Sleep of Death (25 page)

Why was I still alive? Where was I being taken, joltingly and painfully, in the back of a wagon under a stinking blanket? Since the individual who had disposed of Old Nick had taken me by surprise, why hadn’t he made an end of me there and then, and left me displayed at the apothecary’s? He might as well be hanged for two sheep as for one. Surely, since I was still living and breathing, it must be for a purpose. This gave me a little flare of hope. I was not required to die – or at least not yet. But then, I reflected, the hope that relies on the unknown purposes of a murderer must be slender indeed.

I twisted my head to one side, and winced as the after-pain of a blow forked down my side. I tried to peer under the blanket but there was not even the tiniest gap or cranny through which to see. Or if there was, it was night outside and nothing visible. I listened. No sound except the squeaking wagon and the plodding, panting horse, and the occasional murmured comment which I could not make out clearly. If I had been certain that there were people other than my captors at hand I would have called out. I would have cried, ‘Help! Ho! Murder!’ so loudly as to be heard from Spitalfield to Southwark. But I feared there was nobody to listen. There were no street sounds, no echoes of our passage coming back from walls or houses. We must be outside the city. If I could have thrown off the filthy blanket I would have been able to tell from the quality of the air whether we were within or outside the city walls. The smell of London was the first thing that struck me when I came up from the country.

There are four main routes out of London and we might be moving on any one of them. North, into the flat lands beyond Finsbury Fields. Westward, down the river in the direction of Greenwich. Or perhaps eastwards – although on that route the cart would have passed through Holborn and Westminster, and a prudent driver might prefer to steer away from crowded places. These directions all involved traversing relatively law-abiding areas of the city.

On the other hand, if we had crossed the river either by the bridge or ferry, we would have moved south through my own patch of Southwark. This was no particular source of comfort. Were I planning to take someone prisoner and carry him off to a secret destination, this is the direction I would take. Everyone knows that the law and authority of the city do not stretch far on our bank of the Thames. Men and women who have stumbled into trouble recognise that they have a bolt-hole here. Even those on the right side of the law but afraid of its frown – boatmen, for example, or the owners of bearpits – feel instinctively that they are at home south of the water. Respectable figures like the players of the Chamberlain’s Men are resident in Southwark. Master WS, he lived in the Liberty of the Clink, did he not? Though not Master Richard Burbage, no, he lived with seven little Burbages somewhere oh-so-proper north of the river . . .

So my muddy thoughts pursued their meandering course. I probably fell into sleep or unconsciousness again, from time to time. Master WS’s bland, brown-eyed face came floating at me through the stifling darkness under the blanket. Something he had said when we were talking backstage at the Globe in what seemed to be another life. Something about an apothecary . . . and tricks of the trade. Why had he mentioned the word ‘apothecary’? I would ask Master WS the next time I saw him. But if this slow-coach didn’t soon get to where it was going I would not be able to return to the Globe for the next performance of . . .

I couldn’t remember what it was I was due to perform in . . .

Suddenly I was jolted awake by a violent lurch. The cart tipped to one side and shuddered to a stop. There was swearing up in front and the thwack of a whip being applied. Then shifting sounds as the men jumped to the ground and, shoving and cursing, struggled to get the wagon upright and on the move once more. After a time they succeeded. The wagon groaned as they resumed their places and we continued on as lumberingly as before.

But I was too preoccupied to wonder any longer where we were going or why I had been permitted to remain alive. The jolt, as the wagon fell into the hole, had been enough to bring something banging against my back, something which was evidently sharing my stinking blanket and which had been stowed a few feet off. I hadn’t been aware of it until that instant. The stillness and stiffness of the object as it lay pressing into my back reassured me and I told myself that my bedfellow was a roll of rough cloth or a bundle of sticks and staves – or anything at all so long as it was not the truth. This truth I could now feel on my backbone. I was being jabbed at by stiff fingers. Fingers belonging to someone else. Every time the wagon lurched I was prodded, as if in admonition. And then, underneath the animal stench of the hairy blanket, another smell crept into my nostrils. It was the particular scent of Old Nick – a compound of herbs, some sweet, some rank, and his own bodily self – and overlaying all this the scent of death. And I understood that the body which I had glimpsed swaying from the ceiling of his shop had been cut down and placed beside me in the wagon. And I turned very afraid.

