Read Online Black Powder by Ally Sherrick - Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€˜Leave me alone!’ He shook her off.
    She sighed, then raised her fist to the door and gave a sharp rap.
    â€˜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 knowit 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.’
    â€˜Of Mother?’
    â€˜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!
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.