Salvation

by Harriet Steel

  At the Unicorn he satisfied himself nothing had gone amiss in his absence then set out for Newgate. He must do whatever he could to keep Tom’s spirits up. Walsingham had intervened to delay his being taken back to Salisbury to stand trial, but it was only a reprieve. The shadow of the scaffold still loomed.

  *

  Tom woke drenched with sweat. A few moments passed before he noticed that the square of sky in his tiny window had turned from black to grey. It was morning and the bells that had pursued him through his dreams had ceased. They had not rung to herald his death.

  He winced as he stood up and his joints cracked. Master Lamotte had paid for him to be removed to a higher floor where the cells were cleaner and drier but the plank he had to sleep on was still like iron.

  Immediately, he felt ashamed for his ingratitude. Thanks to Master Lamotte, he had better food and warm blankets. He had soap and candles too and even a bucket so that it was possible to keep his cell clean. Lamotte had also paid for him to have paper, quills and ink so he could write. He had made several attempts to start on a new play but eventually discarded them. It was some time before he found the theme he wanted: the story of a man suffering a punishment like his own, shut away for a sin he did not commit.

  Lamotte had been doubtful about the idea, but when Tom discussed it further with him, he became more enthusiastic. ‘Your hero could be cast away on a far-off island,’ he had suggested. ‘An island peopled with monsters and magical spirits would catch the attention of audiences. Think of the spectacle, the devices we could use. Such a setting would chime with the spirit of the times too. Since Drake’s voyage, people are interested in the idea of new worlds to be discovered.’

  Yet looking around his cell in the bleak morning light, Tom’s spirits drooped. What was the use of writing? He might never be free to see the play performed. His thoughts turned to Meg. She was the reason he had so wanted success. If he had lost her it ceased to matter. He remembered their last night together and put his fist to his mouth, biting down hard to dull the pain.

  There were footsteps in the corridor. A face like a pale, round moon appeared on the other side of the iron wicket.

  ‘Morning, Barwis.’

  The old turnkey grunted a greeting.

  Tom preferred him to the others. He was not such a brute as most. Going to the bars to take his food, he noticed the tremor in Barwis’s hand and his glistening forehead.

  ‘Are you sick, Barwis?’

  Barwis belched up a beery gust. His eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘Nah, had a good night and never went t’ bed.’

  Tom frowned. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘They chopped off the Scottish devil’s head. Eat up, you’ve got extra.’ With another belch, he shuffled away.

  So it was done. Mary Stuart was dead. Now he knew why the church bells had rung last night. A surge of hope went through him. Walsingham had sent Lamotte to witness the execution. If it was over, he should return soon. Now Walsingham had achieved his aim, perhaps he would listen favourably to Lamotte’s pleas on his behalf.

  He finished his porridge and lay back on the bed, watching motes of dust drift in the rays of light coming from the high window. Soon it would be time for the yard.

  *

  ‘On your feet.’ Barwis hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat it out on the floor as he selected the key from the heavy iron ring and unlocked the wicket. ‘Hope your friend comes today. Guvnor doesn’t take kindly to anyone falling behind with the money.’

  In the yard, the winter sun almost blinded Tom as he squinted at the crowd of visitors in the cage. His heart sank. There was no sign of Lamotte. Then he noticed a boy waving; the spiky red hair was unmistakeable. Shouldering his way to the cage, Tom stood grinning. ‘Jack!’

  Lamotte pushed through the crowd to join them.

  ‘I thought you’d like to see this rogue today,’ he smiled.

  ‘I would. How are you, Jack?’

  Jack looked down. ‘Wish you were home,’ he mumbled.

  ‘He will be, you’ll see.’ Lamotte ruffled his hair.

  ‘Has Walsingham said something?’ Tom asked, feeling a surge of hope.

  Lamotte put a finger to his lips. ‘Keep your voice down. I don’t want anyone hearing his name. His people say he’s sick and won’t see anyone,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You have to be patient. I’ll go again tomorrow and I’m not giving up until we have you out of here.’

