Salvation (2 page)

He nodded reluctantly. ‘I can pay almost three-quarters.’

‘And you want me to talk His Highness into waiting for the rest?’

‘I’ll get up an hour earlier and chop wood for the ovens if he wants.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Maybe I’ll ask him.’

He put an arm around her waist and planted a kiss on her moist cheek. ‘You’re an angel.’

‘I only said maybe,’ she chuckled. ‘Now be off with you, I’ve work to do.’

*

The following week, May Day dawned bright and clear.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, the Salisbury guildsmen and their wives sweated in their fur-trimmed robes and silk and velvet gowns.

The young men and girls of the city had spent all morning winding the maypole with coloured ribbons and fixing on bunches of spring flowers and herbs. A great roar went up when the pole arrived at the water meadows on the city’s edge, carried on a cart belonging to Edward Stuckton. It was drawn by ten oxen, the tips of their horns decorated with nosegays of clove-scented pinks, buttercups and daisies.

The girls stood back and shouted encouragement while the men eased the pole off the cart and hauled it up into position, securing it with long ropes. Before long, it towered over everyone, flags and ribbons fluttering from its top and the men’s faces were flushed and streaming.

Tom joined the group herding the oxen back to their fields. He had no heart for jollity and the smiles of the girls he passed were wasted on him.
He flicked the rump of the reluctant beast he walked behind with his birch switch and glanced sideways at the canopied dais where Meg sat with her husband and the other guildsmen and their wives. His heart lurched at the sight of her. Dressed in a green silk gown, with her dark hair coiled up in a net of gold thread, she was surely the loveliest woman there.

Her father, Henry Bailey, was deep in conversation with Edward Stuckton, while her mother, Anne, gossiped with the other wives. Tom grimaced. In the old days, his parents would have taken their place alongside the Baileys on the dais, his father a respected guildsman, his mother as finely dressed as any of the other ladies.

He remembered how his father had liked to joke about Henry Bailey, who was a grumpy, pompous little man. His mother had been kinder about Anne Bailey. ‘It’s no wonder she often looks cross,’ she would say, wagging an admonishing finger at Tom’s father. ‘If you found fault with everything as Henry Bailey does, I would be cross too. Poor Anne holds her tongue and studies her rings, but I don’t know how she finds the patience.’

Tom smiled at the memory of his mother’s innocent sympathy. According to Meg, her mother’s patience soon vanished when the Baileys had no company.

‘Am I worth it?’ Meg once asked. ‘Do you really want to marry into such a family for my sake? Our house is like a bear pit sometimes.’

But she already knew the answer. For her he would have joyfully embraced even Nero and Messalina as in-laws.

He looked again at Anne Bailey. Above her pristine ruff, her face was coated with too much white lead and rouge and her eyes were sharp. It was hard to feel sorry for her, particularly when she had made it abundantly clear he was no longer welcome in her house.

By the time the oxen were peacefully grazing and he returned to the fair, the feast was about to begin. A small band of musicians played on trumpets and sackbuts as a roasted suckling pig was carried to the top table, apples stuffed between its gaping jaws and its crisp, brown skin shining from a basting of honey and butter. The smell of rich meat made Tom’s stomach groan with hunger. He had not been able to afford any extra food all week and seven days of living on Mary’s porridge and William Kemp’s meagre
midday allowance of bread and cheese certainly sharpened the appetite. He found a place beside Kemp’s groom, Adam, and helped himself to a large piece of pie filled with mutton, garlic and leeks. It tasted like heaven.

There was no shade at the table and the sun beat down on his head. He drank a cup of ale and then another. Adam grinned tipsily at him and threw an arm around his neck.

‘Yurr a goo’ fellow, Tom,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of pickled herring. His breath could have felled a horse but Tom returned a smile.

‘How do, Adam.’

Adam swallowed his herring, wiped his greasy lips with his sleeve, and belched up a gust of vinegar and fish that made Tom gag.

‘Bad.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘You gotta woman, Tom? I ain’t gotta woman.’ He stopped and blinked then belched again, his mouth wide, showing raw gums and brown, uneven teeth.

