Salvation (12 page)

Motionless, she waited until the moon sailed into a cloudless patch of sky. A figure a few feet away from her jumped up, the sack containing the remains of the food in its hand. Meg lunged and missed as it darted away.
Meg followed, but the thief was already yards ahead and running fast. Meg’s anger flared. Even though it was unlikely she could catch up, she must try. Hampered by her ill-fitting boots, she crashed and stumbled through the undergrowth, brambles scratching her face and arms. As the thief leapt over a tree trunk straddling the path, Meg’s lungs felt as if they would explode but she steeled herself for a last burst of speed.

All at once the thief let out a surprisingly high-pitched howl and fell, one foot trapped under an exposed root snaking across the path.
So the thief was a girl. Before she could recover, Meg threw herself at her, pinioning her to the ground. ‘That food’s ours, you shan’t have it,’ Meg hissed.

The thief went limp. Dragging the sack out of her unresisting hand, Meg let the bundle drop and rolled her over to see her face.

Then something cold and sharp pressed against her neck and she froze.

‘If you move,’ a voice said softly, ‘I’ll kill you.’

*

A makeshift hut of branches and animal skins stood in a clearing in a wood. Close by, a small fire smouldered, sending a braid of blue smoke into the afternoon air. Meg watched the young man beside her shape a small piece of wood with his knife. The sight of the blade still gave her an uncomfortable feeling. To banish it, she asked, ‘What are you making?’

‘A doll for Agnes.’

‘You’re very kind to your sister, Andrew.’

He shrugged. ‘I thought it might cheer her up.’

‘I’m sorry if she was scared, but she frightened me as well. And she shouldn’t have tried to steal our food.’

‘Then I’ll make a doll for you too if you like,’ Andrew grinned. He stopped as a shrill sound came from a nearby clump of gorse.

Meg shuddered. ‘What a horrible noise. What was it?’

‘Wait and I’ll show you.’

A few moments later, he was back. ‘Hare,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I’ve been waiting for that trap to work for a week. Hare’s Mother’s and Agnes’s favourite.’
He sat down and picked up his knife again. With an expert hand, he slit the hare’s belly and gutted it then tossed the innards towards the bushes. In a flurry of black and white, three magpies swooped to peck at them.

Meg’s stomach churned. With a chuckle, Andrew handed her a wooden bucket. ‘You’re green as the grass. Why don’t you go and fetch some water from the spring? I’ll have him skinned and ready for the pot before you come back and you needn’t watch.’

As she walked away, Meg felt angry with herself. Would a man flinch at the sight of a gutted hare? She wondered what Andrew was thinking and how long it might be before her disguise was uncovered. Before now, people had only seen her briefly and apparently not for long enough to arouse their suspicions. Now it would be harder to keep up the pretence.

But, she reflected, discovery might not be such a disaster. Increasingly, it seemed to her that Andrew’s family was no stranger to secrets either. In the few days she and Bess had been with them, she had gleaned very little of their story for usually they were skilful at avoiding questions, but from the way they spoke, she felt sure they were gentlefolk.
Andrew was about Tom’s age, Agnes, his sister, still a child. Their mother, Sarah, was friendly but quiet with an air of sorrow about her. They had no father with them.

When she r
eturned with the water, Meg handed the bucket to Andrew. He held up the glossy, brindle pelt. ‘Agnes will have a fine pair of gloves for the winter,’ he smiled, ‘but I’ll have to clean and prepare this first.’

He dunked
the pelt into the water and weighted it down with a heavy stone. ‘When it’s soaked for a bit, I’ll scrape away the blood and fat, then you keep changing the water until it runs clear.’ He looked at her with a grin. ‘Too much for you?’

Meg scowled. She didn’t like him teasing her. ‘Of course not,’ she said stoutly. ‘What will you do with it then?’

‘Cut out the pieces with my knife and then sew them up to fit Agnes’s hands.’

‘How did you learn to do that?’

He glanced at the entrance to the hut then back to the fire. ‘My father taught me. He was a glove maker, the best in the town.’

‘What happened to him?’ Meg asked.

‘He died,’ he turned his attention back to the fire. ‘Mother will be cross if I let this go out,’ he muttered.

A twig cracked and Meg saw Sarah coming to sit with them.

‘Bess is telling Agnes a story,’ she said. ‘I thought I would come out and join you.’

