Black Powder by Ally Sherrick Page A

‘Mister who?’
    She rolled her eyes. ‘England’s greatest living playwright, of course. But this is nothing. The cellar is much better stocked when the lord my father is at home.’
    â€˜Why do you call him that?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The lord-my-father?’ He mimicked her voice.
    She blushed. ‘Because . . . because . . . it’s the proper thing to do.’
    â€˜The proper thing?’
    She poked her nose in the air. ‘I wouldn’t expect someone of your position to understand.’
    He scowled. These Montagues. They thought they were so much better than anyone else. He peered into the darkness beyond the shelves. ‘I thought you said there was another way out.’
    â€˜There is. Through a tunnel.’ Her eyes flashed in the candlelight.
    His breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t been expecting that. ‘A tunnel?’
    â€˜Yes.’ She sniffed. ‘It runs from here to the town. I’ve never been inside it myself, but . . .’
    â€˜So how do you know where it goes?’
    â€˜The townspeople who attend the Mass use it. It saves any embarrassment with the local constable.’
    Of course. It made perfect sense. It would be risking too much to have the common folk arrive for Mass on a Sunday at Cowdray’s front gate. He glanced around him. ‘So where’s the entrance?’
    Cressida pressed her lips together and frowned. ‘It’s here somewhere. I’m sure it won’t take too long to find.’ She turned and skipped her fingers daintily along a blank stretch of brickwork then stopped and pulled a face. ‘It really is horribly dirty down here.’ She dusted the front of her dress with her hand.
    He shook his head. This cousin of his, she wouldn’t last long in the world outside Cowdray’s grey walls. An image of Father bruised and bloodied and lying in a stinking gaolcell flashed before him. He shivered and blinked it away before it could take a stronger hold.
    They needed more light. Wedging the candle into a gap in the bricks, he fished inside his bundle for the one he’d taken from his room and lit that too.
    â€˜If the tunnel leads to the town, it’s more likely to be on this side.’ He ran the flame along the opposite wall, skimming the bricks with his left hand. Nothing there. He moved on past another shelf of wine barrels to the next clear space. His fingers brushed against something soft and sticky. He snatched them away and held them up to the candlelight. They were plastered in spiders’ webs, peppered with the husks of dead flies.
    A warm breath tickled the back of his neck. ‘What on earth is that?’
    â€˜A bit of Grimwold’s leftover breakfast.’ He wiped off the mess on the leg of his fancy breeches.
    She pulled another face, but this time, her eyes flickered with the trace of a smile.
    He was about to turn back to the wall when a scratching noise came from his bundle. Jago! Of course! He’d always had a good nose for escape.
    â€˜Take this!’ He thrust the candle at her.
    â€˜What are you doing?’
    He fished Jago out of his box and dropped him on to his upturned palm.
    She raised a hand to her mouth and took a step back. ‘Put that . . . that creature back in its box.’
    Ignoring her, he stroked Jago’s head and set him on thefloor at their feet. ‘Find me that tunnel entrance, boy, and when we get home, I’ll get you the biggest cheese you’ve ever seen.’
    The mouse gave a squeak and scampered off. Tom grabbed the candle from Cressida and hurried after him, tracking his every movement. Halfway along the next section of wall, Jago stopped. He twitched his nose and whiskers then squeezed himself flat against the dusty floor and disappeared.
    Cressida let out a cry and wrapped her skirts tight around her legs. ‘Where did he go?’
    Tom grimaced. ‘I