The Silent Woman

Chapter Six

The mayor of Oxford gave Nicholas Bracewell the expected response. Local government was effectively suspended and plague ruled the town. There was no possibility of Westfield’s Men acting there, and since they were a body of strangers above a certain number, no inn would be able to give them hospitality for the night. Both as thespians and as travellers, they were being ejected. The mayor was full of apologies but — he used the phrase repeatedly — his hands were tied. Nevertheless, he was able to use them both to gesticulate helplessly and to offer some measure of compensation to the disappointed troupe. He bestowed two pounds on the book holder and assured him that the company would be accorded a very different welcome on their next visit. Nicholas thanked him for his generosity and promised him that they would depart as soon as they had had time to rest the horses and take some refreshment.

When he left the Town Hall, he slipped the money into his purse and decided to leave it there until they had put Oxford many miles behind them. Lawrence Firethorn might be disdainful, but his company needed all the money that it could get and from whatever source. Nicholas decided to give his employer more time to cool down before he returned with the bad tidings and he took a stroll in the direction of the castle. It gave him an opportunity to reflect on the vagaries of life with a dramatic company. Robbed at High Wycombe, they had now been ousted from Oxford. The actors would begin to believe that their tour was damned. Inasmuch as it cut a day off his journey home, Nicholas was an incidental beneficiary of the plague, but that gave him no pleasure. Westfield’s Men needed a performance at Oxford to steady their nerves. After riding into the town as one of the leading troupes in London, they would be slinking away like unlicensed strolling players. The loss of their venue at the Queen’s Head had cast them out into the wilderness.

Nicholas paused to gaze up at the five great towers of Oxford Castle, one of the first stone-built fortresses to be constructed in England by the Normans. Steeped in history and surrounded by a moat, it was a formidable garrison in a town whose geographical position gave it immense strategic importance. Oxford Castle had a proud solidity but it was not enough to withstand an assault by a deadly enemy. As Nicholas watched, a horse and cart came out through the arched gateway with an all too familiar cargo. At the sight and smell of the shrouded figures, he turned quickly away and headed back towards the inn. The plague was insidious.

There were plenty of people in the streets, going about their business, but they did so without any real purpose or alacrity. An air of listlessness hung over the town as neighbours conversed with one another to find out who the latest victims were and to speculate on who would be struck down next. Like inhabitants of a flooded valley, they were waiting helplessly for the plague to wash over them and hoping that they would not be among the drowned. Their fatalism was saddening but it aroused Nicholas’s pity. Westfield’s Men had only lost a performance. Some of the people lurching along the streets had lost family members and friends.

That thought brought Nicholas to an abrupt halt. The crisis that they found at Oxford had obscured the memory of what happened before they reached the town. Without quite knowing how, he had spoken to Edmund Hoode about his own family in Devon and talked at length about his father. It was a conversation that would have been inconceivable only a few days ago when he was still suppressing all mention of his life before his voyage with Drake. His accent placed him firmly in the West Country but he acknowledged no family ties there, until the recent summons from Barnstaple. Yet he discussed his childhood for the best part of an hour with Hoode and trespassed freely on forbidden territory. Nicholas could not believe that he had confided so much personal detail to his friend, and he was amazed that he had been able to confront the spectre of his father without the customary pain and revulsion.

Robert Bracewell was a name he kept locked away in the darkest corner of his mind. He had not even spoken it to Anne Hendrik. On the ride to Oxford, his father had been set free at last. What was more remarkable was that, in talking about someone he despised and disowned, Nicholas actually came to feel vague pangs of sympathy for him and even tried to excuse his faults. Robert Bracewell was a hostage to fortune. Ill luck had dogged him. Shortly after he became a Merchant of the Staple, the last English foothold in France was lost and British merchants were promptly expelled. Queen Mary died saying that the name ‘Calais’ was engraved on her heart, but it was tattooed on the soul of Robert Bracewell. More setbacks stemmed from that first dreadful shock, and Nicholas recalled the locust years when his father trembled on the verge of bankruptcy. It took enormous strength of will to rebuild his reputation and his company. Any man should surely be admired for that.

Nicholas’s sympathy dried up instantly. Strength of will could destroy as well as create. The driving energy that enabled Robert Bracewell to win back his status in the mercantile community had another side to it, and his elder son had been one of its prime victims. Though he divulged much to his friend, Nicholas had concealed far more and he knew why. The deep shame of being a member of that family was still there, and it made the name he bore feel like a species of plague. Nicholas was frankly appalled at the prospect of going back to the town that held so many bleak associations for him but it was a sacred commitment that had to be honoured. He concentrated his mind on more immediate difficulties and lengthened his stride.

Westfield’s Men had taken themselves into the inn for a restorative meal, but Lawrence Firethorn was waiting to accost his book holder in the courtyard. The actor-manager’s belligerence masked his niggling despair.

‘Where the devil have you been, Nick!’ he demanded. ‘I sent you an hour ago at least.’

‘The mayor was engaged when I arrived.’

