Salvation Page 26

‘Then with your permission, I’ll take it with me. There’s someone I’d like to show it to.’

  27

  Lacey Hall

  December, 1587

  ‘I hoped we wouldn’t meet again,’ Beatrice said coldly when she had dismissed the manservant who answered the door to Meg and Lamotte.

  Meg’s palms were clammy. Her legs felt as if they would give way beneath her.

  ‘I suppose Ralph Fiddler has left you?’ Beatrice went on. ‘I hope you don’t expect pity. You don’t deserve it when we never showed you anything but kindness.’

  A few paces away, Lamotte watched them, uncertain whether to intervene. So the woman he had seen at Newgate was Richard Lacey’s sister. It seemed fate intended them to meet but he wished it had been in more propitious circumstances.

  Meg looked close to tears. Putting aside caution, he stepped forward. Beatrice gave him a wintry glance.

  ‘Who is this?’

  She doesn’t recognise me, Lamotte thought. But then why would she? We only met for a fleeting moment.

  ‘My name is Alexandre Lamotte, madam. May we have your permission to come in? We’ve had a long ride from London.’

  ‘Not of my requesting, sir.’

  Lamotte checked a sharp reply. ‘Madam, you are angry but if you will hear us out, I think your anger may be assuaged.’

  Beatrice’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I believe you already know your brother is in France,’ he persisted, ‘but there are other matters that need explanation.’

  She frowned. ‘Who told you where Richard is?’

  ‘Please, let us in and we’ll tell you everything.’

  After Meg finished her tale, Beatrice was silent for a while then she went to Meg and took her in her arms. ‘Can you forgive me for doubting you?’

  Meg’s voice trembled. ‘Of course: I understand how it must have seemed to you. I was a fool to trust Ralph.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now? I often fear he’ll come back. Agnes still wakes crying at night; none of us sleep easy in our beds.’

  Meg shook her head. ‘I’ve heard nothing since the night he left me in London.’

  ‘I hope some ill has befallen him,’ Beatrice snapped. Then a look of sympathy came into her eyes. ‘I expect you were hoping to find your Tom here. If only we had known who he was. I was away from home when he came – we had all been in such low spirits, I decided to take Sarah’s children to the Advent market at Exeter. Bess and Alice accompanied us, so only John was here to speak to Tom. When we returned, I chided him for asking no questions of a man who had brought us such good news. Anything more he could have told me of Richard would have been so welcome. I had no idea how unfortunate John’s omission was in other ways. I’m so sorry I can’t help you but you will find Tom, I’m sure you will. You mustn’t give up hope.’

  Watching them, Lamotte wished he felt as confident. He and Meg had stopped at the inn in Winchester on the way to Devon but the landlord had not seen Tom. Now there was no news at Lacey Hall of his whereabouts.

  But he must keep Meg’s spirits up. ‘Mistress Lacey is right, Meg,’ he said.

  With a start, as if she had forgotten his presence, Beatrice looked over to where he stood. ‘Sir, I beg you to forgive me for offering you such an uncivil reception.’

  ‘You have no need to apologise, madam. These are unusual circumstances.’

  Beatrice smiled and the warmth of her smile banished the memory of the inauspicious start. ‘Thank you for your generosity, sir,’ she said.

  Lamotte glanced at Meg’s dejected face, knowing that she was very little reassured. It was possible something had delayed Tom on the road, but if he had headed for Winchester after he left Lacey Hall, it was odd they had not found him there a few days ago.

  ‘What should we do, Master Lamotte?’ Meg asked. ‘Should we go back to Winchester?’ She turned to Beatrice. ‘Tom was to go there when he had seen you. Perhaps he’s there by now.’

  ‘I think I should go alone,’ Lamotte said, silencing her protests with a frown. ‘The journey here was wearying enough for you and the weather is becoming more treacherous with every day that passes.’

  ‘I agree,’ Beatrice broke in. ‘I won’t hear of you going. You must stay with us. As soon as he finds Tom, Master Lamotte will bring him back to you.’

