‘Where have you been?’ her father said. His lips barely moved, the grey-whiskered jaw tight with fury.
She swallowed. Lies clustered behind her teeth on the tip of her tongue, but there were none she thought he might believe.
‘I went to find Tom,’ she said. ‘To pass on what you said.’
Her father raised his hand and brought it hard across her face. Shock mingled with sudden pain and she dipped away, her own hand lifting to cover the smarting cheek, tears rising that she could not check.
‘How dare you take such a thing upon yourself? How dare you sneak out of my house at night like a common slut? Did you visit the alehouse too? Did you mix with drunkards and whores?’ His eyes slid towards Simon. Had he betrayed her after all? Was it his word that had brought her to this? Panic welled, limbs trembling, heartbeat racing. It was all she could do to stand straight and breathe. She lowered her head and said nothing, afraid to inflame him further.
‘That a daughter of mine should go to such a low place and do such a thing!’ He swung toward his wife, as if Sarah’s behaviour could only be the fault of her mother. Then he turned once more to his daughter, stepping closer so that his face was only inches away. The sallow cheeks were trembling and there was spittle on his lips. She could not remember ever seeing him so close before. Swallowing, she had to use all her willpower not to step back and away from him. He grabbed her arm and held it, fingers digging into the muscle.
‘Tom is no longer your brother, do you understand?’
‘He will always be my brother,’ she heard herself saying, though she felt her fear flicker through her limbs. ‘Not even God can change that.’
Her father’s face flushed and the anger seemed to travel through him in a tremor. She watched him, surprised she could be so detached as to notice such details. ‘I have let you run in your ungodly ways for too long,’ he went on. ‘I should have stopped it years ago. I should have stopped you both. Your brother has damned his own soul and I can do nothing now to save it. But you? You are still my daughter and you will never go to the playhouse again. I have spared you the rod for too long and God has punished me with your wickedness. There is too much of your brother in you, and I mean to drive it out.’
She raised her eyes then, incredulous.
‘Get you to your chamber while I decide what to do with you.’
She needed no second telling. She turned and fled upstairs to her room, slamming the door behind her in her haste. Then she leaned her back against it, breath coming in silent sobs, hard inside her chest. She stood there for what seemed a long time until she could bring herself to push away from the door and cross the room to the window, where she stood with dry, sore eyes while her breathing quieted to small and intermittent sobs that forced their way out of her, unbidden. Down below in the street outside the shop, a baker’s boy was selling pies from a basket and flirting quietly with a maid, who held a held a load of laundry on one hip. They were laughing and she wondered how such a normal day could be passing outside her window when her own world had just come to an end.
After a while, when the baker’s boy and the laundry maid had parted company and gone their separate ways, she heard her father’s steps on the stairs, slow, measured and heavy. It was a sound that had quickened her heartbeat with dread for as long as she could remember. Most times it was Tom’s door he was heading for and she would listen at her own door to the low rumble of the lecture and the repeated thwack of the strap against Tom’s legs, though never once did she hear her brother cry out: he would have bitten off his own tongue before he gave the old man the satisfaction. But this time she knew he was coming for her, and her breath grew short with fear. She moved to the window and stood with her back against it, as far from the door as she could go, the bed as a shield. The door handle lowered and she stared at it, waiting, pulse hammering. Just breathe, she told herself again. Just breathe.
Then the door swung inward and her father was there in the doorway, closing the door behind him with slow deliberation. When he turned to face her she saw the strap in his hand. Tears rose and she swallowed, forcing them down. Be like Tom, she scolded herself. Don’t let him see you’re scared. Don’t give him the pleasure. Drawing herself up, squaring her shoulders, she faced him and waited. He stood silently for a moment, allowing his presence to have its effect on her. She observed him: thick and stocky, turning to fat, shoulders hunched from too many hours at his trade. His hair was growing thin, she noticed, with flecks of grey at the temples.
‘Your days of wickedness are over, Sarah Stone,’ he said. ‘Get on your knees.’
She hesitated, caught between her desire to thwart him and her fear of the strap, and in the pause he launched himself towards her and grabbed a handful of hair in his fist, forcing her to her knees at his feet. Instinctively she cried out, trying to twist away, but he was stronger and yanked harder, pulling her down before he shoved her towards the bed, one hand still twisted in her hair. With the other he lifted her skirts, slowly and deliberately, placing them carefully across her back so they would not be in the way. Then he lifted the strap and brought it down across the backs of her thighs. The pain was blinding and she clawed at the bedclothes with her hands, shoving the quilt into her mouth to stifle her cries, thinking of Tom. How many times had he suffered this? Her father tightened his grasp on her hair, pulling her head round at an angle so she could not move. Then he struck her again, across the buttocks this time. Tears began to stream across her face and she could do nothing to stop them as the strap fell again and again. She lost count in the end, all thought vibrating in the pain, and when it was finally over and her father had carefully replaced her skirts to cover her modesty, she was almost insensible with humiliation and rage and hurt.
He released her hair from his fist and, taking her arm instead, dragged her roughly to her feet. She stood swaying and trembling, her face wet with tears, salt on her lips, and her father bent his face close to hers.
