Salvation Page 2

  There was no shade at the table and the sun beat down on his head. He drank a cup of ale and then another. Adam grinned tipsily at him and threw an arm around his neck.

  ‘Yurr a goo’ fellow, Tom,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of pickled herring. His breath could have felled a horse but Tom returned a smile.

  ‘How do, Adam.’

  Adam swallowed his herring, wiped his greasy lips with his sleeve, and belched up a gust of vinegar and fish that made Tom gag.

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You gotta woman, Tom? I ain’t gotta woman.’ He stopped and blinked then belched again, his mouth wide, showing raw gums and brown, uneven teeth.

  ‘Maybe you should clean those teeth of yours for a start.’

  ‘Doan ’old with all that poking about with twigs, ’gainst nature.’

  ‘Only trying to help.’

  ‘E’en tha’ turd can get one.’ Adam scowled towards where Ralph sat with a buxom fair-haired girl on his knee. Around them, people whooped with laughter as he poured ale into her open mouth, spilling some of it down her neck then licking it off while she squealed with delight. With a stab of alarm, Tom recognised Bess, Meg’s maid. He’d never noticed her and Ralph together before.

  ‘How long’s that been going on?’

  Adam shrugged and winked. ‘Long enough for him to get wha’ ’e’s after, I’d say.’

  The eating and drinking lasted for several hours before the trumpets rang out once more. The party of notables on the dais stood up. Tom saw Meg put her hand on Edward Stuckton’s arm before he led her down the staircase. He bent to murmur something in her ear and she smiled. As she touched the pearls at her throat, Tom felt a violent stab of jealousy. He could not afford expensive trinkets for her. What were they talking of? Was she really so unhappy with Stuckton?

  Adam blundered to his feet. ‘Need a piss,’ he hiccupped.

  Guilt overcame Tom. How could he doubt Meg? He had so little to offer and she so much to lose, yet she risked it all to snatch their precious hours together.

  Wearily, he pointed Adam towards the trees. As he watched the groom go, he wondered whether it would be better to be like him and have no one rather than always be halfway between happiness and despair. A fog of misery engulfed him. Nothing had turned out as it should. He was meant to have been Meg’s husband, son to a prosperous guildsman, not a paltry clerk snatching hole-in-the-corner kisses.

  A small band of carpenters was already dismantling the dais. They soon had the wooden struts and planks repositioned to create a low, makeshift stage. Around two-thirds of its perimeter, they hammered long poles into the ground and hung lanterns from them, ready to be lit at dusk.

  Tom’s hands were clammy. Ever since he had heard that a visit from some London players was expected, he had been awaiting this moment. He had often taken part in the local theatricals, even written some of the speeches for them, but a performance by a company from one of the London theatres was altogether different. His hand went to the book tucked into the pouch at his belt. The leather felt dry to his touch. He closed his eyes and rehearsed the words of introduction he had wrestled with all week. He wished he felt more confident. If he did manage to speak to the man in charge of the company, he might only have a few moments to make a good impression.

  Adam had returned from the trees and now his face was resting on the table amid the dirty trenchers and cups. When Tom shook him, he lifted his head. His skin had a greenish pallor and there were scraps of food entangled in his beard.

  ‘No more ale for you, my friend,’ Tom said. ‘And you’re lucky old Kemp isn’t here to see you. He’d duck your head in the horse trough if he was, and no mistake. Still, you’ve time to sober up. Come on, let’s go and watch the play.’

  The shadows were lengthening across the meadow and the air had cooled. A tent stood at the back of the stage, the flap pinned back where the players would make their entrances and exits. First on was a wiry man in a jester’s yellow-and-red costume. He carried a staff tipped with silver bells. A few people had remained at the tables, guzzling the last of the food and drinking the dregs of the ale, but most of them crowded around the stage to see the fun. Tom saw Ralph Fiddler near the front, Bess hoisted on his back for a better view. Her skirts had ridden up, showing a glimpse of scarlet stockings. Tom recognised the stockings; he was sure they belonged to Meg. He wondered if she had noticed them too.

