Salvation (22 page)

20

London
 

September, 1587

Tom woke with a start to find the grey dawn light creeping through his cell’s high window. He had slept fitfully. He doubted he would ever grow accustomed to the nightly cries and groans of the other prisoners. With a shudder, he realised that what had woken him was the tolling of a bell somewhere deep in the prison. Some forsaken soul would swing before the day was old. Fleetingly, despair engulfed him but he fought to suppress it. That path led to madness.

H
e relieved himself in the bucket in the corner. In the confined space, the smell of fresh urine and stale faeces made him gag. He would have liked to pay Barwis for the bucket to be emptied and swilled out, but he didn’t have much money left. If Lamotte did not return soon, he would need it for food.

He frowned. It was easy to lose track of time in Newgate. How many weeks was it since Lamotte had last come? He had promised to visit before he left for the West Country but suppose something had prevented him? Tom quelled a rising sensation of panic. If Lamotte had already gone, he might be away a long time. Travelling was certain to be slow. West Country roads were poor at the best of times.

Sat back down on the bed, he fell to thinking of Meg. Was she asleep now, her long dark hair loose over her shoulders as he remembered? He pictured the swell of her breasts, the curve of her cheek, the glow of her soft skin and groaned, almost wishing he had not asked Lamotte to enquire about her. Did he really want to know if she was happy without him?

The gate at the end of the passageway clanged and footsteps shuffled along it. Barwis peered through the bars. ‘Someone t’see you,’ he said.

Tom’s heart leapt. ‘Who is it?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Barwis hissed. ‘It’s your friend with the cash. I told him to come now while it’s quiet but there’s always ears flapping in this place.’

Lamotte stepped out of the shadows and dropped a few coins into Barwis’s outstretched palm. The old turnkey examined them. ‘Don’t take too long,’ he muttered then turned and shuffled away.

His joy at the sight of his friend brought tears to Tom’s eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. ‘Forgive me,’ he mumbled.

‘I should be apologising to you. My errand took longer than I expected.’ His voice lowered to an undertone and he crooked a finger for Tom to come close to the bars. ‘Listen, I have news.’

Tom’s heartbeat quickened. ‘Of Meg?’

‘No, I haven’t been to Salisbury yet. I told you I would visit you again before I did. This is about you. Sir Francis has looked into your case. While you remain in Newgate, he cannot dismiss the charge against you – even he does not have the power to overrule the law.’

‘So there’s no remedy,’ Tom said bitterly.

‘Hear me out, there’s more. He didn’t say there is nothing he can do. Some prisoners are to be moved from Newgate to Wisbech, on the Isle of Ely. They are all Catholics imprisoned for their beliefs. You are to go with them. In effect, you will become a political prisoner under Walsingham’s control.’

‘How can that be?’

‘One of the Catholics is a young man called Gilbert Rowley. He is already sick and likely to die. Walsingham’s plan is for you to change places. Both of you will need to be moved to new parts of the prison of course, where the guards don’t know you and won’t ask questions. In your new cells, “Tom Goodluck’s” health will rapidly worsen. This won’t surprise the gaolers. It’s well known that gaol fever takes hold very quickly. Meanwhile, “Gilbert Rowley” will make a surprising recovery. It may be necessary to give you a draught that will make your illness more convincing until then, but don’t be afraid. The effects will not last long.’

A thrill of hope went through Tom, swiftly replaced by doubt. ‘Do you think it’ll work?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Yes, as long as you play your part well. As far as Walsingham is aware, none of the men travelling with you know Rowley. Speak to them as little as possible on the journey. The fact you are recovering from a severe illness should be a good cloak for silence. If you have to answer questions, you are a London man, the youngest son of a Catholic family. The authorities have apprehended you on suspicion of treason.’

Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘Have I committed treason?’

‘Only through youthful indiscretion, but imprisonment has served to make you more fervent in your faith.’

‘But when I reach Wisbech, surely my situation will be no better. Won’t my chances of freedom be even more slender?’

Lamotte glanced over his shoulder. ‘Barwis may come back soon. I don’t want to have to speak of this in the yard where anyone might overhear us, so take heed. There is a price for Walsingham’s help. You have to spend a few years at Wisbech but he promises me you will eventually be free.’

‘A few years?’ Tom felt a stab of alarm. ‘What must I do?’

‘Watch and listen. Gather information.’

‘Walsingham wants me to spy for him?’

‘Is that such a great burden in exchange for your life?’

Tom fell silent.

