‘Tom.’
He turned abruptly at her voice and shoved the boy’s leg from his own, leaning forward across the table, taking her hand. ‘Sarah! What brings you here? This is no place for you.’
She nodded, close to tears. The relief of finding him was almost overwhelming and she had no words to speak. He stroked her hand and smiled, and the boy beside him, ignored, stood up with a flourish and flounced off to find another customer. Tom watched him go and she could see the regret in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ she said. ‘I’m spoiling your pleasure.’
‘He’ll be here tomorrow.’ Tom shrugged. ‘Come. Let’s go from here. Somewhere peaceful, away from all of this …’
He moved to her side of the table and put his arm around her, holding her close and protected, shepherding her towards the door. Outside, she breathed more easily in the cool damp air: after the fug of the brothel the night felt fresh, even this close to the sourness of the river. They stood for a moment near the door, his arm still around her.
Then he said, ‘The playhouse.’
She nodded and they walked in silence along the river, soothed by the running current on its way out to the sea, the life in its waters. She was aware of his closeness – the hardness of his body against hers, its physical reality – and the memory of the future she had seen pushed at the edges of her thoughts.
At the playhouse they entered their usual way up the outside stairs and into the wardrobe at the top, but she wanted the sky above her, so Tom picked up a rug and a blanket and they descended the stairs to sit together on the stage. They sat for a moment looking out into the silent darkness of the auditorium, and though it was empty she still felt exposed up there, watched and judged. She turned her face away from it and finally met his question.
‘What happened?’ he said.
Briefly she told him.
‘He’s tired of the drama of it, is all,’ Tom answered. ‘He’s looking for peace in a barrel of ale or under the skirts of a whore he can use and forget. He feels bound by you both, and caught in between. He will come back to you – he has no choice.’
‘And I understand,’ she said. ‘But I just couldn’t be there with her.’
He nodded, and they sat together surrounded by the theatre’s silence for a while. She was aware of him watching her but she did not mind – she was comfortable in his presence, content with all that was between them. It seemed natural now, inevitable. After a while she lifted her head to look at him, the narrow handsome face, the searching eyes. The image of his lifeless hanging body nudged in her mind again and she shoved it away.
‘What do you think happens when we die?’ she asked.
He gave her a half-smile. ‘Our bodies turn to dust and our spirit returns to the universe.’
‘But are we still us? I mean, will I still know that I exist? Or is it over? Nothing. No more.’
‘I wish I knew. I have pondered it often. Perhaps there is an underworld …’
‘A hell?’
‘No, not a hell. Hades, perhaps. Hecate would have no truck with the Christian Hell. No, I think Hades is just the realm of the dead, darker perhaps than the living realm. But not an everlasting torment. Only the Christians would wish that for anyone.’
‘I wish it for Becky,’ she said, and he laughed. But then she wondered if she really meant it. Here with Tom, her life with Nick seemed unreal to her, a life lived by somebody else. She said, ‘If you were to die tomorrow what regrets would you have?’
He considered for a moment, tipping back his head, eyes searching the heavens. ‘Very few,’ he replied. ‘I’ve tried most things I’ve wanted to. I’d have liked to see a little more of the world, perhaps. Rome? Athens? To see some of the wonders of the ancient world. But mostly, I am content.’
‘You wouldn’t regret never having fallen in love?’
‘Who says I’ve never fallen in love?’
She looked up at him, surprised. He had never talked of anyone he might have loved, and her innards clutched in a twinge of hurt and jealousy. He touched her arm. ‘What about you?’ he asked gently. ‘What regrets would you have?’
‘I would have liked to have a child,’ she said. ‘To know the power of a mother’s love.’
He nodded. ‘It may still come to be,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t give up.’
‘Can we sleep here tonight?’ she said then. ‘I need to be near you.’
‘Not Nick?’
