‘Both,’ he answered. He did not need to explain himself, least of all to this girl whose name he did not know. He regretted he hadn’t been kinder to Jane. It had crossed his mind more than once that he would like to keep her for himself: she had been good at what she did and he had liked her. But it took money to keep a mistress and he barely ever had enough even for his own meat and drink.
‘I’ll miss her,’ he said.
‘Come see me instead,’ the girl offered. ‘Jane taught me most of what she knew.’
He gave her a small smile and nodded. He had sampled her twice now and he knew she would never equal Jane for pleasure. ‘Perhaps I will,’ he said, because he knew she had cared for Jane too and he didn’t want to be unkind.
‘This afternoon?’ The girl was persistent.
‘Another time,’ he said. ‘I have work to do.’
He saw the disappointment but he was not moved, and, with a nod of his head, he took his leave of her and strolled back to the playhouse.
Sarah went with Nick to the Bankend stairs at the river and stood beside him while he hailed a wherry to take him across. The rain had stopped but a brisk chill wind had risen during the day, whipping the river into points and biting through the wool of her cloak. There were no pleasure craft on the water today. Sarah drew her cloak closer around her.
‘Will you bring her back with you tonight?’ she asked.
‘I cannot say,’ he answered.
She reached for his hand and squeezed it. Then a boat came alongside and he stepped onto it, leaving her on the landing stairs to watch after him as the boatman rowed them away from the shore. He kept his eyes trained on her form as he faded into the gloom, reluctant, it seemed to her, to face his future on the opposite bank. When the boat had been swallowed by the darkness and she could no longer make out its shape on the water, she turned sadly away.
How would it be between them now, she wondered, with his wife alongside them? It was hard to imagine Rebecca, God-fearing and passionless; Sarah already knew she would hate her. But they were bound together regardless in their connection to Nick – he was a prisoner of them both. She tried to shut her mind to the thought of it, regretting the cruelty of his shackles. She had only thought to love him better, and she had not truly understood the nature of the bond.
She found Tom in the Green Dragon. She was no longer afraid to go there, at home now amongst familiar faces, her own face recognised and known. There was safety in her connection to Nick and to Tom, and she was more confident now to rebuff the invitations of strangers.
Tom was drinking with a pretty young man she didn’t recognise, the two of them sitting close together with their hands lightly touching on the table, but as soon as he saw her he pushed the boy away and turned his full attention to her. The boy gave her a filthy look and slouched sullenly away, but she paid him no mind and sat close beside her brother on the bench. The tavern was hot, but despite her new-found confidence she was reluctant to unwrap herself from her cloak. With her shoulders and her neck exposed she would still feel vulnerable, even in Tom’s company.
Briefly she told him what had happened, her eyes on his face as she spoke, observing his reaction. He listened in silence, the thin, handsome face still with concentration, blue-grey eyes intent and bright. When she finished he said nothing for a moment, taking a sip of his wine, then offering her the cup. She took a mouthful to wet her throat, which was dry from nerves and the telling of the tale. Then he said, ‘Are you truly willing to share him?’
‘If I can have him no other way.’
‘He is bound to you – he cannot give you up.’
‘He is bound to her also, in law and in conscience. He will not set her aside.’
Tom nodded. ‘Shall we scry?’ he murmured.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I already know what the future holds, for both of us.’ The images of the last time still haunted her thoughts, Tom’s death and hers still beckoning. She had no wish to witness it a second time.
He shrugged. ‘We should go.’
She nodded and got up, and they went together to the door. Just outside in the street before they parted ways, she turned to him. ‘Who was the boy?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘Just a boy. He’ll keep.’
She shook her head with a rueful smile, still disconcerted by his appetites. ‘You have forgotten John already?’ she teased.
‘Not forgotten,’ he replied. ‘Just replaced.’
‘Just make sure this one doesn’t lose his mind because of it,’ she warned, and he laughed.