  The memory of Amélie’s brisk voice flashed across Lamotte’s mind and he smiled. ‘It’s good advice, Meg. You must take it.’

  28

  London

  March, 1588

  Where it slowed to pass through the arches of London Bridge, the river still froze. Often, Lamotte stopped to watch groups of boys playing boisterous games on its glassy, perilous surface. In those dying days of winter, when the sun was rarely seen, he frequently filled his spare hours with solitary walks. Some of the time he went to visit the family in Angel Lane, but often he simply felt the need to be alone with his thoughts.

  Tom had never arrived at the inn in Winchester and January and February went by without any message from him. Meg was still at Lacey Hall and it grieved Lamotte that he had no good news to send her in response to her anxious enquiries.

  Often, he was tempted to go and visit her; it would be an opportunity to become better acquainted with Beatrice Lacey, but always, at the last moment, he held back, telling himself that the roads would be seas of mud or it was a bad time to leave the theatre. The latter was certainly true. London was an uneasy city and apprehension increased the price of daily necessities. The theatre was a luxury and the Unicorn’s takings were down.

  As he had agreed with Meg, on his return to London, he had taken the ring she had given him to Walsingham. The spymaster had been distracted, almost brusque, but a flicker of interest crossed his face as he listened to the story of where the ring had been found. He had asked to keep it, but that was more than two months ago and Lamotte had abandoned any serious hope of the subject being raised again. No doubt Walsingham was far too preoccupied with the threat from Spain to have time for the petitions of ordinary mortals. The start of the month had brought alarming news from merchants coming to London from Lisbon. The mouth of the Tagus was black from bank to bank with fighting ships and crews to man them were being pressed into service from every available source.

  April arrived but brought no better weather with it. The sunless streets remained dingy and the days were cold. On one of his walks along the river, Lamotte watched the sharp wind whip the grey water into choppy wavelets. On the ferries and barges, people huddled in thick woollens as if winter had never left.

  The clock of a nearby church tolled twelve and, wrapping his cloak around him more tightly, he started for home. In Lombard Street, a gang of apprentices loitered, hooting at passers-by. Lamotte ducked into an alley, relieved he had noticed them in time. In spite of all the years he had lived in London, he found his swarthy looks still marked him out as a man who was not a native by birth, and as the Spanish threat grew it was easier to find a flock of white crows than an Englishman who loved a foreigner.

  ‘Is the fire lit in my study?’ he asked his servant, James, as he took off his cloak in the hall at Throgmorton Street.

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Then bring me a bottle of claret there and tell Cook I’ll eat as soon as the meal is ready.’

  ‘Yes, master. Master, there is a message for you. I left it on your desk.’

  Lamotte groaned. It would be theatre business, no doubt. He hoped it didn’t mean he needed to go out again, just when he was looking forward to a warm fire and some good claret.

  In his study, he picked up the message with distaste then stopped. The hand was a familiar one. He steeled himself; what did Walsingham want this time? As usual, the note was short and there was no indication that he needed to attend as a matter of urgency, but in spite of the cold, he decided to go that afternoon. He would only waste the time in speculation otherwise.

  He sighed. The last thing he desired was to be sent on another mission. He hoped tha
t was not the reason he was summoned.

  ‘Tell Cook I’m not ready to eat yet after all,’ he said when James returned with the claret. ‘And fetch my hat and cloak.’

  Ten minutes later, with a fortifying glass of claret warming his blood, he was on the way to Seething Lane.

  Walsingham looked up from the papers he was studying. ‘Good of you to come so promptly, Alexandre,’ he observed calmly. ‘You are in tolerable health, I hope, in spite of the weather?’

  ‘Thank you, yes. I hope your lordship can say the same?’

  Walsingham nodded and Lamotte tried to contain his impatience. Surely Walsingham had not summoned him to discuss his health or the weather? He wished this polite preamble was over.

  ‘Please, sit down.’

  Gingerly, Lamotte took a seat; Walsingham leant back in his chair and steepled his hands. ‘You are to be congratulated, Alexandre.’