‘Engaged!’

‘I was forced to wait.’

‘Engaged!’ howled Firethorn. ‘If the wretch had kept me waiting, I’d have engaged him with sword and dagger, then hanged him from the church steeple with his chain of office. What did the arrant knave tell you?’

‘The plague has closed this town to us.’

‘God’s mercy! We are the cure for this contagion. Does he not see that? We bring joy into a cavern of misery. We bring life to a dying people. We bring hope.’

‘The mayor appreciates that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but the ordnance holds. No plays, no games, no public gatherings of any sort. He sends his abject apologies but we must be out of Oxford before the sun goes down.’

‘Out of Oxford!’

‘We are strangers in the town and carry a threat.’

‘I’ll carry a threat to the viperous villain!’ said the other. ‘He’ll have a plague of naked steel about his ears. Does he tell Lawrence Firethorn not to act? Will he order my company to leave his town?’ He strutted around in a display of defiance then adopted his most regal pose. ‘I am a king of the stage and he will not force me to abdicate.’

‘It is no personal rebuff for you,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘Plague deaths rise every day. If they continue at this rate then the churches will have to be closed. The market has already been shut down. These are the sensible precautions that any town must take when disease takes a hold.’

Firethorn accepted the truth of this. He still ranted away for a few minutes but the venom had been drained out of his bluster. Oxford was a lost cause. They had to move on. When Firethorn’s bluster subsided, he raised an eyebrow.

‘Were you offered any compensation?’ he said.

‘You told me not to accept it, master.’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ reaffirmed Firethorn. ‘Fling it back at him, I said, and I hope that is what you did.’

‘I declined the money.’

‘Good.’ The other eyebrow lifted. ‘How much was it?’

‘Two pounds.’

Firethorn’s sigh of remorse was like a protracted hiss of steam. Thanks to his pride, they were creeping away from the town without a penny. Anger relieved him but it was an expensive item. Firethorn knew that the rest of the company would suffer as a result. He gave Nicholas a task that he had no heart to perform himself.

‘Tell the others,’ he said. ‘We leave within the hour.’

‘I’ll about it straight.’

‘Oh, and Nick …’

‘Yes?’

‘Say nothing of that two pounds.’

The house in Shoreditch was of middling size with a neat garden at its rear and a tiny orchard. A half-timbered structure like its neighbours, its second storey was fronted with plastered wattle work that was showing signs of age. Both storeys projected at least a foot above the floor below and they had settled into a comfortable position like two fishwives leaning their arms contentedly on a wall for a lifelong exchange of gossip. The roof was fairly sound, but it would soon need the attention of a thatcher. Whatever the defects of its exterior, the house was kept in an excellent state of repair on the inside. Margery Firethorn saw to that. She was a meticulous housewife who made sure that every floor was swept, every window was cleaned and every cobweb brushed away on a daily basis. She shared the abode with her husband, their children and servants, the four apprentices and the occasional hired man with nowhere else to lay his head. Margery loved her role as mother of an extended family and she offered all those who stayed beneath her roof the rather caustic brand of affection that she had developed through marriage to Lawrence Firethorn. The house seemed empty now and the rooms silent. She missed the happy turbulence of life with Westfield’s Men and she was therefore delighted when she had two unexpected visitors to brighten up her day.

‘And what happened then?’ she said, all agog.

‘We visited an apothecary in Paternoster Row,’ said Anne Hendrik. ‘It was there that we found guidance at last.’

‘I know the man,’ chimed in Leonard.

‘What man?’ said Margery.

‘Him. The poisoner. That beard, that earring, that smell.’

‘What is the fellow blabbering about, Anne?’

‘Let me explain.’

Anne took over the narrative and Margery listened with a burgeoning apprehension. When she heard all the facts, she agreed that Nicholas Bracewell could well be in serious danger, and even if his own life were not threatened, he would value all the information that had been gleaned about the girl’s killer. Leonard’s contribution was the monotonous repetition of the story of his meeting with the man at the Queen’s Head. Each time he mentioned this, he beamed vacuously, as if expecting a round of applause. Margery’s tolerance soon frayed at the edges and she took the well-meaning giant into the kitchen, assigning one of the servants to look after him until he was needed again. She then went back into the parlour and sat in an upright chair beside Anne. Margery could now probe without hindrance.

‘What will you do, Anne?’ she asked.

‘Send a message to Nicholas.’

‘Why send it when you can take it yourself?’

Anne blinked. ‘Me?’

‘When a man’s life is at risk, you do not count the personal cost or inconvenience. Look at me. I once rode all the way to York to reach Lawrence.’

‘Was he in danger?’

‘Yes!’ said Margery with a laugh. ‘From two madwomen he picked up on his way. One was a pilgrim and the other as near to a punk as decency would allow. If I had not mounted a horse and ridden north, Lawrence would have had the pair of them in the same bed, saying prayers with the one while he and the other recited a more sinful creed together. I had a sore rump from the journey but I saved my marriage.’

