He stood up, surprised by the offer of information. ‘You wanted to call him Nicholas?’
At last she looked at him, a quiver of emotion running between them. She nodded briefly, then swung her eyes away.
‘Come,’ he said then, a tiny sliver of hope lighting inside, ‘I’ll take you home.’
He saw straight away that Sarah and Joyce had worked hard to prepare the house and make it welcoming. Bright fires burned in the hearths, fresh and fragrant rushes covered the flagstones of the hallway, and the air was redolent of baking: the scents of sweet pastry and cooked fruit drifted from the kitchen. Coming into the house out of the chill, Nick ushered his wife and son into the hall and bade them sit by the fire. The journey home had been almost silent, his early attempts at conversation dwindling in the face of reluctant and unwilling answers from them both.
Sarah poured wine and slid him a questioning glance he could not reply to. She turned away, apparently understanding all she needed from his look. Then she took the cup of wine to the hearth and offered it, and a watered ale to the boy.
‘This is Sarah,’ he said. ‘One of my servants.’
‘Your whore, you mean.’ The words were said without emotion and Becky’s eyes did not lift to meet his. He flicked a look to Sarah and saw his own horror in her eyes.
‘My servant,’ he said carefully.
‘Don’t lie,’ Becky said. ‘I saw the way you looked at each other. I know what she is to you. Have you brought me here to humiliate me? Are you flaunting her before me now to punish me?’
He hesitated. He had hoped that kindness might rekindle old feelings. He had hoped they might yet make a marriage together, friends and partners, a marriage bed, even if his heart belonged elsewhere. But this blank hostility and judgement stirred anything but kindness.
‘You come into my house and dare to judge me?’ he said. ‘When you have refused me all these years, denying my rights to you as your husband and your master?’ The surface scratched, the years of resentment began to surge through the crack. He was vaguely aware of Joyce moving round him, taking the boy to his new chamber upstairs, John’s old room. ‘You have no right to judge me,’ he said, ‘or set yourself above me.’
‘I am your wife,’ she replied. ‘And she is your whore. As God is my witness, I have no need to judge you.’
He had thought her afraid of him, beaten, and this streak of casual cruelty took him by surprise. Instinctively, he responded in kind.
‘There was a time when you didn’t hesitate to be my whore,’ he answered. ‘When you were only too eager to have my cock between your legs. How do you think your son was begotten?’ The crudeness was deliberate, an urge to provoke some answering emotion.
But the words seemed to have no effect. She merely lifted her face to regard him with a light of contempt in her eyes. ‘Many years have passed since then, Husband. And now I am here as your wife, bound to serve you, as my lord and master. You may put your cock between my legs whenever you please.’ Her gaze switched to Sarah, who was hovering close, the wine jug still in her hand. ‘But not,’ she spat, ‘between hers.’
‘Now?’ he replied. ‘Now you are here as my wife? And where have you been, Wife, these last eight years, when you should have been serving me as your husband and your master, warming my bed? Where was your Christian duty then?’
‘Scripture tells us not to walk with sinners. And you, Husband, are a sinner.’ Her gaze passed over Sarah and her lips curled with distaste.
He balled his fists against the urge to slap her. ‘It also tells wives to obey their husbands.’
‘Well, I am here now. So you have your wish.’
He looked across at Sarah. There was no answer to his wife’s contrariness. She had rewritten the world to fit her story, convinced of her righteousness, and he knew it was pointless to argue: he had met such zealots before. They came sometimes to preach outside the playhouse or the brothels, and one afternoon he had spent several hours in argument with a Puritan at the bear-baiting ring. How had she become such a person? She had once laughed freely and given him her body with her love and her passion.
‘What did your father do to you,’ he asked, ‘to make you so cold and hard, and to take all your joy away?’
The question seemed to catch her off-guard and she started, meeting his eyes for a moment, the first hint of a weakness.
‘You used to be happy,’ he said. ‘We used to laugh together. You wanted to name our son after me. What happened to you, Becky?’
