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  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘I didn’t mean to do any harm. . .’ Bess’s voice disappeared in sobs.

  ‘Stop that, I want to know what you told him.’

  Bess hung her head and heaved a shaky breath. ‘I said I thought I’d seen Tom Goodluck in the orchard near your window early one morning.’

  ‘Did Ralph promise you money?’

  Weakly, Bess shook her head. ‘He said he loved me and lovers didn’t have secrets from each other. He laughed about how you and Master Tom were lovers just like him and me.’ A catch in her throat stopped her and she dragged a hand across her eyes.

  Meg tottered and sank back onto the bed. Her stomach felt hollow.

  ‘Oh madam, I’m so sorry. I should never have believed him,’ Bess said, her voice cracking, ‘I should have known he never really cared for me. I wasn’t good enough for him.’

  A flicker of pity kindled in Meg. She reached for Bess’s cold hand. ‘You’re far too good for him, Bess. Ralph Fiddler is a scoundrel.’

  ‘What shall we do, madam?’

  ‘There’s only one thing to be done. We must escape before it’s too late.’

  Meg’s words surprised even herself and Bess’s jaw dropped. ‘Escape, madam? But where would we go?’

  ‘Anywhere, as long as it’s far enough away for no one to follow us. Perhaps we could find Tom. If it’s true he’s gone to join the army, where would he go? We may not be too late to catch up with him.’

  A look of concentration came over Bess’s face and a few moments passed before she spoke. ‘Steward Stephen said if he wanted to do that, he’d go to Plymouth. That’s where the soldiers set out for the Low Countries from.’

  ‘Do you know where Plymouth is, Bess?’

  Bess’s expression clouded. ‘No, madam, but Stephen said you went by the Exeter road, and if the constables had been quicker to keep a watch on it, Master Tom might be caught and hanged by now.’ She stopped, confused. ‘I’m sorry, madam.’

  Meg took a deep breath. She would not think of that. ‘So we must go west.’ The germ of a plan swelled in her mind. ‘Help me cut off my hair then find me some old clothes like the footmen wear and a strip of linen to bind me. If anyone asks us, we are brother and sister, orphaned and looking for work. We shall have to walk. If we take Spirit, we might look too prosperous and draw attention to ourselves.’ Going to her embroidery basket, she pulled out a pair of scissors. ‘Here, use these.’

  Bess hung back.

  ‘Oh, stop looking like that, girl.’ Meg grabbed a hank of hair and hacked through it. ‘There, I’ve started, now finish it. And hurry – the gates close at sundown.’

  5

  London

  June–July, 1586

  Tom woke to the peal of church bells. For a few moments, he forgot he was no longer in Salisbury but then the events of the last few days flooded back.

  Jack’s ‘proper bed’ had been a pile of straw in a gentleman’s stables, where the ostler had let them sleep in return for the price of a quart of ale. The straw crackled as he reached over and shook Jack by the shoulder. In an instant, the boy was on his feet, fists raised.

  ‘Easy! It’s me: Tom.’

  Jack rubbed his eyes, sneezed, and wiped his nose with the back of his grubby hand. ‘We’d better get out of here ’fore he wants more money for not turning us in to the constables for trespass.’

  ‘But you gave him money last night.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Won’t make no diff’rence.’

  He would never get used to this place, Tom thought. Outside in the street, he found it impossible to walk more than a few steps without someone barging into him. Londoners must have some kind of dislike for their fellow men that they felt the need to walk straight through them. The noise too made his ears throb. In Salisbury, there were plenty of street sellers but here they were a thousand times more numerous, and all of them competing with each other to shout the loudest.

  ‘Come on, do you want him after us?’ Jack grabbed Tom’s hand and tugged him into a warren of twisty, narrow alleys. Just as Tom’s brain started to reel with confusion, Jack stopped halfway along one of them. He rapped at a door then put his ear to the rough wood.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered, standing on tiptoe so his face was in front of the spyhole above the door knocker, ‘she’ll let us in soon.’ Tom heard the sound of heavy bolts drawing back and the door opened.

