Salvation (25 page)

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.

‘What do you want?’ the man asked.

‘I’d like to see Mistress Lacey.’

‘She’s not here.’

‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Tom hesitated, unsure what name to give. ‘A friend,’ he answered at last. ‘I have a letter for her. Will you make sure she gets it? I’ve travelled a long way to give it to her.’

A look of grudging acquiescence came over the man’s face. ‘I’m her steward,’ he said. ‘Give it to me and I’ll see she does.’

Tom handed over the letter and the man took a step backwards. He seemed uninterested in asking any questions and closed the door, leaving Tom standing on the step. Perhaps his hostile manner was unsurprising, Tom thought. This household probably had reason to mistrust strangers.

He left the
Hall and, muffled in the warm cloak he had bought in Norwich, rode all day. The sun emerged fitfully from the leaden clouds, casting a coppery glow over bare, undulating fields edged with leafless trees and hedgerows. He passed through a few poor hamlets and farms and just before sunset stopped at one where, in exchange for a few pence, the farmer gave him food and a bed for the night.

The following morning he left early to continue his journey. The sky was overcast but the air was warmer than it had been the previous day. The road climbed slowly up onto moorland covered with rough turf and scrubby gorse.
Tom slackened the reins and let his horse amble along in the sunshine while he tried to empty his mind of his troubles. The hardest task of all was forgetting Meg, but he was sure now that it was the right thing to do. She had her life to lead and he must take no part in it. He had nothing to offer her except danger and disgrace. What true lover wanted that for his beloved?

The present returned with a jolt when his horse lurched forward.
He grasped its mane and narrowly avoided a fall. When he regained his seat, he looked around him. A faint, winding track had replaced the road. The rock upon which his horse had stumbled was part of a long, low outcrop of granite rising to one side of it out of a carpet of emerald moss.

The sun was behind the clouds, making it difficult to get his bearings. The map he pictured in his mind placed
Plymouth to the south west of Lacey Hall, but did the track lead that way? It was hard to be sure but it was the only one visible. Tom guided his horse back to the centre of it, cursing himself for paying so little attention. What if he didn’t find shelter before nightfall? This moor was a lonely place and he had no idea how long it would be before he reached the other side. With a shudder, he recalled stories of evil spirits and the lights of the wandering dead that lured unwary travellers to their deaths.

Only the jangle of the horse’s bit and the creak of the saddle broke the eerie silence. Soon, curls of mist loomed ahead.
He wondered whether to turn back but when he looked over his shoulder, he realised the mist had crept in from behind too. There was nothing for it but to go on. Cautiously, he rode forward. Around him, the moor glistened like a huge ice field. It was not long before his horse baulked at some unseen terror and refused to move. Tom dug his heels in to urge it on but it was no use.

A sulphurous smell of decay assailed his nostrils. He understood why when he slid from the saddle and felt the ground quiver beneath his feet. His mouth went dry. In the mist, they must have wandered off the path again, this time onto boggy ground. It plucked at his feet as he took his first tentative steps. His horse whinnied and shied.

‘Steady,’ Tom gasped, struggling to control it and keep the fear out of his voice, ‘we’ll try another way.’

With the next direction he explored, he felt firmer earth beneath his feet and if he strained his eyes, he could just see the path’s route for several paces ahead. His palms clammy, he leant against the horse’s neck and drew air into his lungs. ‘Safe now,’ he murmured. ‘Here’s the track again. All we have to do is stay on it.’

25

London 

December, 1587

Lamotte walked through Bankside under a heavy, grey sky; there was the threat of snow about it. Passing the Clink gaol, he heard a groan. Almost level with the fetid, rubbish-choked gutter, a bony hand clawed at the iron grille. Grimly, Lamotte hurried on, his thoughts turning to Tom. There had been no message from him since he left London for Devon. It worried Lamotte. Sometimes he feared Tom had gone to Salisbury, but then, he reminded himself, he had given his word not to. His other fear was that Tom had been recaptured. No, if that was the case, Walsingham would have mentioned it.

The conversation he had had with Walsingham after the loss of the
Curlew
had been a very difficult one. Lamotte had been forced to dissemble many times.

The old spymaster’s displeasure at the possible escape of the
Curlew’s
Catholic cargo as well as at the failure of his plan to infiltrate Tom into the prison at Wisbech had been withering. In fact in general, his usual steely reserve was ruffled by ill temper and impatience. It did not surprise Lamotte. The situation abroad was far from propitious. Reports that a Huguenot army under Prince Henry of Navarre had defeated the much larger one of the Catholic Holy League had been hotly followed by the news that another Huguenot army marching from the east towards Paris had been routed at the city gates.