  ‘I—?’

  ‘Indeed. Thanks to you, your friend Tom Goodluck is no longer charged with the murder of William Kemp.’

  Lamotte was dumbfounded.

  ‘Let me explain. Do you recall the papers you found in Manfredi’s lodgings?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘As a matter of routine, I gave them to my decipherer to read. I was surprised when he came to see me. He believed one of them contained a code he recognised. I told him to study the matter further and eventually, he unravelled a story that carried us along some very profitable paths, one of them leading to a man you mentioned to me a few months ago in connection with a ring you brought me: Ralph Fiddler.’

  Lamotte stiffened - all attention now.

  ‘My men had for some time been watching a Salisbury lawyer named William Kemp. We suspected he was a Catholic and his work as a lawyer made him privy to a great deal of information about the affairs of the wealthy men in his locality. We believed he was passing this information to a Spanish agent in London to be used if the invasion succeeded. At some point Signor Manfredi became involved. It appears he was working for both sides and paid for it with his life.’

  Walsingham paused. Trying to hide his impatience, Lamotte waited for him to continue.

  ‘We were close to arresting Kemp when he was murdered. He was already dead when Ralph Fiddler came to my attention in London. I noticed him because the speed of his promotion to pursuivant was unusual.’ Lamotte remembered that Walsingham preferred to use the formal term for a priest hunter.

  ‘I was not involved in the matter,’ Walsingham went on. ‘A watch is being kept on the men who were. As I’m sure you appreciate, the role of a pursuivant provides excellent opportunities for amassing information about the men who hunt down Catholic traitors. Such information is of great interest to Spain. If she conquered England, those men would be among the first to be seized.’

  ‘You thought Fiddler was working for Spain?’

  ‘We strongly suspected it. I set one of my agents to find out his history and it came to light that he had been employed by William Kemp. The question that arose then was whether Fiddler knew of Kemp’s secret life. Were they in league? When you brought me the ring, it interested me. If it had belonged to Kemp, why would it be in Fiddler’s possession? One possibility was that Kemp had given it to him, but he might also have stolen it.’

  Lamotte struggled to take everything in.

  ‘In any case, I decided it was time to apprehend Fiddler. He must have sensed he was being watched for he had left his house in London. My men eventually arrested him at Dover, trying to flee to France. Under interrogation, he admitted he had found out about Kemp’s activities. He claimed he would never have sought to profit from them personally – something I strongly doubt in view of his subsequent career. His story was that he was waiting until he had enough information to report Kemp. But then matters took a different turn. Late one night after a May Day celebration, Fiddler returned to his lodgings at Kemp’s house. He admitted he had drunk a good deal and was in a resentful mood with Kemp because the old man had denied him wages on some trivial pretext. He challenged Kemp and there was an argument. During the course of it, Fiddler struck Kemp hard and he fell.’

  Walsingham stopped and cleared his throat. ‘When Fiddler realised his master was dead, he became desperate. Then he remembered he had seen Kemp’s groom very drunk at the celebrations. The groom had let slip that your friend Tom Goodluck had promised to help him home. If by chance Tom had been weary enough to snatch some sleep at Kemp’s stables rather than return to his own lodgings, there might be a way of putting the blame on him. To cut the story short, the plan worked. Later Fiddler used the money and information he found among Kemp’s possessions to obtain favours and further his ambitions in London.’

  A great wave of relief broke over Lamotte.

  Walsingham’s shrewd eyes studied him. ‘I never found out for sure if your friend went down with the Curlew. Your demeanour suggests otherwise, but you do not need to tell me any more.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lamotte stammered.

  Outside, he gave way to jubilation. Tom was a free man. At last there was good news to take to Lacey Hall.

  29

  Plymouth

  April, 1588

  The creamy-white sails of dozens of fishing boats flecked the grey waters of the Sound. Wood smoke curled from the chimneys of the squat, mud-walled cottages huddled around the harbour. On the quayside, gulls skirmished over discarded fish heads and guts. The air smelt of brine and bilge water.

