Free Salvation by Harriet Steel Page A

his fingers under the damp collar that chafed his neck. The smell of resin was strong in the heat . It made his eyes water. The pile of logs should be big enough to satisfy the landlord by now; he might even throw in a free drink.
    Tom splashed his face in the stone horse trough and went into the tavern. As he pushed his way through to the counter, a man turned to him. ‘Watch where you’re going, lad,’ he said abruptly.
    Tom opened his mouth to apologise then his heart missed a beat. ‘Master Lamotte!’
    Lamotte frowned. ‘Yes, and you are— ?’
    ‘Tom Goodluck, sir – from Salisbury.’
    ‘Ah yes, I remember. You’re lucky to find me here. We would still be down in the country but the audiences are poor this year. People are tight for money. But I’m surprised to see you so far from home. Why didn’t you come back for your play?’
    ‘I wanted to,’ Tom stammered. ‘Please don’t think I wasn’t grateful.’
    ‘So what brought you to London then?’
    Desperately, Tom searched for a reply. He wasn’t sure whether to admit to the truth.
    ‘Never mind, I suppose it’s none of my business. Your play wasn’t bad, by the way. It needs some mending but I’ve read worse. Don’t go getting your hopes up too high, but I may be able to do something for you, unless you’ve changed your mind, that is.’
    A rush of joy overcame Tom; for a few moments, he was unable to speak.
    ‘I see you haven’t,’ Lamotte grinned. ‘Come, let’s find a table where we can sit down. I’ll buy you a drink and then we can talk.’
     
    The tables in the front room were all taken. ‘Go to the back,’ Lamotte shouted in Tom’s ear, ‘there’s usually room there.’
    When they had found an empty table and sat down, Lamotte waved to one of the serving girls to bring them a jug of ale. Tom drained his cup in one go and wiped his lips. It was wonderful to ease his parched throat.
    Lamotte refilled his cup. ‘Well, are you going to tell me after all why you left home?’
    On reflection, Tom decided he didn’t look the kind of man to disapprove too strongly of a love affair. Perhaps that was the easiest thing to tell him. Haltingly, he began but he had not got far before Lamotte interrupted him.
    ‘I can see you won’t believe me yet,’ he said, ‘but you’re better out of it, lad. A married woman’s more trouble than she’s worth, even if she is a beauty.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t look so sorry for yourself. There are plenty of pretty girls in this city to help you forget her.’
    Tom opened his mouth to protest but already Lamotte was not listening. His eyes roved around the tavern. ‘There’s a couple of men over there you’ll soon know of if you get into the theatre. That one’s James Burbage, who owns one of the playhouses, and the great mound of putrid flesh talking with him is Robert Greene. Very fond of Rhenish wine, pickled herrings and his own opinion which is that he’s the finest writer of plays in London, nay, in the world. University man with no time for the rest of us.’
    He broke off as a young man with a mild expression and prematurely receding hair that accentuated a high forehead approached the table where the two men sat. ‘Now there’ll be a bit of fun,’ Lamotte muttered. ‘That young fellow’s new up to London like you and wants to make his way in the theatre. I hear he shows great promise. Goes by the name of William Choxper. Greene can’t abide him, which is enough of a recommendation to most people.’
    Tom felt numb. In Salisbury, it had been possible to believe his dreams could come true, but now he was here, it came home to him he was just one of many. How simple he had been not to realise there would be other men with the same ambitions as his, but probably more talent to achieve them.
    ‘Are you going to give me an answer then?’ Lamotte’s voice cut through his dejection. ‘You’d better make up your mind before I change mine. I’ve no room in the company for a