Salvation (5 page)

Topcliffe
turned to his audience and pulled a long knife from his belt. He drew the blade slowly through his fingers then tested it against his thumb.

Tom saw flushed, eager faces around him. His neighbour licked his moist, red lips. Tom closed his eyes as a gasp like a wave ebbing over shingle swept through the crowd. When he opened them, the prisoner lay limp at the base of the post, blood pumping from the frayed stump where his hand should have been. Blood also dripped from the severed hand still nailed to the post. With the edge of his knife, Topcliffe levered out the nail and brandished the hand in front of his victim’s eyes before holding it up to show the onlookers.

Tom fought down nausea. He was sweating but the scene had an awful fascination that he could not resist.

A sharp nudge threw him off balance. ‘Watch yourself, lad,’ his neighbour scowled. ‘If you’re going to spew up, do it somewhere else.’

The younger prisoner was silent as he was led forward. A lump rose in Tom’s throat. The man looked only a few years older than he was and seemed so dignified. He bowed his chin to allow the executioner to place the noose around his neck. The other end of the rope was thrown over the blood-streaked post’s crossbeam.

Topcliffe adjusted the noose with deft hands then stood back and gave the signal. With a crash, a trap door opened beneath the man’s feet and the rope went taut. As his body thrashed convulsively, Tom willed his agony to be over.

‘Old Topcliffe’ll do it now,’ Tom’s neighbour muttered.

The executioner
pulled the prisoner clear of the trapdoor and sliced through the rope. The man slumped to the ground, his arms and legs jerking as the guards heaved him across the platform and lifted him onto a low table. There, four guards held his arms and legs while one by one, Topcliffe picked up the instruments lying at the foot of the table and studied them. At last he selected a cleaver and, taking a pace backwards, lifted it above his head. It came down with such force on the man’s ribcage, Tom was sure he heard the bones splinter. Pity and horror overwhelmed him.

Topcliffe took up a short, broad knife and set to work again. He might have been one of the butchers at the
Salisbury shambles, ripping the guts from a pig. Soon his arms were scarlet to the elbows and the smell of blood and excrement filled the air. Tom’s head swam. Through a haze, he saw Topcliffe hurl the entrails into a glowing brazier nearby and go back to work on the groaning man. Blood was everywhere, pooled on the table and dripping onto the floor. How could there be so much blood in one man?

Ignoring curses and blows, Tom turned and blundered through the crowd. He just managed to get clear of it before he doubled over.

As the haze cleared, he heard a wheezing voice nearby. ‘All right, lad?’ the question came from an old man sitting on a wooden bench. The wrinkles on his face deepened as he gave a gummy smile. ‘Your first, is it?’

Tom swallowed the bile in his mouth and nodded.

‘You’d better sit a bit.’

His legs shaking, Tom tottered to the bench. ‘What did they do?’ he asked after a while.

‘The first one was a printer up Cheapside way. Swore he only printed Catholic pamphlets to stop his wife and thirteen children from starving. The other one wrote and paid for them, so no mercy for him.’ He lapsed into silence for a few moments then cleared his throat and spat out a gobbet of phlegm. ‘Always a pleasure to watch Topcliffe work,’ he remarked. ‘Artist he is. I’d have been up there at the front if my legs were up to it.’

A crafty look came into his eyes. ‘Occurs to me you might like to buy an old man a jug of ale for helping you?’

‘Helping me?’

The old man scowled. ‘Well, get off my bench then – puking like a green girl – no gratitude.’

‘This one giving you trouble, granddad?’ A broad-shouldered fellow tapping a cudgel against his meaty hand loomed into Tom’s vision. Tom didn’t wait for the reply; he stumbled off into the crowd praying he would not be followed.

He took the first turning he came to and found himself in an alley bounded by high walls. It seemed to lead nowhere except to a crumbling tenement at the far end, but as he retraced his steps, he noticed an archway to his right. Through it he saw another tenement on the far side of a dingy, rubbish-strewn courtyard. He was about to turn away when he heard a yell and saw a flash of movement. It was the scrawny boy with the ginger hair. One man had him pinioned by the arms and another wearing a green cap stood watching with a knife in his hand.