‘Now I will leave you to think on your sins and to pray for forgiveness,’ he breathed. ‘I expect you to be on your knees for the rest of the day. Do you understand? And when you are chastened, when your suffering has brought you closer to God, we will talk again – it is time to think on your future.’
She nodded, still struggling to remain upright.
Then he turned on his heel, opened the door and was gone.
Chapter Eight
Night’s Black Agents
At the Castle on the Hoop, the players discussed the day over bowls of leathery mutton stewed with figs, and Jane made herself at home on Tom’s knee. He let her stay for a while, grateful for the help she had given his sister, and she ran her fingers up and down his neck, encouraged. But his attention was on John and gradually she grew frustrated by his indifference. She leaned in to whisper in his ear. ‘What do I have to do to entice you? I’ll do anything you ask for. Anything at all …’ She bit his lobe gently before she sat back to look at his face.
He tore his eyes from John and met her gaze, but not before she had seen more than he hoped. She smiled and stroked his cheek. ‘I’ll turn over for you,’ she purred. ‘You can pretend I’m him.’
‘Not now, Jane,’ he murmured back. He was aware of John watching him, and an unexpected flare of shame lit across his chest, flushing his neck.
She was undeterred. ‘Or would you like me to break him in for you and you can watch? I’d wager he’s green – he’d go with a woman first, most like.’
He swallowed. It was a tempting offer – he had thought the same himself. His gaze wandered back to the boy, listening now to some story Nick was telling, his young face rapt with attention. Where did he find the knowledge to play the Lady when he was so innocent? Tom wondered. Where did such an understanding of the power of sex come from?
‘It won’t cost you any extra to watch …’ She tucked her finger under his chin and turned his face to her. He looked up and smiled.
‘Do you think you can tempt him?’ he asked h
er. ‘He is very green.’
‘Are you doubting me?’
He grinned, and ran his hand across her breast, and down between her legs. ‘Not for a moment.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ she asked him.
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ he replied. ‘I’m very sure.’
They gave John more ale. Nick and the others left with knowing smiles. John half rose to leave with them but Tom placed a hand on his arm. ‘Stay awhile, John,’ he coaxed. ‘It is early yet and there is much to talk of.’
John cast a wistful glance towards Nick, almost at the door, and settled back onto the stool. Jane filled his cup again.
‘You should have seen him today,’ Tom said to Jane. ‘Our John has fulfilled his promise as an actor.’
She took the cue and turned to the boy. ‘What is your part?’
‘I play the Lady,’ he replied, flicking a look towards Tom. ‘The wife of the main character – that’s Nick.’ The words came out too fast in his nervousness, and his breathing was shallow.
‘What’s the story?’ Jane laid an encouraging hand on John’s arm and he jumped as though she had burned him. Hiding her surprise beneath a smile, she slid her hand away.
John turned to Tom. ‘You tell it, Tom. You can tell it better.’
Jane moved closer to him. ‘You tell me,’ she insisted. ‘Tom talks too much. I’d like to hear it from you.’
John swallowed and drank off some of his ale. Tom refilled the cup and put it back in his hand.
‘There is a Scottish lord, Macbeth, and after a battle he meets three evil witches who make him promises – he will become a greater lord, and then be king. He tells his wife of the prophecy and then they plot to make it true.’
‘They kill the king?’ Jane’s interest was genuine, and Tom smiled.
‘They do,’ John answered, beginning to forget his nervousness, engaged in the conversation. ‘But it doesn’t end well. Macbeth is racked with guilt because he has to kill again and again to hold his throne – his friend, women, children – and his Lady loses her mind.’
‘When can we see it? When will it be ready?’
John looked to Tom for the answer.
‘Before Easter at the playhouse.’ Tom said, reaching across in front of John to touch her hand. ‘I’ll let you know when.’
She lifted her eyes and held his look for a heartbeat with an expression it took him a moment to read, before Tom understood with surprise that she loved him. He breathed in sharply and dropped his gaze, uncertain what to do with the knowledge. Then he said, ‘Would you like us to show you backstage? We could take you there now.’
‘In the dark?’ John’s voice quavered.
‘We can take torches, light candles. Come, it will be an adventure.’
‘Can we?’ She was like a small girl, promised an unexpected treat. ‘Please, John? Please can we go?’
‘I suppose it would be all right,’ John said. ‘But I don’t have a key.’
‘I have one,’ Tom said. ‘To the wardrobe door upstairs. We can take the outside steps.’
They drank down the last of the ale and stepped outside into the evening. The clouds had cleared and the air was damp and cool and the sky was soft above them. Jane linked arms with Tom, and John followed behind as they turned away from the river and walked the short distance to the Globe, heading around the high wall to take the wooden steps that led up to the wardrobe, where Tom spent most of his hours. Inside, gowns and cloaks hung on racks around the edges of the room, and between them and under them stood large oak chests which held the bulk of the costumes, folded away and lovingly retrieved and repaired for each performance. In the centre of the wooden floor was a large high workbench with two stools drawn up either side. Sarah’s sewing basket sat atop it along with the tools of Tom’s trade, which were laid out neatly at one end: scissors and measures and spools of thread, pins and needles, chalk.
