Salvation (13 page)

Desolation swamped him. He understood enough about the law to know how hard it was for a poor man to prove his innocence. Suppose he could not do so? What then? Remembering the guard’s grim jest, a chill crept over him. The cold seemed to invade his bones and his feet and hands were numb.

The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor roused him from his lethargy. Half blinded by lantern light, he saw a shadowy face on the other side of the bars. A leathery hand with grimy nails pushed a metal pan through the small gap at the bottom of them.

‘Gruel, and be thankful, you’re lucky to get it at this hour,’ a rheumy voice muttered.

‘How am I to eat it? Will you take these irons off?’ Tom held up his chained wrists.

The guard gave a wheeze of laughter that dissolved in coughs. ‘You’ll find a way when you’re hungry enough. The irons don’t come off until the guvnor gives the nod, and that costs money.’

‘But you’ve taken my money.’

‘Entry fee and the gruel.’

Tom struggled to get up but then stumbled and, unable to put out a hand to save himself, fell down again hitting his head on the wall.

‘You can’t hold me here,’ he gasped. ‘I’m innocent.’

‘’Course you are, just like everyone else in this hole. Well, you better hope some friend of yours will find a way to prove it.’ The guard slouched away, taking the light with him.

Tom jerked himself away from the wall and edged across the floor to the gruel. Eventually he managed to get the bowl to his mouth. The sloppy mess was bland and cold but he ate it up to the last scrap. Afterwards, a sudden urge to piss seized him. He doubted he would be allowed out of the cell for that either without paying.

He tottered to his feet, shuffled to a corner and fumbled with the strings of his breeches. When he had finished, he went back to the bars and huddled up against them. Closing his eyes, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

*

The toll of a bell woke him from a fitful doze. He blinked at the misty grey light in the narrow window. It must be dawn.

‘What did the bell mean?’ he asked the guards who arrived later with a cauldron of some evil-smelling brew.

‘Death knell: it’s always rung at dawn ’fore a prisoner goes to Tyburn. This one slit his old lady’s throat.’ He jerked a thumb at his mate. ‘Walt here knew her, says she was a shrew, but murder’s murder.’

He sniffed the air. ‘You better learn to keep your water in till the yard unless you want to live in your own filth.’

‘The yard?’

‘Twenty minutes you get. You’re a lucky one too,’ he went on, ‘someone’s paid for easement of irons for you.’ He opened the door. ‘Walt stays out here so don’t try anything clever.’

He bent to unlock the irons and removed them. Tom rubbed his sore wrists. Red weals encircled them and in places the skin had broken. He put one to his mouth and tasted the mineral tang of blood.

The guard stepped out smartly and the door clanged shut once more. ‘Now push out your tin,’ he said.

The broth he ladled into it was thin with soggy lumps of turnip and a few grains of barley floating under its scummy surface. Ravenous, Tom wolfed it down in spite of its rancid smell. As he wiped his lips he wondered if it was Lamotte who had paid the money. He doubted the family at Angel Lane could have found enough to satisfy the gaoler. Perhaps that meant Lamotte would come soon. A glimmer of hope entered Tom’s heart.

‘When are we let out?’ he shouted after the guards but there was no answer. There was nothing for it but to wait.

Not long afterwards, he was taken from his cell and roped in a line with six other prisoners. At an awkward trot, he stumbled along the corridors behind an old man with ragged hair and shrivelled arms and legs protruding from tattered clothes.

The yard was high walled and measured about forty feet on each side. Tom reckoned there were thirty men and a handful of women penned there. A cold drizzle fell from the leaden sky.
He wrapped his arms around his body for warmth. Some of the other prisoners gave him curious looks but most ignored him, furtively relieving themselves against the nearest wall or simply staring up at the sky, oblivious to their surroundings.

On the side opposite the door back to the cells was a kind of cage. Some of the prisoners were crowding around it noisily. When Tom moved closer, he saw it was full of people but from the way they were dressed, they were not inmates.

Lamotte pushed his way through the crowd and grasped the bars.

‘Tom! Thank Heaven I’ve found you.’

A violent trembling seized Tom. He fought to hold back tears. ‘Master Lamotte!’