‘My case is not the same,’ said Anne defensively. ‘You had reason to go. Lawrence was your husband.’

‘He is my man. Is not Nicholas yours?’

Anne snatched back the words that almost sprang from her mouth and gestured with fluttering hands. Margery’s shrewd gaze caught every nuance of her reaction. During her farewell to Nicholas at the Bel Savage Inn, she was alerted to the possibility of a rift between the two of them, and Anne’s bruised silence now confirmed it. Anne lowered her head and played with the sleeve of her dress. Margery leant forward with an understanding smile.

‘You fell out over this poor girl,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘Did Nicholas not explain everything to you?’

‘No, Margery.’ Anne bit her lip then looked up at the other woman again. ‘That is what vexed me so. Something calls him back to Devon yet I am kept ignorant of it.’

‘Nick may have good reason for that.’

‘He has never lied to me before.’

Margery cackled. ‘Is that all the problem here? A few lies and deceptions? Forget them. Honesty is a virtue but it needs to be spiced with at least a hint of vice. I could never bear to live with a man who was so open that I knew everything about him. By my troth, I would die of boredom within a fortnight! Lawrence always garnishes the truth with a rich sauce of lies and I would have it no other way.’ She became wistful. ‘Secrecy makes a man interesting. That is why we all love dear Nicholas Bracewell — for his mystery.’

Anne’s eyes filmed over and she struggled to keep the tears from flowing. In another mood, she would have taken Margery’s jocular advice in her stride but her estrangement from Nicholas made the words cut deep. His refusal to talk about his earlier life had indeed enhanced his appeal for her. Anne solved the problem of the hidden years in his life by inventing her own fantasy existence for him at that time. She knew him so well, she felt, that she could translate him back into the past and fill in the missing details of his childhood and adolescence by instinct. Her version was now shown to be highly romanticised and plainly inaccurate. She shared her life with one Nicholas Bracewell but there had been another quite different man living under the same name in Devon all those years ago.

Margery could see her visitor’s ambivalent feelings.

‘Go to him,’ she urged.

‘He may not wish to see me, Margery.’

‘Pish! That’s of no account. Do you wish to see him?’

‘He must be warned!’

‘Then take the warning with you.’

‘No,’ said Anne. ‘This is not work for me. I still have too much to think about here before I see him again.’ Sudden fear made her catch her breath. ‘If I see him again.’

‘You will certainly do that,’ Margery assured her. ‘He is more than able to take care of himself. But we must get word to him and without delay.’

‘That is why I came to you. We parted in anger so I have no knowledge of his whereabouts. Help me, Margery. What is their itinerary? Where are Westfield’s Men now?’

‘They should have arrived at Oxford this afternoon.’

‘Oxford!’ Anne grew hopeful. ‘With a change of horses, a man might ride that distance in a day.’

Margery was doubtful. ‘If he sets off in the morning, he will not find them there.’

‘Will they not stay overnight and perform tomorrow?’

‘Oxford will not allow it.’

‘Why not?’

‘There are rumours of plague in the town.’

‘Plague!’

‘I went to market today,’ explained Margery. ‘Some of the traders who came in from Aylesbury caught wind of it. If the disease has a grip, it will send the company packing.’

‘In which direction?’

‘Marlborough.’ Margery needed a moment to think it through, then she made up her mind. ‘They will choose an inn to the south of Oxford and rest for the night. My guess is that Lawrence will have them in the saddle at first light and riding into Marlborough as soon as may be.’

‘I’ll reach him there,’ decided Anne, then she glanced towards the kitchen as an idea formed. ‘Leonard will carry it. A faithful friend will readily do such a service.’

‘Take pity on a dumb animal.’

‘Animal?’

‘Yes,’ said Margery. ‘Leonard would never walk there on those tree trunks they felled to make his legs. It would take him a month or more. He would need a horse — and what animal is strong enough to bear such a weight and gallop at speed?’ She pushed Leonard aside with a palm. ‘Forget him. He is no swift messenger. Besides, we need one friend at the Queen’s Head to speak up for Westfield’s Men. Leonard must melt the icy heart of its landlord.’

‘So who will take the letter?’

‘A courier. It will be my charge to find the man.’

‘I’ll go home and write the letter at once.’

‘We have ink and parchment here, Anne,’ said the other woman. ‘But a letter will not suffice.’

‘How else can I warn him?’ asked Anne. ‘He must be made aware of what we learnt at the apothecary’s shop. I will pen a description of the man we believe did the foul deed.’

‘Marry, there’s a better way than that.’

‘Show it me.’

Margery studied her. ‘That is a fine hat you wear.’

‘Why are we talking of my hat?’

‘Who made it, Anne?’

‘Preben van Loew.’

‘At whose behest?’

‘My own.’

‘But from what design?’

‘I drew a likeness for him to follow.’ Margery grinned at her and Anne realised what was being suggested. ‘No, no. I am no artist.’

‘A hand that can fashion something as delicate as that hat can pick out the features of a man’s face.’