Tom took a step into the yard. ‘Let him go,’ he shouted. It was a shock to realise that the words came from his own lips.

‘What’s it to you?’ Green Cap sneered. The knife glinted in his hand. Already Tom was regretting the impulse that had driven him to become involved.

‘We don’t need any bloody Samaritans getting in the way,’ Green Cap went on.

A low-pitched moan came from the boy; his eyes rolled in his chalky face. On one side of his head, his hair was already dark with blood.

With a wolfish grin, Green Cap tapped his knife against his palm. ‘Now, shall it be the ears or the nose?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to watch?’

Tom stood his ground. ‘I said let him go.’ Surreptitiously, he measured the distance to the alley. ‘There are constables about. If I call out, you’ll be taken,’ he said, trying not to betray fear in his voice.

All at once, there were voices in the alley and he offered up a silent prayer of thanks. The man holding the boy shuffled nervously. ‘Maybe we should let him go, Jeb?’

Green Cap leered at Tom. ‘Why don’t you come and get him?’ He stood aside.

Tom shook his head. He had learnt enough from fighting with Ralph to know not to let an opponent get between him and his escape route. The voices grew louder.

‘All right,’ Green Cap said sourly, ‘let him go.’ He aimed his boot at the boy’s backside as he broke free and started to run. ‘But don’t you forget I’ll have you next time when your friend’s not about,’ he shouted.

‘Quick,’ Tom muttered as the boy reached him, ‘before they change their minds.’

In the street, they ran until they reached the place of execution once again. The crowds were already melting away and no one gave them a second glance. Tom took the boy over to a horse trough and, scooping up some water in his palms, splashed it on the place where his hair was bloodied. The boy yelped. ‘It hurts.’

Tom peered at the exposed gash. ‘It doesn’t look too deep. You’ll live.’

The boy pushed his wet hair out of his eyes, ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled.

*

After the brightness outside, it took Tom a few minutes to accustom himself to the dingy basement tavern. Smoke from the damp logs in the fireplace rasped his throat. The boy pushed him over to an empty table and sat him down.

‘Stay there, I’ll be back.’

He returned with a hunk of bread and an onion. Producing a pocket knife, he sliced the onion into thin rings, put some of them on a piece of bread then offered it to Tom. ‘For helping me,’ he said.

Tom took the food and started to eat. The bread was no staler than he was used to and the onion was sweet and crunchy. ‘Thank you, that was good,’ he said when he had finished. ‘My name’s Tom. Are you going to tell me yours?’

The boy hesitated for a moment before he spoke. ‘Jack, my name’s Jack.’

‘You don’t sound very sure.’

‘People call me lots of things, but I like Jack best.’

‘All right, Jack it is.’ Tom smiled ruefully. ‘To tell you the truth, Jack, I think I may need your help more than you do mine. London’s a lot bigger than I expected. I’ve nowhere to sleep and no money.’

‘I got money.’ Jack dug down into one of his battered boots and, with a chinking sound, brought out a small black velvet purse. ‘They didn’t think of looking there,’ he said with a grin.

Tom frowned. No doubt it wasn’t come by honestly, but now he had stolen himself, he had no business telling the boy off. In any case he had had enough punishment for one day.

‘I didn’t steal it,’ Jack said defiantly, ‘the old codger was asking for someone to take it off him.’

Tom raised an eyebrow at this piece of logic.

‘You ate the food,’ Jack scowled.

‘I know, and I’m grateful, really I am.’

Jack grinned. ‘There’s enough to pay for a proper bed tonight and more food tomorrow.’

‘Don’t you have anyone who looks after you?’ Tom asked and, seeing the grin leave Jack’s face, immediately regretted it.

‘I will,’ Jack said, recovering, ‘just as soon as my dad comes for me. My dad’s a general. He’s fighting the Spanish in the
Low Countries. He’s the most important man in the whole army and my ma, she’s a great lady,’ his voice faltered, ‘but she had to go away.’ He glowered. ‘It’s true, it is, don’t you look at me so queer.’

