Salvation

by Harriet Steel

  ‘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.

  ‘T
he 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.

  26

  Peggoty’s smile was ingratiating. ‘Can I help you, sir? If it’s washing you want doing, you won’t find better rates than ours in the whole of London.’

  ‘I’ve not come for that. I’m looking for a girl called Meg. I believe she lodges here.’

  A surly expression replaced the smile. ‘She’s not in some sort of trouble, is she?’

  ‘No, I just want to talk to her.’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  Peggoty was already closing the door but he wedged his foot in it.

  ‘I don’t want anyone wasting her time,’ she scowled.

  Lamotte produced a shilling and held it out. ‘I promise to be brief.’

  ‘She’s gone to Lincoln’s Inn with some washing, but there’s plenty more work to do when she comes back.’ She snatched the coin. ‘Now get your foot out of my door.’

  Taken aback by the ferocity of her tone, Lamotte removed his foot just in time as the door slammed in his face. This Meg was to be pitied, he thought ruefully as he set off for Lincoln’s Inn.

  On the way, he studied the women he passed, but even allowing for the fond judgement of a young man in love, none of them even approached Tom’s description. Then a girl caught his eye and he stopped. The hair slipping from her white cap was dark and luxuriant. Her expressive eyes were of such a dark blue that they were almost black. If this was Tom’s girl, he was right: she was lovely.

  ‘Meg?’ he asked as she drew level with him. He heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘My name is Alexandre Lamotte,’ he said. ‘I believe you were looking for me?’

  ‘Master Lamotte! Please tell me quickly. Have you seen Tom? Is he alive?’

  ‘I think so, although I can’t be sure.’

  Smothering a cry, she swayed and he caught her elbow to steady her. ‘Forgive me,’ she gasped.

  ‘I’m the one who should be sorry,’ Lamotte said with consternation. ‘I shouldn’t have frightened you like that. Let’s find you somewhere to sit down then we can talk.’

  He led her to a wooden bench under an elm tree nearby where he pulled out a handkerchief and dusted down the seat before motioning her to sit. She gave a shaky laugh. ‘I’m a poor washerwoman now, Master Lamotte. I have no airs and graces.’

  Lamotte frowned. ‘How has this come about?’

  ‘I ran away from my home and my husband. At first I tried to find Tom but it was hopeless. Misfortune brought me to London then, by chance, I saw a playbill with Tom’s name on it. The man who gave you my message told me you might know where he was.’

  When he set out that morning, Lamotte had intended to do his best to put this girl off in any way he could, but now she was before him, so clearly distressed, he found he was unable to dissemble. When he told her of Tom’s capture and his imprisonment, Meg turned pale. ‘I was afraid of that,’ she whispered. ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘No, he was moved to another prison away from London.’

  Her face fell. ‘Is it far away?’

  ‘Yes, but he escaped on the journey.’

  ‘Where is he now? I must go to him.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. He went to deliver a letter to the family of another prisoner who escaped with him and I haven’t heard anything from him since then.’

  Meg shivered. ‘And you think some harm might have come to him.’

  Lamotte took her hand. ‘I have no evidence for that. We must keep hoping he will return to us safely.’

  Meg rallied. ‘Perhaps this family will know where he has gone.’

  ‘I suppose they might. If much longer passed with no word from Tom, I had thought of going to see them myself. They live at a place called Lacey Hall near Exeter.’

  The remaining colour drained from Meg’s face. ‘Lacey Hall? What was the name of the prisoner who escaped with Tom?’

  ‘Richard Lacey.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why do you doubt it?’

  ‘I know the Laceys. They helped me after I ran away from my husband.’ Her voice shook. ‘Did Tom tell you how Richard was captured?’

  ‘No, do you know anything of it?’

  Meg felt a terrible sense of foreboding come over her. ‘I was there when the priest hunters came to the house. We knew they were close by, but they struck so swiftly, Richard only just managed to hide before they broke in.’

  Her fingers twisted in her lap. ‘I knew their leader, a man called Ralph Fiddler. He once worked with Tom in Salisbury.’ She broke off. ‘You’ve heard his name before?’

  ‘Yes. When Tom was first arrested, I asked him if there was anyone who might wish him ill. He said the only man he could think of was Ralph Fiddler.’

  ‘Ralph offered me a chance to save Richard, at least I believed he did, but now you’ve told me Richard was captured, I fear he lied to me. He said that if I went away with him, he would give up the search for Richard and leave the house for good.’ A sob caught in her throat. ‘I agreed. He made me promise not to explain my actions to Richard’s sister Beatrice – they lived at Lacey Hall together. Of course she was horrified and angry that I seemed happy to take up with a man who was our enemy. It broke my heart to leave, knowing what she thought of me.’ She bowed her head. ‘So Ralph arrested Richard after all, how Beatrice must hate me.’

  ‘
Where is Fiddler now?’

  ‘I don’t know. He had me taken to his house in London. Later on, he followed me there,’ her knuckles blanched, ‘but not long afterwards, he disappeared. I decided to leave the place and that is how I came to be at Peggoty’s.’

  ‘You must put it all behind you,’ Lamotte said firmly. ‘There’s no use distressing yourself over what is past. I’ll take you to Lacey Hall and hope there is news of Tom there.’

  A look of alarm crossed Meg’s face. ‘Beatrice! Must I face her?’

  ‘When she hears what you have told me, I’m sure she will forget her anger. Now we have plans to make. Will it be too arduous a ride for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then tomorrow I’ll buy a well-broken mare and, if you will permit me, suitable clothes for you to travel in.’

  She smiled. ‘You’re very generous, Master Lamotte. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such kindness.’

  ‘Reuniting you with Tom will be ample reward.’

  Suddenly Meg’s face paled once more. ‘What shall I say to Peggoty?’

  ‘The harridan I met when I came to find you? Don’t worry, I’ll deal with her.’

  ‘Master Lamotte?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It may be of no importance but before Ralph’s manservant, William, and I ran away from Ralph Fiddler’s house, I found a gold ring inscribed with the letters WK.’

  Lamotte frowned. ‘You thought the initials were William Kemp’s?’

  ‘I wondered if they might be,’ she faltered.

  Lamotte pondered for a few moments. ‘Even if you’re right, I doubt that alone would be sufficient proof that Fiddler is the murderer,’ he said at last. ‘He could simply have stolen the ring after, or even before, Kemp died. But we should certainly not dismiss the possibility that there is more to it than that. Do you still have it?’

  Meg nodded.