How weary she looked, Meg thought, even more so than yesterday. Her eyes were unnaturally bright in her pale face. For a few moments, they talked of the hare and the gloves Andrew planned to make for Agnes.

‘Andrew told me your husband was a glover,’ Meg said. ‘My father always said it was a good trade. Maybe if Andrew could find someone to have him as an apprentice, you wouldn’t need to live in the woods any longer.’ She stopped, dismayed by Andrew’s expression. What a fool she was. She had gone too far and caused offence.

‘What else did he say to you?’ Sarah asked quietly.

‘I didn’t mean to tell her anything, Mother,’ Andrew said sulkily.

Sarah put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m not angry. Matthew may as well hear the truth. We haven’t known each other for long, have we, Matthew? But my heart tells me we can trust you, as I hope you trust us.’

Meg flushed but Sarah did not seem to notice.

‘Our tale is not a happy one,’ she said. ‘Our family was Catholic but, God forgive me, when our religion was outlawed, I was willing, for the children’s sake, to give it up. My husband was not, even though many people in our town shunned us. I begged him to make peace with his conscience and worship secretly while observing the laws requiring attendance at the queen’s church – as many did – but he wouldn
’t listen.’

She paused. ‘Have you heard of recusancy fines?’

Meg shook her head.

‘They are levied on people who do not attend church. No matter how much it cost us, my husband still refused to go. In the end, we couldn
’t pay and he was arrested.’ Her voice sank so low, Meg strained to hear the words. ‘I was forbidden to visit him. A year later, he died in prison.’

Sarah’s voice caught in her throat and it was a moment before she was able to continue. ‘My husband was a stubborn man, but I loved him. I pray he has been rewarded for his faith. As for me, I am punished and the children with me. Almost everything we owned was confiscated, that is why the woods are our home now.’

Dismayed, Meg put a hand on her arm. ‘But is there nothing you can do? Surely someone will help you.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Help us? Who would help us?’ she asked sadly. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like to try and scratch a living when you are poor? I’ve heard that in the days before the old king tore down the monasteries and convents, the monks and nuns sometimes offered succour to the homeless but now there’s nothing except to throw yourself on the mercy of the parish.’ She grimaced. ‘I think I’d prefer to starve with dignity.’

Meg bit her lip and traced a line in the dust with her forefinger.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said quickly. ‘I’m sure life has been hard for you too. You would not be here
otherwise.’

Meg hesitated. They were bound to find out in the end, and they had been so kind, it seemed wrong to try and keep the secret from them any longer. ‘I have something I’d like you to know too,’ she said quietly. ‘My name isn’t Matthew.’

‘I’m not surprised to hear it,’ said Sarah with her gentle smile. ‘I’ve never met a woman called by that name.’

Meg stared at her. ‘How long have you known?’

Sarah’s cool fingers touched Meg’s chin. ‘Your skin is too soft and smooth. If you were a young man, a beard should have come by now. Andrew is as hairy as a haystack.’

Her son glowered at her.

‘Your hands and feet are too small for a man’s and sometimes you forget to walk as a man would.’

Meg hung her head. ‘I’m sorry I tried to deceive you.’

‘Don’t be. When we met, we gave you little enough reason to trust us, although I hope we have put that right now.’

A surge of relief overwhelmed Meg. ‘Of course you have, and I’m so glad I don’t need to pretend any more.’ Tears welled up in her eyes.

‘Shall we walk for a while?’ Sarah asked.

Nodding, Meg got to her feet.

‘I’ll get on with cooking the hare,’ Andrew said. He paused. ‘So what is your name then?’

‘Meg.’

He cocked his head and rubbed his sunburnt hand over his fair beard, then nodded. ‘It suits you better than Matthew.’

‘Now we can talk in peace,’ Sarah smiled as they walked off into the trees.

Slowly, under her sympathetic questioning Meg told her story. ‘I don’t know what you must think of me,’ she said when she came to the end. ‘I’ve sinned, I know, but I was so unhappy and afraid.’

Sarah kissed her cheek. ‘Your parents were harsh to make you marry where you did not love, and I don
’t blame you for running away from a man like Ralph Fiddler. I hope you find your Tom.’

It seemed to Meg a great burden had been lifted from her. Fresh tears filled her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘You say he may have gone to join the army in the Low Countries?’

‘It was what Ralph claimed he planned to do,’ Meg nodded. She frowned. ‘I didn’t know where to begin looking for him but then I heard he might start out from
Plymouth, so we decided to look for him there. Do you think that was foolish?’