‘Maybe you should clean those teeth of yours for a start.’

‘Doan ’old with all that poking about with twigs, ’gainst nature.’

‘Only trying to help.’

‘E’en tha’ turd can get one.’ Adam scowled towards where Ralph sat with a buxom fair-haired girl on his knee. Around them, people whooped with laughter as he poured ale into her open mouth, spilling some of it down her neck then licking it off while she squealed with delight. With a stab of alarm, Tom recognised Bess, Meg’s maid. He’d never noticed her and Ralph together before.

‘How long’s that been going on?’

Adam shrugged and winked. ‘Long enough for him to get wha’ ’e’s after, I’d say.’

The eating and drinking lasted for several hours before the trumpets rang out once more. The party of notables on the dais stood up. Tom saw Meg put her hand on Edward Stuckton’s arm before he led her down the staircase. He bent to murmur something in her ear and she smiled. As she touched the pearls at her throat, Tom felt a violent stab of jealousy. He could not afford expensive trinkets for her. What were they talking of? Was she really so unhappy with Stuckton?

Adam blundered to his feet. ‘Need a piss,’ he hiccupped.

Guilt overcame Tom. How could he doubt Meg? He had so little to offer and she so much to lose, yet she risked it all to snatch their precious hours together.

Wearily, he pointed Adam towards the trees. As he watched the groom go, he wondered whether it would be better to be like him and have no one rather than always be halfway between happiness and despair. A fog of misery engulfed him. Nothing had turned out as it should. He was meant to have been Meg’s husband, son to a prosperous guildsman, not a paltry clerk snatching hole-in-the-corner kisses.

A small band of carpenters was already dismantling the dais. They soon had the wooden struts and planks repositioned to create a low, makeshift stage. Around two-thirds of its perimeter, they hammered long poles into the ground and hung lanterns from them, ready to be lit at dusk.

Tom’s hands were clammy. Ever since he had heard that a visit from some
London players was expected, he had been awaiting this moment. He had often taken part in the local theatricals, even written some of the speeches for them, but a performance by a company from one of the London theatres was altogether different. His hand went to the book tucked into the pouch at his belt. The leather felt dry to his touch. He closed his eyes and rehearsed the words of introduction he had wrestled with all week. He wished he felt more confident. If he did manage to speak to the man in charge of the company, he might only have a few moments to make a good impression.

Adam had returned from the trees and now his face was resting on the table amid the dirty trenchers and cups. When Tom shook him, he lifted his head. His skin had a greenish pallor and there were scraps of food entangled in his beard.

‘No more ale for you, my friend,’ Tom said. ‘And you’re lucky old Kemp isn’t here to see you. He’d duck your head in the horse trough if he was, and no mistake. Still, you’ve time to sober up. Come on, let’s go and watch the play.’

The shadows were lengthening across the meadow and the air had cooled. A tent stood at the back of the stage, the flap pinned back where the players would make their entrances and exits. First on was a wiry man in a jester’s yellow-and-red costume. He carried a staff tipped with silver bells. A few people had remained at the tables, guzzling the last of the food and drinking the dregs of the ale, but most of them crowded around the stage to see the fun. Tom saw Ralph Fiddler near the front, Bess hoisted on his back for a better view. Her skirts had ridden up, showing a glimpse of scarlet stockings. Tom recognised the stockings; he was sure they belonged to Meg. He wondered if she had noticed them too.

When the jester’s jokes and capers were over, the play,
Pyramus and Thisbe
, commenced. Tom found himself as interested in the reactions of the onlookers as he was in the story, even though the play far exceeded anything Salisbury had to offer. How much he wanted to have this power to move people from laughter to tears, to hold them, even if only for an hour or two, in the palm of his hand.

The play ended in tragedy – voices around Tom murmured that a tragic end was often best – and the crowd cheered as the hero and his beloved returned miraculously to life and took their bows. Tom’s pulse raced. This was his chance, there might not be another.

‘Where you going?’ Adam grasped his arm.