  The day was little different to all the others since Tom had joined up, using the name Tom Black for safety’s sake. Over the winter, all the ships of the Western Squadron had been careened on the beach for their hulls to be painted with tallow and their fouled ballast shovelled out and replaced. The work was hard, but in a strange way, he was glad of it. Hard work made it easier to forget.

  As he had anticipated when he chose to come to Plymouth, the town was bursting with soldiers and sailors, both old hands and raw recruits. Almost outnumbering the local population, they thronged the streets, spending their pay – when they were lucky enough to receive it – in the taverns and brothels. Sometimes he visited the brothels too, but the perfunctory tumbles always left him hollow with longing for Meg.

  Rum was a better friend. It helped deaden the monotony of waiting for something to happen and, until its effects wore off, made the world a happier place. Happiness was a rare thing, for when he had a sober moment to reflect, he found nothing to be glad of.

  He had resolved to keep his whereabouts secret from Lamotte. It had been a painful decision after all his friend’s kindnesses, but he was sure it was the right one. If he survived the war with Spain, he would start a new life. He might even go to the New World. He had spent many an hour listening to the stories of the sailors who had sailed across the ocean with Drake and Hawkins. Perhaps there would be a place for him in those far-off lands.

  All winter, the inhabitants of Plymouth had lived on a diet of rumours. By spring, some of them were claiming that the Armada had left Lisbon and had already been sighted off the Lizard; others said storms had driven it back to port. A third story was that it had been wrecked on the murderous coastline of the Scillies.

  The news brought by merchants and privateers returning from the south was probably more reliable. Many of them reported that even though Philip of Spain was impatient to begin the enterprise of England, his admiral, the Marquis of Santa Cruz, was determined to wait for better weather.

  ‘The old fox is ailing and not the force he was, but he will be hard to budge,’ said a Flemish merchant who was drinking in a tavern frequented by Tom and some of his shipmates. The merchant claimed to travel extensively in Spain, trading broadcloth for olive oil and the wines of Jerez. He obviously liked to pass as something of an expert on Spanish affairs.

  ‘The king sits up in his palace at the Escorial,’ he went on, ‘convincing himself he does God’s bidding and a miracle will do the work, but I doubt Santa Cruz believes in miracles.’

  A f
ew of his listeners grunted their agreement.

  ‘Half the crews are too sick to work,’ he continued. ‘Santa Cruz’s recruiting officers are emptying the prisons to make up the numbers, but even thieves and murderers aren’t keen to oblige. Philip insists his ships be ready at all times to sail, so there’s no shore leave.’

  After weeks in the company of sailors, Tom appreciated how ill received that would be.

  ‘They say the ships stink like sewers,’ the merchant added, ‘and the men get little except rotten rations and foul water to live on.’

  It was no wonder they fell ill, Tom thought. With all its hardships, life sounded better in Plymouth than in Lisbon.

  The news that the Marquis of Santa Cruz’s illness had finally carried him off was greeted with rejoicing by the English sailors. For Spain, the death of the Armada’s supreme commander would be a serious blow. Over his long years of service, he had richly earned the soubriquets ‘the invincible’ and ‘the thunderbolt in war.’ To replace him, King Philip had appointed his cousin, the Duke of Medina Sidonia. In Plymouth, sailors who had taken part in the attack on Cadiz the previous spring remembered that name. Medina Sidonia was a fine soldier, they said. If he had not been so quick to bring up his troops to defend the city, Cadiz would have fallen to the English for sure. But he was no sailor.

  ‘Though anyone who expects that to save us is a fool,’ one of the old hands remarked. ‘There’s plenty of captains who know what they’re about in the Armada and he’ll have the sense to give ’em their heads, just like Howard does with Drake.’

  A rumble of approval went round his listeners at the mention of Drake’s name. Tom had seen him several times in Plymouth. His short, stocky figure and florid, irascible face were unmistakable, as was the admiration, bordering on awe, he inspired in the sailors. Who else would have ventured on so great an enterprise as sailing around the whole world? Who else would have come home triumphant?