‘I have only the apothecary’s description.’

‘And Leonard to guide your fingers. He has seen the man, I do believe. He vouched for it three thousand times.’

The women shared a laugh then Margery called for her servant to fetch writing materials. Leonard was thrilled to be brought back into action again and to be given a major role in creating the likeness of the man with the raven-black beard. Anne worked slowly but carefully with the quill, using the apothecary’s description as her starting point then adding or amending as directed by Leonard. When the paper was a mass of squiggles, she took a fresh piece of parchment and worked to produce a clearer portrait. The face of a ruthless killer soon glowered up at them.

Leonard jumped about with lumpen excitement.

‘That is him!’ he congratulated. ‘That is him!’

Oxford had murder enough of its own. With the plague now scything its way through the population and killing them in droves, there was no need for the man to enter the town in search of an individual victim. He might himself be infected before he could even reach Nicholas Bracewell and that would be a double catastrophe. The plague was an assassin that liked to torture its prey unmercifully before it finally released them to the grave. He preferred a waiting game, and his patience reaped its reward that evening. From his place of vantage on a wooded slope, he watched Westfield’s Men leave the town and head south-west past the ruins of Osney Abbey, set among the island meadows beyond the castle. Plundered of its stone for the building of Christ Church, the abbey had a shattered grandeur that could still arrest attention and it did hold the distinction of being — for a few years after its dissolution as a monastery in 1539 — Oxford’s first cathedral. Its religious affiliations seemed to make Lawrence Firethorn even more irate and he pulled his horse in a semicircle so that he could deliver a blistering rebuke to the town that had just evicted them.

The man on the slope was over two hundred yards away and concealed among the trees, but he heard the tirade as clearly as if he were standing beside the actor-manager.

‘Oxford, adieu!’ snarled Firethorn. ‘The Devil take you! We quit your foul streets for fresher pastures. What is your famous university but a set of mangy, maggot-filled colleges set up by Roman Catholic prelates! Keep your bishops and your great fat cardinal. God has sent down a plague on your popery! We are true Protestants and refuse to ply our trade in this grisly Vatican.’ He widened his attack to include the other university town. ‘Scholarship rots the mind! It breeds Puritans in Cambridge and Papists in Oxford. Show me a student and you show me a lesser breed of man. If you begged us, Westfield’s Men would not play before you.’ A waved fist accompanied his final taunt. ‘You do not turn us out: we spurn you! There is a world elsewhere.’

The words shot across the grass like a fusillade and scattered the wildlife before rebounding harmlessly off the town walls. Oxford was the target of much criticism for its vestigial Roman Catholicism, but it was in no position to defend itself against this latest theological attack. All its attention was fixed on a virulent plague that killed Christians of all denominations with random savagery. Lawrence Firethorn had merely exercised his lungs. He did nothing to revive a disconsolate company and they trundled away like outcasts.

When the man with the raven-black beard saw the road they chose, he knew where he could catch up with them. Close pursuit was unnecessary and he was anxious not to be seen by Nicholas Bracewell. The scuffle in the stables at the Fighting Cock had taught him to respect his adversary. It was vital to retain the advantage of surprise if he wanted to succeed against such a powerful man. Forewarned and forearmed, Nicholas was now a very troublesome opponent. He would have to be stabbed in the back.

While the man stayed in his hiding place, the company rolled unhappily away from Oxford. The haven of rest had been a hell of disquiet that had moved them on as fast as it could. What guarantee did they have that Marlborough would not do the same to them and manufacture some entirely new and even more jolting setback? Their tour was fast becoming a kind of penance. Lawrence Firethorn led them in search of an inn where they could spend the night, somewhere close enough to Oxford to spare them and their horses further weariness yet far enough away to be totally free from its pestilential air.

When an old shepherd stumbled out onto the road ahead of them, Firethorn called to him for advice.

‘We seek shelter, friend,’ he said.

‘So do I, sir,’ replied the shepherd, ‘for I’ve been up since dawn chasing stray sheep.’

‘Which is the nearest inn?’

‘That could be the Bull and Butcher, sir.’

‘How far is that?’

‘Two mile or more,’ said the shepherd, ‘but the Dog and Bear may be closer. Then again, it may not. Let me think.’

The old man’s ruddy face was largely obscured by a wispy grey beard and a battered hat, and he had a habit of clearing his throat and spitting absent-mindedly onto the ground. His shoulders were hunched and his legs bent by the weight of the paunch he carried beneath the torn smock. He leant on his crook as he deliberated, mumbling to himself in the local dialect while he weighed up the competing merits and locations of the two hostelries. Firethorn soon tired of the countryman’s irritating slowness.

‘Which one, man?’ he pressed. ‘Bull or Dog?’

‘Bull, sir. Yes, I’d say Bull.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’ll put you on the way to Reading in the morning.’

‘But we travel to Marlborough.’

‘Then you need the Dog.’

‘Saints preserve us! Make up your mind!’