  ‘Where did you get to all night then? ’ A frowsy woman with grey hair straggling from a soiled white cap blinked at the morning sunshine. ‘If you want breakfast, you’d better have the money to pay for it.’

  Jack grinned. ‘Let us in, Janey. I got lots of money.’

  She sighed. ‘Don’t tell me how you got it and watch what you say - him upstairs couldn’t hold his drink last night. He’ll have a sore head this morning and a nasty temper to go with it.’

  They followed her into a room where the remains of a fire smouldered in the hearth. The ceiling was low and smoke had blackened the walls. On the earthen floor, a frayed rag rug provided the only hint of cheerfulness. Tom thought of the cosy kitchen at Oatmeal Lane and the baker’s wife’s gleaming pots and pans. From the top of the stairs that led out of this room came a stream of curses then a thud.

  Janey scowled. ‘I won’t let him in again if that’s his game.’

  As heavy footsteps thumped on the stairs, she scuttled with surprising agility to the corner by the hearth and snatched up a broom. The corpulent, red-faced man who appeared shook his fist.

  ‘I’m going and good riddance to the lot of you.’ He pulled back his sleeve and stuck out a brawny arm marked with scarlet bumps. ‘Your mattress was full of bed bugs and that little whore crawls with lice.’

  The door slammed behind him and the tin mugs and plates on the table jumped.

  A frightened girl crept down the stairs. A rapidly darkening bruise disfigured one side of her face, and her mouth oozed blood.

  ‘Let me see.’ In spite of the girl’s protests, Janey prised open her mouth and looked inside. On the upper row of teeth, one was lopsided and the gum bled profusely. Janey wiggled it and the girl screamed and pushed her away.

  ‘Jack, run to the tavern and get a tot of brandy. It’ll have to come out.’ Janey searched her garments for a penny and gave it to him with a tin mug. ‘And don’t you touch a drop on the way back.’

  The girl huddled by the dying fire, weeping quietly. Tom felt sorry for her.

  Janey stroked her hair. ‘Never mind, girl. I don’t expect he’ll be coming back and if he does, I’ll make him wish he hadn’t.’

  She straightened up and looked over at Tom. ‘So who are you?’

  ‘Tom Goodluck.’

  ‘I suppose if Jack brought you, you can stay.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re not from round here by the sound of you.’

  ‘I’m from Salisbury.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ she frowned.

  ‘In the west.’

  ‘What do you want to be in London for?’

  Tom hesitated: best not to tell the whole truth. ‘I came to make my living in the theatre.’

  ‘You young lads think there’s a crock of gold there,’ Janey said, shaking her head. ‘Most of you end up running errands and holding the horses for the gentry while they go in and amuse themselves.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t look so miserable now. Perhaps you’ll be one of the lucky ones. But summer’s not the best time to try it, mind. If the sweating sickness breaks out like last year, all the theatres’ll close.’

  When Jack returned with the brandy, Janey wiped her hands on her apron.

  ‘Now then, Bel, enough mizzling.’ She held the tin mug to Bel’s lips and forced her to drink. Bel squirmed when Janey reached into her mouth for the loose tooth, but the brandy had helped, the tooth came out easily and she only gave a little yelp. Janey put the mug to her lips once more. ‘Swill the rest round and spit it back in the mug,’ she ordered. Bel did as she was told.<
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  A wail rose from near the hearth. Janey shook Bel’s shoulder. ‘No dozing for you, you’d better see to the little ’un. I can’t be doing everything.’

  Reluctantly, Bel stood up and walked over to a wooden box. She lifted out a bundle swathed in shawls. Tom could just see a fuzz of yellowish-white hair and two small, wrinkled hands that seemed to want to claw their way out of their prison. Bel went back to her place by the fire and opened the front of her dress. Mewling like a kitten, the baby latched on to her nipple and began to suck.

  ‘What’re you staring at?’ she glowered. ‘Don’t they have babies where you come from?’

  Tom felt his face warm. ‘I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting it.’