Then we stopped.

Again the wagon seemed to lift itself up as the men climbed down. The next moment the blanket that covered me – us – was pulled aside. I don’t know why but I had somehow thought that the hours had slipped away and that evening had shaded into night and night had grown into day again. We seemed to have travelled so long and so far. Even as I sensed one of the men groping for the blanket to throw it off, I prepared to emerge into the clear and cruel light of morning, blinking like a mole. But no such thing. It was night still.

However, my eyes were used to the dark by now. It was my element. And besides, there was a little light thrown at us by a sickly looking moon.

I saw two men at the foot of the wagon. They were gazing at its contents.

‘He’s out,’ said one.

‘I shall light a fire under his feet,’ said the other.

I took only a moment to recognise the first voice as that of Adrian, the false steward in the Eliot household, the thief I had exposed as he prepared to steal my lady’s necklace and blame it on dumb Jacob. Of course! What more natural in a man like him than that he should seek revenge on me, the player who had cost him his livelihood and the respect of his master and mistress. Seeing this, knowing who my enemy was, somehow brought a kind of relief even though I was trussed-up and helpless, lying next to the apothecary’s corpse.

I groaned involuntarily.

‘Still alive then,’ said the other man cheerfully.

‘Get him out,’ said Adrian.

Together they reached in and seized hold of my bound feet and dragged me over the tailboard of the wagon. I thumped painfully onto the ground.

‘And the other thing,’ said Adrian

Moments later the body of the apothecary was carelessly deposited next to me.

‘Go and call,’ said Adrian. I sensed rather than saw or heard the second man move off a distance while Adrian stayed close. As far as I could make out from where I lay awkwardly, face half crushed into the earth, we were in a clearing in a forest. Pale moonlight lay across the grass and fallen leaves. A ring of trees stood guard around us. The air was still and expectant. The horse snuffed and shuffled. It must be hobbled.

From the edge of the clearing came the hooting of an owl, or a townsman’s idea of what an owl’s hoot should be. Ter-wit, ter-woo, three times repeated. I almost laughed. Obviously this was some prearranged signal to be delivered by Adrian’s accomplice. I thought of Nat the animal man, the Southwark beggar who made the odd penny by imitating the cries of animals and birds. I remembered how, only a few days before, Nat had made the sound of a hyena for me in the Goat & Monkey, a screeching mirthless laugh; how, only yesterday, he had quipped with William Eliot about the mute unicorn. I wished I was there now, in the warmth and ease and companionship of the alehouse, or in the warmth and pleasure of Nell’s bed. I wished I had returned with her to her crib, that I had not left her with an ill impression of myself. I wished myself anywhere but here in the middle of a dark wood.

The other man finished making his bird calls and was answered by hooting from farther afield. This was more convincing than the first call but to anybody who possessed country ears it was still no owl. My spirits, already low, sunk down even deeper. So there were at least three of them, three men who counted themselves enemies to me. Why stop at three? Might not the whole forest be full of individuals who hated me or could be hired by one that did?

I tried to see where Adrian was but he was out of sight, probably somewhere on the far side of the horse and wagon waiting for his minions to return. After a time there were whispers from the edge of the clearing and the next moment three shapes were standing so close to me that no more than their legs were visible. I played, not dead, but quiet, glimpsing things through a half-closed eyelid and hoping that if I stayed still I might also stay safe. I noticed one of the six legs swing back and forward and, at first without connecting the two, experienced a sickening blow in the belly. Trussed as I was, I doubled up on the ground and retched helplessly.

Through red-dimmed senses and past my wheezing breath I heard a voice say, ‘No, Ralph. Wait. Your time will come.’