‘Dog and Bear, sir.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Turn right when the road forks. The Dog is a goodly inn and you will soon reach it.’

‘Thank the Lord for that!’

‘If you want my advice-’

‘Go your way,’ said Firethorn, cutting him off. ‘You have confused us enough already. We will find our Dog and you may search for your sheep.’

‘That will I, sir.’

The old shepherd tugged deferentially at the brim of his hat then lumbered away across a field. Firethorn raised a hand and signalled the company forward. They followed the winding track in a careworn mood and longed for the comforts they had left behind in London. Hired men who considered themselves blessed to be taken on the tour now felt that a curse had been laid upon them. It had only subjected them to robbery and plague so far. What further trials awaited them?

It was half an hour before they turned into the courtyard of the Dog and Bear. Though much smaller than the Fighting Cocks, it gave them a ready welcome and marked the end of a most dispiriting day’s travel. The inn sign, which swung in the light breeze, showed a bear chained to a stake, striking out with its claws at the dog who was baiting it. The violent image made Lawrence Firethorn growl in kinship. He himself was a great bear who had been chained to the stake of a cruel fate. While the animal on the sign had only one dog to contend with, the actor had a whole pack. With a surge of anger, he resolved to tear the stake from the ground and beat his enemies off with it. Westfield’s Men had suffered enough. Firethorn would assert himself against misfortune and lead his company on to the glory they so richly deserved and the payment they so badly needed.

Nicholas Bracewell judged his moment well. As he and his employer dismounted, ostlers came forward to take charge of their horses. The book holder took Firethorn aside for a moment. Dipping a hand into his purse, Nicholas brought out the coins that he had been given in Oxford. He held them on his palm and affected a mock surprise.

‘See here,’ he said. ‘That stubborn mayor would not be denied his generosity. He must have thrust the money into my purse when I was looking elsewhere.’

‘How much?’

‘Two pounds.’

‘We will not take it.’

‘Then let me hurl it away into the trough.’

‘No!’ said Firethorn, grabbing his wrist as he made to discard the coins. ‘Let us not be too rash here. There is a sense in which Westfield’s Men earned that money. We entered that verminous town with the best of intentions. It was not our fault that the plague was giving its performance there.’

‘Take it as a small reward, then,’ offered Nicholas.

‘I will not,’ decided Firethorn, folding his arms with disdain. ‘Our company cannot be bought off with Danegeld. Hurl it into the water and show our content!’ Once again, he clutched at Nicholas’s wrist to stop him. ‘Wait!’

‘Why not sleep on the matter?’

‘That is good advice, Nick.’

‘Take the money and get the feel of it.’

‘Then decide in the morning, eh?’

‘When you come to pay the reckoning.’

Lawrence Firethorn thought of his empty capcase and snatched the two pounds from his friend. Nicholas knew him so well and adapted so quickly to his caprices. Money that the actor-manager had repudiated in Oxford was legal tender now they were well clear of the town. Thanks to Nicholas, it was the first income they had managed to keep. Coins had never jingled so sweetly in Firethorn’s hands. He dropped them into his own purse then gave his book holder a hug of gratitude. The actor had enjoyed his exhibition of pique but it was heartening to know that there was still one practical man in the company. Firethorn sounded a haughty note.

‘I will merely keep it until morning,’ he said.

Nicholas smiled. ‘Of course.’

The old shepherd who directed them to Dog and Bear did not have to search long for his sheep. He found them browsing on the lush grass near the edge of a copse. Walking into the trees, he came to a clearing where two figures reclined on the ground. The fleshy young man was fast asleep but the girl jumped lightly to her feet and ran to embrace the newcomer. Israel Gunby tore off his false beard so that he could kiss his wife without impediment, then he shed both his hat and his threadbare smock. Ellen was inquisitive.

‘Did you speak with them?’ she said.

‘I sent them to the Dog and Bear.’

‘Were you not afraid they would recognise you?’

‘I am the Lawrence Firethorn of the highway.’

‘They did not suspect you?’

‘No, my love,’ said Gunby, lapsing back into the accent he had used as the old shepherd. ‘I was born in these parts so the dialect is second nature. I could have talked for three whole days and not a man amongst them would have been any the wiser.’

‘Do we strike at the Dog and Bear?’

‘They have nothing left to steal.’

‘What, then?’

‘We meet them again at Marlborough.’

‘When do they play there?’

‘Tomorrow, if all goes well.’

‘What parts shall we take?’

‘I will assign them when I have worked it out.’ He glanced across at their supine accomplice. ‘That belly of Ned’s is not so easy to hide. I can get rid of my paunch like this.’ He pulled out the heavy padding that was stuffed inside his belt and flung it away. ‘We cannot alter Ned’s shape in that way.’

Ellen eased him away a few yards to whisper in his ear.

‘There is a way we could hide that swelling stomach.’

‘How?’

‘Bury it six feet in the ground.’

Israel Gunby smirked. ‘That will come, my dear.’

‘When?’