‘It troubles you? Would you prefer to remain here? Your trial cannot be delayed for ever. Do you really think you are likely to be acquitted?’

Numbly, Tom shook his head.

Footsteps approached. ‘That’s Barwis,’ Lamotte whispered. ‘Tell me quickly, will you do it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He reached through the bars and squeezed Tom’s shoulder, ‘I’ll come to the yard tomorrow. Have courage.’

*

As he promised, Lamotte returned the following day but on his next visit, Tom was not in the yard. It seemed that the plan was on foot.

Caution told Lamotte it was unwise to make enquiries. He waited for two more days to pass then at the appointed time he joined the small group of men and women asking permission to visit the prison burial ground.

In the walled enclosure, he walked through the rows of graves to where there was a freshly covered plot. Standing over it, he removed his hat.

‘Buried that one last night,’ a voice behind him said. He turned to see a guard watching him. ‘You a relative?’ the guard asked. ‘A sovereign’ll buy you a cross and another if you want the name on it.’

‘What was the name?’

‘Tom Goodluck. Odd, considering,’ he guffawed.

Lamotte shook his head. ‘Then you won’t get anything out of me today.’

‘Who are you looking for then?’ The guard loitered, not giving up hope of a tip.

‘A man called Manfredi,’ Lamotte answered quickly. It was the first name that came to mind.

‘Never heard of him. Sure you’ve got the right one?’

‘It’s not important.’

He replaced his hat and went back through the gate
into the street. It was too early to be triumphant but at least the plan was underway. There was nothing to be done now except follow the company to the country and wait.

21

October, 1587

A blustery wind filled the
Curlew’s
sails as the small ship left the estuary and tacked northwards, hugging the coast. Below decks, Tom felt the buck and toss of the choppy waves. The hold stank of the fish that must have been the cargo on some previous voyage. The taste of bile rushed into his mouth and he retched.

‘God help us if you’re going to puke all the way to Wisbech,’ the man beside him muttered, his voice thick with cold.

‘Let him be, Hugh,’ said a tall man with dark hair who sat on the other side of Tom.

The hold into which the guards had thrown the three of them was sweltering and cramped. Tom wiped his damp forehead. He had planned to use seasickness as an excuse to avoid saying too much on the journey but it seemed he would not need to dissemble very much.

‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘Do you think they’ll let us out of here? I might fare better on deck.’

The man called Hugh sneezed. ‘We’d all fare better on deck,’ he said morosely. ‘But if it’s like Newgate, every privilege will have to be paid for and the guards emptied my pockets before we left
London. They said they needed what I had to pay for my food.’

‘It was the same with me,’ the tall man said.

They lapsed into silence for a time then there was a rattle of chains and the hatch opened. One of the guards looked in.

Shielding his eyes, Tom blinked.

‘Let us up on deck, for pity’s sake,’ Hugh said.

The guard laughed. ‘What’s it worth?’

‘You know I haven’t any money, you made sure of that before we left London.’

The hatch slammed down and they heard the rattle of chains again. Hugh cursed.

‘Try and sleep,’ the tall man said. ‘I slept a lot in Newgate, it passed the time.’

‘You’re very calm, Richard,’ Hugh said wryly.

‘What choice do I have? If it’s God’s will that I be punished for my faith, I must accept it.’

‘You may be resigned to rotting away in a damp hellhole, forgive me if I
’m not.’ Hugh squinted at Tom in the dim light that filtered through the salt-encrusted porthole. ‘I don’t know your face. Who are you?’

‘Gilbert Rowley.’

Hugh frowned. ‘Gilbert Rowley? I heard you were sick - too sick to move. You don’t look very sick to me apart from having the stomach of a green girl.’

‘I told you to leave him alone, Hugh,’ Richard said. ‘It may be weeks before we reach Wisbech; however bad the journey may be we should at least be civil among ourselves.’

With a grunt, Hugh used his hand to wipe away the mucus running from his sharp nose. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

Tom longed for sleep too, but
the footsteps overhead and the creak of the ship’s timbers as she rolled prevented it. Hour after hour, he listened to Hugh’s snores and coughs until at last the hatch opened once more and another guard’s face appeared.

Disturbed by the light, Hugh woke. ‘What do you want?’ he wheezed.

‘Captain says you’re to come out and use the heads. He likes a clean ship.’

Hugh prodded Richard. ‘Wake up! They’re letting us out for a bit.’

