The Devil and His Boy (7 page)

There was a brief silence.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Tom said.

“That’s all right.” Moll took a sip of wine. “The question is – what do I do with you?”

“Can I stay here?”

“No!” Moll sighed. “All right. One night. Maybe two. But I don’t like boys. Particularly stupid boys who don’t know what they’re doing. What
are
you doing? I suppose you’re a runaway. Left your master, have you?”

“I didn’t run away. It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like? You might as well tell me. Not that I’m offering to help…”

So Tom told her his story; about his life with the Slopes and Gamaliel Ratsey; the arrival of William Hawkins and the ambush in the forest; Moll’s eyes narrowed when she heard Ratsey’s name and when Tom told her he had seen Ratsey at Paul’s Walk she shook her head doubtfully. “You know him?” Tom asked.

“I’ve heard of him. Everyone’s heard of Ratsey. But it’s unlike him to be down here in London. And I think it’s bad news for you.”

“That’s what I thought,” Tom agreed.

“He’s dangerous. As long as he’s here, you’re in danger. He’ll find you soon enough. And when he does…” Moll drew a finger across her throat.

“That’s very encouraging,” Tom muttered.

Moll thought for a moment. “Tell me more about Hawkins,” she said.

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“That’s the bit of your story that doesn’t make sense.” Moll took out her pipe and lit it. “He was obviously a gentleman. Maybe even a member of the court. He asks questions about you and about your parents and then he snatches you and brings you back here.”

“He said I should go to Moorfield.”

“But why? What did he want with you? I mean, you’re a nobody. A nothing. A stable boy who barely knows one end of a horse from the other.”

“Thanks!”

“And why Moorfield?” Moll sighed and blew out a perfect smoke ring. “I suppose I could take you there.”

“You know where it is?”

“Of course I do. It’s just outside the city wall. We could walk there in half an hour. But I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you. There’s nothing there. A few butts. Some windmills. If that’s what he brought you all this way to see, he was wasting your time.”

“Maybe he lived there.”

“Nobody smart lives in Moorfield. How do you think it got its name? It used to be a moor. Now it’s a field.”

“At least we can look,” Tom said, gloomily.

Moll nodded. “All right. We’ll look. But it’s too late to go there now. The sun will be down in an hour or so. We’ll go there tomorrow morning.”

“What about tonight?” Tom looked around the room. “You said I could stay here?”

“Yes.”

“But there’s only one bed.”

“No problem. You can have the floor.”

From the moment he had walked into Moll’s room, Tom had felt that he was being watched. But it was only later that night, as he lay on the floor with a single blanket and the flickering fire to keep him warm, that he realized who by. The room looked out, not just on to the river but also on to London Bridge. The huge bridge with its twenty stone arches and its shops, houses and chapels all crammed together above the water, was one of the great sights of the city.

But as he gazed at it in the moonlight, Tom noticed something else. There
were
three heads turned towards the window, three pairs of eyes fixed on him even now. But they were eyes that saw nothing. The heads they belonged to ended at the neck, cut off and stuck on metal poles.

Traitors. This was the price they had paid.

Tom rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head. But he could still feel the eyes boring into him. And it was a long, long time before he lost himself in the brief escape of sleep.

Moll was right about Moorfield.

She and Tom were standing in a rectangular field, just north of the city wall. Far away to the north, Tom could just make out the shape of three windmills. There were a few cattle grazing here and there. Despite the icy weather – it seemed to be getting colder by the day – a handful of people had come out to practise archery, aiming at two straw-filled targets, the “butts” that Moll had mentioned. It was a sunny day but the sun was white, not yellow, and gave no warmth at all. Somewhere, dogs were barking. Otherwise, Moorfield was empty and silent.

“Seen enough?” Moll asked.

“Yes.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear him properly. Maybe he didn’t want to bring you here.”

“He definitely said Moorfield.”

Moll shrugged. “Let’s go and get a drink,” she said. “I’m freezing!”

They turned south and went through Moorgate, back into the city. That was the strange thing about London. It was huge, crowded, the streets and houses jammed into what little space there was between the wall and the river. But walk ten minutes in almost any direction and suddenly you had left it all behind and you were back in the countryside. It was a city surrounded by green.