He saw his wife’s eyes flick towards Sarah and with a gesture of his head, he told her to leave. She nodded her understanding but she left with reluctance, and briefly he wondered if she would remain outside the door to listen; he couldn’t have blamed her if she did. But he gave it no more thought, his mind bent on salvaging the wreck of his marriage by finding some small spark between them that might yet be rescued. He drew up a stool to sit near his wife so their faces were level but she kept her eyes lowered now, as though ashamed once more. When she spoke her voice was low and hard to hear above the dancing roar of the fire.
‘My father showed me the error of my ways,’ she murmured. ‘He turned my mind from the pleasures of the flesh to the glories of the Word. He made me see the body is as nothing against the sanctity of the soul. He taught me to pray and to ask God’s forgiveness for my sins. He taught me to listen for God’s voice in my heart, so that I would know I had been saved.’
‘And are you saved?’
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘But Scripture says that by their fruits shall ye know them. Sinful actions and sinful thoughts are not the fruits of God’s elect.’
He sat back a little to give her some space.
‘I don’t want to burn in Hell for the love we shared, Nick. I want to be one of the saved. I had to repent. I had to renounce you. We married only so that Michael would not be born a bastard. Not to save me. Do you understand?’ She lifted her head to look at him, and for the first time he saw some of the softness of the girl he once loved, a light in her eyes he could recognise. Without thinking, he leaned forward and gently drew the cap from her hair, but what he saw as he lifted it away stopped his breath. The once-auburn mass was streaked with great bands of silver grey. She lowered her head again but not in time to prevent him seeing her tears.
They sat in silence awhile, the only sound the low roar of the fire. Once, he got up to throw on another log before he returned to the stool and watched it catch and burn and crackle. Eventually, though, he had to say something.
‘Whatever has happened between us, Becky, we are man and wife under God. We can be friends or we can be enemies but either way we are one flesh.’ He touched a tentative hand to her arm. ‘Can we be friends?’
She sat up, shifting her arm away from his touch. He sat back slowly, conscious of the rebuff. Her face was dry now, no sign of her tears. ‘We can,’ she said. ‘If you wish it. I will be an obedient wife. But the whore has to go.’
He closed his eyes for a moment, searching to compose himself, to find the right words and keep his temper in check. ‘She is contracted to me as a servant for twelve months,’ he said.
‘It matters not.’
‘Your father was a lawyer, Becky. Surely you understand.’
‘She goes.’
‘I will think on it,’ he murmured, rising to his feet, spirit sinking. ‘And I will leave you with Joyce to take care of your needs. I must go to the playhouse.’
His wife stood up also and sank immediately into a curtsey. He dropped his head to acknowledge it, then turned and strode from the room. In the hallway he met Sarah, backing rapidly away from the door.
‘You heard?’
‘Some,’ she replied. ‘Not all. But enough.’
He called out to Joyce to attend his wife and, taking down their cloaks from the hook, he draped Sarah’s across her shoulders, straightening it carefully, hands lingering on the curve of her neck. She drew it close around her and they stepped out toget
her into the morning. A grey sky glowered, dark pockets of cloud bulging with rain. There was a dampness in the air: the rain would break again before nightfall. Sarah linked her arm through his (to spite his wife?) and as they walked he filled in the words she had not heard.
‘Will you send me away?’ Her tone was casual but he heard the fear beneath it.
‘Of course not.’
‘And besides,’ she said, ‘come the assizes, it might no longer be an issue.’ She turned her head to look at him, a small brave smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Her beautiful mouth. He leaned down as they walked, slowing slightly, to kiss her. In these streets on Bankside, no one even stopped to watch them and they continued on, walking more slowly now to prolong the journey even though the rehearsal was awaiting them.
At the playhouse they parted with a brief kiss and she made her way up to the wardrobe to make the last hurried alterations, the costumes all but finished. Tom was at the workbench, mending a seam that had split in some breeches, and he lifted his head and smiled at her. ‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘Awful. She called me a whore and told him to get rid of me.’