‘When he has served his purpose. Ned will be useful in Marlborough, for three people may work much more craftily than two. We’ll keep him alive till then.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘We’ll cut the fat-gutted rascal down to size!’

Israel Gunby drew his dagger from his belt and hurled it with a flick of the wrist. It sunk into the ground only inches from the head of their associate and brought him instantly awake. Ned gabbled his apologies for falling asleep and scrambled to his feet. The stench of strong ale still hung around him.

‘You drank too freely,’ reprimanded Israel Gunby.

‘That was my part,’ said the other. ‘I was to keep them merry in the taproom while you and Ellen sneaked into their chambers. We got away from the Bull and Butcher with all but a few pence short of twenty pounds.’

The haul had been far more than that, but they had given him a lower figure so that he could be cheated out of his portion. In the guise of a farmer, Ned had been the decoy at an inn once again and shown as much outrage as the rest of them when the theft was discovered. By the time the other travellers sobered up enough to give chase, Ned himself had vanished into the woods to join his confederates.

‘We must ride on,’ said Gunby, pulling on his doublet. ‘I have had enough of being an old shepherd. It is a stinking occupation and it offends my nose.’

The bleating of sheep jogged his memory and he gathered up the smock and the hat before reclaiming his dagger. Strolling back through the trees, he came to a spot where an old man was trussed up half-naked on the ground. A dozen snuffling ewes were clustered around their shepherd with timid curiosity and they fled as soon as Gunby appeared. Smock and hat were dropped to the ground once more but the knife flashed in the hand. The old man let out a squeal of fear and closed his eyes against the pain, but the blade drew no blood from his ancient carcass. It sliced instead through his bonds and left him free to rub his tender wrists and ankles.

Israel Gunby kicked the man’s smock across to him.

‘Thank you, kind father,’ he said. ‘For my part, I would rather be tied up for a week than wear that reeking garment for an hour, but it was needful.’ He dropped a small purse into the man’s lap. ‘There’s for your pains. I am a thief and a villain and all that men say I am. But you may tell them one thing more, my friend.’

‘What is that, sir?’ gibbered the other.

‘Israel Gunby does not rob the poor.’

Nicholas Bracewell was in a quandary. Wanting to be alone with his thoughts, he yet needed the company of his fellows to ensure safety. The inn was comfortable, its hospitality was cordial and there was no whiff of danger within its walls but those qualities had been obtained at the Fighting Cocks and he had nevertheless found himself fighting for his life against a vicious assailant. It was best to take no chances. On the ride from Oxford, he constantly scoured the landscape for signs of pursuit, but none came. That did not induce him to lower his guard. Nicholas had been unaware of being trailed from London yet that was almost certainly what had occurred. Shadows moved according to the disposition of the sun. They could walk briskly before you or steal silently after you. In the darkness, you never even knew that they were there.

After supper in the taproom, Edmund Hoode retired to his chamber to work on the new play. Nicholas was both pleased and nervous, delighted that his friend had recaptured his creative urge but fearful lest he use too much of the background material that the book holder had given him. The Merchant of Calais was set fifty years earlier, at a time when the French port was still an English possession. Hoode was attracted by the notion of a tiny segment of British soil perched on the edge of a large and hostile country. It allowed him to explore a number of favourite themes. What troubled Nicholas was the fear that his own father might now be introduced into the play. Hoode had been so intrigued by what he was told that he had been asking for further details ever since. Always ready to help the playwright, Nicholas did not, however, want to read The Merchant of Calais and find that Robert Bracewell was its central character. The sight of his father being brought to life onstage by Lawrence Firethorn would be too painful for the renegade son to bear.

‘What ails you, Nick?’ said a concerned voice.

‘Nothing, Owen.’

‘You have been in a dream all evening.’

‘I am weary, that is all.’

‘Retire to your chamber.’

‘Not yet. I will stay here a little while longer.’

Owen Elias was in a jovial mood now that he had supped well and shaken the unpleasant memories of their visit to Oxford from his mind. Actors were easily crushed by any form of rejection but they had a resilience that bordered on the phenomenal. Nicholas had seen it many times before, but it still astonished him when men who had been squirming in a pit of despair one minute could then stride onto a stage with gusto and acquit themselves superbly in a comic role. Owen Elias was an archetype, thriving on deep conflict, shifting from melancholia to manic joy in a twinkling, suffering blows to his self-esteem that seemed like mortal wounds and then leaping nimbly out of his coffin with boundless vitality.

‘Have no fear while you are with me, Nick.’

‘Thanks, Owen.’

‘I’ll be a trusty bodyguard.’

‘Sharp eyes. Give me sharp eyes.’

‘They would cut through teak.’

