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  Salvation

  Harriet Steel

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © Harriet Steel 2013

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be sold, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without her prior written consent, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Acknowledgments

  I am most grateful to Jonathan Wadman for his excellent editing and to Jane Dixon Smith for designing such a striking cover. My thanks also go to everyone who read and commented on the drafts of this novel, above all to my husband, Roger, whose patient advice and support has, as always, been invaluable.

  Historical Note

  In the 1580’s, most London theatres were situated north of the Thames at Shoreditch. It was not until 1599 that the most famous of them all, the Globe, was built to the south at Bankside. This was also where London’s bear pit was located but for the purposes of my story, I have changed its location to the north.

  1

  Salisbury

  April, 1586

  A fox’s bark disturbed the silence. Tom woke and tensed, then the raucous cry came again and, recognising it, he breathed easily. Dim moonlight filtered around the edges of the bedchamber’s brocade curtains. He rolled over and propped himself on one elbow to look at Meg. Her glossy hair was a dark river against the lace-edged pillow. He reached out and caressed her shoulder. Startled awake, she turned.

  ‘Tom? What is it? Did you hear something?’

  ‘Only a fox.’

  He drew her into his arms and she laid her head on his chest.

  ‘What were you thinking about?’ she whispered.

  ‘How beautiful you are.’

  ‘Flatterer.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  She pinched his ear. ‘Show me.’

  He sighed. ‘Again?’

  She stroked his thigh and giggled. ‘Too hot for you, am I, boy?’

  His arms tightened around her. ‘No, and don’t you forget I’m older than you, madam.’

  She pouted. ‘Only a year.’

  ‘And a hundred years wiser. Now stop talking.’

  His lips traced a line of kisses from the hollow at the base of her throat to her belly. She closed her eyes. ‘I love you,’ she murmured.

  ‘I love you too.’

  Later, she lay in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Mmn?’

  ‘What are we to do?’

  An ache tightened his chest. ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Edward will come back this afternoon and I don’t know how long it will be before he sleeps away from home again. The days aren’t safe with all the servants about.’

  ‘Can’t we meet somewhere else?’

  ‘You’d have me up against a tavern door like a town drab, I suppose, or behind a tree in the woods?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  Her expression softened. ‘I know. But even if you did, it would be far, far better than doing it with Edward. He makes me feel like a cow serviced by a bull.’

  ‘If he dares hurt you I’ll—’

  Meg put a hand over his mouth. ‘Hush, not so loud. Someone will hear.’

  She scrambled off the bed, went to the window and pushed one of the curtains aside. The sky was the colour of pearl.

  ‘I shouldn’t have let you stay so late; the maids will be up and about any minute.’

  She snatched up her nightgown and pulled it on while Tom rummaged through the discarded clothes on the floor. He fumbled to fasten his breeches and her fingers pushed his aside. ‘Here, let me, you’re too slow.’

  ‘I’m going as fast as I can.’ He tugged his cambric shirt over his head, put on his doublet and buckled his belt. As he reached for his boots, his hands were slippery with sweat and his fingers marked the tan leather.

  ‘Your hose, you’ve forgotten your hose. For mercy’s sake take them with you. Bess will know they’d never stretch around Edward’s fat calves.’

  He bundled the rough woollen hose down the front of his doublet then thrust his bare feet into his boots. ‘I’m ready. Kiss me.’

  His lips met hers. They were soft and warm, but he must not delay, even for a moment. He squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’ll think of something, I promise.’

  He clambered over the window sill and jumped onto the roof of the side door porch below. His landing was clumsy and, brittle from last winter’s frosts, a tile broke with a crack. To his ears, it sounded like a musket shot in the quiet of dawn. He froze and scanned the house. Was guilt making his imagination too lively, or did something move behind one of the windows? He must not risk staying so late again.

