Salvation (20 page)

‘Well, I haven’t time to be bothering with you,’ Peggoty grumbled. ‘Look at all this work to be done. Too cold and wet these days to dry anything outside and the cottage gets damp as damp. I can’t bring in the wood for the fire fast enough and it takes twice as long to get the clean linen back to my customers. They kick up a right fuss, I can tell you.’

‘We only want to stay a few days, Peg,’ William broke in. ‘I’ll chop wood for you and Meg can help with the washing.’

She snatched
up Meg’s hands and inspected them. ‘These haven’t seen much work, I’ll be bound.’

Meg lifted her chin. She was weary and despondent but Peggoty’s bad-tempered reception aroused some irritation in her. ‘More than you think,’ she replied.

‘I suppose you don’t look as if you eat much,’ Peggoty said grudgingly. ‘As long as it’s only for a few days, you can sleep with Susan. There’s straw and sacks in the outhouse, William. Make yourself a bed out there. And don’t you forget, when you find another job, I expect every penny you’ve cost me back.’

William raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d have laid money on that.’

She shook her fist at him. ‘And don’t think I’ll put up with any of your nonsense either. I’ve a living to earn just like anyone else.’

17

London
 

July, 1587

The muffled sounds of carriages rumbling by and hawkers crying their wares drifted up to Lamotte, sat opposite Walsingham in his study at Seething Lane. Walsingham took out a purse from his drawer and put it on the desk.

‘Husband it well. I hear
Paris is an expensive city these days.’

Lamotte took the purse with a feeling of reluctance. Many years had passed since he had last been in the city that was once his home. It had been a troubling experience, unearthing memories he preferred not to disturb.

‘When do you want me to leave?’

‘By the end of the week.’

This was a complication Lamotte had not expected, and he did not welcome it. This mission might last some time and he was due to take the company on a summer tour of the West Country soon. The country business had taken years to establish and he did not want to cancel the engagements. All the same, it was unwise to refuse Walsingham, particularly as Lamotte still hoped for his help with Tom. He would just have to get back as soon as he could and if necessary, send the others on ahead. He nodded.

‘The man you are to meet is a Genoese banker by the name of Riccardo Manfredi,’ Walsingham went on. ‘I have used his services for some time now but as always, take care.’

‘Of course.’

‘His business takes him to
Spain as well as France and I understand he was in Cadiz in April when Drake struck. He should be able to give you an account of the tonnage and cargoes of enemy shipping sunk. I also want any information he has on the effect the losses have had on Spain’s plans. See to it you pay him well.’

Ah, Lamotte thought, the purse was not only for him.

Walsingham shuffled through his papers and Lamotte noticed the tremor in his gnarled, blue-veined hands. In spite of a blazing fire that made the room oppressively hot, he wore a robe of thick, black velvet. Above his crisply starched ruff his skin had a greyish hue. Finding the piece of paper he wanted, he passed it across the desk. It was a map of southern England, annotated in a spidery hand.

‘Details of some of our costal defences: I want you to memorise them. At some point in your conversations with Manfredi, when you think it will not arouse suspicion, mention them to him. The information is false, for example here,’ he pointed to a promontory, ‘and here,’ his finger moved on, ‘none of the guns listed actually exist, but I should like to set a little test for the
signore
. It is always interesting to find out where information comes to rest.’ He leant his elbows on his desk and pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Have you any questions?’

Lamotte shook his head.

‘Good.’

Lamotte stood up and took his leave.
He was used to Walsingham’s habit of eschewing the pleasantries most people dealt in. In truth, it would be a relief to escape the stifling heat of the room.

On the walk back
to Throgmorton Street, he wondered whether in the early days of their acquaintance Walsingham had set traps for him too. Perhaps, he thought wryly, he still did. It was uncanny how, in spite of all the years he had served him, the workings of Walsingham’s mind remained unfathomable. Indeed, did anyone truly understand or come close to him? His wife, people said, was a severe, haughty woman and he did not have a courtier’s skills to make him a favourite at Court with the queen even though, if she were as wise as she was reputed to be, she must recognise the value of his loyalty and dedication.

