‘They need you,’ Tom said.
Nick nodded, and with a final squeeze of her hand and a small smile that lifted the corners of his mouth, he followed Tom out onto the stage to rehearse.
Tom’s Lady was much different from John’s. Stronger and less regal, with a darkness in her heart to match her husband’s. And he brought a different passion to the role, a seductive quality that John had lacked.
‘What beast was’t, then,
That made you break this enterprise to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man …’
He followed the same movements as John had done, moving close, embracing, a hand upon Nick’s cheek. But the energy was something else entirely: though the words urged Macbeth to murder, it was pure seduction – Tom at his most dangerous, challenging Nick, questioning his manhood, pushing him. Nick struggled to meet the open eroticism Tom brought to the scene, and it was hard to shake the memory of Tom watching him with Sarah.
‘And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man …’
Nick felt the mockery implicit in the words, and his anger rose with the desire to prove himself. He wanted to turn Tom round, force him to his knees and assert his manhood. The conflict sounded in the words.
‘If we should fail?’
‘We fail!’
The Lady’s answer was thick with derision, goading him, and though the lines belonged to the play, Nick was conscious there was something else at stake – a battle for power between them he could not fully understand.
‘I am settled, and bend up
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat,’
he heard himself say, his will bent to the Lady’s urging, though his conscience cried out against the deed. He had been seduced after all, and though he had done this scene a hundred times with John, he had never truly felt the weight of his capitulation, the true power of his Lady to bend him to her will. At the end of the scene both men looked across to Will for comment, but when no one spoke, they looked at each other for a brief exchange of concern.
‘Was it not good?’ Nick asked.
‘It was good,’ Will affirmed, pushing off from the wall where he had been leaning, crossing to centre stage. He nodded and stepped away, without another word. ‘Let’s press on … Banquo? Fleance?’
The other actors appeared from the tiring house doors as Nick and Tom left the stage, and the rehearsal moved on to the following scene.
The rehearsal went late and most of the players went straight to the Green Dragon. Tom kept his distance from Nick and it was a sombre band that stepped through the doors out of the drizzle and into the close warmth inside. The last time they had come here was the last time they saw John, and out of habit Tom’s eyes scanned the room for Jane, only recalling her absence when they lit on the girl whose name he still could not recall. She observed his search and swung her hips as she sashayed towards him, but he sent her away with a weary wave of his hand. He was in no mood for whores.
The players were subdued and though they ordered food and ale as they usually did, John’s crime and the worries of the play hung over them all so there was little talk amongst them. Nick kept his head deliberately turned away; despite the good work they had done together during the day as actors, Tom knew the hatred simmered unabated. He shouldn’t have stayed to watch them, he realised now. Blinded by his own salacity, he had misjudged the depth of Nick’s feelings, and the violence with which he had taken Sarah made Tom cautious: there was only so far a man could be pushed before he snapped.
No one among them mentioned John, though his absence fell like a shadow on their company. He had always just been there at Nick’s side, listening, speaking rarely, but always there. Tom wondered where he had fled to and what thoughts filled his head now. He would be hiding somewhere, perhaps with the priest. Was he filled with remorse, or did he still believe he was possessed? If he had any sense at all, he’d be on a boat and leaving England’s shores, but Tom doubted it somehow. John lacked survival instincts; in time he would surely be caught and hanged. Tom sipped at his ale and let the scene play out in his head – John’s slender form dangling from a rope above the crowd, head askew and thin legs kicking wildly as the piss ran down them. What would it be like, he wondered again, to feel the life force fail and no more breaths to take? He had considered his own death often; it was the awareness of his mortality that drove him to his recklessness. Life was short and hard and uncertain, and there was nothing in this world he did not want to know or taste or feel before he died.
He thought again of his sister – the slim, soft body, the tightness of her maidenhead and the blood that had trickled on her thigh. Recalling the taste of her, he felt the familiar lurch of desire. He had no regrets at all: his love for his sister was endless – she was the only person in the world who had ever truly touched him – and he would lie with her again without a second thought if chance allowed. Discreetly, he adjusted himself in his breeches and his eyes scanned the room to look for the nameless whore.
The girl saw him searching almost straight away and he smiled. She was learning fast. When she got to him she slid an arm across his shoulders and leaned herself against him. He breathed in the scent of her – cheap perfumes and soap and the stale smell of sex that clung to all the whores he had known – and one hand found her leg beneath the skirts, caressing the soft skin of her inner thigh. But he did not look up at her face and smile as he would have done with Jane. He didn’t care who she was or how she looked. It was not the girl he wanted for herself but the simple release of the fuck. He would think about his sister.
He stood up. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said to the others at the table. They all nodded with knowing smiles except for Nick, who looked away. Then he took the girl’s hand and let her lead him to the rooms beyond the curtained doorway.
When he stepped through to the tavern again, only Nick remained at the table, still steadily drinking his ale. Tom stood in the doorway, undecided for a moment until he let the girl go with a fleeting word, took a deep breath and made his way towards him. Nick lifted his eyes from his cup and watched him come, and all Tom could see in him was hostility. He stopped with the table between them.