‘I’ll do my best.’ He leaned in to kiss her cheek in farewell, and briefly she closed her eyes to savour the moment of his closeness and his warmth, his lips against her face. He must have sensed the lift her heart gave at his touch because he stopped and stayed near, his mouth still brushing her cheek. ‘Are you jealous, good sister?’ he murmured.
She was silent – she had not named the emotion even to herself, hadn’t yet recognised its provenance. Was she jealous? she wondered. Did she truly care where Tom stuck his cock? Perhaps, she realised, and the new knowledge frightened her, but in the pause of her hesitation he slipped a hand inside her cloak to cup her breast and her insides heaved with desire. Gently he took her arm and drew her to the side of the door and into the shadow of the wall. Then his lips were on hers, his body pressing close. For a moment she resisted, head battling against the desire, but the pleasure overruled the doubts and so she gave herself to the kiss, and when he took her arm again to guide her into the lane alongside the tavern and placed her back against the wall in the darkness, his hands beneath her skirts, she did not protest.
Afterwards he held her, kissing and stroking her hair, and she could feel the warmth of his juices trickling on the inside of her thigh. ‘Let’s not tell Nick about this one,’ he whispered.
She lifted her head but she could not see his face in the darkness. She cupped his jaw in her hand. ‘We cannot do this again,’ she replied. ‘We mustn’t.’
‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘Because of Nick? Where is he now? Who is he with? Do you think he’ll never lie with her again? She’s his wife.’
‘And you are my brother.’
‘Ah. Yes,’ he agreed. ‘There is that, I suppose. But still,’ he murmured. ‘Who are we hurting really?’
She said nothing, his logic impossible to argue with. He lifted her chin with his fingers and kissed her again full on the mouth, and she knew she would never have the strength to refuse him. Perhaps Nick was right, she thought. Perhaps he truly was a force for evil, bent on a course of corruption. The pleasure of him was irrefutable, and she knew beyond doubt that she would give herself to him again without a moment’s hesitation. It seemed impossible that they had come so far together without it.
‘I’ll walk you back,’ he said then, stepping away, buttoning his breeches and allowing her to rearrange her skirts and smooth her hair once more into place. Then he took her arm and they walked together away from the tavern, moving slowly in spite of the wind, arm in arm, content simply to be close.
‘What did you see?’ Tom asked. ‘When you scried before? What exactly did you see?’
She was silent. The images had remained clear in her mind, visited in her dreams in the weeks since then, inescapable. But she had not talked of it again, reluctant to give the vision voice and grant it the power of words. Tom had not asked before, wary as she was. But now he would have her tell him and his hand pressed against hers on his arm as he turned his head to look at her, blue-grey eyes searching for an answer. She kept her gaze down and forward, watching the dark earth disappear underfoot with each step – she dared not meet those eyes. Slowing his steps, he turned her gently to face him, drawing her towards him to the edge of the lane. Behind him the windows of an alehouse blinked blankly, and through a small chink in the curtain, a sliver of light glowed bright just beyond his arm. She let her gaze follow its warmth; heat and life to counter the cold of the images inside her head.
&n
bsp; ‘Tell me,’ he said softly, taking the tips of her fingers, rubbing them lightly.
Unwillingly she lifted her eyes to meet his, glowing dark in the shadow from the torch on the wall behind him. How could she say no? She could refuse him nothing. A sigh left her lips, a deep breath of sorrow, and the words she needed were hard to find. ‘To speak it …’ she began, ‘is to make it so, and I am afraid …’
He nodded but she knew he wouldn’t give up. Would she, she wondered, if Tom had seen her death? She too would want to know.
‘It’s only one possible path,’ he said. ‘Nothing is immutable. Nothing is fixed. If I know, then perhaps I can act to change it.’
She swallowed.
‘Tell me,’ he insisted, drawing her closer to him, into the shadow of the wall, so that she could smell his breath and feel its warmth on her face. Behind her in the lane she heard the voices of men that were rough with drink insulting each other in jest as they passed by. She waited until the road was quiet again before she spoke.
