Salvation Page 19

  Meg almost fell into her room and slammed and bolted the door. Outside, there was the sound of a scuffle then a series of thuds and a cry. The door latch rattled and a fist hammered on the wood. She sank to the floor and covered her face.

  At last the hammering stopped and there was silence for a few moments. Meg waited with her heart in her mouth then Ralph’s voice came through the door. ‘Hiding in there will do you no good. You’ll have to come out in the end, and when you do, I’ll be waiting.’

  In the silence that replaced the sound of his fading footsteps, she crawled onto the bed and pulled the covers around her. She was too exhausted to think about what she would do when she had to face the morning.

  *

  Grey light bathed the room when she awoke from the last of a series of fitful sleeps. No sound disturbed the silence. She was not sure how much time passed before she heard shuffling sounds in the corridor and a tentative knock at the door. She stiffened and did not answer; the knock came again.

  ‘Mistress? It’s me, William. Are you awake?

  Meg crept to the door and put her head to the wood. ‘Are you alone?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  She hesitated. What if he was lying and Ralph was waiting beside him? She pressed her ear to the door once more and listened intently.

  ‘A message came for him just before dawn,’ William said, ‘he went out and didn’t leave word when he’d be back. It’s the truth, as God’s my witness.’

  Meg pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her then opened the door a fraction. William really was alone. She let him into the room.

  ‘I’m not staying in this house,’ he said, ‘not after last night.’ He rubbed his shoulder. ‘He could have killed me, knocking me down the stairs like that. As it was I thought he’d broken my arm. I only took this job because he offered me good pay but he’s got the Devil’s temper and half the time I don’t get the pay he promised anyway.’ He reached out to touch her swollen cheek and she flinched. ‘You can come with me, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t know. . .’

  ‘You don’t want any more bruises on that pretty face of yours, do you?’

  Numbly, Meg shook her head.

  ‘We’d better be getting ready then. I’ll bring you your clothes from his room. Put whatever else you want to keep on the bed. I’ll bundle it up to take with my stuff. Not too much, mind, I’ll have to carry it.’

  Dressed, Meg came downstairs. She found William rifling through the drawers in Ralph’s study. He looked up with a frown. ‘They’re all empty - no money, no papers. I thought at least I’d find the wages he owes me. I’m going to have a look upstairs. You can go through in here again, in case I’ve missed something, but I don’t think I have.’

  Meg hesitated.

  ‘It wouldn’t be stealing if that’s what you’re afraid of. He owes me, I tell you.’

  Unwillingly, Meg started to search, but as William predicted, she found nothing. Then at the back of a dusty cupboard, she noticed a small, tarnished, brass box. Inside was a block of sealing wax and a ring. The ring was engraved with two letters: WK. From the traces of wax lodged in the letters’ grooves, it had been used as a seal. WK for William Kemp?

  William’s footsteps thumped down the stairs. Quickly, Meg slipped the ring into her bodice and hid the box in the cupboard again before he appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Nothing there either,’ he said crossly. ‘We may as well be off.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘My sister’s place, it’ll have to do for now.’

  *

  They left the city by a gate guarded by a forbidding, high-walled building. William told her it was Newgate prison. Further on they crossed a stone bridge over a sluggish, stinking river. The roads were slick with mud after the morning’s rain. Acutely conscious of her bruised, swollen face, Meg tried to hide it with the hood of her cloak.

  ‘That’s Lincoln’s Inn,’ William remarked as they passed a large group of buildings set in open fields. ‘My sister gets most of her customers from there. She’s a laundress. Lawyers need their linen washed like everyone else.’

  Soon they came to Holborn, where William’s sister lived. Her cottage, with its rough, lime-washed walls, was one of the larger ones in the village. It had several windows under its deeply overhanging thatched roof. ‘Peg’s done well for herself,’ William remarked as they approached.