‘Not Nick,’ she said. ‘I love him and I’d have him as my husband in the blink of an eye if such a thing could be, but you know me better.’ Her brother knew the hidden facets of her soul, nothing concealed, nothing secret, and she had no fear she would ever lose his love because of who she was. Tonight, it was Tom she needed.
He nodded and touched his fingers to her cheek, moving closer, lifting her chin to meet his kiss. Then he loved her gently, different from the other times, loving and tender, new pleasures given and received, and afterwards they lay together centre stage, wrapped in each other, the blanket barely enough for warmth. They snuggled closer for the heat of their bodies.
‘How did we come so far together without this?’ she whispered, tipping back her head to look at him. He was gazing up into the darkness, his face just a shadow in the gloom, but she knew every line of it, every sweet imperfection. She propped herself up on an elbow to see him better and trailed her fingers over his cheek. He turned his head towards her touch.
‘You weren’t ready before,’ he said.
She was silent, no words to meet the unexpectedness of his reply, and in the pause he rolled himself to face her, kissed her once gently on the mouth. Then he said, ‘I’m freezing. Can we go upstairs?’
She laughed and they got to their feet, moving slowly, still caught in the lazy aftermath of sex, and the cold air against their skin made them shiver. When they had straightened their clothes Tom rolled up the blankets, took her hand and led her back up the stairs to the comfort of the couch to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
An Hour upon the Stage
The morning brought the day of the first performance of Macbeth and most of the players came early to the playhouse. Nick dressed himself in the tiring room, fastening the armour with difficulty: the night had drained him. He had returned from the brothel in the early hours to an empty bed and Sarah nowhere to be found, and his only company at breakfast had been Joyce, hovering and ill at ease, which only served to feed his rage. The fury was still running in his blood as he donned his costume, and he had to breathe deeply to quell the urge to lash out and do damage to something, or someone.
The figure of Tom crossed the corner of his vision, half-dressed in his gown as the Lady. He was no longer playing a witch, the changes between scenes too quick, but the part of midnight hag had suited him better, Nick thought viciously: wreaking damage in others’ lives, playing on their desires for his own amusement, the Devil in his soul – it was a role he could play with ease, the part he was born for. The two men caught eyes by accident and Nick turned away from the instinctive smile Tom gave him.
Will appeared dressed as King Duncan and called the players to the stage for some words before the performance. Nick half listened, his thoughts still turning over in anger, his jaw working, fists balled and eyes still searching for a sign of Sarah. Will finished and the Company withdrew to the tiring house behind the stage to complete their preparation. Nick locked eyes with Tom once again, the surge of hatred pulsing in his gut. He crossed the boards towards him. ‘Where’s Sarah?’ he said.
‘Upstairs,’ Tom answered, his fingers teasing out the hairs of the wig he held in front of him, straightening, neatening. ‘Last-minute stitches. As always.’ He smiled again and there was something in his nonchalance that stoked the embers of Nick’s rage.
Moving closer, he enjoyed the other man’s sudden shift to wariness, the wig transferred to one hand and forgotten, muscles tensing. His own power pleased him. ‘Was she with you last night?’ h
e murmured.
Tom nodded. ‘She was upset. She came to find me at the tavern.’
‘And what did you do with her when she found you?’ The words issued of their own accord and he regretted them immediately.
He did not want to know.
He already knew.
‘We came here,’ Tom answered with a shrug. ‘We talked.’
‘And after you talked?’ He could not help himself.
‘We slept.’ Tom’s tone had hardened, a warning within it, and Nick noted the change.
‘And between talking and sleeping?’
‘Why do you do this to yourself? To her?’ Tom asked, voice low and harsh. There was an edge of danger in it and for the first time Nick saw a power in Tom, a quality of hardness and resilience he had not seen before. ‘Why did you not just stay with her last night?’ Tom breathed. ‘You sent her to me with your petty anger and your jealousies. All she wants is to love you, and you drove her away. Where else does she have to go except to me?’
