The Silent Woman

Chapter Four

Morning brought no relief from a night of suffering. Anne Hendrik awoke from a troubled sleep to find that Nicholas Bracewell had left. His bed had not been used and his room had been stripped of all his possessions. As she stood alone in the small, bare, forlorn chamber, she was hit by an onrush of guilt that made her sway and reach out for support. She had been too quick to condemn him, too slow to give him the benefit of the doubt. Years of trust and understanding had been vitiated in one burst of anger, and he had been forced to sneak away from her house in the middle of the night like an outcast. It was a severe punishment for a crime that might not even exist.

What had Nicholas actually done? Twenty-four hours earlier she had thought him the best of men and could call up a thousand examples of his goodness and reliability. Then a young traveller staggered into the house in search of her lodger and all was lost. Evidently, the messenger was bringing a call for help, and it had sent Nicholas off to Devon, albeit by a winding route in the company of Westfield’s Men. Anne Hendrik’s first thought was that a woman was certainly involved. Shorn of her male attire and laid out on a stone slab, the girl had the look of a maidservant whose short hair and thickset features allowed her to conceal her sex. Her borrowed clothing had quality and her horse good breeding, so she had clearly worked in a prosperous household. No man would dispatch such an unprotected creature on such a difficult errand. Anne therefore assumed that she was sent by her mistress to summon the aid of Nicholas Bracewell, who was possibly her former lover, even her husband. But was this necessarily the case?

Nicholas did not deny the existence of a silent woman in his past but there did not have to be any romantic implications. Could the woman not just as easily be his mother, or sister, or a relation? And was there not — now that she paused to reflect upon it — another reason for his refusal to offer her a full explanation? Nicholas was shielding Anne. The message that the girl brought had already cost one life. He did not wish to put hers in jeopardy as well. As long as Anne Hendrik was kept in ignorance, she was safe. That was why he could not take her completely into his confidence. He had begged for her trust and she had held it back. Anne’s blind jealousy had clouded her judgement and blunted her finer feelings. She had lost him for ever.

Yet even as she swung once more towards him, there were considerations that drew her back into pained disapproval. Nicholas Bracewell had rejected her appeal. Given a stark choice between staying with her and going to Barnstaple, he selected the latter. Anne was hit by the realisation that, even if Devon had not been an option, he would still have left with Westfield’s Men. They were the true centre of his life. She was merely a pleasant appendage to a real existence that took place elsewhere. It was a doomed relationship. Margery Firethorn had once told her that to marry an actor was to hurl oneself head first into a whirlpool of uncertainty. Sharing her bed with a man of the theatre had left Anne Hendrik in the same helpless predicament. The most sensible thing she could do was to put him from her mind and concentrate on her work.

‘You do not need to do this, mistress.’

‘What is that, Preben?’

‘I have been making hats for over thirty years and I am too old to learn new ways. Please do not stand over me like that.’ The Dutchman smiled respectfully up at her. ‘You are in my light.’

‘I am in your way,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but you are too kind to put it like that.’ Anne glanced around the room where her four employees and the apprentice were bent over the respective hats that they were working on. ‘Are there no more deliveries to be made this morning?’

‘None.’

‘What of our accounts?’

‘They are all in order and up to date.’

‘There must be something I can do, Preben.’

‘No, mistress.’

‘Perhaps I could help to-’

‘Let hatmakers make their hats,’ he suggested quietly. ‘That is why you pay us. If you seek employment, go out and find new orders to keep our trade healthy.’

‘That is good advice.’

‘When Jacob was alive, he led by example and we toiled to keep up with his nimble fingers. His memory lives on to guide us. We will not skimp or slack because we are left alone in our workplace. Jacob Hendrik watches over us.’

Anne sighed and accepted the wisdom of his comments.

Preben van Loew was a tall, spare, wizened man in his fifties with skills that had been chased out of his native Holland and that had settled in London. Dressed severely in black, he was modest and unassuming and always wore a dark skullcap on his domelike head. Anne owed him a tremendous amount because he had kept the business going when Jacob Hendrik, his closest friend, had died, and he had instructed her in all the subtleties of his craft when she decided to take over the reins herself. Her talents lay in managing the others, finding commissions, dealing with their many customers and helping to design new styles of headgear. Until that morning, she also knew when to leave her staff alone to get on with their work. Now she was simply using them to occupy her mind, and her presence was disruptive.

With a gesture of apology, she moved to the door. Preben van Loew spoke without looking up from his task of snipping through some material with his scissors.

‘I had hoped to see Master Bracewell this morning.’

‘Nicholas?’