Moll led Tom into a tavern, took the table nearest the fire and ordered two pints of ale. Neither of them spoke until it came. At last Moll lit her pipe and broke the silence. “So what are you going to do now?” she asked.

Tom was feeling more miserable than ever. In all the time he had been travelling from Framlingham and despite what Moll had said the night before, he had been hoping that Moorfield would mean something, be something. That when he got there everything would make sense. But a field, a handful of cows and three windmills? Why should Hawkins have brought him all the way from Framlingham for that?

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Maybe you should get out of London. If you’ve got Ratsey looking for you!”

“But where will I go?” Tom cried. “I haven’t got anywhere.”

“I’m told Bristol’s nice. You could join the navy.”

“I’d get sea-sick,” Tom said.

“How about the army?”

“That’s worse. I’d get shot.”

Moll slammed down her tankard. “I knew it was a mistake coming after you,” she muttered. “Now I’m stuck with you. A boy! The last thing I need!”

“Maybe I could learn how to be a thief … like you?” Tom suggested. But even as he spoke the words, he knew it wouldn’t work. Tom lived in a world where there were as many thieves as honest men. He had spent his entire life surrounded by them. He knew that many people had a simple choice. Steal or starve. But even so, there was something inside him that told him that stealing was wrong and that it wouldn’t work for him. His heart would never be in it.

Moll must have sensed this because she shook her head. “No.”

“Then what?”

“Listen to me.” Moll leaned forward. “If you are going to stay in London, you’ve got to go somewhere where Ratsey won’t find you. And that means you can’t stay with me, even if I wanted you to. Everyone knows everyone down here. Paul’s Walk isn’t just a meeting place. It’s where everyone finds out about everyone else. That’s why he was there yesterday and that’s why he’ll be there today.” Moll looked nervously over her shoulder. “We’ve been in here half an hour,” she went on, “and who knows who’s seen us together? Someone could be on their way to Ratsey even now. You stay with me, he’ll find you soon enough. Believe me. You won’t be safe with me.”

Tom nodded, feeling gloomier by the minute.

“We have to find you work. You need money in your pocket and a roof over your head.”

“But what sort of work can I do?”

“That’s a good question.” Moll thought for a minute. “I could get you into a tavern. You say you’ve handled horses and there are people I know. No…” She shook her head. “Forget it. Ratsey knows your past and that’s the first place he’ll look. He’s probably checking out every tavern in town even as we sit.”

Tom said nothing.

“All right.” Moll pointed with her pipe. “We need to get you a job so let’s consider your qualifications. Can you cook?”

“No.”

“Can you read?”

“No.”

“Can you sew?”

“No.”

“Can you sing?”

“I’ve never tried.”

Moll sighed. “A typical boy. Completely useless. All right. There’s nothing you
can
do. But is there anything you
want
to do? At least that might be worth a try.”

Tom thought hard. What did he want to do? Here he was in London, the greatest city in the world. He could be anything he wanted to be. But what did he want to be? Not a thief. Not a beggar. Could he work in the market? No. He would never make himself heard in all that din. How about a shop assistant? No. That would mean handling money and he couldn’t count.

And then he remembered. He had only ever been completely happy once in his entire life. For just a few brief hours all his problems had been forgotten and it was as if he had been transported to another world. At that moment, Tom knew that there was only one thing he wanted to be. He wanted to join the people he had seen two nights before, at the Red Lion of Enfield.

“I know what I want to do, Moll,” he said. “I want to join the theatre. I want to act.”

“I
still think it’s a stupid idea,” Moll said.

“But you don’t like the theatre,” Tom replied.

“I love the theatre! I go there all the time.”

“Yes. But only to rob the audiences.”

It was six o’clock in the morning, two days after their unsuccessful visit to Moorfield. Tom was still lying on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, but Moll was already up and fully dressed – which was hardly surprising as she slept in her clothes.