‘Jack told me everything,’ Lamotte said. ‘I’ve paid for you to be moved to a better part of the prison. Tonight you should be given blankets, more food, soap and candles. I want to know about it if you’re not. It’s all I can do at the moment.’

‘I didn’t kill him.’

‘I believe you. Do you have any idea who the guilty man might be?’

Tom shook his head.

‘Was there anyone in
Salisbury who wished you ill?’

‘Only the other clerk who worked with me at Lawyer Kemp’s.’ Quickly, he explained about Ralph. When he had finished, Lamotte looked grave.

‘I understood you left Salisbury because you feared exposure from some quarter was coming, but not because this fellow had actually threatened you with it. Why didn’t you tell me?’

Tom flushed. ‘I was ashamed that I let him beat me.’

‘You shouldn’t be. There was nothing you could have done. All the same, it doesn’t make Ralph Fiddler a murderer.’

‘No,’ Tom said unhappily, ‘it doesn’t.’

A bell rang and guards moved in from their posts around the yard, sticks and halberds at the ready.

‘We’ll talk more of this,’ Lamotte called out as Tom was roped back into line with the other prisoners. ‘There’ll be a way to get you out of here. Until then, I’ll make sure you’re as comfortable as possible.’

*

In the hope of obtaining an audience with Walsingham, Lamotte left Newgate and hurried to
Seething Lane. He was not as confident as he had pretended to Tom. Walsingham was not long returned from Fotheringay, where he had sat as one of the commissioners appointed to try the Queen of Scots for treason. He was likely to be angry that a verdict of guilty against his bitter enemy had not been reached and the proceedings had been adjourned. The evidence was to be reviewed at a later date in the Star Chamber at Westminster.

‘Sir Francis is out at Barn Elms,’ the servant who came to the door told him.
Lamotte hurried home and called for his horse. It would be faster to ride than go by river. Hatless and throwing on the first cloak that came to hand, he rode to Mortlake.

‘The master is hawking in the park,’ said the footman who answered the door. Lamotte jumped back in the saddle and cantered away. Soon, the sight of a bird of prey soaring above a spinney then diving earthwards directed him to where Walsingham and his falconer stood.

‘Alexandre!’ Walsingham’s expression was surprisingly affable. ‘Come and see Artemis, she has killed four times today.’

Lamotte offered up a silent prayer of thanks. The old spymaster was far more jovial than he had expected. It seemed the crisp autumn weather and his pleasure in hawking had put him in a good mood.

The goshawk’s fierce, ochre eyes were trained on the bloody gobbet of flesh the falconer held out to it. It dropped the dead rabbit dangling from its razor-sharp beak and snatched the meat. With a deft movement, the falconer slipped the hood over its head and fastened the jesses to his gauntleted wrist.

‘Excellent work.’ Walsingham stroked the goshawk’s dappled plumage. ‘Enough for today,’ he said to the falconer, ‘you may take her back to the mews.’

‘Do you have some information for me?’ he asked when the man was out of earshot. The tone of Walsingham’s voice was sharper now they were alone. Once more, Lamotte felt uneasy, reminded that by coming uninvited without any intelligence Walsingham might want, he had put himself on uncertain ground. Still, Tom needed his help: he must press on. He swallowed hard.

‘I regret I
’ve brought no information, my lord, and I hope you will forgive me for coming unbidden, but a young man of my acquaintance has been wrongly arrested.’

The shrewd, dark eyes scrutinised him. ‘Wrongly arrested?’

Lamotte held to his resolve. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘On what charge?’

‘Murder, my lord.’

‘No light matter. What is he to you, this young man?’

‘A friend - his name is Tom Goodluck.’

‘Your reasons for being so sure of his innocence?’

‘Only my instinct, but I believe I can claim to be a good judge of men.’

‘And you seek my help? Why should I give that?’

Lamotte looked down. He had been a fool to come. He had presumed too much.

‘Do you know where he is held?’ Walsingham asked more kindly.

Lamotte’s spirits revived a little. ‘Newgate, my lord.’

Walsingham pondered for a few moments. ‘I must not be seen to interfere in the process of the law but I
’ll endeavour to make a few enquiries,’ he said at last.

‘A thousand thanks, my lord.’

‘I make no promises, you understand? Now I have business to attend to. I must return to the house. Farewell, Alexandre.’