Lamotte sighed. Was his situation so very different? He could not think of a single person he was able to confide in completely. Increasingly, he found himself dwelling on how his life might have turned out if Amélie and the boy had not died. Jean would have been the same age as Tom. He hoped he would have had the same passion for the theatre as Tom did. When all was said and done, what was the use of building up a business if you had no one to leave it to?

He turned a corner and a gust of wind buffeted him, nearly dislodging his hat. With a frown, he clapped it more firmly on his head. What a summer: it didn’t deserve the name. Already the Unicorn’s audiences showed signs of dwindling and who could blame them? If the bad weather went on much longer, profits were bound to suffer. It was another reason for keeping to the tour. Country folk had less entertainment available to them and tended to appreciate it more. Audiences were likely to be better there in spite of the weather.

He turned his mind to what had to be done before his departure. It was not unknown for him to be absent from the Unicorn and the players would not be surprised if he claimed urgent business took him away for a while. If he prepared them for it, the seasoned players were capable of leading the tour without him for a short while if need be. More importantly, he must see Tom before he left and make sure he was provided for.

He walked along Fenchurch Street too lost in thought to notice the tall, dark-haired woman in his path until he bumped into her. She glowered at him; he stepped back quickly and bowed.

‘A thousand apologies, madam
, I hope my carelessness has not injured you?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘No sir, but not for want of trying.’

Lamotte suppressed a chuckle. ‘The streets are crowded today. May I escort you and your companion to your destination?’ He smiled at the pretty, fair-haired girl by the woman’s side and she blushed. The woman pursed her lips.

‘My maid and I can manage very well alone, thank you. Come, Bess.’

As he watched them walk away, Lamotte shrugged. Some women were hard to please.

*

At Newgate the following day, he went to see the chief warder and paid the money he demanded for providing Tom’s food for the next few weeks. The fellow knew how to strike a hard bargain, Lamotte thought irritably as he left the lodge, but no doubt he was not the only one of his kind to profit from his position.

By the time he reached the yard, a crowd of other visitors was already jostling for the places closest to the bars. It was drizzling and the smell of damp wool mingled with the odour of stale sweat. Elbowing his way to the front, he scanned the prisoners on the other side and, sighting Tom, shouted out his name but at first, the hubbub was too loud for him to hear. With disquiet, Lamotte observed how dejected and worn down he seemed, alone and gazing dully at the activity around him. It was hardly surprising. After almost a year of imprisonment, Newgate’s grim confines would test the strongest resolve.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted louder than before. This time Tom’s head went up. As he pushed his way to the bars, Lamotte braced himself for the disappointment that would inevitably show in Tom’s eyes when he had to tell him there was no news of a release. How he wished he had something more to offer him than the usual empty promises.

He mustered a jovial smile. ‘Tom! Did you think I wasn’t coming?’ He grasped Tom’s hand through the bars and frowned. It felt like ice. ‘I gave the warders money for a warmer blanket for you last time I was here,’ he said. ‘Did you get it?’

Tom nodded. ‘I’m very grateful.’

‘And your food? They haven’t tried to skimp on that?’

‘No. It’s just so damp and cold inside, even though it’s summer, but there’s nothing to be done about it.’ He looked crestfallen. ‘I suppose there’s no news?’

‘I regret not but we mustn’t give up hope.’

‘I know.’

‘Tom, I have to go away for a few weeks. After that I need to take the company to the country for the summer tour, but I shall visit you before I leave. For now, I’ve left money for your food and I’ll make sure you never go short.’

‘Will you go to Salisbury on the tour?’ Tom asked.

‘Yes.’ Lamotte saw the pain in Tom’s eyes. ‘Do you want me to see what I can find out about Meg?’

‘I know it’s no use,’ Tom said awkwardly, ‘but I would like to know if she’s well. She’s probably forgotten me by now,’ he added bitterly. ‘Better for her if she has.’ His head drooped and his next words seemed to be said half to himself, ‘But I think of her all the time.’

A bell tolled and the warders on duty started to herd the prisoners towards the tunnel leading back to their cells. Not far from Tom and Lamotte, a young woman screamed as the man she had been talking to was roughly dragged into the line. Lamotte felt a stab of pity for her and for the grubby, bewildered little girl clinging to her skirts.