  When the jester’s jokes and capers were over, the play, Pyramus and Thisbe, commenced. Tom found himself as interested in the reactions of the onlookers as he was in the story, even though the play far exceeded anything Salisbury had to offer. How much he wanted to have this power to move people from laughter to tears, to hold them, even if only for an hour or two, in the palm of his hand.

  The play ended in tragedy – voices around Tom murmured that a tragic end was often best – and the crowd cheered as the hero and his beloved returned miraculously to life and took their bows. Tom’s pulse raced. This was his chance, there might not be another.

  ‘Where you going?’ Adam grasped his arm.

  ‘I need to talk to someone.’

  ‘Doan’ leave me.’

  Tom looked at his bloodshot eyes and swaying body. ‘I’ll walk back with you later. We’ll get you as far as that tree for now and you can wait for me there.’

  He half-dragged the protesting groom through the press of people and propped him up against an alder near the players’ tent. Adam’s head sagged on his chest and he started to snore. Tom straightened up and took a deep breath then walked the last few yards to where one of the players stood.

  ‘Your friend has had a good day, I see,’ the player remarked in an accent unfamiliar to Tom. He still wore the lion’s costume he had sported on stage but he had rubbed off half of the yellow greasepaint on his face, revealing an olive complexion. His wiry, dark hair was plastered to his skull in damp strands and there was a strong smell of sweat and alum about him. He wiped his forehead. ‘I sweat like a pig in this,’ he muttered.

  Tom stood clutching the commonplace book. His mind had suddenly emptied. The player shot him a quizzical look.

  ‘Is there something I can do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I was hoping to speak to the manager,’ Tom stammered, finding his voice.

  With a mock flourish, the player bowed. ‘You behold him: Alexandre Lamotte – proprietor and manager of the Unicorn.’

  A flush crept up Tom’s neck. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lamotte interrupted him with a chuckle. Then, seeing what was in Tom’s hand, he asked, ‘So, you have something to show me?’

  Awkwardly, Tom proffered the book. Lamotte took it, but as he scanned the opening pages, a frown came over his face. ‘Notes for a journey to buy cloth in Antwerp?’

  Tom wished the earth would swallow him. ‘Those are my father’s. My work comes after them.’

  Lamotte flipped over a few pages. ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘It’s a play, but I’m afraid it may not be much good,’ Tom ploughed on. His cheeks smarted.

  ‘Then we’ll say farewell and you can take it home with you,’ Lamotte shut the book and held it out.

  Tom’s spirits sank then he noticed the twinkle in Lamotte’s eyes.

  ‘You won’t have to be so serious if you want to get on in the theatre, lad, that’s the first lesson. By the way, do you have a name?’

  ‘Tom Goodluck, sir.’

  ‘And how old are you, Tom Goodluck?’

  ‘Nineteen, sir.’

  ‘Ah, to be so young again, the world yours for the taking,’ Lamotte shook his head and sighed. ‘But you haven’t come to listen to my meanderings. Give me a moment while I glance at your play.’

  He opened the book once more. Tom waited, watching his face intently, not daring to speak. His pulse raced. Perhaps this man was not going to dismiss him out of hand.

  ‘Perseus and Andromeda, eh?’ Lamotte s
aid when he reached the bottom of the first page. ‘Well, no one’s tried it yet, at least as far as I can recall, and it’s a good tale. There’d be a fair bit of skill and trickery needed though, have you thought of that? Your gentlemen writers can poetise to their ladies for pages on end, but if you want to pull in the audiences, you need to show them the action. I’ve been fifteen years in this business and I know what I’m talking about.’ He laughed. ‘If you’re to succeed, give audiences what they want, even if they don’t know at the time what that might be. A storm when Perseus sets off on his quest to destroy the Gorgon would be a better beginning than you’ve got here. A storm always pleases the groundlings – cannon and fireworks for the thunder and lightning – costly, but worth it.’

  He stroked his greasepaint-streaked beard. ‘I’d need to read more, of course, and I’d want to see plenty of drama – drama and horror,’ he rolled the words off his tongue with relish.