‘I saw our deaths,’ she whispered.
‘I know. But how? How do we die, Sarah?’
‘You die at the end of a rope.’ The words tumbled out quickly, no emotion. It was his death not hers she saw over and over, certain of its reality: the defiant leap into the noose, legs kicking wildly into the air, her own screams of grief as the life left his body and she dragged at his feet to hasten his end. His beautiful body hanging limp and unmoving, robbed of the spirit that she loved. She blinked back tears and moved in closer until he held her in his arms and she could drink in his warmth and life and beauty.
He was silent, holding her gently for a moment until he slid his hands to her shoulders and lowered his gaze to look into her face again. ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘What happens to you?’
She swung her face away, staring down the street towards the river where a pair of young gentlemen were bargaining with a whore. She could hear the woman’s cackle and the persuasive and expectant tones of the men. Tom waited, his hands still resting on her shoulders, until she turned her head back to face him, meeting his gaze at last. ‘Grief,’ she said simply. ‘I die of grief.’
‘Oh, Sarah,’ he murmured, and drew her into him once again, holding her tighter this time, his lips against her temple, his embrace strong and firm around her back, wrapping her in a sense of safety she had known with him since childhood – a bond born of blood and magic and the darkness. He was part of her and she did not want to live without him; she doubted that she could. She wished they could hide like this in the dark for always and protect each other from harm.
Finally, they walked on, quiet with each other, the knowledge of their fates a heavy burden between them. All that had passed before seemed forgotten in the light of what was to come. She had rarely seen Tom so sombre – Tom who would joke in the darkest moments, Tom who would laugh in the face of his death. But not, it seemed, in the face of hers. Above them a full curtain of cloud obscured the stars and the moon, and the night was damp and dark. She held her brother’s arm tightly as though the strength of their connection might yet keep them safe. At the door to the house they halted and the first drops of rain began to fall. They turned to face each other and Tom took her fingers in his.
‘Will you come in?’ she asked. ‘Out of the rain?’
He shook his head. ‘Nick would not welcome me.’ Then he said, ‘The future is never certain and there may be meanings we’ve not yet understood. The Fates rarely tell us all.’
She tried to smile but only nodded, lips pressed tight closed against the urge to cry.
‘Have you told Nick?’ he asked.
‘And give him more reason to hate his bonds?’ She shook her head. ‘He has troubles enough of his own.’
‘Good night then, gentle sister,’ Tom said, and the kiss he placed on her cheek was pure and loving and brotherly. It felt good.
Nick stepped off the wherry at Temple Stairs with reluctance – it was many years since he had made this journey but the way was still clear in his mind. On the landing stage he paused for a moment as half-forgotten images circled in his mind – himself as a young man, John’s age, ardent and full of hope, his purpose secret. He had been a different person then. Shaking his head to chase away the memories and to gird himself, he turned his back on the river and began to stride north towards Fleet Street and Carey Street beyond. The walk seemed to take no time at all, and close to the house he slowed his steps, approaching with a thudding heart, pausing a little distance away to look it over. A fine house with mullioned windows, it had grown in the intervening years, with a new wing on one end and established gardens, the trees grown up and mature. He remembered how it had seemed to him as a young boy fresh to London, a symbol of all the city had to offer. The lawyer’s life had obviously served Roberts well.
He halted at the door, breathing deeply to calm himself, but he was aware of the sweat in the pit of his back and under his arms, and his mouth was dry. He had no idea what to expect nor even what he should hope for, but his heart was filled with a sense of foreboding. Swallowing, bracing himself for whatever he was about to meet, he lifted his hand to hammer on the door. With his knock, a dog started barking inside and he heard footsteps approach and hesitate before coming closer again. Then Marston opened the door and stood in the doorway, looking him up and down, condescension written plainly on his face. The man might have claimed to be just a clerk but clearly he held some position in the household, and in his master’s absence he was enjoying a new-found power.