Nicholas was glad he had taken the Welshman into his confidence. Elias had his faults and it was the book holder’s unenviable task to point them out to him from time to time, but the actor’s attributes heavily outweighed his defects. There was another reason why the Welshman was so eager to lend all the help he could to Nicholas. It was the book holder who had manoeuvred his promotion in the company. After languishing for so long in the ranks of the hired men, Owen Elias felt that his true worth was not appreciated and he succumbed to the blandishments of Banbury’s Men. Only some deft stage-management from Nicholas rescued him from the rival company and secured his position as a sharer with Westfield’s Men. Elias was eternally grateful to his friend and would fight to the death on his behalf. Nicholas hoped that he could solve the problem himself, but if assistance was needed, the strength of the pugnacious Welshman would be more useful than the diffidence of a gentle soul like Edmund Hoode.

Drink exposed a vein of regret in Owen Elias.

‘We can never outrun the past, Nick,’ he said. ‘Try as we may, it will always catch up with us sooner or later. Look at my case. Wales never releases its sons.’

‘You managed to break free, Owen.’

‘A trick of the light but no more. Listen to this voice of mine. I can sound like an Englishman when I choose but my tongue hates to play the traitor.’ He emptied his tankard and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I carry my country on my back like a snail carrying its shell. Wales will always be my home — even though I left a wife and a child and an honest occupation to run away to London when the madness of the theatre seized me.’

‘I did not know you were married, Owen.’

‘It was a mistake that I try to keep buried.’

‘And a child, you say?’

‘He died soon after I left. He had always been a sickly boy and not long for this harsh world.’ He toyed guiltily with his tankard. ‘I sent what little money I could back to my wife but we lost touch after Rhodri died. She was a good woman, Nick, and deserved better than me.’

‘Have you never been back home?’

‘Never.’

‘Do you not wonder what became of your wife?’

‘All the time, but I content myself with the thought that life without a bad husband must be an improvement of sorts. She has a large family and will not want for anything.’ His hands tightened around the tankard. ‘They do not speak well of me. I would not be welcome.’

‘You have always talked so fondly of your country.’

‘Wales is in my blood,’ said Elias with simple pride. ‘I could never deny my birthright. But a wife is another matter. I did not just leave, Nick, she begged me to go.’

‘I see.’

‘We all have our cross to bear.’

Nicholas was touched that his friend should confide something so private in him, and it helped to explain a maudlin vein that sometimes came out in the Welshman. At the same time, he realised very clearly why Owen Elias touched on the subject of the unforgiven sins of the past. In showing his own wounds, he was offering a set of credentials to a kindred spirit. He was assuring Nicholas of sympathy and understanding if the latter chose to talk about the problems that were taking him back home. Men of the theatre were nomads, wandering from company to company, drifting from woman to woman, leaving their failures behind them in the ceaseless quest for a perfection they would never attain. Talent and status were transient assets. Lawrence Firethorn had no peer as an actor yet here he was, having abandoned his family in London, scurrying from town to town with a demoralised troupe in search of work and wages. Security and continuity were rare commodities in the acting world, and those who joined it had to accept that. Indeed, for many — Owen Elias among them — its recurring perils and sudden fluctuations were part of its attraction. Theatre was a game of chance. With its unquestioning camaraderie, it was also a good place to hide. Elias could recognise another fugitive.

‘Why are you going to Barnstaple?’ he asked.

‘I may tell you when I return.’

‘If you return.’

‘Oh, I will come back,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘There is nothing to keep me there any longer. My only concern is that I actually reach the town.’

‘Nobody will stop you while I am around.’

‘We cannot live in each other’s laps.’

Owen chuckled. ‘Barnaby Gill would die with envy!’

‘Meanwhile, we have plays to present. Think on them.’

‘Oh, I do, Nick. I am an actor. My vanity is quite monstrous. I strut and pose before the looking glass of my mind all the time.’ He winked at the other. ‘But I can still spare a thought for a friend in need.’

‘Thank you, Owen.’

‘Do not be afraid to call on me.’

Nicholas smiled his gratitude. Some of the others began to play cards at a nearby table and Owen excused himself to go and join them. The apprentices had already gone to their beds and a few of the sharers had also seen the virtue of an early night. Lawrence Firethorn sat with Barnaby Gill and discussed the choice of plays for Marlborough and Bristol. Two actor-musicians were busy drinking themselves into a stupor. Nicholas was content to be left alone on his oak settle and let his thoughts swing to and fro between London and Barnstaple, between the pain of a loss and the impending displeasure of a renewed acquaintance. An hour sped by. When he next looked up, most of his fellows had tottered off upstairs and the taproom was virtually empty. Nicholas was just about to haul himself off to his own bedchamber when one of the ostlers came in through the main door. He peered around until his gaze settled on the book holder then he hurried across.

‘Master Bracewell?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘That is me.’

‘Then I have a message for you, sir.’

‘Who sent it?’

‘A gentleman. I am to tell you he wishes to see you.’

‘Let him come on in.’

‘He wants private conversation, sir. Outside.’

‘In the dark?’

‘There are lanterns burning by the stables.’

‘What did the man look like?’ asked Nicholas.

‘A fine upstanding fellow.’

‘Young or old? What does he wear? How does he speak?’