  He nodded to another player passing nearby. ‘There’d need to be some ugly mugs for the hags who show Perseus the way to the Gorgon’s lair, but that will not be hard in our company, we’ve plenty will suit.’ The other player grinned. ‘They could burst up from Hell in a flash of lightning,’ Lamotte went on. ‘That usually raises a gasp from the pit.’

  ‘From Hell?’ Tom asked, puzzled.

  ‘Through the trapdoor in the stage. You do have a lot to learn, don’t you? And Perseus will need his winged sandals to fly across Asia to rescue Andromeda. Do you intend to knit those?’

  Tom’s flush deepened. He should never have come after all.

  ‘Only a little pleasantry, you mustn’t take everything so to heart,’ Lamotte said more kindly. ‘Well, I’ll make you an offer. We stay here a few more days to play for the Countess of Pembroke. I’ll read the rest of your play and tell you what I think before we leave. Will that please you?’

  A surge of delight went through Tom. ‘More than I can say. Thank you a thousand times.’

  Lamotte grinned. ‘I’ve not given you my opinion yet. Save your thanks until I have. Come and see me the day after tomorrow. We lodge at the Blue Boar.’

  As Tom left the tent, his blood tingled. He found Adam still snoring under the alder tree and shook him. ‘Home now, if you can stand, that is. I’m not carrying you.’

  Adam coughed and spat out a gobbet of phlegm. ‘Awright, doan shout.’

  Tom sighed. It was going to be a long walk.

  They stumbled through the dark streets, Adam weighing down Tom’s shoulder. Long before they reached William Kemp’s house in New Street, his back ached. He dragged Adam the last few steps along the cobbled passage leading to the stables. In the stable yard they disturbed the household’s chickens, making them cluck and fuss about. The cockerel puffed up its wattle and made a run at them, but Tom aimed a kick in its direction and carried on to the outhouse behind the stables. There, with relief, he unloaded Adam onto his straw bed where he settled down to sleep at once.

  Tom rubbed his throbbing shoulder. Suddenly tiredness overwhelmed him. He thought of the night watchmen. Most of the revellers would have returned to their homes by now; he would be an object of suspicion and he did not care to be fined or beaten.

  He rolled Adam onto his side with his face pressed to the roughcast wall, and lay down beside him. Outside, the chickens were still agitated. Maybe a fox was about. With luck it would carry a few off and serve Kemp right. His nose wrinkled. Christ, Adam stank. In spite of that, he was soon asleep and dreaming of Meg.

  *

  At cockcrow, he woke with a start and sat up. Dry-mouthed and stiff, even the dim light in the outhouse made his eyes smart.

  Adam stirred. ‘Carn’ a man sleep in peace?’ he grumbled.

  ‘You can if you want but I’ve work to go to and I need something to eat first.’

  Outside, chilly tentacles of mist enveloped him. He had almost reached the shed where Kemp kept his pig for fattening when he heard something move. It didn’t sound like the pig shifting in its straw. Was it a fox, perhaps? No, foxes moved more stealthily than that. Disorientated by the mist, he froze when the sound came again, much closer this time. Too fast for him to resist, something coarse, scratchy and smelling of dung dropped over his head. Chaff filled his throat, choking him. With a bruising thud, he hit the ground; his lungs felt as if they would burst and pinpricks of scarlet light danced before his eyes. Pain seared his wrists and ankles as someone roped them.

  ‘That’ll hold you for a while,’ a familiar voice said.

  Tom struggled as he was dragged across the yard. Sharp flints ripped his shirt and cut into his flesh, but before long, the ground softened and something crackled beneath him. He must be on straw. The sack came off and he gulped air, starting off another fit of choking. Through his streaming eyes, he saw the sloe-black, button eyes of Kemp’s pig close by him. It squealed and backed away, then braced its legs and let out a stinking stream of piss. With difficulty, Tom jerked his head sideways to avoid it.

  ‘So, Tom Goodluck, how do you like your new bedfellow?’

  Ralph Fiddler.

  ‘Something in your throat, Tom?’ he asked silkily.

  ‘A drink, give me a drink,’ Tom wheezed.