  A young woman with chestnut hair came out of the door carrying a willow basket piled high with linen. ‘Hello William,’ she said cheerfully, ‘you’ve picked a fine day to come. Your sister’s done nothing but grouse all morning.’

  ‘What are you dawdling for, Susan?’ a voice shouted from inside the cottage.

  ‘It’s William,’ the girl called back.

  A short, stout woman appeared in the doorway. Grey haired with a grumpy expression, she looked much older than her brother. An apron covered her brown fustian dress and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing forearms like ninepins. She elbowed Susan aside.

  ‘So it’s you, is it,’ she scowled, ‘keeping this ninny talking when she’s work to do? Be off with you, Susan.’

  ‘All right – I’m going.’

  Peggoty looked Meg up and down. ‘Who might you be?’

  ‘This is a nice welcome and no mistake,’ William muttered.

  She swung round on him. ‘Who mashed up her face like that? You?’

  ‘Of course not, she fell,’ William replied testily.

  ‘Did she now? Well you’d better be telling the truth. If it was her husband, don’t think I’ll lie for you if he comes looking.’

  Meg winced.

  ‘So that fine master of yours gave you the sack, did he?’ Peggoty went on.

  ‘No, I sacked him.’ William rubbed his hands together and blew on them. ‘Now let us in, won’t you, Peg? It’s nippy out here.’

  Meg followed William inside, blinking at the haze of steam that filled the room. When her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she saw the steam came from several large copper pans heating over a fire. Sheets, pillowcases, shirts, shifts and stockings hung from lines strung around the room and there was a strong smell of soap and lye.

  ‘Well, I haven’t time to be bothering with you,’ Peggoty grumbled. ‘Look at all this work to be done. Too cold and wet these days to dry anything outside and the cottage gets damp as damp. I can’t bring in the wood for the fire fast enough and it takes twice as long to get the clean linen back to my customers. They kick up a right fuss, I can tell you.’

  ‘We only want to stay a few days, Peg,’ William broke in. ‘I’ll chop wood for you and Meg can help with the washing.’

  She snatched up Meg’s hands and inspected them. ‘These haven’t seen much work, I’ll be bound.’

  Meg lifted her chin. She was weary and despondent but Peggoty’s bad-tempered reception aroused some irritation in her. ‘More than you think,’ she replied.

  ‘I suppose you don’t look as if you eat much,’ Peggoty said grudgingly. ‘As long as it’s only for a few days, you can sleep with Susan. There’s straw and sacks in the outhouse, William. Make yourself a bed out there. And don’t you forget, when you find another job, I expect every penny you’ve cost me back.’

  William raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d have laid money on that.’

  She shook her fist at him. ‘And don’t think I’ll put up with any of your nonsense either. I’ve a living to earn just like anyone else.’

  17

  London

  July, 1587

  The muffled sounds of carriages rumbling by and hawkers crying their wares drifted up to Lamotte, sat opposite Walsingham in his study at Seething Lane. Walsingham took out a purse from his drawer and put it on the desk.

  ‘Husband it well. I hear Paris is an expensive city these days.’

  Lamotte took the purse with a feeling of reluctance. Many years had passed since he had last been in the city that was once his home. It
had been a troubling experience, unearthing memories he preferred not to disturb.

  ‘When do you want me to leave?’

  ‘By the end of the week.’

  This was a complication Lamotte had not expected, and he did not welcome it. This mission might last some time and he was due to take the company on a summer tour of the West Country soon. The country business had taken years to establish and he did not want to cancel the engagements. All the same, it was unwise to refuse Walsingham, particularly as Lamotte still hoped for his help with Tom. He would just have to get back as soon as he could and if necessary, send the others on ahead. He nodded.

  ‘The man you are to meet is a Genoese banker by the name of Riccardo Manfredi,’ Walsingham went on. ‘I have used his services for some time now but as always, take care.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘His business takes him to Spain as well as France and I understand he was in Cadiz in April when Drake struck. He should be able to give you an account of the tonnage and cargoes of enemy shipping sunk. I also want any information he has on the effect the losses have had on Spain’s plans. See to it you pay him well.’