‘He is leaving with Westfield’s Men.’

‘I know.’

‘He usually calls,’ said Preben with mild censure. ‘Whenever he has to go away for any length of time, he usually calls in here to bid us farewell.’

‘Nicholas was in a hurry,’ she explained.

‘He has always had time for friends in the past.’

Anne Hendrik needed a moment to control her features.

‘Times have changed,’ she said, then went sadly out.

Buckinghamshire was painted in its most vivid colours at this time of year and its variegated richness was refreshing to those whose palates had been jaded by city life and whose nostrils had been clogged by its prevailing stench. Westfield’s Men spent the first stage of their journey marvelling at the beauties of nature and inhaling clean country air. It helped them to forget their sorrows. The county was split in half by the Chilterns, which ran across it from east to west to lend a rolling charm. In earlier centuries, the hills had been entirely covered with magnificent beech trees, but they had been thinned out at the order of successive abbots of St Albans, who had owned much of the Chilterns, in order to help the Welsh drovers who were bringing their animals to sell in London. The beechwoods were ideal cover for thieves who stole cattle, sheep, pigs and geese with relative impunity until their places of ambush and refuge were felled by the axe.

Meadow and pasture now predominated, much of it set aside for the feeding and fattening of livestock from Wales before the last part of its trek to the capital. The clay soil responded to the plough and much corn was grown in addition to the grass and hay for the drovers’ animals. Sheep seemed to be grazing everywhere and the rumble of their waggon could make a whole flock go careering around a field as if their tails were on fire. What was amusing to the passing company of actors, however, held a more serious meaning for others. Because of the profits to be gained from offering keep, many landowners converted from arable farming to sheep grazing. The subsequent enclosures brought grave hardship to small farmers, tenants and labourers, and Buckinghamshire was one of several midland counties that suffered periodic rioting against the new dispensation. A tranquil scene held rebellion in its sub-soil.

Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe at a steady pace and they only paused once, at an inn near Uxbridge, to take refreshment and to rest the horses after the first fifteen miles. Anxious to make as much headway as daylight and discretion would allow, the company then pressed on to Beaconsfield before making a final spurt of five miles to bring them to High Wycombe. Firethorn was satisfied. They were over halfway to Oxford and they were offered cordial hospitality at the Fighting Cocks, a fine, big, rambling inn with good food and strong ale in plenty, and rooms enough to accommodate them and three more such companies. For that night at least, they would all sleep in fresh linen.

Nicholas Bracewell took charge of the stabling of the horses and the unloading of the waggon. Everything was carried into the hostelry and put under lock and key. The item that Nicholas guarded most carefully was the chest in which he kept the company’s stock of plays. Since most of them only existed in a single copy, the chest contained the very lifeblood of Westfield’s Men. It was stowed beneath his bed in the chamber that the book holder was to share with Edmund Hoode, a particularly suitable venue since the chest held the entire dramatic output of the playwright.

Hoode had now exchanged his clerical garb for doublet and hose, but his sombre mood retained its hold on him. He stared down at the chest with doleful eyes.

‘Such small accomplishment in so many years!’ he said. ‘That chest contains my whole misguided life, Nick.’

‘Your plays have brought delight to thousands.’

‘And misery to their author.’

‘Edmund-’

‘Bury that box in the ground,’ he said. ‘It will give but short work to the spade. Those are the useless relics of an idle brain and they should be covered with unforgiving earth.’ He heaved a sigh and wrote an epitaph. ‘Here lies Edmund Hoode, a poor scribe, who took his own life with quill and parchment, and left no memory of his passing. Pity him for the emptiness of his existence and despise him for the failure of his ambition. Amen.’

Nicholas put a consolatory arm around his shoulders. Yet another of his friend’s love affairs had miscarried and yet another set of lacerations had been inflicted on a soul that was already striped with anguish. In view of his own broken relationship, the book holder now had a closer affinity with the wounded playwright.

‘Let’s go below for supper,’ he said. ‘A full stomach will remind you of your sterling worth, then you may tell me what has happened.’

‘The words would choke me, Nick!’

‘You need some Canary wine to ease their passage. Come, sir. Let’s join the others.’

After locking the door, they went down to a taproom that was already bubbling with merriment. Westfield’s Men had taken over the largest tables and were tucking into their meal with relish. Fatigue was soon washed away with ale. The landlord was a fund of jollity, the other guests warmed to the lively newcomers and there was a general atmosphere of camaraderie. It was all a far cry from the charred wreck of the Queen’s Head and the ever-lamenting Alexander Marwood. Mine host of the Fighting Cocks clearly liked actors.