‘Sorry.’

Jack’s face brightened. ‘So you’ll come?’

‘Yes.’

Out in the street, night was drawing in. A swaying man relieved himself against the wall of the tavern then tottered away into the gloom. Smoke curled from every chimney, filling the air with particles of soot and making it hard for Tom to see where Jack was leading him, but trusting the boy seemed the best choice he had, so he followed.

4

Salisbury
 

May–July, 1586

On Whit Sunday, Salisbury’s market square rang with the sound of Morris bells. Birch boughs decked the cathedral and the city churches, but Meg’s heart was heavy. There was no news of Tom and she missed him sorely.

She noticed that Bess too seemed wretched and, remembering how she had seen them together in the courtyard, she suspected Ralph Fiddler was the cause of her distress. In the weeks after William Kemp’s death, he was often at
Stuckton Court but there was little doubt in Meg’s mind that it was not to seize any opportunity to meet Bess. He seemed to spend every hour there talking in private with Edward. Once, when she and Bess met Fiddler leaving the house as they returned from a visit to market, the way Bess hunched her shoulders and turned away like a whipped dog told its own story.

In June, the weather turned dull and wet. Edward left for the market at
Dorchester and Meg was alone with only the servants for company. When two days of foul weather confined her to the house, her spirits sank to their lowest ebb. In her small parlour, she listened to the steady drumbeat of the rain on the windowpanes and thought of Tom. It couldn’t be true that he was a murderer. He would never commit such a terrible crime.

But then why had he left
Salisbury? Was it because he knew he would be charged or was there some other reason? And what was he doing now? If he still loved her, couldn’t he have found some way of sending a message to tell her where he was? Surely if he had been arrested, Edward would have mentioned it? Perhaps he was already forgetting her and making a new life.

Tears filled her eyes and she felt ashamed of her angry resentment. If they could not be together, was it not far better that he was happy without her? But it was so hard to give up her dreams.

A mud-caked messenger came from Edward to tell her he would be delayed a week. A flooded river had prevented him visiting some land he planned to buy and he intended to wait until the difficulty was past. Wryly, Meg reflected that even her mother’s company might have been better than this loneliness, but Anne Bailey claimed to suffer from a weakness of the chest and never ventured abroad unless the sun shone.

On the third day, to Meg’s relief, strong winds drove the rain away to the west. The morning was blustery, but by afternoon, soft breezes and azure skies returned.
Filled with a longing for fresh air, she changed her pretty slippers for riding boots and fastened a cloak over her dress. Bess had gone to help in the kitchens for the afternoon and she left her there. What harm could there be in riding out alone? She would not go far, and besides, uncharitable as she felt for thinking it, Bess’s glum face would do nothing to lift her spirits.

‘Shall I come with you, m’lady?’ the groom asked when she ordered him to saddle her chestnut mare, Spirit.

‘No, I prefer to ride alone today.’

His brow furrowed. ‘Master Stuckton wouldn
’t like it, m’lady.’

‘Master Stuckton is not here, and he would like it even less if you disobeyed me,’ she snapped. Grumbling, the man disappeared to fetch the mare.

Confined too by the rain, Spirit backed and skittered as the groom tacked her up, her eyes rolling.

Meg caught the bridle and stroked the mare’s velvety muzzle. ‘Hush, you want to be off but be patient; we
shall be soon.’ The groom tightened the girth and led the mare to the mounting block. Sat side saddle, Meg gathered up the reins then waited while he adjusted the stirrups and handed her the whip.

‘Don’t look so anxious, Gabriel, I shall be perfectly safe. I’ve ridden since I was a child, you know.’

‘But the ground is treacherous after so much rain, my lady.’

‘Then I promise I shan’t go far,’ she smiled and, touching the whip to Spirit’s flank, she trotted away.

It was glorious to be free of the house. She rode towards the city, admiring how the mellow stone of the cathedral glowed in the sunshine. In New Street, she cast a wistful glance at Kemp’s house as she passed by, then urged Spirit on again to cross the river at Crane Street Bridge. The water gurgled along under the arches, its swift-flowing current smoothing out long, emerald skeins of water weed.