Stiff and numb, the three of them clambered up the ladder and onto the deck where the guards waited for them, their muskets raised. Tom inhaled the salt-laden air and gazed around him. The coastline was so flat and marshy it seemed to bleed into the sea. Everything was as grey as a mouse’s back but after the months inside Newgate’s bleak walls, the scene had an eerie, shimmering beauty that fed his eyes.

‘No dawdling.’ One of the guards poked him with the barrel of his musket. Reluctantly, he shuffled along the deck to the heads and waited his turn. A dank smell rose from the stained planks.
He lowered his eyes and tried to concentrate. After a few moments, he managed to relieve himself. When everyone had finished, the elder of the two guards gave a surly nod.

‘That’ll do, down below with you.’

As they returned to the hatch, Tom drank in the view once more. It might be his only respite from the damp, fetid hold for a long time. At the ladder, his legs buckled as one of the guards kicked him.

‘Get a move on,’ the man growled. Stumbling, Tom realised he was weaker than he had thought.

‘How many of them do you think there are?’ Richard whispered when they were shut in again.

‘I didn’t see anyone except those two guards and the captain and his mate,’ Hugh said. ‘But four of them against us three, and us with no weapons but our bare hands?’ He threw a scornful glance at Tom. ‘And one of us as much use as a bucket of piss to a parched man? They might as well be a hundred.’ He lay down on his side and wrapped his cloak around him. ‘I’m going to sleep. It’s all over with us.’

*

The monotonous days dragged by. Up on deck the weather was cold and windy, but the sticky heat in the pokey hold drained the little energy Tom had, although to his relief, his seasickness subsided. Once a day, a guard brought them salted herring that was tough as leather to chew. It gave Tom a raging thirst and, even though the small beer they were given was musty and full of chaff, he waited impatiently for his daily ration.

All of them slept a great deal and Richard also spent hours in prayer, his rosary beads clicking through his fingers. He seemed to Tom a gentle, devout person who was genuine in his insistence that all he sought was the freedom to follow his conscience. Hugh was a different matter, an angry man railing against his fate. He was the younger son of a Derbyshire family, arrested on suspicion of plotting against the queen.

‘Ridding
England of a heretic, more like,’ he said bitterly. ‘And what was the charge against you, Rowley? Come on, give an account of yourself.’

It was the question Tom had dreaded but to his relief, when he fleshed out the story Lamotte had given him, Hugh appeared to accept it.

‘Richard is the saint among us,’ he sneered. ‘He trained for the priesthood.’

‘That’s not entirely true,’ Richard objected, ‘but when I was a young man, I hoped to. I even went to
Rome and visited the English College but while I was there, I received the news of my father’s death and came home.’

‘Why didn’t you go back when you’d settled his affairs?’ Tom asked.

‘My sister needed me to stay.’

‘She had no husband to support her?’

Richard gave one of his rare smiles. ‘My sister has a strong will. She was more than capable of running the estate without me but there were other problems. With the harsher anti-Catholic laws, if I had gone back to Rome, my family would have suffered crippling penalties on my account. I did not want that on my conscience.’

One day, the sea seemed calmer than usual. When they went on deck to use the heads, Tom understood why. Dense fog swirled around the ship, obscuring everything that was more than a few yards in front of him. The sails were slack and standing in the bow, the captain stared intently into the milky air. As they passed, he jerked his thumb at them.

‘There’s rocks hereabouts. Some of those prayers of yours wouldn’t come amiss.’

Down below once more, it was hard to tell through the cloudy porthole whether the fog had dispersed but Tom guessed it was still there, for the ship’s motion remained sluggish. Richard dozed fitfully or prayed but Hugh carped and fretted constantly. Much as he disliked him, Tom felt some pity for his sufferings.

‘If we hit the rocks, it will be all over with us,’ he moaned. ‘Do you really think the guards will release us? Not them, why would they care?’ He started as the timbers creaked. ‘They’ll leave the hatch chained. If the wood’s sound, we’ll have no chance of forcing it. We’ll die like rats in a barrel.’

Richard’s fingers paused on his rosary. ‘If it is God’s will we should live, He will keep us safe from harm.’

In the dim light, Tom saw Hugh’s fists clench. As he lunged at Richard, he seized Hugh’s arms and pinioned them behind his back. Hugh started to shout and struggle.

The noise must have alerted the guards for the hatch opened. ‘That’s enough down there,’ a guard said roughly. He tapped his musket. ‘Or you’ll feel the butt of this.’