  Ah, Lamotte thought, the purse was not only for him.

  Walsingham shuffled through his papers and Lamotte noticed the tremor in his gnarled, blue-veined hands. In spite of a blazing fire that made the room oppressively hot, he wore a robe of thick, black velvet. Above his crisply starched ruff his skin had a greyish hue. Finding the piece of paper he wanted, he passed it across the desk. It was a map of southern England, annotated in a spidery hand.

  ‘Details of some of our costal defences: I want you to memorise them. At some point in your conversations with Manfredi, when you think it will not arouse suspicion, mention them to him. The information is false, for example here,’ he pointed to a promontory, ‘and here,’ his finger moved on, ‘none of the guns listed actually exist, but I should like to set a little test for the signore. It is always interesting to find out where information comes to rest.’ He leant his elbows on his desk and pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Have you any questions?’

  Lamotte shook his head.

  ‘Good.’

  Lamotte stood up and took his leave. He was used to Walsingham’s habit of eschewing the pleasantries most people dealt in. In truth, it would be a relief to escape the stifling heat of the room.

  On the walk back to Throgmorton Street, he wondered whether in the early days of their acquaintance Walsingham had set traps for him too. Perhaps, he thought wryly, he still did. It was uncanny how, in spite of all the years he had served him, the workings of Walsingham’s mind remained unfathomable. Indeed, did anyone truly understand or come close to him? His wife, people said, was a severe, haughty woman and he did not have a courtier’s skills to make him a favourite at Court with the queen even though, if she were as wise as she was reputed to be, she must recognise the value of his loyalty and dedication.

  Lamotte sighed. Was his situation so very different? He could not think of a single person he was able to confide in completely. Increasingly, he found himself dwelling on how his life might have turned out if Amélie and the boy had not died. Jean would have been the same age as Tom. He hoped he would have had the same passion for the theatre as Tom did. When all was said and done, what was the use of building up a business if you had no one to leave it to?

  He turned a corner and a gust of wind buffeted him, nearly dislodging his hat. With a frown, he clapped it more firmly on his head. What a summer: it didn’t deserve the name. Already the Unicorn’s audiences showed signs of dwindling and who could blame them? If the bad weather went on much longer, profits were bound to suffer. It was another reason for keeping to the tour. Country folk had less entertainment available to them and tended to appreciate it more. Audiences were likely to be better there in spite of the weather.

  He turned his mind to what had to be done before his departure. It was not unknown for him to be absent from the Unicorn and the players would not be surprised if he claimed urgent business took him away for a while. If he prepared them for it, the seasoned players were capable of leading the tour without him for a short while if need be. More importantly, he must see Tom before he left and make sure he was provided for.

  He walked along Fenchurch Street too lost in thought to notice the tall, dark-haired woman in his path until he bumped into her. She glowered at him; he stepped back quickly and bowed.

  ‘A thousand apologies, madam, I hope my carelessness has not injured you?’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘No sir, but not for want of trying.’

  Lamotte suppressed a chuckle. ‘The streets are crowded today. May I escort you and your companion to your destination?’ He smiled at the pretty, fair-haired girl by the woman’s side and she blushed. The woman pursed her lips.

  ‘My maid and I can manage very well alone, thank you. Come, Bess.’

  As he watched them walk away, Lamotte shrugged. Some women were hard to please.

  *

  At Newgate the following day, he went to see the chief warder and paid the money he demanded for providing Tom’s food for the next few weeks. The fellow knew how to strike a hard bargain, Lamotte thought irritably as he left the lodge, but no doubt he was not the only one of his kind to profit from his position.