His affection was shared by some of the other guests.

‘You are players from London, I hear,’ said one.

‘Westfield’s Men,’ announced Lawrence Firethorn with pride. ‘No company has finer credentials.’

‘Your fame runs before you, sir.’

‘It is no more than we deserve.’

The man stood up from his chair to cross over to them. His grey hair framed a long, clean-shaven face that shone with affability, and his bearing indicated a gentleman. He wore fine clothes and there was further evidence of his prosperity in the rings that adorned both hands. He was in excellent humour.

‘Westfield’s Men,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Are you not led by a titan of the stage called Lawrence Firedrake?’

‘Thorn!’ corrected the other, irritably. ‘Firethorn, sir. If you saw him act, you would never mistake his sharp thorn for the quack of a drake. Lawrence Fire-thorn!’

‘Pardon me, sir,’ said the man. ‘No offence was intended, I assure you.’ He glanced around. ‘And is this same Master Firethorn with you at this time?’

The actor-manager rose to his feet and drew himself to his full height, hands on hips, feet splayed and barrel chest inflated. Inches shorter than the older man, he yet seemed incomparably taller as he imposed his presence upon the taproom. An arrogant smile slit his beard apart.

‘Lawrence Firethorn stands before you now, sir!’

‘Then we are truly honoured,’ said the man with a mixture of delight and humility. ‘My name is Samuel Grace and I travel to London with my daughter, Judith.’ He turned to indicate the attractive young woman who sat at his table. ‘She has never seen a company of actors perform and I would remedy that defect. I beg you, Master Firethorn, let’s have a play here and now.’

Other guests seized on the idea and added their pleas. The landlord was in favour of anything that kept his guests happy and the girl herself, pale, withdrawn and demure, looked up with trembling interest. Firethorn knew better than to comply before any terms had been offered. He held up his hands to quieten the noise then spoke with mock weariness.

‘We thank you all for the compliment of your request,’ he said, resting a hand on the table, ‘but we have travelled well above twenty miles this day. You call for a play that would last two hours and drain us to the very dregs. Our reputation rests on giving of our best and we will not offer your indulgence any less.’

‘Come, come, we must have something!’ insisted Samuel Grace. He appealed to the other guests. ‘Is that not so?’

‘Yes,’ agreed a voice from another corner. ‘Give us a scene or two, Master Firethorn. Speeches to stir our hearts and songs to delight us.’

‘Well said, friend,’ thanked Grace, resuming the task of persuasion. ‘Amuse us with a dance at least. I never saw a play yet that did not end in a fine galliard or a merry jig. My daughter, Judith — God bless the child! — loves the dance. Westfield’s Men surely have enough sprightly legs among them to carry it off. Entertain us, Master Firethorn,’ he instructed, putting a hand into the purse at his belt, ‘and you will be five pounds the richer for it.’

‘I will add half as much again,’ said the man in the corner, ‘if you will put on your costumes and treat this assembly to the wonder of your art.’

Firethorn closed with the offer at once. Seven and a half pounds was considerably more than they would be given at other venues where they might stage a full play, and there was a possibility, if they gave enough pleasure, that the company could coax more money out of other purses. It was a good omen for their tour. Firethorn had a brief consultation with his book holder then he withdrew with his company to acquaint them with the nature of their impromptu performance and to don the appropriate costumes.

Nicholas, meanwhile, aided by George Dart and the other hired men, cleared tables and chairs to create an acting area at the far end of the taproom. Candles and lanterns were set with strategic care to shed light on the arena, and the guests adjusted their seating accordingly. Samuel Grace and his daughter occupied a prime position in the front row. The other sponsor of the entertainment — a rather stout, florid man in his twenties — placed his chair so that he could both view the stage and feast his gaze on the maiden modesty of Judith Grace. He licked his lips in a manner that suggested he had really parted with his money in order to be able to view her reactions to the performance. Judith Grace was to be his night’s entertainment.

The stage was set, there was a fanfare of trumpets and Owen Elias entered in a black cloak to declaim a Prologue. He cut such a dashing figure and attacked the lines with such vigour that he drew a burst of applause. Lawrence Firethorn then swept in as Charlemagne, leading four armed soldiers and yet somehow managing to convince the onlookers that he led a mighty host. He addressed his troops before battle to instil a sense of mission into them then he led the army off with a cry of such piercing volume that it shattered a bottle of Venetian glass that stood on a table for ornament. Martial prowess was followed by rustic comedy as Barnaby Gill took over to play a scene with Edmund Hoode from Cupid’s Folly. The whole room was soon awash with laughter, and Gill compounded their glee by concluding with one of the hilarious jigs that were his hallmark.

