Salvation Page 24

  ‘Then why don’t you join up and show them how it’s done?’ Susan asked slyly but he ignored her.

  Meg stayed quiet. She had seen enough of violence with Ralph and she remembered Edward and her father exchanging gruesome tales of how the Spanish dealt with their defeated enemies in the Low Countries. Her mind went back to Tom’s play and the story he chose: the myth of how through his courage and guile, Perseus killed the snake-headed Gorgon when all others had failed. Who would be England’s Perseus now?

  On his way out to collect more logs, William stopped and sneaked his arm around her waist. He glanced up to be sure the others were not watching then squeezed her breast. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he murmured. ‘If you’re a good girl, I’ll take care of you.’

  ‘William!’

  The colour rushed into Meg’s face as she saw Peggoty staring at them.

  ‘You get about your work,’ she scowled.

  William sauntered out and Peggoty turned her scornful expression on Meg. ‘As for you, there’s a place for girls who let a man carry on like that and it’s not in a God-fearing house, don’t you forget it.’

  The unfairness of her remark took Meg’s breath away but she knew that with Peggoty, it was no use protesting. Silently, she unpacked her basket and got to work.

  *

  When she next had an afternoon off, Meg walked back to Shoreditch alone but the Unicorn was still closed. Feeling forlorn, she knocked on the big wooden doors, hoping against hope someone would answer but no one came. The hog roast seller was nowhere to be seen so she went round and spoke to the stallholders set up near the Curtain and the Theatre, but none of them seemed to know when the Unicorn was due to reopen.

  She trudged despondently back to the city and by the time she reached the Royal Exchange, grey clouds filled the sky. A steady drizzle dampened her rough wool cloak and soaked her thin shoes. The grand shops Susan had been so excited about were shutting for the night and with dismay, she realised it was later than she had thought. Quickening her step, she arrived at Newgate as the daylight faded to find she had to fight her way through the carts and travellers wanting to come into London before the gates closed.

  In Holborn, very few of the houses and cottages had lights in their windows. To save candles, most people went to bed at dusk and rose at dawn. She passed the alehouse and a black mongrel scavenging in the midden outside lifted its head and growled at her. The door opened and a man rolled out into the street.

  With a start, she saw it was William. Her hood pulled across her face, she hurried on but she had not gone far before he caught up with her. ‘Where’ve you been, then?’ he asked. ‘It’s a bit late for Peg’s errands, isn’t it?’

  Meg walked faster. ‘Just to look at the shops again,’ she lied.

  ‘What? On your own?’

  He grabbed her by the waist and nuzzled her neck.

  ‘If you make it worth my while, I’ll buy you lots of pretty things when I get Peg’s money out of her. The poisonous old witch can’t go on forever.’

  She squirmed free. ‘Leave me alone, William.’

  ‘You know you don’t want me to.’

  A gust of beery breath wafted in her direction as he made another lunge for her but, evading him, she picked up her skirts and ran the last of the way to the cottage. There were no lights in the windows and the front door was locked so she ran around to the back. The latch rattled under her shaking fingers. Inside the cottage, her heart still pounding, she ran upstairs. In the bedroom she shared with Susan, she stripped off her wet clothes and started to rub her hair dry with a piece of old linen. If only it was as easy to rub out the memory of William’s groping hands.

  Susan yawned. ‘You look a sight,’ she remarked.

  ‘I went to Shoreditch. William saw me on the way home and I had to run away from him.’

  ‘Did you now,’ Susan chuckled.

  ‘It’s not funny. I just want him to leave me alone.’

  ‘So did you go to look for that Tom you told me about?’ Susan asked, ignoring her objection.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you find him?’

  ‘No,’ Meg sighed.

  ‘Well if I were you, I’d forget him. You can’t go mooning after a man forever. He’s probably found someone else anyway.’

  Meg’s throat tightened. ‘You don’t understand. He wouldn’t do that. He loves me.’