On his way home to
Throgmorton Street, Lamotte rehearsed what he would say to Tom. It was important to keep the lad’s spirits up, even if it was impossible to banish his own anxiety. He was not confident they could count too much on Walsingham’s help.

The strength of his own distress surprised him. He had met many young hopefuls in his years in the theatre, what was so different about Tom? He shook his head. Who could say why they felt a stronger attachment to some people than others?

Except for a sleepy night watchman, the servants had gone to bed and the house was cold and desolate. Lamotte wished Amélie were there with her warm smile and wise advice. She had always known how to comfort him.

10

By early November Meg and Bess had moved to a different part of the woods with Sarah and her children.

The ruins of a small chapel stood at the centre of the clearing in which they camped. It must have been beautiful once, a graceful arch, ornamented with delicate carvings of leaves and flowers, still remained although most of the walls had vanished. Andrew said the stones must have been stolen over the years since it had been abandoned. He mined the scattered heaps of blocks that remained to build shelters for them all.

‘It’s a strange place to have built something so fine,’ Meg remarked as she and Sarah sat together one morning by their camp fire. Tethered nearby, Samson cropped the grass.

Sarah held out her hands to the flames. ‘I remember my father telling me that sometimes monks from the great abbeys would go into the forest to live simply. Perhaps that’s why it’s here. When King Henry closed down the abbeys, they might have lived on for years without knowing it, but as they died, no one would have come to take their places.’

‘How sad.’

Sarah shrugged. ‘So many sad things happen. Our parents and grandparents saw a lot of changes in their lives. You and I have too, haven’t we?’

‘That’s true,’ Meg laughed. ‘In the old days, I often spent whole days doing nothing but sitting and sewing or gazing out of the window, but here we are always busy.’

Sarah rubbed her red-rimmed eyes and coughed. ‘I’m not as busy as I should be.’

‘Oh, Sarah.’ Meg’s knife paused over the rabbit she was skinning. ‘You can’t help it if you’re not well. Why don’t you go and lie down? You were awake half the night. I can cook our meal.’

‘Are you sure?’ Sarah asked hesitantly. ‘I admit I’d be glad of a rest.’

‘Then have one.’

After Sarah had gone into the hut, Meg stripped the last of the pelt from the rabbit and jointed the carcass. And that’s another change, she thought, wiping her blood-smeared hands on a rag. In my old life, I would never have done this.

She sighed. Her journey to
Plymouth with Andrew had been fruitless. They had enquired at the docks but Tom’s name was not on any of the ship registers and after a week of asking at every inn and tavern, she had despaired of finding him. If he had ever been at Plymouth, it seemed that he was not there now. Reluctantly, she returned with Andrew to Sarah and the others. Since then, it had been a strange existence, part of her distracted by the demands of her new life, part of her regretting the comforts she had lost, but the greatest part yearning for Tom. Waking or sleeping, his face was never far from her mind. Did he still carry her in his thoughts?

Samson lifted his head and whinnied. Meg glanced up and saw Andrew walking across the clearing.

‘Did you catch anything?’ she called out.

‘A perch and two bream.’ He held out a basket of woven green willow.

‘Good. I’ll gut them for you. We can eat the bream tonight and put the perch in the salt barrel.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘Bess has taken Agnes for a walk. I asked them to bring back some wild thyme if they can find it. I want to burn some bunches in the hut to sweeten the air. Perhaps it will help Sarah’s cough.’

‘Is she sleeping?’

His troubled expression, caused Meg a pang of sorrow. She wished she could comfort him but they both knew Sarah was rapidly worsening.

At harvest time, they had left the woods and found work helping a local farmer bring in his crops. The money they earned had paid for necessities they could not make or catch themselves – cloth, thread, needles, yeast and salt – but Sarah had been too weak to come with them. Bitterly, Meg often regretted she had not profited more from her mother’s knowledge of herbs and how they could be used to make healing poultices and infusions. If only she had done, she might have been able to lessen Sarah’s suffering, but it was too late now. Every day, she grew frailer.

With a sniff, Andrew scrambled to his feet. ‘I’ll go and check my traps,’ he said.