  Tom stifled his disappointment and smiled down at Jack. ‘Tell me what’s happening at home. Is everyone all right?’

  ‘Janey’s always complaining the cold gets into her bones and Bel has the ague.’ He grinned, ‘I told her her nose’d do to guide ships home and she tried to clock me but she’s slower ’n me.’

  ‘Is Hal walking yet?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Two steps on Monday before he fell over and bawled.’

  As Jack chattered on, a pang of sorrow went through Tom. How much he missed the house at Angel Lane and its inhabitants.

  ‘I’ll go to Seething Lane in the morning,’ Lamotte said quietly as the twenty minutes drew to an end.

  A hand descended on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Time,’ Barwis grunted. Reluctantly, Tom said his goodbyes and let himself be led away.

  12

  London

  March, 1587

  ‘Good morning, Master Lamotte.’ The printer wiped his inky hands on a soiled rag as he came out from the back of his Cheapside shop. Behind him, his workmen laid out type on the bed of the big printing press. Stacks of paper and pails of ink filled every available space in the workroom.

  ‘And to you, master. Is there any news to be had today?’

  The printer rubbed one hand over his chin. ‘William Davison, who brought word of the Scottish queen’s death to Her Majesty, has been thrown in the Tower. People say Elizabeth denies she wanted her dead and blames anyone else she can think of for it. She gave her ministers a good tongue lashing for sending the warrant to Fotheringay and she’s still in a rage.’

  ‘Then why did she sign it?’

  The printer shrugged. ‘She’s a woman, isn’t she? Who knows? Here,’ he took a broadsheet off the stack on his table, ‘take a copy and read about it.’ He looked over his shoulder and shouted into the workroom. ‘Have we got those handbills ready for Master Lamotte?’

  Over the clatter of the press, one of the workmen shouted back something that was inaudible to Lamotte.

  ‘Be ready tomorrow,’ the printer said, turning back.

  Lamotte nodded. ‘I’ll send someone down for them.’

  He walked on, scanning the broadsheet. It contained all the details of Mary’s execution, down to the breed of her little dog – a Skye terrier – which had hidden under her petticoats and had to be dragged away from his mistress’s lifeless body.

  So, as people had suspected, Elizabeth wanted to deny she was to blame for her cousin’s death. Lamotte wondered how long it would be before she let the matter drop. It might be true that Walsingham was sick; his health had deteriorated alarmingly in the last few years, but clearly it was an opportune moment to be away from Court. And if Walsingham was staying at home, away from Court affairs, he might have more time to listen to Tom’s case. Perhaps it was a good moment to press it again. On the other hand, he would probably be preoccupied with finding out how much damage Mary’s death had done to the English cause abroad, so an appeal might only irritate him.

  Lamotte frowned. It was more than four months since Tom had been taken to Newgate. He was young and healthy but life was precarious within those noxious walls. More hardened men than Tom had also succumbed to despair and lost their wits. At least this new play he was writing distracted him a little.

  It was a strange piece, Lamotte mused, with neither the heroic battles nor the rib-cracking comedy that were needed to keep an audience of restless groundlings quiet. This play dealt with the inward life of a man: the deep recesses of the soul where few chose to venture. Somehow, Lamotte doubted it w
ould come to anything but perhaps if he could spice it up with some good effects there might be a play worth showing.

  Near the stalls of the fishmongers and butchers at the Stocks Market, Lamotte bought a pamphlet from a man claiming a personal acquaintance with the famous astrologer Doctor John Dee. At home in Throgmorton Street, he read it as he ate. It propounded the well-worn prophecy of doom based on the Book of Revelations, the belief that all of history since the first year of Our Lord was divided into a series of cycles, totalling fifteen hundred years. Applying to these the multiple of the mystical numbers ten and seven – the length of time the Israelites were slaves in Babylon – each cycle was terminated by some gigantic event.

  The last completed cycle had ended when Martin Luther defied the Pope and nailed his colours to the door of the church at Wittenberg. From that event, there only remained one final cycle before the Seventh Seal was opened and the Last Judgment was at hand, and as that day approached, portent would pile on portent until there was a mountain of divine anger to sweep down and crush mankind.