‘Not foolish, but it will be a hard task.
Plymouth is a bigger place than Salisbury and because it is a port, people come and go a great deal more.’

Meg stopped and pulled a leaf off an oak branch. ‘You don’t think he will be there any more, do you? You think our journey is a waste of time.’

‘I never said that, Meg. The fact that something is not certain to succeed is no reason not to try.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’ll talk to Andrew if you like. Perhaps he could go with you and help you search. Bess, Agnes and I will be perfectly safe here.’

Meg’s heart leapt. ‘Do you really think Andrew would do that for me?’

Sarah nodded. ‘I think Samson could carry both of you then it will only be a few days’ ride. Come on, let’s go back. Andrew will have the hare ready soon.’

She squeezed Meg’s shoulder. ‘One thing you need to learn is the importance of enjoying what you have, however little it might be.’

When they returned, Andrew was stirring the pot with a peeled stick. The pungent scents of sorrel and wild thyme wafted through the air.

‘It will be the tastiest hare anyone ever ate,’ Sarah laughed, ‘fit for a king.’

9

London 

October, 1586

‘Time you started copying out the parts for your play, Tom,’ Lamotte said as they drank at the Dolphin one blustery afternoon shortly after the Lord Chamberlain had given permission for the theatres to reopen. ‘We should start rehearsals soon,’ he went on. ‘I’d like something new to reel in the fishes.’

‘I’ll have them ready in a week,’ Tom grinned, ‘will it be worth a few more shillings?’

Lamotte raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose since you’ve remembered my advice, I’ve no business to complain. Half a crown if you deliver on time then.’

The first performance was a success and, brim full of excitement, Tom couldn’t wait to get home to Janey’s house with the news.

‘Can we have mutton pies? Shall I go and get them now?’ Jack tugged at his sleeve, grinning and ignoring Janey’s disapproving clucks.

‘Mutton pies, roast beef, strong ale – anything you like,’ Tom laughed, ‘and buy more candles and firewood while you’re about it.’

‘Go with him, Bel,’ Janey said, ‘he’ll never carry all that on his own.’

‘You’re very generous, Tom,’ she said after they had gone, ‘but don’t forget what I said about saving some of your money. You might need it one day.’

‘I know.’

They waited for Bel and Jack to return, Hal dozing in Tom’s lap. An hour had passed when the baby woke and grizzled. Tom looked at him apprehensively. ‘Is he hungry?’

‘Not much I can do about it if he is. Rub his back and see if he’ll settle again.’

‘All right.’

‘There,’ she smiled after a few moments. ‘You’re always good with him, he’s usually afraid of men.’

‘He’s not afraid of me,’ Jack said, coming in with his arms full of firewood and candles.

‘Of course not,’ Bel laughed. ‘You’re a boy, not a man.’

To Tom’s surprise, Jack flushed. ‘I’ll be a man soon,’ he grumbled, ‘and you’re not much older than me anyway.’

She tossed her hair and stuck out her tongue.

‘That’s enough. Stop it, the pair of you,’ Janey snapped. ‘Anyone’d think you were brother and sister the way you squabble. Don’t sulk, Jack, leave a few of those logs for the fire and stack the rest out the back.’

She rolled her eyes after he had gone. ‘You shouldn’t tease him, you know, Bel.’

‘I didn’t mean any harm.’

Hal stirred and woke again. Bel stretched out her arms and he slithered off Tom’s lap and staggered over to her with wobbly steps. She caught him and, pulling him onto her lap, unfastened her bodice. He latched on and sucked hungrily.

‘And the boy’s getting too old for that,’ Janey added. ‘Time he was weaned.’

Bel shrugged. She glanced at Tom and gave him a shy smile. He looked away quickly, feeling his cheeks glow.

‘Have it your own way,’ Janey sniffed. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you these days.’

The beef from the cook shop was rare and delicious and the mutton pies sizzling with rich, fatty meat. When he could eat no more, Tom sank back in his chair, warm and contented.

His face flushed by the strong ale he was not used to drinking, Jack suddenly sprang onto his hands and walked around the room upside down before righting himself nimbly.

‘Who taught you to do that?’ Tom laughed.

Jack’s chin tilted. ‘Taught myself, didn’t I?’

He picked up three of the apples he and Bel had bought and started to juggle with them, but soon dropped one which exploded in a mush as it hit the ground.