‘I have to go,’ Tom said as a warder approached them.

‘Have courage,’ Lamotte said quickly. ‘I promise I’ll do what I can to find out about Meg.’

Sadly, he watched Tom swallowed up in the mass of prisoners then, turning, he saw that the distressed young woman was still clinging to the bars, her shoulders heaving. He wondered whether he should try to comfort her but then a tall woman in a grey dress moved to her side. He stared in surprise: she was the woman he had encountered in Fenchurch Street, he was certain of it. She had the same dark complexion and patrician air, but now a kindly smile softened her strong features.

For a moment, it occurred to him that he might speak to her but she was too occupied with the young woman and her child to notice him. The idea was a foolish one; dismissing it, he made his way to the gate and out into the street.

18

Two days later, Lamotte spurred his horse over London Bridge and set out for the coast. The mist lifted by the time he reached Blackheath and the road was busy. As always, hundreds of wagons and carts lumbered up to London from the countryside, laden with the timber, bricks and foodstuffs that the great city needed.

There were wattle cages crammed with hens and ducks, herds of cattle and sheep and once, a great white sea of honking, hissing geese that made his horse shy and nearly collide with a passing cart. His horse almost unseated him again when a sudden hailstorm threw everything into confusion. It was a relief when evening came and he stopped at a wayside inn. There he ate supper and drank a quart of ale then retired to bed.

The following day, orchards and market gardens gave way to rolling downs grazed by vast flocks of sheep. He had not slept well and the crack of whips and the curses and shouts of wagon drivers struggling to move their loads over the rough road made his head ache; dust caked his boots and irritated his eyes and throat.

At
Folkestone, he found a room at an inn near the port and sent his servant, James, who had ridden from London with him, to enquire when the next ship sailed for Calais. After ordering beef and beer, he settled down to wait for him to return.

As far as he could tell, most of the other customers were travellers. Out of force of habit, he watched them and picked up snippets of their conversation but none of them seemed to pay him any attention.

Eventually, his servant returned with news that the
Maid of Kent
sailed at eight o’clock the next morning.

‘Good,’ Lamotte yawned. ‘Make sure you wake me at six. After I’ve left, take the horses back to
Throgmorton Street. Here’s some money for the journey. Mind they’re properly fed and stabled at night.’

He settled
his account and went upstairs. In his room, the shutters were closed and barred; he opened them and looked out onto the street. It was the main thoroughfare to the sea, but compared with what he was used to, it was very quiet. Above the rooftops of the houses opposite, a full moon sailed between rags of cloud. His elbows resting on the sill, he mused on what the next few days would bring. He was reasonably sure he would not be recognised in Paris – many years had passed since he had lived there – but it was hard not to feel apprehensive. However cautious one was, ventures into Walsingham’s murky world often involved danger.

It had begun to rain heavily.
He closed the shutters then undressed and lay down on the bed. A plague on this journey! He was not looking forward to the crossing. There was always the risk of storms in the Narrow Sea.

And
Paris: there were so many memories waiting for him there. Sadly, he thought of Amélie. She was irreplaceable of course but fifteen years was a long time to come home to a solitary hearth and a cold bed. There was no getting away from it, a wife made a man’s life more comfortable. Maybe he should find one.

Idly, he pictured the tall woman he had seen at Newgate. She had an air about her and very fine eyes. True, he would not see forty again and his love of good food was becoming evident. His hair and beard were
greying but his limbs were still well muscled and his face unmarked by the pox, not, he hoped, an entirely repulsive sight. He closed his eyes and fell to speculating on how the tall, dark-haired woman might look out of her clothes.

*

Contrary to his expectations, the crossing was a calm one. From the deck of the
Maid of Kent
, he watched the grey-green water slap and froth against the hull and felt the breeze ruffle his hair. The ship
was reassuringly sturdy, built of good Kentish timber. Under sail she lumbered along like a stout laundress pegging out sheets to dry.