The road became a track that led out into open meadows. As she urged Spirit into a gallop, the wind smacked colour into Meg’s cheeks. In the old days, she and Tom had ridden together like this without a care in the world, sure of what the future held for them. For a few moments, exhilarated by speed, she forgot everything that had happened since, but then cold reality returned and tears misted her eyes. Shivering, she pulled the horse up near a stand of silver birch and Spirit bent her head to crop the grass. Meg fought down the lump in her throat. She must not give up. Whatever Tom’s reasons for leaving
Salisbury, she had to keep faith that one day, all would be well.

The stable yard was quiet when she returned and Gabriel was nowhere to be seen.
She leant forward and patted Spirit’s neck. ‘He can’t have gone far, old lady. He’s probably dozing in the hayloft, the idle good-for-nothing.’ She slipped her feet from the stirrups, dismounted, and led the mare along the row of stalls to the barn, but there was still no sign of the groom, only the old cob no one rode any more who whinnied when she saw Meg and Spirit then went back to pulling hay out of the net hanging on her stable wall.

Spirit whinnied in return and pawed the ground.

‘You’re hungry, are you?’ Meg smiled. ‘Never mind, you’ll have your hay soon. We won’t wait for Gabriel, but I’ll have sharp words with him when I do find him.’

She led Spirit to her stall and took her in. The mare tossed her head and her bit jangled. Meg made a low, soothing noise as she steadied Spirit’s head and lifted off the bridle. In the tack room, she hung it on a peg then found a net and stuffed it with hay.

When she returned, Spirit pricked up her ears and started to munch happily. Meg looked at the saddle. It was heavy but she did not want to leave it on until Gabriel reappeared, for Spirit needed a rub down.

‘Lucky I know how to do it,’ she muttered crossly, unbuckling the girth. She heaved the saddle off and with difficulty carried it to the tack room. On the way back, she heard a noise as she passed the barn.

‘Gabriel? Is that you?’

Inside the doorway, she peered through the gloom. Had something moved in the shadows or had she imagined it? No one answered her. Perhaps it was only a rat or a mouse, but as she turned to walk away, she heard another rustle, closer this time. She gasped as a strong hand gripped her elbow and spun her round. The next moment, she was looking into the eyes of Ralph Fiddler.

She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and backed away.

‘Forgive me, Mistress Stuckton, I didn’t mean to alarm you.’

Meg’s nostrils flared. ‘I was not alarmed, sir. I’m looking for Gabriel, our groom. Have you seen anyone about?’

Ralph shook his head. ‘Can I be of assistance?’

‘No thank you, Gabriel can deal with Spirit.’

He gave a low laugh. ‘If he w
as here, but as he’s not, why not let me help you?’

‘No.’

She tried to pass him but he matched her step. Her heart hammered so loudly she was afraid he must hear it. She took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘Master Fiddler, let me pass.’

His arm snaked around her waist and his free hand covered her mouth.

Meg’s legs turned to water. Her cloak slid to the floor as he pushed her up against the barn wall. She felt rough stone against her back.

He stooped, his lips brushing her neck. ‘Your bed must be cold without Tom Goodluck. I could warm it for you.’

She jerked her head to one side and sank her teeth into his ear. With a curse, he recoiled, but before she had time to run, he grabbed her again.

‘So you have a temper. Be careful, madam. If you cross me, you will be sorry.’

‘You’re mad. How dare you insult me like this. My husband will have you flogged.’

‘I doubt it. Not when he sees what I have to show him. I’ve had my suspicions for a long time and now I have proof. Tom has an aptitude for poetry, I’ll grant him that – his protestations of love are very touching – but since you are the subject of them, your husband may take a different view. I imagine most men don
’t like to read of the pleasures enjoyed by others in their wives’ beds.’

‘You wouldn’t dare—’ Meg stopped, furious she had allowed herself to be so easily trapped. She wanted to strike him and wipe the smile from his face but she knew antagonising him was likely to do more harm than good. He might be trying to trick her but if he had really found a poem to her in Tom’s lodgings, he was a dangerous enemy. Oh, how could Tom be such a fool when he had always been so adamant she must be careful?