The other man’s self-righteousness sparked the fuse of anger that had smouldered all day, and he lashed out savagely to smash his fist full-force against Tom’s face, all his emotions and fury carried in the blow. Tom staggered and fell, caught off guard, and the wig slid across the boards where he dropped it. Nick moved in to strike again, lusting for violence, burning with the urge for blood, but within a moment the sinewy arms of John Heminges dragged him back and away as he kicked out with his legs, seeking to land a boot in Tom’s guts. Other players launched forward to help, and rage spewed through his body in waves as he struggled to hurl himself across the room again and beat Tom’s face into pulp; he had never felt such hatred in his life, never fully understood the urge to pure brutality until this moment.
He fought wildly to jerk his arms from the grasp of the men who hauled him away towards the wall, but they held him fast until at last the fury began to wane and he ceased to fight against them, once more master of himself. But he was breathing hard, the tension still running in his muscles, quivering. They let him go, standing close for a moment to be sure until he shoved them away and glanced between them to where Tom had raised himself up to sit, one palm pressed against his jaw. There was a satisfying trickle of blood from his lip and Nick allowed himself a brief grim smile of pleasure.
‘What in God’s name is wrong with you?’ Heminges demanded, looking from one to the other. ‘Both of you.’
Neither man spoke. Nick was aware of the baffled gazes of the other players but he felt no need to explain himself.
‘Nick?’ Heminges persisted.
Nick raised his head with a sigh and flicked a look towards Tom. ‘Ask him,’ he spat. ‘Witch!’
All eyes turned to Tom, who was still nursing the split in his lip and keeping his distance, but no one said a word. Nick waited, and as the other men began to draw away, unwilling to push it further, he slid his body down the wall to sit against it and let the anger seep away. But no other emotion came to take its place and without his rage he was empty, a dark hole of nothingness inside him.
Beyond the door to the stage the playhouse began to fill. A slow trickle at the start, the first people eager to secure a good seat, swelling gradually to a stream of bodies from all walks of life, chatter rising, the playhouse coming to life. Sarah stood at the east door, collecting the pennies in the box – tuppence for the galleries and a penny extra for a cushion – smiles and curtseys. On a normal day, another performance, she loved these excited moments of anticipation, the expectant atmosphere intoxicating, heady. It signalled the start of something great, something magical – the beginning of the illusion. But today she had half heard the fight as she hurried through on her way to the door, and there had been no time to turn back to see as the first people started to arrive. Now all she wanted was to get them all in and close the door behind them so she could flee backstage and know what had happened. So she smiled and curtseyed till her cheeks grew weary and her knees began to ache, and the minutes stretched like days.
Finally, the last penny dropped into the box and she followed the gentleman in, closing the door behind him and squeezing her way around the back to deliver the takings to the tiring house. Then she took her place backstage to watch and help if she were needed. The house was full, the audience noisy and high-spirited, eager for the thrill of a brand new play. In spite of everything, she could not help but smile: the glow of expectation warmed her inside.
In the tiring house the witches were poised and set. Up above in the Heavens, she knew the cannonballs were ready in the thunder-run, and beneath the trap, the powder was primed for the smoke, merely awaiting a spark to ignite it. She cast her eyes across the room. The King’s party, Will among them, stood to one side in a group, fidgeting in silent nervousness, their moment almost come. The fight had disturbed the usual balance – a darker tension pervaded the air and the pale hair on her forearms stirred and lifted. Against one wall Nick was slumped, head lowered, staring at the floor. He should be pacing, she thought, his usual ritual to prepare himself.