A
t Calais, the language of his birth enfolded him as he wandered through the maze of canals and small harbours. Occasionally, he had been allowed to accompany his father when business brought him to the city. Calais had belonged to England then and the cross of St George had streamed from the mastheads of the ships riding at anchor. They had watched sailors toiling to unload vast quantities of English iron, wool and lace. English was spoken in the taverns and markets and English merchants swaggered through the streets. All that had changed now. Calais was French again and the English merchants had to hustle for trade with the rest.

In one of the markets he bought bread and a piece of oozing, pungent cheese. Eating as he strolled around the stalls, his mouth rejoiced. The English might be less likely to plunge a knife into his Protestant belly but the French understood food. After years of instruction, his cook at
Throgmorton Street served up a near-edible meal but his sauces would never match Amélie’s rich, delicious concoctions of wine, cream and herbs.

The diligence set out early the next morning from the main square near the old watch tower. Crammed in between the side of the coach and a stout, Parisian merchant who smelt strongly of garlic, Lamotte was glad to escape during the coach’s stops to change horses and allow the passengers to eat and rest.

Three days after they set out, the Calais road plunged into the outskirts of Paris. It had rained the previous night and the streets were still a quagmire, slowing the diligence’s progress. Lamotte cleared a circle in the steamed-up window with his finger. The narrow wooden houses with their steeply gabled roofs and upper stories jutting out over the street were as he remembered. Many were decorated with little shrines to the Virgin Mary or one of the saints, embellished with bunches of flowers and candles. Black cloth draped numerous windows. Paris mourned the Scottish queen.

The diligence creaked around a corner and bumped over a particularly large rut. The me
rchant’s head jerked up; he peered out of the window. ‘Does the wretch want to shake us all to pieces? He’ll get no pourboire from me.’

‘Not far to the river now,’ another passenger remarked. ‘It’ll be better when the paved roads begin.’

‘Even then there are so many holes a coach can easily break its axle,’ complained a gaunt man with a sallow complexion. ‘Only last week, my cousin was thrown from his horse and badly injured when the animal stumbled into one the size of a cannonball.’

The coach rumbled on past the massive walls and towers of the Palais du Louvre and soon reached the river. Lamotte
stepped down and surveyed the city’s great artery. Unlike the Thames, for most of its course it flowed between banks of solid rock and its beauty was not marred like the Thames’s by a muddy strand, strewn with rotting sewage and carcasses. Among the hundreds of boats on the gleaming water, he recognised the great Burgundian barges come up from the south, loaded with wheat, timber and wine. On the far bank, the soaring towers of the Abbey of St Germain des Prés dominated the skyline.

Shouldering his luggage, Lamotte set out to find lodgings and, when he had done so, called for something to eat. Two hours later, refreshed, he headed for the nearest of the wooden bridges leading onto the Île de la Cité.

Dilapidated houses lined the rickety walkway and in places, through broken planks, he saw the river racing along thirty feet below. The bridge was a death trap. Clearly it had been neglected for years but no doubt neglect was a malaise he would find all over the city. It was common knowledge that Henri of France was a weak, dissolute monarch. With his resources eaten up by the need to appease and control the powerful religious factions threatening to unseat him, not much was left for poor Paris.

Relieved to be on the far bank, he strode past the Palais de Justice, glancing at the hordes of black-clad functionaries hurrying in and out. Busy with being busy, he thought wryly. It was hard to believe he had once been among them. If he had never been approached by one of Walsingham’s agents for the information to which his work made him privy, he might still have been there.

He found the goldsmith’s shop to which Walsingham had directed him, rang the bell and waited. A few moments passed before the wooden cover of a small spyhole in the door shot back. An elderly, bald man with a beaky nose and a prominent chin squinted at him. Lamotte showed the gold ring he wore on the fourth finger of his left hand. After a pause in which he heard the rasp of several bolts being undone, the door opened.

In the dimly lit shop, he studied the gold plate and jewellery gleaming in the barred cabinets behind the counter while the goldsmith examined the ring through an eyeglass. At last he seemed satisfied and handed it back.

‘It’s a nice piece, but not worth much.’

‘Are you certain? When I purchased it in
Genoa, I paid fifty ducats. It must be worth more now. Surely you know someone who would give me that at least?’