  Susan shrugged. ‘That’s what they all say, but until you’ve been to church, you can’t trust ’em. Even my Alfred needs watching.’ She snuggled down under the covers. ‘Blow the candle out, will you, before you get in?’

  In bed, Meg lay awake listening to Susan’s rhythmic breathing and the soft patter of rain on the roof. Peggoty’s familiar snores reverberated through the thin wall dividing the two rooms. Miserably, Meg wondered whether Susan’s way of looking at things was the right one. It would explain why there had been no message from Tom in all the months he had been gone. The blood ebbed from her heart. Perhaps he did not want to be found. She had never contemplated the possibility before but had she been a fool not to?

  A wave of wretchedness broke over her; it was a while before her resolve returned. She must not give up hope. There was still this Master Lamotte to find. Perhaps he would know where Tom was. Whatever anyone said, until she heard it from his own lips, she would not believe he no longer loved her.

  23

  London

  Late October, 1587

  The stallholders at Leadenhall Market were doing a brisk trade when Lamotte passed through on his way to Angel Lane. At a haberdasher’s stall he bought scarlet and yellow ribbons for Bel and Janey then went into the cook shop next door to get sweets for Jack and Hal.

  ‘Master Lamotte!’ Janey met him at the top of the lane, Hal on her hip and a basket of bread over her arm.

  ‘How are you, Janey?’

  ‘Not so bad.’

  ‘Forgive me for not coming sooner. We’ve not long been back from the West Country.’ He took Hal’s plump hand. ‘And what about this little fellow?’

  ‘Poor little mite’s got a tooth coming. Bel’s tried giving him a rag soaked in the brandy you brought us but he still has us all awake in the night.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. Is Jack at home?’

  ‘He and Bel went to the river to catch eels. They won’t be back till dark, but will you come in?’

  ‘Only for a moment, then I need to go to the theatre. I just wanted to be sure the four of you were all right.’

  Inside, Janey set down her basket on the table. Hal wriggled out of her arms and crawled towards the hearth. ‘Likes to play with the poker, he does,’ Janey sighed. ‘If I’ve told him off once, I’ve told him off a hundred times.’

  Lamotte fished out the packages, unwrapped one and broke off a piece of marzipan. ‘Have this instead, Hal.’ He put the packages on the table. ‘The rest of the sweets are for Jack and the ribbons are for you and Bel,’ he said.

  ‘You’re very good to us,’ Janey smiled.

  ‘It gives me pleasure.’

  Contentedly sucking his sweet, Hal sat on the clean, rush-strewn floor. Lamotte ruffled his fair curls.

  ‘Are you all right for money, Janey?’

  She nodded. ‘Bel helps me with the sewing, and sometimes Jack gets work holding the horses outside the Curtain and running errands.’

  ‘I hope we won’t lose him for good.’

  Janey shook her head. ‘No chance of that.’

  ‘Then tell him we open in a few days.’

  ‘Master Lamotte,’ her expression was troubled. ‘Jack went to Newgate a few days ago to see Tom and there was no sign of him. The warders wouldn’t tell Jack anything. Tom’s not ill, is he?’

  ‘No, he’s not ill, he’s been moved to another prison, but you mustn’t worry, it may be all to the good – although that’s not for anyone else’s ears but your own.’

  Janey’s face lit up. ‘Do you mean they’ll let him go?’

  ‘It m
ay not be as simple as that,’ he saw her face fall again, ‘but he may be safer than he was in Newgate.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘As soon as I can tell you more, I promise I will.’ He stood up. ‘Now I must go. Don’t forget to tell Jack.’

  She frowned. ‘Master Lamotte, nothing bad’s going to happen to Tom, is it?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  As he walked up to Shoreditch, though, Lamotte could not banish a feeling of unease. How easy would it really be to rescue Tom? Walsingham always played a close game. Was the scheme simply his way of disposing of an inconvenient problem? Perhaps in Wisbech Tom would be no better off.

  In Shoreditch, laughter and clapping drifted from the Curtain. They were lucky to have Tarlton to help fill the house. If only there were more like him to go round.