  By the time he reached the yard, a crowd of other visitors was already jostling for the places closest to the bars. It was drizzling and the smell of damp wool mingled with the odour of stale sweat. Elbowing his way to the front, he scanned the prisoners on the other side and, sighting Tom, shouted out his name but at first, the hubbub was too loud for him to hear. With disquiet, Lamotte observed how dejected and worn down he seemed, alone and gazing dully at the activity around him. It was hardly surprising. After almost a year of imprisonment, Newgate’s grim confines would test the strongest resolve.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted louder than before. This time Tom’s head went up. As he pushed his way to the bars, Lamotte braced himself for the disappointment that would inevitably show in Tom’s eyes when he had to tell him there was no news of a release. How he wished he had something more to offer him than the usual empty promises.

  He mustered a jovial smile. ‘Tom! Did you think I wasn’t coming?’ He grasped Tom’s hand through the bars and frowned. It felt like ice. ‘I gave the warders money for a warmer blanket for you last time I was here,’ he said. ‘Did you get it?’

  Tom nodded. ‘I’m very grateful.’

  ‘And your food? They haven’t tried to skimp on that?’

  ‘No. It’s just so damp and cold inside, even though it’s summer, but there’s nothing to be done about it.’ He looked crestfallen. ‘I suppose there’s no news?’

  ‘I regret not but we mustn’t give up hope.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Tom, I have to go away for a few weeks. After that I need to take the company to the country for the summer tour, but I shall visit you before I leave. For now, I’ve left money for your food and I’ll make sure you never go short.’

  ‘Will you go to Salisbury on the tour?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Lamotte saw the pain in Tom’s eyes. ‘Do you want me to see what I can find out about Meg?’

  ‘I know it’s no use,’ Tom said awkwardly, ‘but I would like to know if she’s well. She’s probably forgotten me by now,’ he added bitterly. ‘Better for her if she has.’ His head drooped and his next words seemed to be said half to himself, ‘But I think of her all the time.’

  A bell tolled and the warders on duty started to herd the prisoners towards the tunnel leading back to their cells. Not far from Tom and Lamotte, a young woman screamed as the man she had been talking to was roughly dragged into the line. Lamotte felt a stab of pity for her and for the grubby, bewildered little girl clinging to her skirts.

  ‘I have to go,’ Tom said as a warder approached them.

  ‘Have courage,’ Lamotte said quickly. ‘I promise I’ll do what I can to find out
about Meg.’

  Sadly, he watched Tom swallowed up in the mass of prisoners then, turning, he saw that the distressed young woman was still clinging to the bars, her shoulders heaving. He wondered whether he should try to comfort her but then a tall woman in a grey dress moved to her side. He stared in surprise: she was the woman he had encountered in Fenchurch Street, he was certain of it. She had the same dark complexion and patrician air, but now a kindly smile softened her strong features.

  For a moment, it occurred to him that he might speak to her but she was too occupied with the young woman and her child to notice him. The idea was a foolish one; dismissing it, he made his way to the gate and out into the street.

  18

  Two days later, Lamotte spurred his horse over London Bridge and set out for the coast. The mist lifted by the time he reached Blackheath and the road was busy. As always, hundreds of wagons and carts lumbered up to London from the countryside, laden with the timber, bricks and foodstuffs that the great city needed.

  There were wattle cages crammed with hens and ducks, herds of cattle and sheep and once, a great white sea of honking, hissing geese that made his horse shy and nearly collide with a passing cart. His horse almost unseated him again when a sudden hailstorm threw everything into confusion. It was a relief when evening came and he stopped at a wayside inn. There he ate supper and drank a quart of ale then retired to bed.

  The following day, orchards and market gardens gave way to rolling downs grazed by vast flocks of sheep. He had not slept well and the crack of whips and the curses and shouts of wagon drivers struggling to move their loads over the rough road made his head ache; dust caked his boots and irritated his eyes and throat.

  At Folkestone, he found a room at an inn near the port and sent his servant, James, who had ridden from London with him, to enquire when the next ship sailed for Calais. After ordering beef and beer, he settled down to wait for him to return.