Sadly, Meg watched him disappear into the trees. She tossed the jointed rabbit into the pot and wiped the knife before making a slit along one side of the perch and scraping out its guts. For Andrew’s sake, she had tried to seem cheerful. No doubt he did the same for her, but underneath it, they both knew a long winter loomed ahead. With a shiver, Meg wondered what was in store for them all.

*

December came and the nights grew colder. In the mornings, the grass was stiff with frost. One day, when even by
noon the watery sun had not burnt it all off, Andrew put more wood on the fire and sat staring into the flames. When she came out of the hut where she had been tending to Sarah, Meg smelt the comforting scent of wood smoke and went to join him. Her heart lurched when she saw his haggard expression.

‘I heard Mother coughing all night,’ he said dully. ‘She’s getting much worse, isn’t she?’

‘I fear so.’

There was a scurrying of feet and she put her finger to her lips. ‘Hush, Agnes is coming.’ But it was too late. Barefoot and huddled in a patched woollen cloak, Agnes ran to them and buried her head in Meg’s lap. ‘I don’t want Mother to be ill,’ she mumbled. ‘Make her better.’

Gently, Meg lifted her chin and smoothed the hair from her tear-stained face. ‘We all want her to be better, dearest, but it won’t help if you catch a chill running about with no boots on. Go back to Bess and she will help you dress properly.’

Watching
Agnes trail off, she sighed. ‘Poor child, it is so hard for her.’ She rubbed her hand over her forehead. ‘Andrew, I don’t think we should stay in the woods this winter. It’s getting colder every day. Soon we shan’t be able to keep the hut warm. I don’t know how we’ll manage with Sarah then.’

‘But where else can we go?’

‘We need to find work somewhere so we can make her comfortable.’

Andrew shook his head. ‘Getting work at harvest time was one thing but in the winter? We tried before and it was no use.’

Meg squared her shoulders. ‘We must try again.’

The next day Andrew busied himself splitting lengths of wood and lashing the pieces together with strips of hide from the animal skins they had collected over the summer months to form a makeshift sledge. ‘As soon as the snow comes,’ he said, ‘we’ll harness Samson and he can pull it.’

The first fall was a week later. With their few possessions in sacks slung like panniers over Samson’s broad back, the five of them set off. Before the little camp disappeared from sight, Meg turned for one last look. She hoped she had done the right thing persuading the others to leave it.

They walked all day before coming to a road. Although fresh snow filled the troughs of rutted mud, it was still difficult for Samson to drag the sledge over such rough ground so Andrew led him across the deeper drifts along the side. By dusk, they reached a hamlet where lights glowed in the windows of the cottages, but Meg hesitated to knock on doors. People might be suspicious of travellers arriving so late in the day. Instead, they found a deserted barn and stayed there for the night.

Two more days passed before they came to some cottages scattered along the road then they were in the centre of a village. Most of its houses looked prosperous. A church built of stone, surrounded by a graveyard, stood on a hill a little way off. A thatched inn with whitewashed, rough-cast walls had an inviting air, a plume of smoke rising from its chimney.

Bess shivered. ‘I’m so cold. Do you think they will let us in?’

‘It looks like the only place we might find work,’ Andrew said gloomily.

‘We don’t want any beggars here,’ the woman who answered the door snapped. A gust of warm air and the smell of baking billowed out from the room behind her. She was dumpy with a crisply starched coif and a voluminous linen apron covering most of her brown, homespun dress.

‘We’re not beggars, we’ll work.’

‘I’ve no work for the likes of you,’ the woman said flatly.

She saw Sarah and suddenly pulled her apron up over her face and backed away. ‘Thomas!’ she shouted. A moment later, a hefty, florid man emerged. His hands were as big as hams and he held a thick, knobbed stick. Behind him, a large black dog bared its teeth. Agnes shrank closer to Bess, whimpering.

‘Be off with you,’ he snarled, ‘and don’t come back.’

Meg’s stomach tightened. ‘There’s no need to talk to us like that, we’re going.’

The man stepped back inside and slammed the door in their faces.
The inn sign creaked on its rusty chains like a mocking laugh.

‘Now what do we do?’ Bess asked miserably.

‘We keep on walking. Somewhere there must be someone who will help us,’ Meg said.