  When he unlocked the Unicorn’s gates and went in, he saw the place with a more critical eye after the weeks away. Much of the scarlet and yellow paint had peeled from the stage columns and there was plenty of dirt and bird lime needing to be scrubbed off everything. Dust and mouse droppings lay under the benches and the galleries had a musty odour. The theatre needed a new cat. Much of the wood the carpenters had used last year had warped and shrunk already so that would need attending to as well. He grimaced. Baltic timber: it was no substitute for good English oak. Still it was better the oak went to build Her Majesty’s ships than to support wealthy burghers’ backsides.

  He sighed. In past years, the prospect of the new season had always excited him. What was different about this one? Had the dismal summer oppressed his spirits, or was it the fear of old age with all its indignities?

  Backstage, he unlocked the store where the props were kept: tin crowns, swords, daggers, breastplates and plumed helmets; a ship six feet long made of wood and paper; animal costumes and a bear’s skull. At least they were all serviceable. Tomorrow, he would hire a few men to spruce the place up and call in the players to make a start on rehearsals.

  He locked up and left the theatre. Outside, food sellers waited at their stalls for the Curtain’s performance to end, but there were fewer of them than usual. Lamotte strolled over to a pieman he knew and greeted him.

  ‘A good house in there today,’ the man remarked. ‘But business could be better. Some fellows have gone south of the river to try their luck at the Rose.’

  ‘We open next week,’ Lamotte said through a mouthful of pie. ‘Things will look up then.’

  At home, he ate a cold capon for his supper and drank a bottle of claret then settled down in his chair by the fireside to go over his plans. The familiar aromas of old leather and tobacco soothed him. Drowsy with wine and the warmth of the fire, he let the papers in his lap slide to the floor and closed his eyes.

  When he woke, the candle’s charred wick floated in a pool of wax and daylight lit the room. All that remained of the fire was a heap of ash and he was stiff and cold. Testily, he wondered why no one had roused him and helped him to bed but perhaps he should not complain. The servants were too much accustomed to his bachelor habits.

  He stood up and rang the bell. ‘Get my breakfast and relight this fire,’ he said when his servant, James, appeared.

  ‘Yes, master.’ He looked slightly sheepish.

  After he had gone, Lamotte scooped his papers from the floor, dumped them on his desk and sat down. Only old men fell asleep in their chairs, he thought gloomily. They didn’t notice if their shirts were stained with grease either, or if yesterday’s egg yolk streaked their beards.

  He sighed. Where had he got to? He sifted through the papers. Yes, there it was: The Siege of Troy. The parts for that needed copying in good time. Most of the players wouldn’t know it, but the old faithfuls alone wouldn’t be sufficient for the Unicorn to pack in the audiences and hold its own.

  He dipped a quill in his inkwell and wrote a note, but the quill needed sharpening and the ink smudged. With a snort, he blotted the paper.

  There was a knock at the door and James came in with logs for the fire. ‘Cook’s making your breakfast straight away, master.’ He put the logs down in the hearth. ‘And Brocket told me to give you this message. It came early this morning.’

  Lamotte felt a jolt of apprehension. It might be something about the theatre but it could also be from Walsingham and if it was, was it good or bad news?

  Slitting the seal with his knife, he ran his eye over the words with mounting astonishment. They were brief. Tom was free and near London. He was waiting at a tavern in Leyton and he needed help.

  *

  As he squeezed Tom’s shoulder, tears welled up in Lamotte’s eyes. Quickly, he dashed them away. ‘I could hardly believe it when I read your message. How did you escape? When did you get to London?’

  ‘There was a storm. The ship was wrecked. The captain and one of my fellow prisoners died. The other one, a man called Richard Lacey, reached shore with me. As for the rest, there was no sign of them, and in such heavy seas, it would be a miracle if they lived.’

  ‘Where is this man Lacey now?’

  ‘He planned to leave England and go to Paris. Eventually, he intends to go to Rome.’