  The drop to the grass was a longer one, eight feet perhaps. This time he stumbled and fell, his left foot buckling beneath his weight. He cursed under his breath. A moment wasted. If he was caught, it would mean disaster for them both. He hauled himself up then gasped as a stab of pain went through his ankle. A wave of nausea made him dizzy and he had to fight it down. Teeth gritted, he took the first step and hobbled away into the shadow of the trees.

  *

  A week later, Tom sat in the back room of Lawyer Kemp’s house in New Street. He flexed his foot and winced; his ankle was still swollen and he had to force his boot on in the mornings, but it was nothing compared to the pain of missing Meg. He had gone to the oak tree at the edge of the Stuckton property where they left messages for each other, but there had been nothing. Perhaps after their narrow escape she was afraid to leave the house alone and arouse suspicion. The prospect of not seeing her, possibly for weeks, made his heart ache.

  Gloomily, he studied the motes of dust floating in the sunshine that penetrated the high window. A couple of feet away, his fellow clerk, Ralph Fiddler, five years his senior, hunched over his work, his face half hidden by his black hair. Only the scratch of his quill on the parchment disturbed the silence.

  With a sigh, Tom turned back to the document he was supposed to be preparing. It was an indenture for the sale of old John Barton’s farm to Meg’s husband, Edward Stuckton. Since Barton fell on hard times, the house and buildings had become derelict, but the land was fertile and well watered.

  Stuckton’s face swam into Tom’s mind. It wore the hard, self-confident expression of a successful man with a keen eye for a bargain. He had recognised old Barton was desperate enough to sell cheaply and this farm was ripe for adding to his already extensive holdings. Tom jabbed his quill into the inkhorn, remembering Stuckton’s purchase of his own father’s business. My poor father was no match for the rogue, he thought grimly. Stuckton may not have been the author of Father’s misfortunes, but he was swift to profit from them.

  His thoughts went back to the happy times before his family’s fortunes declined. His family and Meg’s had been equals; he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known her. In childhood, they often played together. He smiled as he remembered the looks of concentration when she had wanted so desperately to beat him in some children’s game of counters of dice. Once she had escaped her nurse and run off into the woods with him. Her fierce determination as she inched herself up a tree they had climbed, refusing to be deterred by her cumbersome skirts, was so much a part of her. Her mother had punished her later for her scraped, muddy hands and torn dress, but Meg had sworn she would do it all over again if she had the chance.

  The happy memories faded and he shivered. Look at us now, he reflected. The old doubts assailed him. Were the dangers they ran too great? Should he break off their affair for Meg
’s sake? For sure, she would be safer without him.

  A sudden jog to his elbow took him unawares and the ink from the full quill splattered over the indenture. Ralph leant across. ‘That’ll have to be done again and Kemp’ll leather you for the waste of ink.’

  Tom scowled. Ralph never made any secret of his dislike of him. He was several years Tom’s senior but Lawyer Kemp paid him very little more. The fact that Kemp justified this by pointing out Tom was better educated did not help.

  ‘Never mind,’ Ralph went on with a sneer. ‘I’m sure a certain mistress will kiss the weals better for you.’

  Tom’s heart missed a beat. Had the bastard found out about Meg? ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he shrugged, ‘but I’m sure no woman in possession of her wits would do as much for your sorry arse.’

  His lip curling, Ralph jumped to his feet. Tom cursed himself for rising to the jibe. He dodged the first blow but was not fast enough to prevent Ralph’s arm from encircling his neck. He gasped and, lashing out with his foot, felt his sore ankle burn as his boot struck Ralph’s shin. With a howl, Ralph slackened his grip for a moment. Tom seized his chance and broke free, landing a punch in his stomach.

  Ralph doubled over, his face flushed and streaming with sweat. He licked his lips. ‘Christ’s blood, you’ll pay for that,’ he muttered. Head down like a bull, he charged. The table shook as Tom’s feet left the floor and he crashed backwards. Quills and documents scattered and the inkhorn toppled. The oily smell of the spilt ink filled his nostrils. He tried to shield his face as Ralph’s fist smashed into it.