‘I need to talk to someone.’

‘Doan’ leave me.’

Tom looked at his bloodshot eyes and swaying body. ‘I’ll walk back with you later. We’ll get you as far as that tree for now and you can wait for me there.’

He half-dragged the protesting groom through the press of people and propped him up against an alder near the players’ tent. Adam’s head sagged on his chest and he started to snore. Tom straightened up and took a deep breath then walked the last few yards to where one of the players stood.

‘Your friend has had a good day, I see,’ the player remarked in an accent unfamiliar to Tom. He still wore the lion’s costume he had sported on stage but he had rubbed off half of the yellow greasepaint on his face, revealing an olive complexion. His wiry, dark hair was plastered to his skull in damp strands and there was a strong smell of sweat and alum about him. He wiped his forehead. ‘I sweat like a pig in this,’ he muttered.

Tom stood clutching the commonplace book. His mind had suddenly emptied. The player shot him a quizzical look.

‘Is there something I can do for you?’ he asked.

‘I was hoping to speak to the manager,’ Tom stammered, finding his voice.

With a mock flourish, the player bowed. ‘You behold him: Alexandre Lamotte – proprietor and manager of the Unicorn.’

A flush crept up Tom’s neck. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend—’

‘It’s all right,’ Lamotte interrupted him with a chuckle. Then, seeing what was in Tom’s hand, he asked, ‘So, you have something to show me?’

Awkwardly, Tom proffered the book. Lamotte took it, but as he scanned the opening pages, a frown came over his face. ‘Notes for a journey to buy cloth in Antwerp?’

Tom wished the earth would swallow him. ‘Those are my father’s. My work comes after them.’

Lamotte flipped over a few pages. ‘Ah, I see.’

‘It’s a play, but I’m afraid it may not be much good,’ Tom ploughed on. His cheeks smarted.

‘Then we’ll say farewell and you can take it home with you,’ Lamotte shut the book and held it out.

Tom’s spirits sank then he noticed the twinkle in Lamotte’s eyes.

‘You won’t have to be so serious if you want to get on in the theatre, lad, that’s the first lesson. By the way, do you have a name?’

‘Tom Goodluck, sir.’

‘And how old are you, Tom Goodluck?’

‘Nineteen, sir.’

‘Ah, to be so young again, the world yours for the taking,’ Lamotte shook his head and sighed. ‘But you haven’t come to listen to my meanderings. Give me a moment while I glance at your play.’

He opened the book once more. Tom waited, watching his face intently, not daring to speak. His pulse raced. Perhaps this man was not going to dismiss him out of hand.

‘
Perseus and Andromeda
, eh?’ Lamotte said when he reached the bottom of the first page. ‘Well, no one’s tried it yet, at least as far as I can recall, and it’s a good tale. There’d be a fair bit of skill and trickery needed though, have you thought of that? Your gentlemen writers can poetise to their ladies for pages on end, but if you want to pull in the audiences, you need to show them the action. I’ve been fifteen years in this business and I know what I’m talking about.’ He laughed. ‘If you’re to succeed, give audiences what they want, even if they don’t know at the time what that might be. A storm when Perseus sets off on his quest to destroy the Gorgon would be a better beginning than you’ve got here. A storm always pleases the groundlings – cannon and fireworks for the thunder and lightning – costly, but worth it.’

He stroked his greasepaint-streaked beard. ‘I’d need to read more, of course, and I’d want to see plenty of drama – drama and horror,’ he rolled the words off his tongue with relish.

He nodded to another player passing nearby. ‘There’d need to be some ugly mugs for the hags who show Perseus the way to the Gorgon’s lair, but that will not be hard in our company, we’ve plenty will suit.’ The other player grinned. ‘They could burst up from Hell in a flash of lightning,’ Lamotte went on. ‘That usually raises a gasp from the pit.’

‘From Hell?’ Tom asked, puzzled.

‘Through the trapdoor in the stage. You do have a lot to learn, don’t you? And Perseus will need his winged sandals to fly across Asia to rescue Andromeda. Do you intend to knit those?’