It was left to Richard Honeydew to restore order and raise the tone. Dressed as a French princess, he sat on a stool, stroking his long auburn hair and singing plaintive love songs to the accompaniment of the lute. He was the youngest and most talented of the four apprentices and his piping treble had a most affecting timbre. The audience was enchanted and Judith Grace was so struck with it all that she almost swooned. Her father steadied her with his arm.

‘It is only a boy who sings, Judith, no real princess.’

‘I will never believe that is a boy.’

‘She is a lad, I tell you. Cunning in his skills.’

‘It is a girl, father. As I am a girl — so is she.’

Her ogling admirer leant across to make contact.

‘Your father speaks true,’ he said in an oily whisper. ‘Our princess is a mere apprentice with a pretty voice. Girls are not allowed to appear upon the stage. Boys must take their parts and they do it with rare skill.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Judith, then she joined in the clapping as Richard Honeydew ended his contribution and curtseyed. ‘This boy is a girlish miracle.’

Watching from the side, Nicholas Bracewell had also been touched by the apprentice’s solo performance but for another reason. Edmund Hoode had written the lyrics of the songs but they had been set to music by Peter Digby, the brilliant if erratic leader of their consort, yet another to be discarded through the exigencies of the tour. Digby had been replaced by a hired man who, as an actor-musician, could offer double value, indeed, would have a range of functions that his former director could never fulfil. The substitute was now leaving the stage with his lute but the next day would find him harnessing the dray horses, loading the waggon, setting up a stage when they got to Oxford, sweeping and strewing it with fresh rushes, then conning his lines so that he could play half a dozen different roles in a play he had never seen before. An actor’s life was a rehearsal for the madhouse.

As Richard Honeydew and his accompanist left, Nicholas whisked all furniture from the stage so that the six dancers who now entered could cavort at will. Moving with formal grace, they went through a whole range of courtly dances, and the flagstones of the Fighting Cocks became a marble floor at a royal palace. Farce now surged gloriously onto the stage as Barnaby Gill, Owen Elias and Edmund Hoode played three gullible bumpkins who, rousing themselves from a drunken stupor, mistake an old friar for Saint Peter and imagine that they have died and been sent to heaven. In the robes of his order, Lawrence Firethorn was a jolly churchman who took advantage of the men’s stupidity to catechise them about their sins and see if they were fit to be admitted through the gates of what was, in fact, the very ale house where they had first become hopelessly inebriated.

Firethorn was so well versed in the part that he was able to touch off explosions of mirth and give himself the pleasure of gazing upon Judith Grace until the uproar began to fade. He noted that the portly man near the front of the audience had made her the object of his attention as well, but her father was too busy leading the laughter to observe this. Firethorn’s rising lust had the excuse it needed. He would not be pursuing the girl for his own gratification but in order to rescue her from the clutches of a leering stranger. His holy friar vibrated with irreligious intent.

The audience was now treated to music in a lighter vein as two other apprentices — Martin Yeo and John Tallis — sang duets with a fuller musical accompaniment. Wigs, gowns and make-up transformed them into winsome young ladies, though the lantern jaw of John Tallis had an unfeminine solidity to it. When they left the stage, the climax of the entertainment was reached in an extract from Vincentio’s Revenge, a full-blooded tragedy that was synonymous with the name of Westfield’s Men. Lawrence Firethorn, supreme as ever in the title role, had chosen to play the scene in which Vincentio declared his love for the beauteous Cariola, unaware that she was already dying from poison that had been administered in her wine. Richard Honeydew was a superb foil for him as the ill-starred heroine. Here were the two ends of the acting profession — veteran and apprentice — meeting in the middle to produce ten minutes of memorable theatre.

The audience was enthralled, but Firethorn’s interest lay in one particular spectator. His wooing of Cariola was an elaborate courtship of Judith Grace, and the girl eventually seemed to realise this. Surprise gave way to alarm but he soon turned that into burning curiosity. He could feel her gaze following him like a beam of light and when he finally allowed himself to meet her eyes over the fallen body of Cariola, he saw that the conquest had been made. Firethorn and Richard Honeydew took several bows before they were allowed to leave then they returned with the full company to take a final toll of applause.

Samuel Grace was positively hopping with joy. He pressed the five pounds into Firethorn’s hand and thanked him for bringing the magic of theatre into his daughter’s life. The actor-manager was given the opportunity to kiss her hand and inhale her fragrance. It was enough. The caress that she gave his fingers and the secret glance that she shot him were sureties of mutual pleasure and he vowed to bring even more magic into her life in the privacy of her bedchamber. Firethorn had a competitor. The plump man first paid up his share of the cost then tried to engage her in conversation, but Judith Grace turned away with head downcast and hands in her lap. Other guests came up to make smaller contributions for the entertainment and ten pounds in all went into the communal purse of Westfield’s Men.