‘I was only paid to deliver a message, sir,’ said the ostler, turning to go. ‘He waits for you by the stables.’

Nicholas had a dozen more questions but the ostler had scampered off before he could put them. The man who summoned him needed to be treated with utmost suspicion. He must have kept watch on the taproom until it was almost cleared then sent in a messenger to fetch out the straggler. Nicholas had no immediate support beyond two actor-musicians on the verge of collapse and a diminutive servingman. Owen Elias had now gone off to bed and Edmund Hoode was deep in the throes of composition. Why should the man invite him to the stables? Nicholas started as it dawned on him. He was being issued with a challenge. Having failed to dispatch him in the stables of the Fighting Cocks, his adversary was inviting him to a second duel. It had to be single combat. If Nicholas walked out of the taproom with others at his back, the man would vanish into the night. Only if he went alone would the book holder stand a chance of meeting and killing his foe.

His sword lay beside him and he snatched it up. He took a few steps towards the front door then checked. What if the challenge was a ruse? The man might have set a trap with the aid of confederates. Nicholas pondered for a moment then came to the conclusion that he was up against a lone enemy. If there had been accomplices, he would not have survived the first assault at High Wycombe. The man was paying him a perverse compliment. Nicholas was being congratulated on his earlier success and given a return engagement on more equal terms. Except that a man who tries to strangle an opponent from behind will always have distorted ideas of equality.

Nicholas accepted the challenge but tempered boldness with caution. Instead of leaving by the front door, he moved quickly to the back of the taproom and slipped out into a narrow passageway with a stone-flagged floor. The door ahead of him gave access to some outbuildings and he could use those as cover while working his way around to the stables. Letting himself noiselessly out into the night, he kept his sword at the ready and crept furtively along. An owl hooted in the distance. A vixen answered with a high-pitched call. Clouds drifted across the moon. The lanterns threw only the patchiest light onto the courtyard.

As he came round the angle of a building, Nicholas could hear the faint jingle of metal as a horse chewed on its bit. The animal was saddled and ready at the edge of the stables. Nicholas could just make out its shape in the gloom. He was now satisfied that he was up against only one man. The horse made possible a hasty retreat after the task was done, but Nicholas intended to frustrate his opponent’s plans. Bending low, he inched forward with his weapon guiding the way. He heard the sound behind him far too late. There was a thud, a loud grunt and a brief clash of steel. When Nicholas swung round, he was hit in the chest with such force by a solid shoulder that he dropped his sword to the ground and did a backward somersault. Two figures grappled violently above him but the fight was over before he could get to his feet to join in. There was a howl of pain and a clatter as something hit the cobbles beside Nicholas, then one of the figures went haring across the yard and vaulted into the saddle of the horse. For the second time, the assassin galloped safely away into the night.

Nicholas jumped up to turn solicitously to the wounded man. He had recognised Owen Elias’s yell and feared serious injury to his friend. Still holding his own sword in one hand, the Welshman was bent double in pain. Nicholas put out a steadying arm around his shoulder.

‘Are you hurt badly, Owen?’ he said.

‘The villain cut my hand, Nick. ’Tis only a scratch but it bleeds all over me and stings like the devil!’

‘Let me help you back inside.’

‘I can manage. Leave me be.’

Nicholas took a step back to appraise him. ‘What on earth were you doing out here?’

‘Trying to save your life.’

‘I thought you had gone off to your bed.’

‘That is what I wanted you to think,’ said Owen. ‘If that coward was going to strike again, he would only do it when you were alone. I hid in the passageway and heard the ostler’s message delivered. The sender tricked you.’

‘He did,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘He knew that I would try to sneak up on him from behind so he laid his ambush here. But for you, I’d be lying dead on the ground with a dagger between my shoulderblades. A thousand thanks.’

‘Your bodyguard has sharp eyes and even sharper ears.’

‘You suffered injury on my behalf. Come inside and I’ll bind up that hand. You can have all the ale you wish to medicine your wound.’ Nicholas retrieved his sword then picked up a smaller weapon. ‘He left his dagger behind.’

Owen smouldered. ‘I’ll use it to cut off his stones.’

‘It may hold a clue for us.’

‘Where’s that ale you spoke of, Nick? I need it.’

‘And I’ll question that ostler more closely.’ He heard approaching feet. ‘We have company, Owen.’

Roused by the commotion, the landlord and a couple of servingmen now came rushing out with lanterns. Edmund Hoode and other members of the company were in attendance. They saw the drawn rapiers.

‘What dreadful broil was here?’ said the landlord.

‘It is all over now,’ reassured Nicholas.

‘Who started the affray?’

‘We do not know the villain’s name.’

‘But what brought you out here, Nick?’ said Hoode in alarm. ‘And what was that unearthly cry we heard?’

‘That was me,’ said Owen Elias with a brave smile. ‘I was bleeding quietly to death.’

The Welshman was clearly in intense pain. He swayed with fatigue, made an effort to hold up his injured hand for inspection then fainted into the arms of Nicholas Bracewell.