‘You should go home,’ he said. ‘It’s late.’
Nick drank more of his ale. His movements were deliberate and clumsy, and up close Tom could see the glassiness in his eyes.
‘She’ll be waiting for you however late you go, however much you drink,’ he said.
The other man laid his cup down on the table with care. The muscle in his jaw was working and he was breathing hard. Tom stayed wary as Nick finally lifted his eyes to look at him.
‘Don’t presume to tell me what to do,’ he breathed.
‘Go home, Nick,’ Tom said gently. He was reluctant to leave him there with such rage in his blood and an urge to violence – he would find a fight soon enough if he looked for it, and a knife to the guts in a tavern brawl with a stranger was a stupid way to die.
Nick shook his head. ‘Bugger you.’
Tom smiled at the choice of insult. ‘Come, I’m taking you home,’ he said.
The other man shook his head and turned away as Tom moved round the table, but he did not resist when Tom lifted his arm across his shoulders and helped him to his feet to weave uncertainly towards the door. Outside, the night air was like a slap in the face and Nick straightened slightly, struggling to regain control. But when he spoke, the words were still slurred, and Tom retained a firm hold as they began to stumble home. They had not gone far when Nick stopped and jerked his arm free, turning to face him.
‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘For the love of God! She’s your sister! And I would have loved her anyway.’ His eyes filled with tears, a drunkard’s self-pity, and Tom swallowed down his irritation. He should have left him in the tavern.
‘It’s what I do,’ he replied.
Nick regarded him closely and even through the fug of drunkenness, the contempt in his eyes wa
s disturbing. Tom slid his gaze away and waited.
‘Yes,’ Nick agreed, nodding slowly. ‘That’s what you do. You corrupt people and drag them into your own pit of darkness. Why?’ he asked. ‘Is it lonely there that you need the company of others? Or is it that you can’t bear seeing others happy in their innocence and purity?’
‘You were happy enough to take my sister’s innocence …’
‘Except you had got there first.’
Tom shook his head. ‘This is pointless.’
Nick was silent, staring off down the street, eyes following the erratic movements of a gentleman and his whore as they wove towards the river. Then he turned to lean on the wall behind him with one hand, supporting himself as he puked on the ground at his feet. Tom turned away, disgusted. When the sound of the splatter had ceased, he turned back. ‘Better?’
Nick nodded and wiped his mouth against his sleeve. ‘Better.’
‘Can we go now?’
Nick nodded again as Tom took his elbow and guided him firmly towards the house in Water Lane. It seemed a long walk home.
Chapter Twenty
All Our Yesterdays
Nick sat in the frontmost bench of the downstairs gallery to watch the others rehearse the final scene, his own part finished and Macbeth’s head on a spike. He ached with weariness and his head still throbbed from last night’s drinking. Sarah came to sit beside him with her sewing in her hands and he did not welcome her company. When he saw her now, he saw the shadow of her brother, and hatred bubbled in his gut. He gave her a reluctant smile and, sensing the hostility, she left some space between them on the bench.
They were silent, a new awkwardness between them. Twice she opened her mouth as if to speak and closed it once again. He kept his gaze trained forward – he wanted her to go and leave him to nurse his wounds, and after a while she stood up again.
‘You were wonderful,’ she said. ‘This morning … the scenes … I couldn’t look away.’
He lifted his eyes to her then. She was standing with her back to the yard and her face was in shadow, but he could still see the sorrow in her eyes, and regret for his coldness nudged at the hatred. He tried to smile. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
Encouraged, she spoke again. ‘It can’t have been easy …’
He tilted his head and the smile this time was real and wry. ‘No.’
She looked away, her eyes tracing the lines of the gallery above them. He watched her, observing the fine narrow neck, the line of her jaw, the soft, pale skin of her cheeks, young and perfect. She still carried an innocence about her and he remembered how much he loved her. Then Tom crossed the yard towards them in the corner of his vision and the shackle tightened on his heart. In spite of the love, he was her prisoner and she was no longer innocent. Her brother had seen to that. Tom reached them and Sarah turned at his voice.
‘There’s a messenger come for you, Nick,’ Tom said. ‘He’s at the door.’
‘Bring him to me,’ he replied.
Tom turned with a nod and left. Sarah resumed her seat and picked up her sewing. It was the nightshirt for the Lady’s sleepwalking scene, and it crossed his mind to tell her to leave in the pins.
The messenger arrived, a young man who was vaguely familiar though he could not have said from where. ‘Master Tooley?’
‘Aye.’
‘My name is Marston. I am clerk to Master Roberts.’
Nick started. Roberts was his father-in-law, the man who had his wife’s keeping. What on God’s good earth did he want? ‘He sent you?’
‘He is dead,’ Marston replied.
Nick swallowed, uncertain what to say, what to think. Sarah broke the silence. ‘Your wife?’ she asked softly.
He nodded. Then he turned to the messenger with a questioning look.
‘The keeping of his daughter and grandson returns to you now. He has left no provision for her otherwise.’