She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. It was three days since they had left their encampment and almost all their store of food was gone. So far at night, they had been lucky in finding remote farm buildings to sleep in but they might not always be so fortunate. Sarah’s listless demeanour alarmed her, and the others, even Andrew, were close to exhaustion. If they did not find help soon, she feared the worst.

That afternoon, the wind veered to the east, driving sleet in their faces. Samson’s breath turned to steam in the frosty air, settling again in tiny shards of ice on the long lashes fringing his mournful eyes.

Meg’s fingers and toes throbbed. Earlier in the day, she and Bess had tried to keep Agnes’s spirits up by singing songs but now Agnes dozed on Andrew’s back as he struggled grimly through the snow, leading Samson. Meg scanned the white waste ahead: nothing but bare trees and hedgerows as far as the eye could see. They would hardly provide adequate shelter for the night that was fast approaching. In the gathering gloom, the road was slippery as glass. All at once, Bess’s feet shot from under her and she fell on her back. Meg reached for her and saw that the colour had drained from her face.

‘I can’t get up,’ she sobbed. ‘My leg hurts. I think it might be broken.’

‘You have to,’ Meg shouted over the wind. ‘If you don’t, you’ll freeze to death.’

‘I don’t care any more.’

Another gust buffeted Meg. She blinked back tears. ‘Bess, this is hard for all of us, please be sensible. The others are already ahead now. We must catch them up.’

‘You go then. Leave me here.’

‘No, but I’ll run on and get Andrew. If I take Agnes for a while, he’ll come back for you. Samson isn’t carrying so much now that most of our food is gone. Maybe you could ride on his back.’

Meg hurried ahead, stifling her anger. Bess probably hadn’t broken her leg but it was unfair to blame her for giving up. I am close to it myself, she thought.

Suddenly, beneath the howl of the wind, she heard a different sound. Turning, she saw a sight that chilled her blood. On the road behind Bess, a bulky shape lumbered towards them, its outline growing gradually clearer until Meg realised it was a wagon.
She broke into a run and reached Bess, seizing her by the shoulder.

‘Bess! Get up, you can’t stay there.’ Bess shook her head. She didn
’t seem to have noticed the wagon.

Frantic, Meg stood up and flailed her arms, screaming at the top of her voice, but the wind only flung her words back at her. The rumble of wheels filled her ears then the wagon was upon them. As the muddy ground seemed to rear up to meet her, Meg was dimly aware of voices shouting and the alarmed whinnies of horses, then there was darkness.

When she recovered her wits, she hadn’t the strength to raise her head. She felt cold slush beneath her but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to lie down forever. Slowly, though, the dizziness receded and she became aware of someone beside her. With difficulty, she turned her head to see who it was but all she could discern were shadowy figures. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the ground once more.

‘Oh Richard, is she badly hurt?’ The voice was a woman’s.

‘I can’t tell in this light,’ a deeper one answered. ‘Martin! Fetch another lantern.’

Meg blinked and tried to shield her eyes as the light grew brighter.

‘She moved.’ Relief flooded the woman’s voice. Meg smelt a faint perfume of lavender and felt warm breath on her cheek.

‘Can you stand?’ the woman asked.

‘I think so,’ Meg said shakily then all at once, she remembered the wagon. ‘Bess, where’s Bess?’ she cried.

A hand stroked her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, she’s safe. Now let’s get you up off this cold ground. Richard! Martin! Help her to her feet.’

Meg felt strong arms lift her. Tentatively, she shuffled forwards and stumbled.

‘You’re still too weak to walk,’ the woman said. ‘Martin, our groom, and my brother, Richard, will help you to the wagon. Martin can drive you to our house. It isn’t far away.’

‘My friends. . .’

‘Of course. Richard will look after them, and when you are safe, Martin will come back to help.’ She caught her hood as the wind tried to whip it back from her hair. ‘No one should be out of doors on a terrible night like this.’

Still trembling with shock, Meg let herself be led to the back of the wagon. She was overjoyed to see Bess already there tucked between some trunks and boxes. The woman disappeared into the darkness and a few moments later, the wagon started to jolt along. Its progress was slow and Meg winced at every bump but eventually it lurched to the left and passed through a wide stone gateway. Bess, who had been very quiet, clutched Meg’s hand. ‘Oh madam, wherever are we going?’