A flicker of interest disturbed the goldsmith’s impassive expression. ‘I suppose I could make enquiries.’

‘There will be a generous commission in it for you.’

The goldsmith nodded and lowered his voice. ‘Come tomorrow at five. Signor Manfredi will meet you. I have a room where you can talk without being overheard.’

Outside, Lamotte scanned the street for anyone loitering to watch him leave but the passers-by all seemed intent on their own business. He was not ready to return to his lodgings so he turned towards the eastern end of the island and walked until he reached Notre Dame.

Set off by the wide expanse Parisians called the Parvis, the cathedral’s magnificent Gothic façade reared up into the sky. The hundreds of statues decorating it were black with the dirt and smoke of generations but impressive nevertheless. Lamotte
looked around him and wondered why the authorities did not sweep away the ugly shanty town of wooden hovels that clustered like rotting fungi at its foot. Many of the hovels had washing lines strung between them displaying an assortment of tattered clothes. Gangs of shrieking urchins ran around or squabbled over each other’s finds in the heaps of refuse that were everywhere. Alongside this chaos of poverty-stricken lives were stalls selling fruit, vegetables, flowers, books, pamphlets and cheap trinkets. On the heels of a small party of Benedictine monks, Lamotte threaded his way through the hubbub to the cathedral and went in.

After the noise of the Parvis, the silence was like cool water. He had forgotten how beautiful the rainbows of light falling from the tall windows were. They seemed to dissolve the walls into shimmering veils. The arcades and columns supporting the great vault of the chancel looked as insubstantial as gossamer. In this hushed miracle of stone, black-robed priests flitted about their business like ghosts.
In a side chapel, he lit a candle for Amélie. He had never been a deeply religious man, that had been more in her nature, but when he knelt at the small altar, he felt strangely at peace. It had been the right thing to come.

His knees cracked as he got to his feet. A wretched business, this ageing: in a few years he might be dead. Would you forgive me, Amélie, he asked inwardly, would you understand if I took a wife?

*

He returned early to the Île de la Cité and, when he was satisfied there was only one entrance to the goldsmith’s shop, stood out of sight on the opposite side of the street watching who came and went. The goldsmith’s customers appeared to be respectable-looking members of the bourgeoisie, mixed with a few gallants in fashionable dress.

By the time the bells of Notre Dame tolled five, Lamotte’s back ached and he was glad to see the goldsmith bow one last customer off the premises before pausing to glance up and down the street and pulling across his shutters. He had been back in the shop for no more than a few minutes when a man approached from the direction of the cathedral. Dressed in a black, fur-trimmed cloak and a black doublet and breeches made of expensive-looking silk, he went to the shop door and rang the bell. The door opened and after a brief exchange with the goldsmith, the man went in. Lamotte waited briefly then followed.

Riccardo Manfredi was as broad as he was tall with sharp, black eyes twinkling with bonhomie. His lips were fleshy and pink and his pudgy hands displayed an impressive collection of rings set with chunky gemstones. He held out a large paper cornet filled with cherries.

‘Signor Lamotte! A pleasure to make your acquaintance! These are exquisite, would you like one? I was lucky to find them, most of the fruit sellers are complaining of the bad weather and the poor harvest.’

Lamotte took a cherry and smiled. ‘Thank you.’ The intense sweetness brought saliva into his mouth.

‘Take another,’ Manfredi held out the cherries. ‘I am glad to see you haven’t been infected with the English suspicion of fresh fruit. Most of them seem to live on meat and bread.’ He patted his paunch. ‘My dear wife, Anna Maria, is always telling me sweet things are not good for this. She complains that all the fruit I eat induces flatulence but when I am away from home, I can do as I please.’ He pulled out a fine, white linen handkerchief and dabbed away the dribble of crimson juice on his chin. ‘You are a married man, signor?’

Before Lamotte had time to answer, the goldsmith cleared his throat. Manfredi smiled. ‘Our good friend rebukes me. Anna Maria always says I talk too much.’

‘Shall I show you upstairs, gentlemen?’ the goldsmith asked.