He slid a glance to Sarah, still off balance from the news, so unexpected yet so long hoped for. But why now, he thought, when someone else had finally taken her place in his heart, in his bed? How could they be reconciled now?
‘In law she is yours,’ Marston continued. ‘And he has bequeathed you a handsome sum to keep her.’
‘But why?’ Nick finally found his voice. ‘He hates … hated … me.’
‘I was not privy to his thoughts and feelings,’ Marston shrugged. ‘I am merely his clerk charged to bring you the news. But if I could venture a guess, she has to go somewhere. Someone has to provide for her and you are, after all, her husband.’
Nick was silent, aware of the trace of condescension in the man’s tone, the judgement, but he cared nothing for the man’s good opinion. His heartbeat was racing and instinctively he reached for Sarah’s hand. It was small and cold, but her fingers squeezed his tightly and her presence was reassuring.
‘You are to call at the house at your earliest convenience,’ the messenger said. ‘You can recall where it is? We will expect you.’ Then he bowed and they watched him stride away, full of his own self-importance.
Nick swallowed, saying nothing, fingers still linked with Sarah’s. He stared ahead, trying to compose his thoughts and his feelings, but they slipped and slid away, escaping his grasp, and he could make no sense of them. All the while he was aware of Sarah’s attention on his face and the grip of her hand, but he could think of nothing to say to her.
The crash onstage of the trapdoor slamming shut broke the moment, and slowly he turned to the girl at his side.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
He shrugged.
‘You should go to her,’ she said. ‘Bring her home. And your son. You’ve waited a long time.’
‘And you? I cannot be without you. You know that.’
‘I’ll still be there, your loyal maidservant.’ She smiled. ‘You can love us both.’
He said nothing. He could not even begin to imagine how it would be with Becky now, so many years under the bridge, strangers to each other. She had loved him once as he had loved her, but she had accepted her father’s law without question, put up not even a single spark of fight against him to be a true wife to her husband. The memory still rankled, the bitterness of it rising at unexpected times and catching him unawares. He had fought for her, and hard, but she had given him away without a single murmur of dissent. It had been a hard betrayal and ever since, he had held his heart in check, afraid to be so hurt again.
Until now, he thought. Until Sarah. He turned towards her, touched the back of his fingers to her cheek, enjoying the smile the movement brought to her lips, the flush of pleasure that brushed across her pallor. He could not give her up.
‘’Tis a pity we are not savages,’ she said. ‘Then you could have us both to wife.’
‘You would be willing to share me?’ His smile was teasing now – he could not recall ever playing so with Becky. Their love had been the earnest ardour of the very young.
Sarah’s smile faded. ‘Better that than lose you,’ she said, taking his hand and bringing her lips against it, warm and moist. ‘You know that there is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you.’
He nodded, swallowing, conscious they were not idle words. ‘You’re not going to lose me,’ he promised. ‘I will keep you both and love only you.’
She smiled with pleasure and kissed his fingers once again, and reluctantly he forced down the desire that the touch of her lips aroused. He would go to his wife’s after the afternoon performance.
Tom slipped from the theatre and hurried through the morning. A light rain found its way beneath his collar as he half walked, half ran along Deadman’s Place, busy now with stalls and shops – housewives and servants looking for bargains. A flock of sheep scattered as he wove his way between them, and a band of beggar children tried to sell him a handful of ragged flowers they had picked from somewhere, but he paid them no heed. Turning south into Red Cross Street, he slowed his steps a little, breathing hard, but it was not far to the Cross Bones gr
aveyard and he cast his eyes across the unmarked mounds that held the bodies of the poor and unsaved of the parish – those souls deemed unworthy of the Christian rites, laid to rest in a winding sheet with a covering of quicklime and a shallow grave among the rank grass and barely tamed weeds. The place stank of death and instinctively he shuddered. But it was pity for the poor lives that had led them to here; it made no odds to him where a body ended up once it was dead.
By the far wall a pair of gravediggers laboured, and as he made his way toward them he saw the nameless whore, the gaudy colours of her dress bright against the dark, damp earth. She was standing beside the grave and when she saw him she flashed him a quick smile of gratitude for coming. The gravediggers stood back to rest a moment as he arrived, their shovels upright in the earth, and he moved past them to where Jane’s body lay in its shroud. Kneeling, he beckoned to the girl to help him lift her: for some reason it mattered that she was laid in her final resting place with care. Reluctantly, the girl bent to take Jane’s feet, and between them they managed to lower her into the grave.
When Tom had stood up again, the gravediggers went back to their work, and he watched as the cold earth fell onto the shrouded body. With a lurch of grief, he saw in his mind her face white and still, the decay of death already begun. She had not deserved such an end, so young and full of hope, and he hoped John was suffering now, remorse and guilt eating his soul and destroying his peace. It was no more than he deserved.
‘You know she loved you,’ the girl said, as he stood up once more. ‘She hoped one day you might marry her and make her yours. Or at least take her as your mistress.’
He gave a wry smile and shook his head. ‘Poor girl,’ he said.
‘Because she loved you?’ the whore asked. ‘Or because she died?’
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