As the guests dispersed to their beds, Firethorn treated the company to a last drink. One by one, they, too, began to slip away, conscious that they would be off again soon after dawn and hoping to snatch some sleep before first light scratched at the shutters. Lawrence Firethorn produced a monster yawn and pretended to drag himself up the staircase in order to fall upon his bed. The performance did not fool Edmund Hoode for a second.

‘The old cat is mousing again!’ he said bitterly. ‘How does he do it, Nick? Why does he do it?’

‘Because he is Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Well, let him go his way! I do not envy him. I forswear all women. They will never ensnare me again.’

‘How so?’

They were among the last to linger in the taproom and sat companionably at a table. Nicholas Bracewell was in no mood to hear about a fractured romance, because the scene from Vincentio’s Revenge had reminded him irresistibly of his own loss. As the poisoned Cariola died in twitching agony, he saw the murdered girl from Devon stretched out on the floor of his chamber in Bankside. It was not only the young messenger who was beyond his reach. Anne Hendrik was gone as well. The killer had poisoned their friendship. Notwithstanding the twinges that it might bring him, however, Nicholas agreed to listen to Edmund Hoode’s tale of woe for two reasons. It was his duty as a friend to offer sympathy and it would advantage the whole company if he could help to dig their playwright out of his pit of despair and restore him to his rightful position. The chest that held his other plays also housed his foul papers of The Merchant of Calais, last of the three new dramas he was commissioned to write that year. If Hoode were allowed to rid his mind of its latest torment, he might find the impetus to reach once more for his pen.

With this hope in mind, Nicholas turned to him.

‘Who is she, Edmund?’ he asked. ‘Tell me all …’

When Lawrence Firethorn adjourned to his bedchamber, he put the money into his capcase then turned his thoughts to Mistress Judith Grace. Young and untutored, she was desirous of experience and ready to place her education in the hands of a master. Her brief taste of theatre had opened up both mind and heart in a most bewitching way. It would be churlish of Firethorn to deny her the crowning act of pleasure. In the nakedness of their embrace, he would also be her knight in shining armour, jousting with the unwanted attentions of his adversary and knocking the rude fellow from his saddle. Altruism would be truly served.

Twopence in the palm of one of the chamberlains had bought him the location of her bedchamber, and he gave her plenty of time to detach herself from her father and make her preparations. Meanwhile, he addressed himself to his moustache and beard, peering by candlelight into his mirror in order to twist the one and curl the other to the required degree of excellence. When fingers and comb had done their work, he left the room, locked the door then crept along the dark corridor with the noiseless tread of a seasoned lecher. Lawrence Firethorn was equally sure-footed, whether performing at the centre of the stage or going about some backstairs work.

He felt his way to her chamber, tapped lightly on the door and waited. There was no answer. He knocked more loudly but still elicited no reply. Trying the latch, he was pleased to find the door unbolted and was inside the room at once. A lone candle was flickering beside the bed like a gentle invitation. Judith Grace had covered her modesty with white linen and was a timid protuberance between the sheets. He simply had to take his place beside her and wear down her token resistance. Before he could bolt the door behind him, there was another tap, accompanied by a hoarse whisper and the raising of the latch. Lawrence Firethorn leapt back into the shadows as a hefty profile came into view. The newcomer shut the door behind him then gazed at the bed.

‘Judith!’ he called softly. ‘I have come.’

‘Then you may depart again,’ growled Firethorn, stepping out to confront the man who had tried to force himself upon the girl earlier. ‘Away, you rogue!’

‘I say the same to you, sir!’

‘Will you quarrel with me?’

‘I’ll quarrel with anyone who stands between me and my prize. You intrude, Master Firethorn. I am here by right.’

‘You are a walking insult to womanhood!’

‘I was chosen.’

‘A blind hag with a withered arm would not choose you.’

‘Nor you, sir!’

‘She swooned at my feet.’

‘She preferred my wooing.’

‘She squeezed my palm.’

‘She gave me her handkerchief.’

‘Stay further, and I’ll strike you!’ hissed Firethorn then he blinked as he actually heard what the man had just told him. ‘Handkerchief?’

‘What clearer signal could be given?’

‘Handkerchief!’

‘I have it here.’