  ‘Is this what I pay you for?’ a voice rapped. William Kemp stood in the doorway, his beady eyes gleaming behind his horn-rimmed spectacles as he surveyed the pool of ink dripping onto the floor, the ruined indenture and the upended chairs.

  ‘Master—’

  Kemp raised his hand to cut Ralph short. ‘I don’t want to know who started this disgraceful affair. Goodluck, I’m taking two days from your pay. Two and a half from yours, Fiddler. As the elder of the pair of you, I expect you to set a good example. Look to it. Your work alone does not put you ahead of Tom.’

  Ralph studied the floor as if in meek apology but Tom was close enough to see the glance of pure hatred he flashed in his direction: another nail in the coffin.

  ‘I trust I’ll hear no more of this,’ Kemp said coldly. ‘Now get back to your work.’

  *

  At his lodgings over the bakery in Oatmeal Row, Tom sat at the rickety table he used as a desk. His eyes smarted. It was nearly dawn and he had been trying to write for most of the night. With a grimace, he wished he didn’t have to work this way. He was too tired to think properly. When he had first dreamt of making a living from writing plays, he hadn’t expected to have to spend his days copying out dusty legal documents as well.

  Carefully, he closed the book he had been writing in. It had been his father’s commonplace book and the cracked spine was fragile and the leather cover faded. The auctioneer at the sale of his father’s personal possessions had deemed it worth very little but to Tom it was precious. There should be enough blank pages left in it for him to write out his play.

  His fingers explored the skin around his left eye. The place was still puffy and throbbing from Ralph’s blow. Tom sighed. When he had chosen the story of Perseus and Andromeda as the theme for his play, it had seemed so fitting. The predicament of the mythical Perseus, deprived of his inheritance and cast out to live by his wits, was not so very different from his own. But yesterday’s fight with Ralph brought home one very important difference: Perseus was a demi-god who won his battles.

  He pushed a lock of his light-brown hair out of his eyes. The play was almost finished, but did it have any merit? Was he a fool to dream anyone would perform it? If he was, months of work had been wasted. It would never make him the fortune he needed if he was to rescue Meg. Even then, escaping together would not be easy. Stuckton was an influential man in the city.

  With a yawn, he stretched his long legs. Self-pity would not help him. He had promised Meg he would think of a way out and he must not fail her. His father had sometimes returned from his business travels with tales of men who had crossed oceans and discovered new lands. If such stories were true, there must be some far corner of the world where Edward Stuckton could not follow them.

  He blew out his candle and went to the window; there were streaks of red in the eastern sky. He was about to turn away when he noticed a small colony of ladybirds in the crevice between the window frame and the wall. He poked them with his forefinger and they scurried about in alarm. Did they have thoughts, as people did, he wondered, or did they simply eat, breed and then die? Perhaps he seemed like a god to them, destroying their little world for sport.

  The voices of early customers floated up from the baker’s shop below. Tom’s mouth watered at the aroma of fresh bread. He picked up his cap and went downstairs, ducking to avoid the low beam at the bottom.

  In the kitchen, the baker’s wife looked up from stirring the big, iron pot hung over the fire. Her face was red and shiny. She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re supposed to open doors before you walk through them, y’know.’

  ‘I’ll remember next time.’

  ‘Who hit you then? That eye has more red in it than a shepherd’s warning.’

  ‘Ralph.’

  The baker’s wife shook her head. ‘You don’t learn, do you? He sounds like a nasty brute. Better to keep out of his way.’

  ‘It’s hard when we share a room the size of a privy.’

  ‘A good-looking lad like you should find a nice girl and settle down, not spend your time brawling.’

  ‘I would, but you won’t have me.’

  She laughed. ‘Keep your pretty compliments for your sweetheart when you find her. Here, you can have some of this porridge if you want. Bring me a bowl and spoon.’ She nodded in the direction of the oak dresser. Tom held out the bowl while she ladled in a dollop, then he sat down to eat on the stool near the hearth.