‘That’s wasted,’ Janey said crossly.

‘Teach you to show off,’ Bel giggled and Jack glowered at her.

‘Leave him alone,’ Tom said easily. ‘We can afford to lose one apple.’

Flashing him a look of gratitude, Jack put the remaining apples back on the table. ‘One day I’ll earn lots of money then I can buy anything I like.’

In bed that night, Tom’s head was too full to allow him to sleep. He had seen his characters come to life on the Unicorn’s stage and it had been everything he had dreamt of. The head of writhing snakes the costume maker had concocted for the gorgon, Medusa, won a round of applause from the audience. The entrance from Hell of the three hags who helped Perseus to find her received another.

The legend said the hags had only one eye which they shared between them. Lamotte had been right to insist the actors played that scene for laughs. The mixture of horror and hilarity had won the groundlings over from the start. The way they all fell silent in Perseus’s big speech was, Lamotte told him, a great compliment. They weren’t always so attentive. Best of all was Lamotte’s agreement to put on three more performances before Christmas.

Yet in the midst of his happiness, Tom felt a rush of sorrow. If only Meg was here to share all this with him. He wondered what she was doing now. Lying in Edward Stuckton’s bed, he supposed. The thought twisted in his gut like a butcher’s hook. Had she forgotten him yet? He couldn’t blame her if she had, but he wished he could have seen her one last time to explain he had not wanted to leave. He had done it for her.

*

When the time came for the next performance, Jack and Bel came to watch and Lamotte let them in for free. Janey stayed at home with Hal. ‘The theatre’s not for me any more,’ she said. ‘I’m too old to walk so far, or to do all that standing. But I’m proud of you, Tom, you know I am.’

After the visit, Jack began to haunt the theatre, fascinated by the jester’s jokes and acrobatics. Soon he was badgering Tom to ask Lamotte if there was any work for him.

‘Would I be right in thinking it’ll be the first time he’s earned an honest penny?’ Lamotte asked shrewdly.

‘It’s not his fault,’ Tom frowned.

‘No?’ Lamotte hooked his thumbs in his belt and smiled, ‘Well, if you vouch for him, I suppose I can find ways for him to be useful.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So how’s the next play coming on?’

The question took Tom aback. He had not even thought about it.

Lamotte shook his head. ‘Robert Greene would probably have finished two more by now, not that any of his are much good and I’d encourage you to do better, but they boil the pot. If you want to find out how to pen a mighty line, it’s Kit Marlowe you should study. Go and see
Tamburlaine
. Burbage puts it on next week.’ He chuckled. ‘Marlowe’s a dangerous young man, mercurial, quarrelsome and as for the subject of religion, it’s best to keep away, but he’s a magician with words.’

*

The following week, Tom left the city by Bishopsgate and went north up Shoreditch, past the Bethlehem Hospital and the bowling alleys and pleasure gardens of Fisher’s Folly to St Mary Spital. There he skirted the wall of the artillery yard where the Tower gunners came to practise each week and turned west until he came to the Unicorn.

It was one of those late autumn afternoons when the ghost of summer briefly reappears. There was no performance at the Unicorn for a few days and Lamotte had instructed that the time be used to catch up with running repairs, but the small band of workmen had downed tools to doze in the sunshine. Lamotte would have given them the rough edge of his tongue had he been there, Tom thought.

Above the thatched circular roof, the flags drooped. The only sound was the tap of their lanyards on the poles and the gentle whump of canvas when a breeze stirred. In Tom’s imagination, though, the scene was not so peaceful. Fanfares of trumpets announced one of the many plays he would undoubtedly write and a thousand feet clumped up the wooden steps to the auditorium.

‘What are you staring at?’

The vision disappeared and Tom saw one of the workmen awake and scowling at him.

‘Nothing.’

‘Then go and look at it somewhere else.’

With a shrug, Tom walked away. It would take more than a surly workman to spoil the afternoon.

Further along at the Theatre it was a very different scene. Early arrivals swarmed outside, eating food from the stalls set up against the theatre’s wooden walls. Tom noticed a pickpocket or two prowling the crowd and clamped his hand over his purse. When the trumpet blared, he paid his penny and crammed into the yard with the rest of the groundlings. He felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension at the prospect of Marlowe’s play. On one hand he might learn from it but he might also come away afraid he would never match, let alone better, Marlowe’s work.