  Lamotte finished the pamphlet and tossed it into the fire. Nothing he had not heard before and a penny wasted. Yet were all these prophecies untrue? He liked to think he was a rational man, but there were more things in Heaven and Earth than mere mortals could understand. Of one thing he was certain, though: England was not out of danger just because Mary Stuart was dead.

  13

  Lacey Hall

  February, 1587

  Meg, Bess, Sarah and her family spent the winter months at Lacey Hall and Meg never ceased to marvel at Beatrice’s kindness. Whenever the question of their leaving arose, she always insisted they wait a little longer. It was a great relief to them all. Sarah was still very weak and not in any condition to withstand a journey.

  They lived quietly, for the Lacey family did not seem to mix with their neighbours. Meg often wondered why. She wondered too whether some of Beatrice’s desire for them to stay stemmed from loneliness. Richard Lacey spent a great deal of his time shut away in his own rooms. When he emerged, it was more likely it would be to go for long walks with his wolfhound, Hector, than to keep the rest of the family company. Good hearted as Meg discovered Alice was, her conversation was not of the kind to banish winter boredom.

  The snow was heavy that year. Much of the family’s exercise had to be taken in the Long Gallery, which ran the whole length of the top floor of the house. From its panelled walls, the Lacey ancestors looked down on them with forbidding eyes.

  When the weather was fine enough, however, Meg accompanied Beatrice on walks out of doors. It was on one of these walks that they went as far as the peaceful graveyard surrounding the little family church. Carpets of snowdrops gleamed beneath the snow-capped yew trees and near the lychgate the translucent blossoms of a winter cherry spangled its dark branches. Beatrice brushed the snow from a gravestone.

  ‘I was ten when Mother died,’ she said. ‘Richard was eight.’ Meg read the inscription: Caterina Lacey, Beloved wife of Godfrey Lacey, born 1510 and departed this life 1557 Requiescat in pace.

  Beatrice pointed to a gravestone a few yards off. ‘Father is buried there.’

  ‘You said your mother was Italian. How did she and your father meet?’

  ‘My father was a diplomat in King Henry’s service. He was on a mission to Rome. Mother was fifteen and he was twenty-five. They fell in love and married and he brought her home to England. Mother was a devout Catholic but it was not a problem in those days, England was still a Catholic country and Catherine of Aragon was Henry’s queen. When he married Anne Boleyn and closed the monasteries, things became more difficult for Mother but it was even worse when Edward became king. He was driven by the determination to root out every trace of the old religion in a way his father never was.’

  ‘How did your parents manage?’

  ‘Father was a practical man. He always said the safety of the family and its estates was more important than anything else. It was different with Mother. Her nature was more passionate and her devotion to the old faith ran deep.’ A troubled look clouded Beatrice’s face. ‘I fear for Richard,’ she said softly. ‘His nature is like hers.’

  Meg waited for her to continue. She had to admit, she found Richard hard to fathom. His remote manner was so different from Beatrice’s warmth and informality. Often, she feared he was deeply unhappy. He spent hours shut up alone in his study and when he came out, apart from a few courteous words, he had little to say.

  ‘Alice looked after us,’ Beatrice went on, ‘and Mother rarely left her chamber. Even though Alice tried to keep us from hearing them, I remember how Mother and Father quarrelled.’

  Meg thought of the cold silences and violent outbursts in her own home. She reached out and put her hand on Beatrice’s arm.

  ‘Thank you,’ Beatrice smiled. ‘I’m afraid what happened in my family may not have been uncommon. It was little better when Queen Mary brought back the old religion. So many cruel things happened in God’s name. Mother must have hated that.’

  She gave Meg a quizzical look. ‘I imagine you’re wondering if their unhappiness is the reason I never took a husband.’

  Meg inclined her head slightly.

  ‘I never planned it that way. My father didn’t press me to marry, although if I had found a man I could love, I would have been glad to. But I never did, and now who would choose a woman in her fortieth year? She shivered. ‘I’ve kept you standing here for too long. You must be frozen. Let’s go into the church. I’ll show you the family monument.’

