˜The man was a priest. Father said he’d come in secret by ship from France.’
    â€˜A Jesuit . . . I see.’ The smuggler pursed his lips. The skin beneath his right eye jumped and twitched as though some creature was burrowing beneath it, trying to get out. ‘And how did he and your father meet?’
    â€˜By accident. Down at the harbour in Portsmouth. We live there. Father works for a merchant. The priest was sick. Father rescued him and brought him back home.’
    â€˜So what are you doing here at Cowdray?’
    His chest tightened. ‘Father tried to get the priest to safety. After they’d left, the constable and his men came for Mother, me and Ned – I mean Edward; he’s my little brother. The constable questioned us and threw Mother ingaol and . . .’ He shivered again at the memory of the treacherous words he’d spoken that had sealed his father’s fate. If he confessed the truth, the smuggler would surely run him through. Not just for being a spy and a Catholic, but a coward too.
    â€˜Go on, boy.’ The smuggler’s tone had changed, grown quieter, softer even. ‘I have no quarrel with papists.’
    Tom drew in a breath and carried on. ‘He . . . he let me and Edward go. Mother told me to come here and ask my uncle for help. Except . . .’ He curled up his fists. ‘Except, he’s away at court and the old lady, the Viscountess, is in charge.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜She’s arranged for Mother to be freed, but she won’t help Father.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜She says he’s shown poor judgement.’ He looked down and began picking at the knot on his bundle. The man might not hate Catholics, but it didn’t feel right to share his new-found family history with a stranger.
    The smuggler clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘The Viscountess was always a hard one.’
    â€˜You know her?’ Tom jerked his head up.
    The smuggler shifted on his haunches and grimaced. ‘I was once in the employ of the old Lord Montague, the present lord’s grandfather. I came here as a young man seeking to make my way in society by working for a noble family. But we didn’t . . . how shall I put it? Warm to each other. He dismissed me after a few months’ service. When he died, I returned for a while to work for your uncle. And after that’– his eyes took on a faraway look – ‘I followed a different path. But that’s another story.’ His gaze sharpened and focused back on Tom. ‘Well now, Master Spy, I find myself in a fix.’
    â€˜Wh-what do you mean, sir?’
    The smuggler flipped Tom’s knife in the air and caught it by the handle. ‘Your story sounds plausible enough. And the offer of payment for your freedom is an attractive one. But unless you happen to have some gold stashed in that pack of yours, I don’t see how you can keep to your side of the bargain.’
    Tom struggled to his knees. ‘But if you’ll just wait, I can go and get it.’
    â€˜From the Viscountess?’ The smuggler