‘That’s better,’ Ralph murmured, loosening his grip a little. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, and believe me you are well rid of that scoundrel.’

With a struggle, she recovered her composure. ‘I have no idea what you mean. Tom Goodluck is a stranger to me. I cannot be blamed for a young man’s foolish fancies, and there are many women with the name Meg.’

‘A stranger, my lady? You surprise me. I believe you were once far from strangers; indeed, was there not some expectation you would be married? Tom’s description of you is admirably exact as well as passionate. When your husband reads the poem, I think he will find it hard to credit your feelings for each other have changed. There was a letter too. I imagine Tom’s carelessness in leaving such private things for anyone to find was due to his anxiety to avoid arrest.’

Meg’s heart pounded.

‘Some men would take you now,’ Ralph said softly, bringing his face close to hers. ‘But I am not a brute and you will learn to love me.’ He caressed her throat. ‘You’ve only known an old man and a boy. A beautiful woman deserves more.’ He grinned. ‘I bear a passing resemblance to your husband. When you are with child, he will never know he has me to thank for doing his duty for him. After he’s in his grave, I’ll make you my wife, and we can enjoy his estates together.’

He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his. ‘Think on it, madam, accept my proposal and you look forward to a continued life of riches and ease. Turn it down and be assured, I shall bring about your ruin.’ He smiled
. ‘Such a lovely face – go now, I’ll come to you tonight.’

*

In her room, Meg flung herself on the bed, shaking. She was lost. One part of her hated Tom for abandoning her; even if he had been forced to leave Salisbury, why had he not taken her with him?

A face came into her mind: Bess. Ralph had mentioned suspicions. Had Bess guessed something was going on and blabbed to him? Was it that rather than the poem and the letter that had given her away? Whatever the case, she was powerless to save herself now. Challenging him was too great a risk to take. Edward’s reaction was all too easy to imagine and she could not be sure her family would protect her.

A soft sound made her raise her tear-streaked face from the pillow. Bess stood beside the bed.

‘Madam, are you ill?’

Meg was past dissembling. ‘What is Ralph Fiddler to you, Bess?’ she blurted out. ‘Have you helped him? If you have, you are a fool. He doesn’t care for you; he only wanted to use you.’

A look of horror and dismay came over Bess’s face and she began to cry. Hardly able to make out her words, Meg jumped off the bed and shook her.

‘Tell me!’

‘I didn’t mean to do any harm. . .’ Bess’s voice disappeared in sobs.

‘Stop that, I want to know what you told him.’

Bess hung her head and heaved a shaky breath. ‘I said I thought I’d seen Tom Goodluck in the orchard near your window early one morning.’

‘Did Ralph promise you money?’

Weakly, Bess shook her head. ‘He said he loved me and lovers didn’t have secrets from each other. He laughed about how you and Master Tom were lovers just like him and me.’ A catch in her throat stopped her and she dragged a hand across her eyes.

Meg tottered and sank back onto the bed. Her stomach felt hollow.

‘Oh madam, I’m so sorry. I should never have believed him,’ Bess said, her voice cracking, ‘I should have known he never really cared for me. I wasn’t good enough for him.’

A flicker of pity kindled in Meg. She reached for Bess’s cold hand. ‘You’re far too good for him, Bess. Ralph Fiddler is a scoundrel.’

‘What shall we do, madam?’

‘There’s only one thing to be done. We must escape before it’s too late.’

Meg’s words surprised even herself and Bess’s jaw dropped. ‘Escape, madam? But where would we go?’

‘Anywhere, as long as it’s far enough away for no one to follow us. Perhaps we could find Tom. If it’s true he’s gone to join the army, where would he go? We may not be too late to catch up with him.’

A look of concentration came over Bess’s face and a few moments passed before she spoke. ‘Steward Stephen said if he wanted to do that, he’d go to
Plymouth. That’s where the soldiers set out for the Low Countries from.’