  Snow crunching beneath their overshoes, they walked along the path to the church porch. Icicles hung from the eaves and inside the building there was a strong smell of damp. The wooden pews were dull from lack of polish and cobwebs festooned the windows.

  ‘The church is never used now,’ Beatrice said. ‘Not since we started to go to the one at King’s Barton to make sure we were seen to attend.’

  Her wooden heels clicked on the uneven stone flags as she went down the aisle to the altar table. Fingering the delicate lace embellishing the cloth that covered it, she sighed. ‘Mother had this made in Honiton. She wanted candles and silver plate too, but father forbade it.’

  In a side chapel, two life-sized effigies lay on a low tomb. The man was dressed in full armour but the visor of his helmet was pushed up to reveal a stern, clean-shaven face. Curled up asleep at his mailed feet, a stone dog showed he had died in peace. Beside him reposed a woman with calm, smooth features, her tiny hands clasped in prayer on the stone folds of her flowing dress. On the wall above, a plaque listed the names of all the Laceys who had come after them.

  ‘My ancestors, Godfroi and Mathilda de Lacey. Godfroi came from Normandy with King William.’

  ‘He looks very stern,’ Meg said.

  ‘I expect he was.’

  Back in the churchyard, the sun was out and its warmth gladdened Meg.

  ‘It will be lambing time in a month or so,’ Beatrice remarked. ‘John has promised he’ll teach Andrew everything he can. He says Andrew is very quick to learn and has been a great help to him these past months.’

  Meg had noticed how much time Andrew spent with John the steward and she had been pleased. It was not too soon to think of how he would earn his living. The office of steward was respected and well paid, he could do far worse.

  ‘I’m sure Andrew will be very grateful, and Sarah too. I know she worries about how her children will make their way in the world. Everyone here has been so good to us, Beatrice. I still shudder when I think of what might have happened if you hadn’t taken us in on that awful night.’

  ‘It is you who do us a kindness with your company. We’d miss you if you went away,’ Beatrice smiled. ‘Even Alice.’

  Meg chuckled. ‘She does seem to have thawed a little.’

  ‘I doubt she would admit it, but I think she loves having a child in the house again, and Bess to order about of course. I remember how she used to terrify the nursery servants when we we
re young. It’s lucky Bess is so good natured.’

  Leaving the churchyard, they followed the rough path back to the house. As they came into the hall, they found Bess carrying a steaming bowl of posset from the kitchen. The comforting smell of hot milk and brandy wafted towards them.

  ‘Alice told me to take this up to Sarah,’ Bess said. ‘She’s resting in the solar. Alice says it will ease her cough. She was awake half the night.’

  Meg frowned. Sarah’s health had improved a little in the early days at Lacey Hall but it still left a great deal to be desired. When the doctor came from King’s Barton he prescribed numerous expensive tonics and remedies but none of them seemed to bring lasting benefit. At least if the need arose, he had promised to vouch for the fact she was not fit enough to attend church.

  ‘I’ll take it to her, Bess. I’ve not seen her today. Will you come with me, Beatrice?’

  Beatrice shook her head. ‘I promised Richard I would look over some papers with him as soon as I came home. I should let him know I’m back.’

  Meg climbed the creaking oak staircase, carrying the bowl and napkin. At intervals, carved figures of dragons and eagles surmounted the handrail. On the first landing, a ray of sunshine shone through a round, stained-glass window throwing pools of crimson, blue and gold light on the polished floor. For a moment, Meg paused, admiring the rich colours. Over the months since she had come to Lacey Hall she had grown very fond of the old house. With its dusty nooks and corners and old-fashioned furniture and fittings, it was so different from her home with Edward but she did not miss the newness and modern conveniences of Stuckton Court in the slightest.

  She set off down the passage leading to the solar. Her hand was on the latch when she heard voices within. Abruptly, the door opened and Richard Lacey almost collided with her. Clutching the bowl, she steadied herself.