Your father is accused of treason and held on the orders of the Kingâs chief minister and spymaster, Robert Cecil. He may receive no visitors before his trial.â
Hot tears scalded his cheeks. âItâs my fault. Itâs all my fault.â
âYour fault? How could it be?â Furrows appeared in the white powder covering her forehead.
âI told the constable.â
âTold him what?â
âWhich way . . .â He bit his lip to stop it from trembling. âWhich way Father and the priest went.â
She shook her head. âThatâs as may be, but the truth is your father has brought this on himself. And with the King so stirred up on religious matters by Cecil, he is set to pay the highest price.â
His heart lurched. âWhat do you mean?â
âCecil hates all Catholics with a vengeance and has convinced the King we mean to kill him and put a Catholic king on the throne of England instead. There have been two plots against the King already, one hatched and led by priests. For anyone found harbouring a priest . . . and worse, a Jesuit, which this Father Oliver appears to be . . . the sentence can only ever be one thing.â
The floor began to sway. A black mist swirled up in front of him. He scrunched his eyes tight shut, but the mist seeped under his eyelids. It twisted and writhed into the shape of a man swinging from the end of a rope. Father . . .
âNo!â His eyes snapped open. But he knew what she saidwas true. And now the worst had happened. He gave a low groan.
âLet it be a lesson to you, boy. These are dangerous times. If you want to live through them, you must be cautious. You can never let your guard down.â
Her words spun around him like leaves in a storm. Lessons, caution. What did any of that matter when Father might hang?
âBut . . . canât my Uncle Montague help him?â
âHe has already secured your motherâs freedom, thank the Lord. I believe she has been taken in by some friends of yours, the ones caring for your younger brother. But as for your father . . .â The Viscountess shook her head again. âMy grandson would risk too much.â
âPlease . . .â
âYou must understand the world we Montagues live in.â Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
A ball of anger tore through Tom. He understood all right. A palace filled with gold and silver and a whole army of servants, but still they wouldnât lift a finger to save Father.
The Viscountess turned to the fireplace and prodded at the cold, grey ashes with her cane. âWhen our Protestant King came to the throne, he was well disposed to your uncle, in spite of their differences in matters of faith. But as every Catholic knows, he was persuaded by those who would destroy us to bring in new and harsher laws. Your uncle himself spent some time in prison for objecting to them until eventually, thank the Lord, the King agreed to his release. Now Cecil and his lackeys are sowing rumoursthat Catholic plotters are seeking to make mischief again and relieve the King of his throne. If your uncle was seen to be pleading for the life of a suspected traitor at a time like this . . .â
âTraitor?â Tom leapt to his feet. âBut heâs not! He was just trying to help the priest find the right road. And what about Father Chasuble? Heâs a priest. So if Fatherâs a traitor, that must make you one too.â
The Viscountessâs back stiffened. She swung round and fixed him with dagger-sharp eyes. âHow dare you!â
âItâs true though, isnât it?â He glared back at her.
âSilence!â She raised a hand. âI will suffer no more of your insolence. You should be grateful we have given you shelter.â
Grateful? He snorted. That was the last thing he felt. âI hate it here. Iâm leaving.â He
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