Foreboding filled her with a sense of heaviness, and though she took a step to go to him some instinct that he would not want her company held her back. Instead she trailed her gaze away from him along the wall and it lit on Tom, who was sitting on the bottom stair, watching her. He was dressed and ready in the fine gown she had sewn, holding the Lady’s wig in his hands. She went across to help with the wig, and when she reached him she saw the livid welt across his jaw, his bottom lip split and bleeding. With a quick look behind her towards Nick, still gazing into nothing, she took the wig from her brother without a word and gently fitted it into place, taking her time to tuck the stray strands neatly and make it perfect. When she had finished he looked every inch the Lady. Except for the bruise that was already turning purple.
‘What happened?’ she whispered.
He lifted his chin towards Nick. ‘He knows we were together last night.’
She sighed and moved around to sit herself on the step beside him. She was weary of it all – she only wanted it to stop and to be at peace again. A part of her wished that none of it had ever happened. But only a part of her. Tom placed his arm around her and she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. ‘Can we run away together, you and I?’ she said. ‘Somewhere where no one knows us? Somewhere safe?’
He smiled, painfully, and rubbed her arm. ‘There is no such place and they would arrest us before we could set foot on the boat.’
She nodded, sadly. She had only half been joking. ‘I know. It would be nice though, would it not? We could go to Rome. Or to Delphi, to see the Oracle.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, squeezing her tighter. ‘It would be very nice.’
Onstage the play began. Sarah heard the audience gasp at the thunder and smoke, and a woman screamed as the witches emerged from the flume. She and Tom left the step and moved forward, peering though the gap in the curtain, watching, unable to help themselves. Behind them, she heard Nick leave his place at the wall and turned to see. He met her eyes with a look she did not understand, but she felt the pain contained within it and slid her eyes away. He kept on watching her, waiting – she could feel the heat of his gaze – and in her hesitation she let the moment slip away. She should have held his look, she realised. She should have gone to him then.
Henry Condell approached as Banquo, and Nick snapped back to the world of the play, meeting the other player’s greeting with a smile of readiness. She turned away from him and trained her eyes back towards the stage, waiting with an uneasy heart for the scenes between Macbeth and his Lady.
They circled each other, wary and distant, untrusting. The audience was spellbound, tension rising. Sarah watched from backstage, mouth dry, pulses hammering as the Lady set their fate in motion, mocking her husband’s doubts, entangling his reluctance with his prowess as a man.
Ah, but Tom was good, she thought: the seduction was absolute, and pitiless. Nick writhed beneath the insults, the Lady’
s courage to commit and dare all so much greater than his own. Always, this scene had borne the burden of their hostility, but there was something new in it today, a raw and painful battle of their wills.
Sarah held her breath.
‘If we should fail?’
The two men stood close, Macbeth’s hand raised to caress his Lady’s cheek, the Lady’s own hand covering it, head tilting in the pleasure of desire for her husband.
‘We fail!
‘But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we’ll not fail …’
Tom’s chin was lifted, his words, his whole body, goading and provocative.
She saw the heave in Nick’s chest, the moment of seduction when he bent himself to the Lady’s will, the courage of his rightness failing in the face of her contempt for him as man and husband. She saw the smile of triumph on Tom’s lips, and the sight of it eclipsed the bruise.
The audience hung silent and amazed, suspended in the drama, waiting, captive. Then sighed with relief as the next scene began. She turned to Will, who was watching at her side, and he lifted his eyebrows in wry recognition. ‘That’s almost what I wrote,’ he whispered with a smile.
The play continued, descending into tyranny and madness, murder heaped on murder, evil breeding evil, sinking towards its bitter end. She could hardly bear to watch.
‘The Queen, my lord, is dead.’
‘She should have died hereafter …’
Nick’s voice cracked with grief, Tom’s limp body cradled in his arms. The illusion was perfect, hatreds festering deep and hidden inside – she was surprised Tom trusted his head in Nick’s hands. She watched, terrified, as Nick’s fingers caressed Tom’s pale throat, lips almost touching the bruised and swollen skin, uttering the words as though from great depths of grief inside him. But she could not look away, the familiar words taking on new resonance.
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