  ‘Food’s ready.’ Janey tapped her wooden ladle against the side of the pot. It was only a thin mess of oats, but to Tom’s hungry stomach, it was very welcome. With apparent relish, Jack shovelled his helping down and when Bel had finished feeding the baby, she ate hers cautiously, snuffling all the while. When the last morsel had been scraped from the pot and eaten, Jack handed over a penny. Janey slipped it into the pocket of her apron.

  ‘You can come back and sleep by the fire tonight if you want. I can’t promise any more to eat, though.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Where d’you want to go?’ he asked when he and Tom were back in the street.

  ‘Some players came to Salisbury before I left and I spoke to their chief man. I think he might help me. I don’t know if they’re back in London yet but could we go and find out? The theatre’s called the Unicorn.’

  ‘I know it.’

  As he followed Jack through the maze of streets and out of the city towards Shoreditch, Tom’s pulse quickened with excitement, but when at last they reached the Unicorn, they found the round wooden building deserted. The limp flags depicting the mythical horned beast flapped listlessly against the poles on top of its four turrets. Tom’s spirits sank.

  ‘Maybe they’ll be back in a few days,’ Jack said cheerfully. ‘You’ll know when they are, ’cause they always blow the trumpets to show the play’s about to start.’

  On the way back to the city, Tom noticed a large, wooden building. The noise coming from behind its gates stopped him in his tracks. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Sackerson and Harry Hunks. Come on, let’s go and watch.’

  ‘Ha’penny each,’ said the man at the gate. Jack pulled out a penny and the man tested it with his teeth before letting them in.

  In a ring strewn with sawdust and surrounded by a paling fence, two black bears prowled around each other. Tom had seen dancing bears when the fairs came to Salisbury but compared with them, these were Goliaths. Both had scarred muzzles and one had a badly torn ear. Jack nudged Tom. ‘That one’s Harry Hunks. He won last time.’

  Letting out a roar that made Tom jump, Harry Hunks reared up on his hind legs and crashed down on the other bear. Sackerson flung up his great head and with a snarl, sank his teeth into his attacker’s throat. Soon all Tom could see was a whirling mass of black fur and slashing claws. The excited yells and cheers from the crowd grew louder as deep crimson patches darkened the ground.

  At last, the fight slackened. Sackerson broke away and loped to the fence near where Tom and Jack stood. The bear’s eyes were bloodshot and blood streamed from a great gash in his shoulder. He skulked against the fence as Harry Hunks prepared to charge.

  Tom’s gorge rose. He had always hated seeing any creature tormented and it was obvious this one was too weakened to fight any longer. Then to his relief, just as it seemed the bear’s fate was sealed, a group of men rushed into the ring carrying a strong net. They threw it over Harry Hunks and in spite of the bear’s struggles, managed to drag him over to a wheeled cage. The iron door clanged shut after him and they turned their attention to the cowed Sackerson. Collapsed on his belly in the dust, he was easily trapped with the net. When the men dragged him from the ring, the crowd hooted and clapped. Tom noticed for the first time that his shirt was soaked with cold sweat. He was glad of the animal warmth of the crowd as he followed Jack out into the street and on to a tavern nearby.

  *

  Days turned into weeks and Tom grew more accustomed to life in London. He earned a little money where he could and, at Janey’s suggestion, came to live at the house in Angel Lane. To supplement the small income she made from taking in clothes to mend, he gave her a share of his earnings in return for his bed and board. There was still no sign of the Unicorn resuming business but he didn’t give up hope.

  One hot afternoon Tom was in the yard at the tavern where he did a few hours’ work each week, chopping wood for the ovens. He straightened his back and rested his axe against the woodpile, running his fingers under the damp collar that chafed his neck. The smell of resin was strong in the heat. It made his eyes water. The pile of logs should be big enough to satisfy the landlord by now; he might even throw in a free drink.

  Tom splashed his face in the stone horse trough and went into the tavern. As he pushed his way through to the counter, a man turned to him. ‘Watch where you’re going, lad,’ he said abruptly.

  Tom opened his mouth to apologise then his heart missed a beat. ‘Master Lamotte!’

  Lamotte frowned. ‘Yes, and you are— ?’