  ‘The food of the gods,’ he said, in between mouthfuls. ‘No one makes porridge like you, Mary.’

  She put down her wooden spoon and poured him a cup of small beer from a glazed earthenware jug. ‘What are you after then?’

  ‘Kemp stopped some of my wages.’

  ‘Mean old bugger. So you’re short for the rent, I suppose?’

  He nodded reluctantly. ‘I can pay almost three-quarters.’

  ‘And you want me to talk His Highness into waiting for the rest?’

  ‘I’ll get up an hour earlier and chop wood for the ovens if he wants.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Maybe I’ll ask him.’

  He put an arm around her waist and planted a kiss on her moist cheek. ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘I only said maybe,’ she chuckled. ‘Now be off with you, I’ve work to do.’

  *

  The following week, May Day dawned bright and clear. By the time the sun reached its zenith, the Salisbury guildsmen and their wives sweated in their fur-trimmed robes and silk and velvet gowns.

  The young men and girls of the city had spent all morning winding the maypole with coloured ribbons and fixing on bunches of spring flowers and herbs. A great roar went up when the pole arrived at the water meadows on the city’s edge, carried on a cart belonging to Edward Stuckton. It was drawn by ten oxen, the tips of their horns decorated with nosegays of clove-scented pinks, buttercups and daisies.

  The girls stood back and shouted encouragement while the men eased the pole off the cart and hauled it up into position, securing it with long ropes. Before long, it towered over everyone, flags and ribbons fluttering from its top and the men’s faces were flushed and streaming.

  Tom joined the group herding the oxen back to their fields. He had no heart for jollity and the smiles of the girls he passed were wasted on him. He flicked the rump of the reluctant beast he walked behind with his birch switch and glanced sideways at the canopied dais where Meg sat with her husb
and and the other guildsmen and their wives. His heart lurched at the sight of her. Dressed in a green silk gown, with her dark hair coiled up in a net of gold thread, she was surely the loveliest woman there.

  Her father, Henry Bailey, was deep in conversation with Edward Stuckton, while her mother, Anne, gossiped with the other wives. Tom grimaced. In the old days, his parents would have taken their place alongside the Baileys on the dais, his father a respected guildsman, his mother as finely dressed as any of the other ladies.

  He remembered how his father had liked to joke about Henry Bailey, who was a grumpy, pompous little man. His mother had been kinder about Anne Bailey. ‘It’s no wonder she often looks cross,’ she would say, wagging an admonishing finger at Tom’s father. ‘If you found fault with everything as Henry Bailey does, I would be cross too. Poor Anne holds her tongue and studies her rings, but I don’t know how she finds the patience.’

  Tom smiled at the memory of his mother’s innocent sympathy. According to Meg, her mother’s patience soon vanished when the Baileys had no company.

  ‘Am I worth it?’ Meg once asked. ‘Do you really want to marry into such a family for my sake? Our house is like a bear pit sometimes.’

  But she already knew the answer. For her he would have joyfully embraced even Nero and Messalina as in-laws.

  He looked again at Anne Bailey. Above her pristine ruff, her face was coated with too much white lead and rouge and her eyes were sharp. It was hard to feel sorry for her, particularly when she had made it abundantly clear he was no longer welcome in her house.

  By the time the oxen were peacefully grazing and he returned to the fair, the feast was about to begin. A small band of musicians played on trumpets and sackbuts as a roasted suckling pig was carried to the top table, apples stuffed between its gaping jaws and its crisp, brown skin shining from a basting of honey and butter. The smell of rich meat made Tom’s stomach groan with hunger. He had not been able to afford any extra food all week and seven days of living on Mary’s porridge and William Kemp’s meagre midday allowance of bread and cheese certainly sharpened the appetite. He found a place beside Kemp’s groom, Adam, and helped himself to a large piece of pie filled with mutton, garlic and leeks. It tasted like heaven.