  ‘He’s a Catholic?’ Lamotte’s voice was sharp.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you tell him the story that we agreed?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Do you think he suspected anything?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to think so, but in any case, I believe he is a decent, compassionate man. He would not seek to harm me, or England.’

  Lamotte raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s still a Catholic, but if he helped you, I shall forget what you’ve told me. As far as I’m concerned, Richard Lacey lies at the bottom of the sea. Now we have more pressing matters to discuss. We have to decide where you will go.’

  Suddenly, Tom felt downcast. He had been so intent on reaching London that he had not given any consideration to his future after that.

  ‘I suppose it’s impossible to go back to my old life?’ he asked miserably.

  ‘That much is certain. Walsingham’s protection always has a price. He won’t be so willing to extend it if you haven’t performed the services he expects of you. In case you’re recognised, it would be best for you not to come to London for a while.’

  Tom sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘In any case, I promised Richard Lacey I’d go to his home and give his sister a letter from him.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘At a place called Lacey Hall in Devon.’

  ‘Very well, but make sure you trust no one and be brief. After you leave Devon, come back as far as Winchester. I know an inn there where I’ve often stayed on my journeys to and from the West Country. The landlord is a good man. I’ll give you a letter for him and he’ll see to it you’re well looked after. Send me a message to let me know you’ve arrived safely. Meanwhile, I’ll do my best to think of a plan.’

  ‘Thank you, I owe you more than I can ever repay.’ Tom hesitated.

  ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘You said that when you were in Salisbury, you would see what you could find out about Meg.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t any news of her. I was late joining my men and by the time I caught up with them, they had already moved on from Salisbury.’

  Lamotte scrutinised Tom’s disappointed face. It was understandable that his thoughts had returned to this girl. Time dragged in prison with little to occupy a man. But he wished now that he had never promised Tom he would seek news of her. It had been a mistake to encourage him in this hankering after the unattainable. He frowned. ‘Take my advice, Tom, forget her. Nothing but trouble can come of it. And promise me you won’t go to Salisbury yourself. It’s far too dangerous.’

  Lowering his eyes, Tom was silent for a few moments.

  ‘Come, Tom, give me your word.’

  Tom looked up. ‘Very well, I promise.’

  24

  November, 1587

  As Tom rode
out of London and set his course for Devon, niggling doubts entered his mind and grew there. Master Lamotte had been so good to him; was it right to continue to accept his help? I shall be a burden at best, Tom thought. At worst, I may cause him to lose Walsingham’s favour and endanger his own life. As for Meg, Tom knew in his heart that Lamotte was right. He should forget her. She was lost to him and nothing could change that. A leaden weight lodged in his chest, but there was no use grieving. He must concentrate on what he would do after he had visited Lacey Hall.

  He remembered a map he had seen in William Kemp’s office, which showed the places of note in the West Country, Salisbury, Exeter and Plymouth among them. He might have more luck in Plymouth than anywhere else. It was where the English fleet was berthed and he had heard that men were being recruited in readiness to resist the Spanish if they tried to invade. He was no sailor but he could fight. A ship would be as good a place as any to hide and earn his livelihood. The further he travelled, the more resolved he became that this was what he would do.

  When he reached King’s Barton, he put up at a small tavern and made enquiries in order to reassure himself he had the right directions to Lacey Hall. The landlord’s surly response unsettled him. It seemed to indicate the Lacey family were not well regarded in the district. The story of Richard’s arrest had probably spread.

  Early the next morning, he covered the last few miles to the Hall, arriving to find the windows dark with no sign of life in them. He wondered if the place was deserted and he had wasted his journey, but nevertheless, he dismounted, went to the front door and knocked.

  A biting wind whistled around the corner of the building as he waited. He stamped his feet and blew on his cold hands to warm them then knocked again but still no one came. Standing back, he scanned the windows. To his relief, a faint light flickered in an upstairs room. So there was someone there. At last, the door opened a crack and a man peered out. Over his shoulder, Tom saw a lofty hall with an oak staircase leading out of it. Richard Lacey had a fine house. It was sad to think he might never see it again.