Tom’s eyebrows lifted in amused incredulity. Sarah dragged the cloak from her shoulders, hung it on the peg, and slid onto the stool across from her brother. Picking up a stray pin, she began to dig at a crevice in the wood of the bench. ‘She wants to be sure she’s one of the saved.’
‘Are those her eyes?’ He motioned to the movement of the pin.
‘Regrettably, no.’ She smiled and looked up, sorry she had tried to keep away from him. Now that she was with him there was nowhere else she wanted to be.
Tom laughed lightly, then pointed to a gown draped across the rack. ‘The gentlewoman’s. The embroidery is not yet finished.’
She got up again to get it and brought it back, laying it flat on the bench, smoothing it out with her fingers, struggling to remember the design she had planned. She was finding it hard to care. She looked up at her brother, aware he was watching her.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, reaching out a hand to hers.
‘Forgive me.’ She gave him a small sad smile.
‘Of course,’ he replied. Then, ‘Don’t give up, Sarah. Nothing is ever quite as it seems and the future is not writ in stone.’
She shrugged in a vain attempt at nonchalance, then forced her thoughts to turn to the sewing before her.
After the afternoon performance when the others wended their usual way to the tavern, Nick walked with Sarah to the house in Water Lane. She tucked her arm in tighter to Nick’s and drew strength from his warmth and his nearness. At the door they both stopped, turning to face each other. He touched a gloved finger to her jaw and bent his head to kiss her lightly on the lips. ‘I will not send you away,’ he said. Then he turned and pushed open the door and together they went inside.
They found his wife at the hearth, reading her Bible in the light of the fire and a single candle on a side table set next to her chair. Michael was nowhere to be seen. Becky looked up at their entrance with the start of a small smile on her lips for her husband that froze when she noticed Sarah close behind him.
‘Did you find her at the playhouse?’ she said. ‘Or at the brothel?’
‘The playhouse,’ he replied, and squatted to poke the fire. Then turning to Sarah he said, ‘Some wine.’
Sarah bobbed in a small curtsey and hurried to the kitchen for wine. Joyce was there with Michael, who had evidently found his voice and smile again in the way that children do, now that he was away from his mother’s harsh brand of discipline. He was eating bread and honey and in between mouthfuls they were playing a rhyming game.
‘Good day to you, Michael.’ Sarah smiled.
He lifted his eyes from his bread. ‘Mother says I’m not to talk to you because you are my father’s whore.’
Sarah bit her lip and forced the smile to remain. ‘Well, your mother isn’t here, so you can talk to me and it’ll be our secret.’ She winked and his eyes wandered slowly back to the bread and honey in his fingers, considering.
‘What’s a whore?’ he asked, looking up again.
‘A lady that men like more than their wives,’ she answered with a sly look at Joyce, who shook her head and suppressed a smile. Then she went through to the buttery and filled the jug from one of the barrels.
‘Does he want some spiced?’ Joyce asked, gesturing to the pot.
‘I don’t think he cares.’ The two women exchanged a look of understanding that promised further conversation.
In the main hall Sarah poured wine for the master and his wife, then withdrew once more to the kitchen to help Joyce prepare the supper.
They ate all together, the whole household at the table as was the custom, pausing for Becky to say grace. The prayer was long and Sarah risked a glance at Nick, who raised his eyebrows briefly. She lowered her eyes and smiled. Then, when grace was done and they began to eat, Becky spoke again.
‘I will not eat with her at the table.’
‘Then you will not eat,’ Nick answered without missing a beat, his eyes still on the piece of chicken in his fingers. ‘I am master in this house and I decide who sups at my table. You are my wife and my word to you is law. You’ve had your way for long enough. She is not leaving.’
Sarah lowered her eyes. In spite of everything it was hard to watch.
Becky did not flinch. ‘Did you bring me here to insult me?’
‘I brought you here because I had no choice.’ He dropped the chicken bone onto the trencher and wiped his fingers. She had never seen him so cold – he seemed a different man from the Nick she knew. There was a long silence and nobody ate, all eyes lowered, waiting on their master.