It was plain that Adrian was in command. So far I had heard not a sound from the third man, save for imitation of the owl. Adrian must have made some gesture because I felt hands fumbling at me.

I was hooked up under my bound arms and hauled into a standing position. I fought to get my breath back. I spat and spluttered. With my hands tied behind my back I felt naked, though I was clothed, and open to harm. The other two men, who I couldn’t see clearly, held me up. Directly opposite was Adrian the false servant, his countenance gleaming in the pale moonlight. His razor-like nose quivered. He sneered in a way that, had he been on stage, I would have condemned as unconvincing. The one-time steward was wearing the same gear as when I had last encountered him in the Eliots’ private box at the Globe Theatre. A tall black hat and a dark cloak that, together with the sneers, signalled clearly: I am villain. Quake, all you who look on me.

I half expected him to rub his hands together with glee and – as if he had read my mind – this was the next thing which he did.

‘Well, player.’

For an instant I contemplated not recognising him. That would be galling. A villain demands a response. But he could see that I knew him. Saying nothing, I let my head droop in acknowledgement. I felt weak and beaten. I was weak and beaten. But something told me to play at seeming even worse than I felt.

‘Oh, this is turning the cat in the pan,’ he said. ‘This is a change of fortune.’

I still kept silent, partly because I could think of nothing to say and partly to deny him the satisfaction of an answer. He remained gazing at me for a moment longer, then turned away, motioning for us to follow. With my legs bound I was dragged by the other two across the rough tussocky ground. I wanted to say, ‘What about Old Nick? What about the apothecary? You cannot leave him lying dead and cold in the forest, for birds to peck at.’ When we left his corpse behind, I felt almost as though I was abandoning an old friend.

We were rapidly out of the clearing and into the forest. A thin light strained through the leaves from above and then was suddenly extinguished as clouds moved over the moon. By now my eyes were as used to the dark as they would ever become. We were treading some kind of path, a thread of greyer ground that wound among the boles and trunks. Ahead of us the yet darker shape of Adrian glided through the trees like an outcrop of the night. He was evidently familiar with the route. Neither of my companions was particularly nice or careful about our passage and my feet and shins were buffeted against roots and torn at by prickly bushes. I am sure they went out of their way to ensure that my head and shoulders collided with low-lying branches.

I was half hopping, half being hauled along like a sack. My two escorts were panting and sweating with the effort of carrying me, particularly the man on my left who was plumper and heavier than his companion. The one on my right was more wiry. His face seemed to be in shadow. He smelt woody and smoky. Several times one or other of them lost his grip and we had to pause while he got a firmer handhold. I would have suggested, conversationally, that it would be easier for all of us if my feet were unbound and I was allowed to walk. But it was plain that they wouldn’t do anything without their leader Adrian authorising it and, no doubt, he thought that, with free feet, I would attempt to run away. As I would have done, given the smallest chance.

After we’d travelled a few hundred yards in this fashion Adrian made a decisive turn off the path. I saw a tiny light glimmering among the trees. Soon we arrived at what looked like a ramshackle hut, a darker shape in the enveloping darkness. A candle was burning in a gap between the intertwined branches of which the hut was made. I was pushed, almost thrown, through an open door. I landed face down on a scratchy mound of straw. I twisted round, spitting out fragments of it. The hut was small and barely enclosed my three captors as they stood upright while I sprawled on what I took to be a simple bed.

I suddenly understood in what sort of place I was and the probable identity of one of my escorts, the one who smelt and whose face was in shadow. As the greatest and most populous city in the world, London has more need of fuel than lesser towns and it is charcoal that is used in preference to any other. Our city is ringed about by charcoal-burners, men who live out in the woods where they ply their trade and who bring their supplies early in the morning to Croydon or Greenwich or Romford. There they sell their wares to the city colliers, who deliver sacks to the needy wives. The charcoal-burners are shy men, living more like beasts in the forest than like human beings in society, while their city cousins, the colliers, are crafty and think nothing of short-changing their customers by switching a larger sack for a smaller or filling the bottoms of them with dross.