Even in the gloom, Firethorn could see that it was hers and catch her perfume upon it. This fat and unprepossessing creature did actually have a reason for being in her bedchamber. The actor spun round to accuse Judith Grace but he was talking to some large pillows. Each man had thought himself a favoured lover when both of them were mere gulls. It was Firethorn who reacted most quickly to the situation.

‘We are abused, sir,’ he said.

‘But why?’

‘Return to your chamber.’

‘My chamber?’

‘They mean to rob us.’

‘Heaven forfend!’

They went out, groping their way in opposite directions to their rooms. Firethorn found his unlocked and ran across to his capcase. The night’s takings had vanished along with the rest of the money he carried. While he had been sliding off to deflower a virgin, she and her accomplice had robbed him and his company of over fifteen pounds. Vengeance sent molten lava coursing through his veins and he reached for his rapier. The clatter of hooves on the cobbles below took him quickly to the window where moonlight gave him a glimpse of two figures riding out of the yard before they merged conspiratorially with the darkness. Firethorn slashed the air wildly with his sword in a futile display of rage. What hurt him most was not that the thieves had escaped with his money, that of his supposed rival and, presumably, with additional valuables lifted from other unsuspecting guests. Real mortification came from the affront to his professional pride.

Lawrence Firethorn had been out-acted.

‘Women are all devils, Nick,’ said Edmund Hoode with glazed horror. ‘They flaunt their beauty to drag us down to hell.’

‘That is not the case here,’ observed Nicholas.

‘It is. She held me in thrall.’

‘The fault may lie with you rather than her, Edmund.’

‘Indeed, it does! I confess it. That is the hideous truth of it. I put my head willingly upon the block of disgrace. I am mine own executioner.’

Nicholas disagreed but he was too tactful to explain why. From what he had heard, he was fairly certain that the axe had been held by a familiar headsman. The unexpected return of an irate husband had the ring of stage-management to him, and he guessed at once who had usurped his role. To tell Edmund Hoode that he had been duped by a colleague as well as being deprived of his carnal rewards would be to sew perpetual enmity between playwright and actor-manager. Nicholas was forced to conceal what he would never condone.

His distraught companion detected a pattern.

‘Disaster is triple-tongued,’ he groaned. ‘This is the third time that it has blown its blast in my ears.’

‘You have had ill luck, Edmund, that is all.’

‘I have been punished for meddling with devils.’

‘You do the lady a disservice.’

‘Look back, Nick. You were there on both occasions.’

‘Where?’

‘At the scene of my calamities.’ Hoode counted them off on his fingers. ‘One, my play The Merry Devils. Remember what afflictions that brought in its wake, and how I suffered vile torments. Two, my other venture into hell, The Devil’s Ride Through London. I paid for that rash mockery as well. Our theatre was all but burnt to the ground. Three, Mistress Jane Diamond. The vintner was not her true husband. She was contracted to Satan himself and set me up to suffer the worst pangs of all. I have been well paid for my folly.’

‘It is not so, Edmund.’

‘Where is your proof?’

‘Let me follow your numbers.’ Nicholas held up his finger. ‘One, The Merry Devils was not your play but a work jointly written by you and Ralph Willoughby. He it was who had the kinship with the Devil and who paid for it with his life. You at least survived. Two-’

But Nicholas got no further with his argument. Lawrence Firethorn came hurtling down the stairs with his sword in his hand and his teeth bared. The book holder abandoned one injured party and rushed to the assistance of a more recent one. Firethorn was berserk.

‘What ails you, sir?’ said Nicholas.

‘Betrayal! Perfidy! Wickedness.’

Hoode actually laughed. ‘She turned him down,’ he said.

‘The villains have robbed me!’ yelled Firethorn. ‘They took all the money that we strove to earn tonight.’

‘How?’ asked Nicholas.

‘They got into my chamber while I remained here below. It was only when I checked the contents of my capcase that I discovered the theft.’

‘Hold there, Lawrence,’ said Hoode sceptically. ‘Our takings went into your purse and stayed there until you went upstairs. They could not steal money that was not yet placed in your chamber.’

‘Do you call me a liar!’

Firethorn bludgeoned him into silence with a burst of vituperation then gave an edited version of events. He could never admit that he had been lured away from his room by the wiles of a pretty face, though Nicholas was already certain that that was what had happened. Hearing of the flight of the putative father and daughter, he pressed for detail.

‘Has anyone else been robbed?’

‘That fellow who paid us for our entertainment.’

‘Master Fat-Guts?’ said Hoode.

‘They emptied his pockets as well.’

‘How do you know?’ wondered Nicholas.

‘I met the man on the landing.’