The play commenced and as the tyrant Tamburlaine pursued his relentless ambitions, Marlowe’s verse swooped and soared. Bodies soaked in chicken’s blood piled up on the stage; like mules, the kings of
Asia dragged Tamburlaine’s victorious chariot and Zenocrate pleaded for her father’s life. In the audience, the smell of blood-lust and excitement was palpable, it swept Tom along with it. When the play ended, he felt at the same time elated and wrung out. To his relief, far from discouraging him, the experience had filled him with determination.

Outside, the weather was changing. Over towards Limehouse, a bank of storm clouds loured.
Tom turned up his collar and struck out across the fields in the direction of Bishopsgate. The sails of a windmill he passed creaked in the rising wind. Soon a sheet of rain swept in. It quickly turned to hail, stinging his face and bouncing off the grass. A herd of cattle stood close together under an oak tree, steam rising from their flanks.

By the time he reached
Angel Lane, he was soaked through and the sun had almost set. To his surprise, the windows on the ground floor of the tenement were dark but the door was not locked. He frowned. Janey and Bel would have lit a candle by now if they were in. Perhaps Jack was on his own and sleeping. If Janey found out, he’d get a clip around the ear.

Peering into the gloom, he went in
; suddenly a light flared. Huddled by the fireplace, he saw Janey, Bel and Jack looking at him with frightened eyes. There were three strangers in the room too. It was a moment before Tom realised they all carried muskets.

Bewildered, he stared at them, the one who seemed older than the rest spoke first.

‘Tom Goodluck?’

‘Yes.’

Before Tom had time to move, the other two men had his arms pinioned. ‘What’s happening?’ he gasped. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

The eldest man gave a bark of laughter. ‘That’s what they all say.’ A portentous note crept into his voice. ‘Tom Goodluck, in the name of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, I arrest you for the murder of William Kemp of
Salisbury.’

The blood roared in Tom’s ears. ‘William Kemp murdered? But I know nothing of it. I didn’t kill him.’

‘The court will decide that. Until then, you’ll lodge in Newgate.’ He nodded to his companions. ‘Bring him along.’

‘Go to Master Lamotte at the Unicorn, Jack,’ Tom shouted as he was dragged struggling to the door. His heels bumped over the threshold. ‘Tell him everything.’

*

Within Newgate’s forbidding walls, Tom soon lost count of the iron gates they went through. Manhandled up and down dark stairways and along narrow corridors, he felt as if he were being sucked into the entrails of some monstrous beast.

At last they reached a small, bare room illuminated by a single candle. A burly gaoler with the long, lugubrious face of a bloodhound sat at a table slicing the raw onion on a plate in front of him. The pungent smell assailed Tom’s nostrils, mingling with the reek of wet wool he and his captors had brought with them. His stomach churned and there was an acid taste in his mouth.

The gaoler s
peared a slice of onion with his knife and surveyed Tom. ‘Well, lads, what have you brought me?’

‘Thomas Goodluck – charge of robbery and murder.’

The gaoler slid the onion slice into his mouth and chewed it slowly. He nodded at the purse hanging from Tom’s belt. One of the guards unfastened it and dropped it on the table. The gaoler loosened the drawstring and tipped out the coins.

‘Won’t buy much in here,’ he remarked, scooping the coins into a drawer.

‘Maybe he’ll swing ’fore too long and save himself some money,’ one of the guards sniggered.

The gaoler pared another slice from his onion. ‘Fifth cell along: solitary.’

As they went along the corridor, Tom’s ears rang with the commotion. Men of all ages with ravaged faces and haunted eyes jostled to be first at the bars of their cells, cursing and pleading, shaking the bars with grimy hands. A greybeard spat at the guards and one of them smacked his stick over the old man’s bony knuckles. He recoiled, howling.

The cell they stopped at was smaller than the others with space only for one man. The guards pushed Tom in and the door clanged shut behind him. The echo of their footsteps faded and with it, the brightness of the lanterns they carried. It was some time before Tom’s eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from a slit in the wall above his head.

The cell was just deep enough for him to lie straight. Its walls glistened with damp and the air was rank with the smell of stale urine and excrement. Dazed, he sat down on the hard ground. The heavy irons around his wrists and ankles cut into him and his jaw ached where one of the guards had hit him. His mind raced. William Kemp murdered? Who would have wanted him dead? He had been alive the day before Tom left Salisbury. When had it happened?