  ‘Tom Goodluck, sir – from Salisbury.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember. You’re lucky to find me here. We would still be down in the country but the audiences are poor this year. People are tight for money. But I’m surprised to see you so far from home. Why didn’t you come back for your play?’

  ‘I wanted to,’ Tom stammered. ‘Please don’t think I wasn’t grateful.’

  ‘So what brought you to London then?’

  Desperately, Tom searched for a reply. He wasn’t sure whether to admit to the truth.

  ‘Never mind, I suppose it’s none of my business. Your play wasn’t bad, by the way. It needs some mending but I’ve read worse. Don’t go getting your hopes up too high, but I may be able to do something for you, unless you’ve changed your mind, that is.’

  A rush of joy overcame Tom; for a few moments, he was unable to speak.

  ‘I see you haven’t,’ Lamotte grinned. ‘Come, let’s find a table where we can sit down. I’ll buy you a drink and then we can talk.’

  The tables in the front room were all taken. ‘Go to the back,’ Lamotte shouted in Tom’s ear, ‘there’s usually room there.’

  When they had found an empty table and sat down, Lamotte waved to one of the serving girls to bring them a jug of ale. Tom drained his cup in one go and wiped his lips. It was wonderful to ease his parched throat.

  Lamotte refilled his cup. ‘Well, are you going to tell me after all why you left home?’

  On reflection, Tom decided he didn’t look the kind of man to disapprove too strongly of a love affair. Perhaps that was the easiest thing to tell him. Haltingly, he began but he had not got far before Lamotte interrupted him.

  ‘I can see you won’t believe me yet,’ he said, ‘but you’re better out of it, lad. A married woman’s more trouble than she’s worth, even if she is a beauty.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t look so sorry for yourself. There are plenty of pretty girls in this city to help you forget her.’

  Tom opened his mouth to protest but already Lamotte was not listening. His eyes roved around the tavern. ‘There’s a couple of men over there you’ll soon know of if you get into the theatre. That one’s James Burbage, who owns one of the playhouses, and the great mound of putrid flesh talking with him is Robert Greene. Very fond of Rhenish wine, pickled herrings and his own opinion which is that he’s the finest writer of plays in London, nay, in the world. University man with no time for the rest of us.’

  He broke off as a young man with a mild expression and prematurely receding hair that accentuated a high forehead approached the table where the two men sat. ‘Now there’ll be a bit of fun,’ Lamotte muttered. ‘That young fellow’s new up to London like you and wants to make
his way in the theatre. I hear he shows great promise. Goes by the name of William Choxper. Greene can’t abide him, which is enough of a recommendation to most people.’

  Tom felt numb. In Salisbury, it had been possible to believe his dreams could come true, but now he was here, it came home to him he was just one of many. How simple he had been not to realise there would be other men with the same ambitions as his, but probably more talent to achieve them.

  ‘Are you going to give me an answer then?’ Lamotte’s voice cut through his dejection. ‘You’d better make up your mind before I change mine. I’ve no room in the company for a mooncalf.’

  Dismayed, Tom looked at Lamotte’s stern face then saw that his black eyes twinkled. Throwing back his head, Lamotte guffawed. ‘You’ve a face for tragedy, lad, I’ll say that for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tom stammered.

  ‘You need to be a player to learn how to write plays properly. I’ll give you two months’ trial. What do you say to that?’

  It was all Tom could do to stutter his thanks.

  ‘You’ll start with the small parts to see how you get on. If things go well, and you polish up your play to my satisfaction, I might give it a run for a night or two. Drink up. I should be getting over to the theatre now. You may as well come with me and start to make yourself useful. There’s always plenty of work to do around the place.’

  6

  London

  August, 1586

  Tom lifted the latch and called out a greeting. Janey looked up from her darning and nodded as he came in. ‘I didn’t expect you home yet.’

  ‘I had to go down to the quays with some of the others to fetch the timber Lamotte ordered for the new seats. It was heavy work hauling it back so he gave us a couple of hours off before the performance tonight. Baltic oak it was, Lamotte says there’s no English to be had at a good price since most of it went for building houses.’