‘Did he tell you that he had been fleeced?’

‘Forget about him, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Our own money is gone. That is our only concern.’

‘I fear not.’

‘Why?’

‘There is deeper villainy here. Call the landlord.’

‘He cannot chase those two rogues.’

‘They may be three in number,’ said Nicholas.

Hauled from his bed, the landlord was alarmed at the news and identified the obese guest as one William Pocock. Nicholas asked to be taken to the man’s bedchamber, and all four of them went tramping up the staircase. The book holder’s fears were realised. When he saw that Pocock’s room was empty, he guessed that the man had gone off to join his two partners. Evidently, all three had worked cleverly together.

Lawrence Firethorn was completely abashed. Cheated by a young woman, he had also been led astray by another ruse, for Pocock’s role in the enterprise had been to detain him long enough in Judith Grace’s bedchamber for his confederates to gain entry to the actor’s own room. Firethorn was too busy nursing his bruised dignity to spy any poetic justice in it all, but Nicholas saw it at once. Having caused havoc in a bedchamber for Edmund Hoode, the culprit had now experienced shame and panic of the same order. It was not a thought over which the book holder lingered. In the vague hope that Pocock might not yet have left the premises, he ordered the others to search the establishment and went racing off downstairs to the taproom. He grabbed one of the lanterns and hastened out into the yard.

The place was deserted. Apart from the whistle of a slight breeze and the occasional movement of horses in the stables, there was no noise. To make a swift departure, Samuel Grace and his daughter — and Nicholas doubted very much if that was their true relationship — must have had their mounts saddled and ready. Pocock would likewise have an animal in waiting that could be ridden instantly away. Nicholas therefore headed for the stables, using the lantern to throw its meagre light a few paces ahead of him. He reached the door of the first stable block, lifted the wooden bar that held it in place, drew it open and went in. Hooves shifted in straw and there was a stray whinny from the far end of the stables. All the horses were tethered to their mangers. Wooden pails of water stood beside them.

Nicholas checked each beast but none was saddled. If Pocock had a horse in readiness, it must be on the other side of the yard. The book holder turned to walk back down the rows of horses when he had a mild shock. The door, which he had left open, had now been shut, and the faint square of light that he would have aimed for had disappeared. If the wind had been responsible, the door would have creaked on its hinges and banged. Some human agency was involved. The animals confirmed it because they became restive and inquisitive. One neigh set off a few more, a bucket was kicked over and the rustling of straw was constant. The lantern was an inadequate guide but it made Nicholas an obvious target, so he quickly doused the flame and put the object aside. He slipped a hand around to the back of his belt to remove his dagger from its scabbard.

Danger was an old enemy and Nicholas was not afraid of it. Anyone who walked home through the fetid streets and lanes of Bankside every evening developed a sixth sense for an impending threat. Who was in the stable and why was his presence so menacing? It was surely not Pocock, whose sole interest must be in immediate flight. Slovenly and overweight, the man was ill-equipped to take on the powerful Nicholas in any kind of fight. And what motive could he possibly have? The book holder carried no money. He was up against a more practised adversary, one who could close a squeaking wooden door without making a murmur, one who could lie patiently in wait for his quarry to come within range. Was he armed with sword, dagger or club? Or could he rely on the strength of his muscles to subdue Nicholas?

Amid the breathing of the animals and the motion of their feet, Nicholas strained his ears to listen for sounds of the man’s whereabouts. The clink of harness made him swing around but it had been made by the toss of a horse’s head against a dangling bridle. A startled neigh made him face in the opposite direction but he could make nothing out in the thick gloom. It was the rat that betrayed him. It came out of the straw with such rustling urgency that Nicholas found himself jabbing his dagger in that direction. Something hard and numbing crashed down on his hand to knock the weapon from his grasp then the man was upon him from behind, tightening a knotted cord around his neck and trying to put his knee into the small of Nicholas’s back to get leverage. The cord had sharp teeth and seemed to be eating right through his throat. It was being held by a man who had used this instrument of death before.

Nicholas responded at once, using both elbows to pump backwards into the man’s ribs then slipping one of his hands under the rope when there was a fleeting relief in tension. He began to twist and turn so violently that the man had to adjust his footing all the time and there was a slight loss of venom in the rope’s bite, but Nicholas could still not dislodge him and his own strength was waning. His cheeks reddened, his eyes bulged, his veins stood out, his mouth went dry and the pounding in his head became more insistent. He felt as if a dozen sword points were simultaneously pushing their way through his neck in order to meet in the middle.