  ‘You’re in luck. I know Adam’s secret.’ Ralph rifled through a pile of straw in a corner and produced a dusty bottle. He pulled out the cork and sniffed the contents.

  ‘Even Adam might not want this, but it won’t kill you.’

  He put the rim of the bottle to Tom’s lips. Tom spluttered as most of the liquid ran down his chin, but his coughing gradually subsided and he started to struggle again.

  Ralph tossed the bottle back into the straw. ‘I’d stop that if I were you. Waste of time fighting. I tie good knots.’ He bent down and grinned into Tom’s face. ‘Now what shall we talk about?’

  ‘Let me go, you bastard. I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  Ralph gave a nasty laugh. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find we have plenty to say to each other. I have your best interests at heart. You should listen if you care for your own hide,’ he lowered his voice, ‘and for sweet Mistress Stuckton’s.’

  Tom froze. Had Meg’s maid, Bess, suspected something and gossiped? He should have known there might be more than one reason why Ralph dallied with her.

  Ralph raised an eyebrow. ‘I see we understand each other.’

  ‘What do you want, Fiddler? If it’s money, you must know I don’t have any.’

  ‘No, not money.’

  ‘What then? If it’s sport you’re after, untie me and we can fight fair and square.’

  ‘And give up the advantage I’ve won? Do you take me for a fool?’

  ‘A fool would have more honour, you bastard.’

  ‘Curse me all you like, it will do you no good, but a civil tongue might.’

  ‘Ask for what you want. If it’s in my power, I’ll give it to you, then let there be an end to this.’

  ‘Yes it’s in your power.’ Ralph paused, smiling. ‘I want you gone.’

  Tom’s heart plummeted.

  Ralph squatted down and began to trace a pattern in the dust with his forefinger, then glancing at the cautiously advancing pig, picked up a stone and shied it at its glistening, pink snout. With an angry grunt, the animal retreated to the corner of the shed.

  ‘Forgive the interruption. The brute is fascinated by the misfortunes of others. Much like our own species, don’t you agree?’

  ‘What if I refuse?’

  ‘You’d be making a foolish mistake. What use would you be to Mistress Meg after Stuckton finished with you? Then there’s her fate. I wonder what he would do to her – beat her? Lock her up? That’s if he was merciful.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime,’ Ralph sneered. ‘You can take your grammar school learning with you and go to London to seek your fortune.’

  Tom groaned. There was no denying he had often dreamt of London, but always with the hazy idea that somehow, he woul
d take Meg with him. Then a flicker of hope stirred. If he pretended to agree, Ralph might lower his guard.

  ‘If you’re thinking of playing tricks,’ Ralph said, ‘I warn you there’s someone else who knows the same as I do about you and Mistress Stuckton. Even if you rid yourself of me, it will make no difference to your fates.’

  Tom watched Ralph’s eyes. Did he mean Bess, or was he bluffing? It was impossible to be sure.

  ‘Very well, I’ll go. But you must swear you’ll do her no harm afterwards.’

  Ralph gave a wolfish grin. ‘I’ll be gentle as a lamb.’

  ‘Touch her and I promise you, one day, I’ll be back to break every bone in your body.’

  ‘Only a jest. Edward Stuckton is too big a man for me.’ He glanced out at the mist drifting across the yard. ‘The sun will be up soon. Time we were away. I have your word you’ll go quietly?’

  Tom nodded, but it was a struggle to resist the urge to attack Ralph as he untied his bonds. Freed, he staggered up and they walked out into the dawn. Beyond New Street, the reek of the town ditch greeted them as they passed by. They skirted the deserted market place and went on towards the Winchester gate. A night watchman, yawning home to bed, gave them an incurious glance.

  At the gate, the porter had already opened the massive oak doors and gone back inside his lodge to warm himself by his fire. Ahead, the road snaked upwards to the sheep-scattered plain.

  Ralph stopped. ‘You can go on alone from here.’ He tossed a small purse at Tom and it fell to the ground. Tom stooped to pick it up. Inside he found a handful of coins – enough for a few days’ food.

  ‘I suppose you expect thanks?’