When she thought she could bear the tension no longer, he got up and the stool scraped loudly on the floorboards as it shifted under his weight. ‘I’m going to the tavern,’ he said. ‘I no longer like the company here.’ And with that he was gone, the door vibrating in his wake. Sarah looked up and Becky was staring at her, a small smile of triumph on her lips. She pushed the remains of her own food away and got up also.
‘And I’m going with him,’ she said, which slapped the smile from Becky’s face.
She ran the length of the lane before she caught up with him, breath coming hard. He slowed to let her recover but she could sense the rage pulsing through him, the urge to movement. Then he turned to her. ‘Go home, Sarah. Where I’m going is not a fit place for you.’
‘But I often—’
‘Go home.’
‘To her? She is my mistress now.’
‘You have my permission to disobey her. And if she strikes you I’ll strike her in return.’ He made a sweeping movement with his hand. ‘Just go.’
He turned and strode on towards the taverns and she stood in the lane and watched him go with no understanding of what had just passed, the cause of his anger at her. When she could see him no longer, she turned slowly to begin retracing her steps along the lane to the house before she changed her mind and turned again to follow his path towards Bankside. In the hubbub of the High Street she met Will, making his way home after supping at the George.
‘Sarah?’ He was surprised to see her. ‘What are you doing here alone? Is anything amiss?’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m fine. I’m looking for Tom.’
He regarded her carefully so that she knew he was not fooled. But he let it pass, and she wondered how much her mother had ever told him, how close they really were. ‘He left the George a while ago with a pretty young man named James,’ he said. ‘I believe they were heading to the Cocke.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
‘But you cannot go alone, Sarah …’ he began. ‘’Tis not safe …’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured him, and with a brief curtsey and a smile of thanks, she cut away from him before he could protest. She felt his eyes on her back as she threaded through the crowd and turned off the main drag into a back lane out of h
is view. He was right, of course, the Stews on Bankside were not safe for a woman on her own, but how else could she find him?
She walked quickly, warily, all her senses alert. By the river she felt safer – the broad sweep of the water on her right, lively now with traffic, lights and the shouts of the boatmen, the plash of the oars, the excited chatter of the young men stepping off the wherry at Goat Steps as she passed. On her left the long white strip of bawdy houses stretched along the bank and she did not know which one was the Cocke.
A group of young men, apprentices by the look of them, lurched drunkenly towards her and she sidestepped them easily, but nonetheless she was afraid. Two whores standing at a doorway called out to her and she approached them carefully. Like the first time she had searched for Tom among the taverns, she thought, when Jane had helped her. It seemed such a long time ago.
‘You looking for work?’ one of the women asked. She was grubby and poorly dressed, but still young with pretty eyes.
‘I’m looking for the Cocke,’ she said. ‘My brother is there.’
The whore looked her up and down as if deciding whether or not to help. Sarah waited, submitting to the scrutiny, and tried to keep the apprehension from her face.
‘Third door down,’ the woman said at last.
‘Thank you,’ Sarah answered and turned her steps towards it.
At the door she hesitated. The voices of men inside were loud and raucous, and a stale stench of ale drifted into the evening. Reluctantly, she pushed open the door and found herself in a low-ceilinged room that was thick with the smoke of cheap tallow candles and a low-burning fire, dirty straw strewn on the boards, and sundry tables and stools spread about. Three men at a table by the door lifted their heads to look at her, and she drew her cloak tighter about her as protection, though the room was close and hot.
Looking over their heads, ignoring them, she searched for her brother, eyes flicking rapidly across the gloom amongst the groups of drinkers until she saw him finally against the far wall. Swallowing hard, she wove through the tables towards him, aware of the looks that followed her. He was with the same pretty boy as before, who had his leg draped over Tom’s, their bodies close and touching, and eyes only for each other. A knot of jealousy balled in her gut and she set her face hard to hide it as she drew up a stool to their table.
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