Summoning up all of his energy, he dipped down low then launched himself backwards, knocking the man into the side of a loose box with such force that his grip on the cord was lost. Nicholas tore it from his neck, threw it away and tried to meet his attacker face-to-face, but the flank of a horse came round at him to buffet him away. The man had had enough. Seeing the chance of escape, he scrambled to his feet and got in a glancing punch to Nicholas’s face before he scuttled off down the stables and out through the door. It banged madly this time and Nicholas lurched towards it, but the strangulation had squeezed much of the power from his limbs and he could offer no swift pursuit. The attacker was, in any case, already in the saddle and spurring his horse away from the inn. By the time Nicholas staggered out into the yard to rub at the stinging red weal on his neck and stare around with blurred eyes, his adversary was hundreds of yards away.

When the mist cleared sufficiently from his mind for him to be able to think properly, Nicholas realised why the attempt on his life had been made. Simply because she bore a message to him, the life had been mercilessly crushed out of a harmless girl. Now that he was heading for home, Nicholas had become a potential murder victim. Someone was going to great lengths to stop him from reaching Barnstaple and he was lucky to be able to continue the journey. He would now do so with greater vigilance and increased determination because one thing was certain. The man who gained the advantage over him in the stables was undoubtedly proficient in his trade. He would strike again.

The three confederates met up again at an abandoned hovel near Stokenchurch. By the light of a candle, they counted out their booty and divided it into four equal parts. The older man handed one share to the girl and another to the erstwhile William Pocock. As their leader, he claimed the other half of the money and stuffed it into a capcase that was already bulging. They compared notes over the night’s escapades and chuckled for a long time at the embarrassment they had inflicted on Westfield’s Men.

‘Firethorn was the biggest gull of them all,’ said the older man. He put a sly arm around the girl’s slim waist. ‘To think he could bed my wife with a wave of his arms and couple of ranting speeches. He got his just deserts. No, you are all mine, are you not, Judith Grace?’

‘Yes, Father,’ she said with a sensual giggle.

‘Kiss me.’

The other man nibbled on a stolen leg of ham while the two of them enjoyed a long embrace with guzzling kisses. The young woman eventually threw a compliment across at their corpulent associate.

‘Ned served us well,’ she said.

‘So you did, Ned,’ agreed her husband.

‘Shall we work that ruse again?’ asked Ned.

‘No,’ said the older man. ‘We must find new ways to pluck the chicken each time or its feathers will stick. And we must give mine host of the Fighting Cocks a long rest before we use his inn as our lure again. We’ll ride to the other side of Oxford before we choose our next cony. That will mean a change of apparel for Ellen and me.’

‘I am Ellen again, am I?’ complained his wife. ‘I so enjoyed being Mistress Judith Grace. Virginity becomes me.’

‘And I was happy as William Pocock,’ said Ned.

The older man was emphatic. ‘New places, new garb, new names. It is the one sure way to elude capture. If they search for a Samuel Grace, his beautiful daughter and a fat gentlemen with his breeches on fire for her, they will not look at two old Oxford scholars and their servant.’

They ate, drank, discussed their plans further then lay out their bedding for the last few hours before dawn. As the three of them settled down, the old man came to a decision that made him cackle afresh.

‘We’ll hit them again.’

‘Who?’ asked Ned.

‘Westfield’s Men.’

‘Think of the danger,’ warned Ellen.

‘They would tear us apart if they knew,’ said Ned.

‘That is the attraction,’ explained their leader. ‘It is a battle of wits here. Lawrence Firethorn is the prince of his profession and I of mine. We are well matched. He can play fifty parts at a moment’s notice but he could not dissemble as well as I can.’

‘Do you think he knows who you are?’ said Ellen.

‘He will, my sweet.’

She was proud of her husband. ‘The landlord will tell him when he sees the truth. There is only one man who could lay such a bold plot for a whole company of players — and that is the famous Israel Gunby.’

‘The infamous and wanted Israel Gunby,’ said Ned.

‘The great Israel Gunby,’ she added.

Ellen snuggled up to her husband and they lay entwined. Though they shared a mean hovel in the Chilterns instead of a comfortable bed at the Fighting Cocks, she did not mind. This was where she wanted to be. They were rich, happy and free. The open road was their kingdom and they could feed off travellers whenever and wherever they liked. Westfield’s Men had been given a generous amount of money by them and then robbed of far more. It lent a sense of style to the whole enterprise. She kissed her husband again then clung to his lean body like a squirrel holding on to the bark of the tree. Israel Gunby was the most notorious highwaymen of them all, and she loved him for it. Life with him was continuous excitement. Only one question now remained.

When would they need to kill their accomplice?