The day before, she had visited Paul’s Walk and come back with exciting news. An advertisement had been posted on the
Si Quis
door (this was the name of the door that Tom had himself noticed). Actors were wanted for a new play that was about to be performed at the Rose Theatre, not far from where Moll lived. Those interested were to present themselves at the theatre where auditions would be taking place.

And now it was the day of the auditions. Tom had barely slept a wink the night before. It was a strange thing. He had never once in his entire life thought about becoming an actor. But now he had made the decision, there was nothing he wanted more. It was as if it had been in his blood all along but had only now bubbled to the surface.

Moll was holding a package, wrapped in paper. “This is for you.”

Tom threw the blanket off and sat up. “What is it?” he asked.

Moll was suddenly uncomfortable. “Don’t you even know what it is in four days’ time?” she snapped. “It’s Christmas Day. So this is your present.”

“You went and bought me a present?” Tom was amazed. Nobody had ever bought him anything. Then a nasty thought crossed his mind. “Did you really
buy
it?” he asked.

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean. I used my own money.”

“But you stole the money…”

“Well … yes.”

Tom unwrapped the package. Inside was a white shirt, a pair of woollen trousers, a waistcoat and, most wonderful of all, a pair of leather boots. Tom held them, marvelling. He had been barefoot for as long as he could remember. This leather, soft and warm in his hands, was something he had only ever dreamed about. He gazed at her, unbelieving.

“It’s probably a complete waste of money,” Moll said, “but you can’t turn up at the audition looking like a vagabond. Get dressed. We ought to be on our way.”

They left a few minutes later, Tom wearing his new clothes. Taking off his old clothes had been like shedding his own skin. He had worn the same shirt and trousers for about three years, and they had stayed on him day and night. To walk without feeling the mud or being cut by jagged stones was a completely new experience for him, and he had tripped three times before he had even left the house. As he walked down the street, he wondered how he must look to other people. The clothes Moll had bought weren’t new, but they were clean. He felt almost like a genteleman.

The Rose Theatre was a large, round building, part wood, part plaster and part brick. It stood in what had once been a garden – that was how it got its name. It was still early in the morning, but already a lot of actors had come to audition: men in feathered caps and flowing cloaks, preening themselves like pigeons.

Moll stopped opposite the main door. “Well. Good luck,” she said.

“Aren’t you coming in?” Tom asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “There’s always a chance I might get recognized. I did this place last month.” She took Tom’s hand. “You know where to find me if you need me. But I’m sure you’ll get a job. You look like an actor. You’ve got an actor’s eyes.”

“Thanks, Moll.”

“If they do hire you, come back and see me on Christmas Day. I’m going out to dinner. A bit of a reunion. You might enjoy it.”

“I’m sure I’ll be back tonight,” Tom said.

“I hope not,” Moll retorted. “My room’s only big enough for one. And your feet smell.”

Moll turned and walked away. Tom watched her until she’d gone. Then, taking a deep breath, he crossed the road and went into the Rose.

Tom found himself in a circular space with seats rising in three tiers and surrounding him on all sides. In front of him was a raised stage with two pillars holding up a slanting, tiled roof. There were two doors at the back, presumably where the actors made their entrances. The theatre had no roof. If it rained (or snowed – the weather was getting colder and colder) the actors and the audience in front of the stage would get soaked. Only the people in the seats would have any chance of staying dry.

There was a man standing in the middle of the stage, reciting what sounded like a poem in a whiny and monotonous voice. Two other men were watching him, sitting on stools to one side. One of these was tall, with dark, curling hair, a beard and tired eyes. The other was shorter and plumper, more expensively dressed with a silk handkerchief draped over his hand. Both of them looked bored.

The actor had only recited about three lines when the bearded man stood up. “That’s enough, thank you,” he called out. “Next!”

“But I’ve only just begun!” the actor whined.

“Don’t send a messenger to us. We’ll send a messenger to you,” the man replied.

The actor left the stage. There was a long line of men snaking round the edge of the theatre. As soon as he had gone, one of them took his place and the line moved forward. Tom walked towards the stage, thrilled and terrified by it at the same time. Could he stand here and perform – perhaps to a hundred or two hundred people?