The Catholic leader, the Duke of Guise, had claimed the credit for saving the city and the Parisians hailed him as their saviour. It was common knowledge that they felt nothing but scorn for their king. It was his fate to be caught between the warring factions, unable to please anyone, certainly not the Parisians. People said they had rearranged the letters of his name to insult him and the chant of
Vilain Herodias
rang out in the streets. If he failed to keep control and the Duke of Guise usurped his power, France would be nothing more than Spain’s puppet. England would be hemmed in from the south as well as by the Duke of Parma’s forces in the east.

The houses in the narrow alleys of Bankside were built so close together that even on sunny days they were dank and gloomy. From the open door of a brothel, a painted woman with carroty hair flashed Lamotte a gap-toothed smile and pulled down the neckline of her dress. ‘Why the hurry?’ she cajoled, but he shook his head. The Bankside stews were notorious for the pox.

He came out of the alleys close by the Rose. If he had not been so occupied with getting his own autumn season off to a good start, he would have visited the recently built theatre sooner. He wanted to see what the owner, Philip Henslowe, had made of it. It was a new idea to build south of the river; presumably Henslowe hoped to draw custom away from the older-established houses in Shoreditch.

Sat in the
lower gallery, Lamotte smelt the stench of unwashed bodies from the pit where the groundlings stood. It was not improved, he reflected, by the bilge water smell of the winkles and clams most of them scoffed.

The play that afternoon was Marlowe’s brutal tale,
Tamburlaine
. The groundlings lapped it up with the same glee as the spectators at the bear pit did the real blood spilt for their amusement. For Lamotte, it was the vivid, powerful language that gripped him. He saw its influence in Tom’s new play. The memory of that made him sad.

Marlowe’s final scene drew to a close and the crowd jostled into the streets. Mulling over what he had seen, Lamotte was carried along on the tide. The house had been fuller than most of the Shoreditch theatres ever were. A change was in the air.

Outside the Rose, the smell of wood smoke and hot pies reminded him he was hungry. He noticed a familiar face at one of the stalls and went over. ‘I see you’ve got a new pitch – and no roast hog.’

‘Not enough money in it. I’m doing better with the pies, although the old lady complains about the extra work.’ The stallholder gestured to where a small boy played in the dust. ‘I brought this one out with me today to give her some peace.’

‘What have you got?’

‘Mutton or eel.’

Lamotte fished in his pocket. ‘I’ll take mutton.’

‘Have you left Shoreditch for good?’ he asked after he had swallowed the first bite.

‘The old lady likes it better down here,’ the stallholder raised his eyebrows, ‘wants to be near her ma. Business all right up there, is it?’

‘Not bad. Folk like to take their mind off their troubles.’

‘Plenty of those about.’

Lamotte brushed pastry crumbs from his lips and nodded. ‘You’re right about that.’

‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ the stallholder grinned, ‘last time I was up near the Unicorn
a girl was asking for you - shapely lass, dark hair and a pretty face.’

‘Did she have a name?’

The stallholder scratched his chin. ‘Let me see, it might have been Meg. Yes that was it – Meg. She said she lodged at the laundress’s down Holborn way. Very upset she looked, as if she was in some sort of trouble.’

Lamotte started. ‘Did she say anything else?’

‘Not that I remember.’

As he walked away, Lamotte’s brain was in a fever. Was this Tom’s girl, come just as Tom had promised to forget her? But what would she be doing in Holborn when she had a rich husband in
Salisbury to keep her? No, the name must be a simple coincidence. He was worrying about nothing.

The stallholder had said this Meg seemed very upset. Lamotte remembered a carpenter he had let go in the spring for bad workmanship. Briefly, he considered the possibility it was a wife or daughter coming with some hard-luck tale, hoping to get the job back. It had been tried before, but it would do no good this time. More than ever, he needed men who pulled their weight.

A tug at his cloak made him turn. The stallholder’s boy looked up at him with round eyes.

‘What is it?’ Lamotte asked.

‘Tom,’ the boy said shyly.

Lamotte frowned. ‘Is that your name?’

The boy shook his head and scampered back to his father.

‘What does he want?’ Lamotte asked following him.

The stallholder cuffed the boy around the head. ‘Shallow in his wits he is – can’t remember a message from one minute to the next. I told him to tell you I remembered the other thing she asked. She wanted to know if I’d seen a fellow called Tom Goodluck about, seemed to think you might know him.’

Lamotte felt a jolt go through him. ‘Where did you say this girl lived?’

‘Holborn, at the laundry. Is something wrong?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Lamotte said briskly. He touched the brim of his hat. ‘Well, I must be off, thank you.’

The sun was setting as he crossed London Bridge. It was too late to go to Holborn tonight. By the time he reached the western gate it would be shut. Tom’s Meg, if it were she, would have to wait until morning.