‘I’m here for my wife,’ Nick said.
The clerk stepped back and admitted him to a broad entrance hallway that was well lit by dozens of candles. He had no memory of seeing it before, though he knew he must have done so. Then he followed the clerk into some kind of reception room that was brightly furnished with Turkey rugs and tapestries, a warm fire in the hearth and wine set out on the sideboard.
‘Make yourself at home,’ the clerk said. ‘I will tell Mistress Tooley you are come.’ He backed out with a reluctant half-bow and closed the door.
Nick poured himself wine. It was some kind of Rhenish, and strong, and the buzz in his head that it gave him was welcome. He drank it off and refilled the cup, then took it to stand by the fire, warming the backs of his legs, but he didn’t have long to wait. He could hear the double set of footsteps approaching on the flagstones beyond the door and he drew himself upright, taking a deep breath, preparing himself.
The door swung open on well-oiled hinges and then his wife was there, hands clasped modestly before her and her head bowed so that Nick couldn’t see her face. The clerk hovered close behind her until Nick gave him a curt order to leave, and as the door latched shut with his exit, his wife ventured a few steps closer. He could feel her hesitation and the reluctance to meet his eyes.
There was a silence and he observed her carefully. She seemed very different from the girl he remembered: if he had seen her on the street he might have walked straight past. But perhaps it was the drabness of her dress, he thought, and the starched white cap that drew back her hair so severely from her face. The girl he recalled had worn thick auburn hair loose about her shoulders, silken in his fingers when he loved her, and there had been freckles and a ready smile. But the woman before him now had a furrow in her forehead and her lips were pursed and tight. It was hard to believe he had kissed those lips and loved them.
‘Husband.’ She curtseyed with her eyes still lowered to the ground and he realised she was afraid of him, afraid he might punish her for all that had gone before.
‘Becky,’ he replied.
At his use of her name she looked up, startled for a moment before her eyes flicked away again, avoiding his.
‘I’m sorry about your father,’ he said. He could think of nothing else and it seemed the proper thing to say.
‘Thank you.’
There was another silence. He took a mouthful of wine. Her dead father’s wine. Then he said, ‘So he has handed you back to m
e at last.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded without looking up. ‘Am I to go with you tonight?’
‘Do you want to go with me tonight?’ He stepped closer, trying to bridge the vast gulf that lay between them. There seemed to be no trace at all of what they had once meant to each other: they were utter strangers meeting for the first time.
‘It is your decision to make sir,’ she replied. ‘I will do as you bid me.’
He hesitated, uncertain in the face of her subjection. Was this the obedience her father had demanded? Dear God, he thought, how could any man want a woman to be so afraid of him? Slowly, so as not to startle her again, he took another few steps towards her and touched gentle fingertips to her arm. He wanted her to look at him, trying to recall something of the spark that once existed between them. But she did not acknowledge the touch and her head remained resolutely lowered. Regret sidled through him. There was nothing left of the girl he remembered, the woman he had grieved for over so many years. And now they must make a new life together. He did not dare to ask if he could see his son.
He said, ‘I thought after the funeral. So you have some time to adjust and to mourn with your family.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in a monotone, so he could not tell if she was glad or not.
He lowered his fingers from her arm, disappointed. He had not known what he hoped for, but this miserable subservience stirred an abhorrence in him, no hope for the days to come and the years of their marriage that stretched ahead.
‘Then I’ll bid you good night,’ he said, dropping his head in a bow that she did not see as she lowered herself into an answering curtsey, eyes still fixed on the floor between their feet. Dismissed at last, she fled like a scolded child and Marston reappeared with a sheaf of papers, ready to discuss the details of the inheritance. Numbly, Nick half listened as the man explained at length and in detail, but most of his thoughts were with the timid creature who was his wife, and her terror of her husband.
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