The wardrobe smelled of old fabric and sweat and timber. Tom inhaled. He loved this place – he had slept here often, unbeknownst to the Company, and it was more of a home than ever his stepfather’s house had been. He lit candles and gestured the others towards a low couch against one wall where he had slept many times. Jane took the boy’s hand and led him towards it. He followed her with reluctance and sat at one end, as far away from her as he could. His shoulders were hunched as though he had turned in on himself. Jane slid an uncertain look towards Tom, who shrugged. It seemed this would be harder than they’d thought. Undiscouraged, she shifted closer until her skirts were touching his thigh, and Tom sat on the floor before them, John’s uneasiness unsettling them all. Then Jane turned her body to face him and rested her hand on his arm. ‘How old are you, John?’ she asked.
‘I’m almost a man,’ he answered quickly, his face averted, staring down at his hands.
‘Fifteen? Sixteen?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘And have you ever kissed a girl?’
He swallowed and shook his head.
‘Would you like to?’
He shook his head again.
‘Go on,’ she urged. ‘You might like it.’ She shifted one hand to rest on his thigh and the other reached to curl his hair. He jerked his head away and she laughed. ‘Well, you are a shy one. But no matter. We’ll get there …’ She ran her fingers up his thigh and brought them to rest at his groin, gently feeling through the fabric for his cock. For a few moments he made no resistance, allowing the caress, but when he raised his head to look at her his face was etched with pain. ‘Please stop,’ he said.
Ceasing the movement of her hand but letting it still rest in place, she straightened to look at him. ‘Don’t you like me?’ she asked.
‘Ye-e-es,’ he breathed. ‘I like you fine, but …’
‘But …?’
‘I don’t want this.’ He turned to Tom. ‘Please, Tom, make her stop. Please?’ His voice trembled with desperation.
Tom sighed, suspecting they would have no joy with him tonight. ‘Leave him,’ he said to Jane. ‘Just leave him. Just go.’ He tossed her a shilling. ‘Take the torch from the sconce on the wall outside and go.’ She pocketed the coin and he looked away from the hurt in her eyes.
‘Tomorrow?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Now go.’
Her footsteps were quick and loud across the boards and the door slammed behind her as she left. He could hear the steady tap tap tap as she made her way down the steep wooden stairs to the street below. He had paid her well – he had no cause to feel guilty. But still, a sense of regret shimmied through him, a recollection of the look she had given him earlier. Perhaps he would see her tomorrow after all and make it up to her.
Shifting across the floor, he sat at John’s feet. The boy was hunched forward, head bowed over his knees, arms wrapped around himself as though he were in pain. Tom touched his arm gently.
‘John? It’s all right. She’s gone.’
John lifted his head a little and cast a glance around the room as though to check if it were true. Satisfied, he straightened up a little and uncurled his arms.
‘What happened?’ Tom asked softly. He was wary of feeding the boy’s fear. ‘Did she not please you?’
John shook his head a little, his eyes still lowered, still trembling.
‘You don’t think she is pretty?’
The boy lifted his gaze then and Tom had never seen such despair. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘She’s pretty. And I wanted to like her. I still want to like her. But I don’t. And I can’t. I just can’t.’
Tom shifted closer, beginning to understand, his heart quickening with hope. ‘Tell me,’ he whispered.
‘I cannot.’ John shook his head, lips tight and quivering with the effort not to cry. ‘I am a wicked person, Tom. The Bible tells us so, and I will burn in Hell for my wickedness …’
‘Then I will see you there,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll be burning just the same as you.’
John raised his head and stared in bewilderment.
‘But you … you and Jane …’ He shook his head in confusion. ‘And others … I have seen you go with other women too …’
‘I go with both, John. Women and men. I take love where I find it.’
‘Can it be love between two men?’
‘Truly.’ Tom slid forward to kneel between John’s legs, reaching to touch his face with one hand and stroke the still-smooth cheek. He heard the sharp gasp of surprise and lifted himself upward so that their faces were level. He could feel the boy’s warm, sweet breath and he had to force himself to be slow, to be gentle, when his whole body was screaming for release. ‘Let me show you,’ he murmured. He leaned in to kiss John’s cheek, then ran his lips downwards across the jawline to the delicate warmth of his neck.
John rolled his head back with pleasure at the touch, his breath deepening, quickening. Undoing the tie at the neck of his shirt, Tom exposed the boy’s shoulders to the air and ran his tongue and teeth across the cold skin, brushing his lips around the salt of his armpit, sliding across to find the nipple, biting gently. John lay back to accept the caresses with his eyes closed, and Tom quickly fumbled with the fastening of his breeches, forcing them down until he could wrap his fingers around John’s hard cock and take it in his mouth. John moaned, giving himself to the unfamiliar pleasure as Tom struggled to undo his own breeches with his other hand, freeing his own cock, hand and head starting to move in rhythm. For several long breaths they moved together in pleasure, John hard and smooth and sweet in his mouth.
Then out of nowhere, John lashed out wildly in a sudden paroxysm, lurching forward, catching Tom hard in a blow to the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.
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