The hatch slammed down. Glowering, Hugh broke away and crouched in a corner. ‘I won’t forget that, Rowley.’

As night drew in, the others slept but Tom lay awake. Clearly, he had made an enemy of Hugh and the feeling was mutual. He would have few qualms about watching him at Wisbech, but Richard was different. He appeared to be a genuinely good man and his serene acceptance of his fate was remarkable. It seemed far more shameful to deceive him.

When at last a faint light glimmered in the porthole, Tom noticed the ship gather speed. He felt the tension leave his body; the immediate danger must be over. But what were they saved for? He fell to thinking of his last conversation with Lamotte. He had spoken of years, rather than months, before he won his freedom. Was he telling the truth or merely offering a crumb of comfort? Perhaps his imprisonment at Wisbech would last until he died. A chill came over him.

Richard stirred. ‘Is it morning?’

Relieved to have his thoughts interrupted, Tom pushed them to the back of his mind. ‘Yes, and I think the fog has lifted.’

‘Our prayers were answered,’ Richard smiled. ‘God has kept us safe.’

*

‘Storm’s coming,’ one of the guards said gruffly as they went up to use the heads later that morning. He pointed to the iron-grey clouds on the horizon. ‘We’ll need luck if we’re to make landfall at King’s Lynn before it reaches us. You’d best pray harder.’

With a sizzle like fat dropping on a hot skillet, the rain swept in just before dusk. Soon the scream of the wind in the rigging and the buffeting of the waves against the hull filled Tom’s ears. He felt his nausea return as the ship pitched violently. Fear quelled even Hugh’s belligerence. He crouched in a corner, rocking and mumbling a barely coherent string of prayers, but even in the terrible straits in which they found themselves, Richard’s serenity did not desert him. As the storm’s fury increased, Tom marvelled at his calmness.

Suddenly, a tremendous crash shook the hold. The ceiling splintered and part of it fell in. A wave of icy water gushed through the hole. Drenched, Tom leapt to his feet. ‘We need to get out,’ he yelled over the noise of the wind. Another wave crashed into the hold. As the spray cleared, Tom saw water was seeping through the planking as well. The impact must have sprung its seams.

‘You’re the lightest of us, Rowley,’ Richard shouted in his ear. ‘I’ll push you up. Try and undo the hatch from above.’ He took a step towards Tom then stumbled backwards as the ship pitched violently. Another torrent of water gushed through the broken timbers.

Hugh’s face was grey. He seemed unable to move. Steady on his feet again, Richard shook him. ‘Don’t be afraid. God is with us.’ He held out his interlocked hands to Tom. ‘Hurry!’

Tom clawed at the wet wood but it was too slippery. He felt a sharp pain as a splinter ripped into his palm. Blood spurted from the wound and he fell back.

‘Try again,’ Richard shouted.

Every sinew stretched,
Tom jumped once more. This time his grip held and he hauled himself through the hole.

The mainmast lay on the deck surrounded by mounds of canvas. He smelt sulphur.

‘What’s happening?’ Over the wind, Richard’s voice floated up from below.

‘The mainmast’s smashed. I can’t see the crew or the guards.’

A wall of water towered over the ship and smashed on the deck almost knocking him into the sea. Just in time, Tom grabbed the rail and clung to it, buffeted by the wind as the ship plunged. When it righted itself, he saw a body wedged against the starboard rail. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled around the wreckage of the mainmast. The captain lay on his back, eyes wide open. His head lolled to one side. Blood seeped from a gash running from his temple to his jaw.

Another wave slewed across the deck and for a few moments, Tom could think of nothing but holding on. When the water subsided, he crawled back to the hole. ‘The captain’s dead,’ he shouted. ‘I can’t see anyone else. They may have been washed overboard. I nearly was too.’

Richard cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Can you open the hatch?’ he yelled. ‘The water’s already ankle deep.’

‘I’ll try.’

Battling the heavy chains took all his remaining strength but at last they yielded. He threw back the hatch. Hugh’s terrified face stared up from below. Richard pushed him up the ladder and followed.

The ship pitched again, sending them slithering across the deck into the rail.

‘We’re lost,’ Hugh bawled. ‘The waves will smash us to pieces. I’m not staying here.’

Richard seized him. ‘Don’t be a fool. You’ll never survive in this sea.’

Tom looked over the rail. In the dim light, the shore crouched like an animal at bay. It looked no more than half a mile away but it was half a mile of surging grey water. He fought down the fear that threatened to engulf him.