The Silent Woman

Chapter Seven

Daylight brought no relief for Westfield’s Men. They awoke to find the inn washed by a steady drizzle of rain. It would be a sodden journey to Marlborough. As they breakfasted on toasted bread and ale, they were unhappy and mutinous. Life outside London was a pilgrimage of pain. Owen Elias was still weak from loss of blood because his injury was more serious than he had at first admitted. The dagger intended for Nicholas Bracewell’s back had instead sliced through the sleeve of the actor’s jerkin and left a deep gash down his arm and hand. It was vital to stem the bleeding at once, and Nicholas took on this duty himself. During his three years at sea, he had witnessed some horrific injuries and some hideous diseases. By swift and careful treatment, the ship’s doctor had saved many lives and returned countless broken bones to full use. Nicholas had watched him clean and bind up the most appalling wounds, and he followed the same principles with Owen Elias. The tight bandaging would protect the wound until they reached a town where a surgeon could examine and re-dress the injury.

Another blow hit the company, albeit in retrospect. The farmer who brought in the daily supply of milk to the inn also carried the local gossip. He told of a shepherd who had been stopped and stripped of his smock, hat and crook by no less a highwayman than Israel Gunby. The disguise had only been used for an hour before being returned to its owner with a purse of money. Lawrence Firethorn was livid. To be deceived by Israel Gunby once was a humiliation; to be gulled a second time was unendurable. While Firethorn took it as a personal affront, the rest of the company saw it as a general threat. Having swooped on them once, Israel Gunby and his vulturous partners were now circling them again before moving in to pick their bones clean.

Their morale was lower than ever as they set off in the drizzle. Swirling discontent found a spokesman in Barnaby Gill. He identified the culprit with a sneer.

‘I blame our book holder for all this!’

‘You are unjust,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick Bracewell is the very backbone of this company. He puts Westfield’s Men first in all that he does.’

‘Then why is he travelling to Barnstaple?’ said Gill.

‘Because his family live there,’ replied Edmund Hoode.

Gill was testy. ‘We all have families. Lawrence has one back in London, you have parents in Kent, I have a mother and two sisters in Norwich, even that heathen Welshman must have some sort of kith and kin across the border.’ He sat upright in his saddle with pursed indignation. ‘When the company has need of us, however, we do not go running back home in the name of family obligation.’

‘Nick is loyal,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘He agreed to guide us all the way to the West Country before taking his leave of us. I ask you, Barnaby — where would we be without Nick Bracewell at the helm?’

‘At the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street.’

‘We were burnt out, man.’

‘Whose mind devised that brazier?’ said Gill acidly. ‘Whose hand kindled that flame? Our book holder’s. He is the cause of all our misery and it is never-ending.’

‘Nick was the hero of the fire,’ said Hoode with a passionate defence of his friend. ‘Do you not remember the danger he averted? Can you not recall his selfless courage? Have you not heard the ballad about the fire?’

‘A ragged piece,’ said Gill, ‘and not to be trusted for one moment. The ballad does not mention me at all. And I was the first victim of the blaze.’

The three men were riding together at the head of the party as it bumped along a rutted road near Wantage. Other sharers were strung out behind them, and the waggon was now loaded to capacity. Since Owen Elias was disabled from driving the vehicle, Nicholas Bracewell had taken over the reins. Owen sat beside him and sang a Welsh air in a doleful baritone voice. The four apprentices were huddled together under a tarpaulin, and the hired men aboard found what shelter they could beneath cloaks and blankets. George Dart had been given the signal honour of riding the roan, and he brought up the rear with a pride that no amount of fine rain could dampen. Alone of Westfield’s Men, he thought it the most beautiful day of the year.

‘Consider it well,’ said Gill, returning to his attack. ‘Nicholas Bracewell has brought us ill luck at every turn. He got us thrown out of London and robbed at High Wycombe.’

‘You cannot lay the robbery at his feet,’ said Hoode.

‘At his feet and at Lawrence’s codpiece. They are the guilty parts of the anatomy here.’ He raised his voice over Firethorn’s protest. ‘We are the actors and have work enough to do performing our roles in a makeshift entertainment. We rely on Nicholas to set up the stage and weigh the audience in the balance. He should have picked out Israel Gunby.’

‘How?’ asked Hoode.

‘By instinct.’

‘In a taproom full of other travellers?’

‘Nicholas is our great voyager, is he not?’ mocked Gill. ‘He has sailed around the world and seen all sorts and conditions of men. That has given him a sixth sense about people. Lawrence has turned to him again and again.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘because Nick has never let us down. He can read the character of a man at a glance and see into his virtues and his defects.’

‘He did not read Israel Gunby at a glance.’

‘No more did you, Barnaby. Nor I, nor Edmund here.’

‘Nicholas is there to protect us.’

‘Even he has limitations.’

‘This tour has revealed them,’ continued Gill. ‘He has served us well in the past, I grant you, but he is now the symbol of our misfortune. Without him, there would have been no Israel Gunby to abuse us, no plague in Oxford to vex us and no second visitation from Gunby to tantalise us.’

‘Do not forget this drizzle,’ said Hoode sarcastically. ‘Without Nick, we would be basking in bright sunshine and filling our pockets with the money that grew on every bush that we passed. This is arrant nonsense, Barnaby!’

‘And is that injury to Owen Elias arrant nonsense?’

‘That is another matter,’ muttered Firethorn.

‘Another matter for which our revered book holder must be held responsible,’ persisted Gill. ‘He was attacked at the Dog and Bear last night. The gallant Welshman came to his rescue and almost lost an arm. Will you absolve Nicholas there as well?’

‘I will,’ replied Hoode fiercely. ‘You cannot blame a man because he is set upon by some drunken reveller.’

‘That drunken reveller was as sober as a pine needle.’

‘Owen will recover,’ said Firethorn, trying to deflect his colleague from a disagreeable topic. ‘That is all that matters as far as Westfield’s Men are concerned.’

‘Until this villain strikes again.’

‘What villain?’

‘The one who is stalking Nicholas.’

‘There is no such person,’ said Hoode weakly.

‘Leave off this talk,’ added Firethorn uncomfortably.

‘Tell me who caused that disturbance at the Fighting Cocks and I will,’ challenged Gill. His companions traded an uneasy glance. ‘I am not blind, gentleman. Nicholas went out to the stables and came back dishevelled. A horse was heard galloping away from the inn. Who rode it?’

‘Israel Gunby’s fat accomplice,’ said Hoode.

‘He would not dare to measure his strength against our book holder. An impudent rascal he may have been, but he was no fighting man. I believe that Nicholas was set on by the same person who came back again last night and maimed Owen. Deny it, if you will.’ He paused. ‘Well?’

Lawrence Firethorn and Edmund Hoode maintained a shifty silence. They had both been told by Nicholas Bracewell why he had to go to Barnstaple, and danger was implicit in that journey. Barnaby Gill had worked out for himself what they already knew and he drew a conclusion that heightened their discomfort considerably.

‘We are marked men,’ said Gill. ‘As long as we carry Nicholas Bracewell with us, we are all at risk. When and where will this rogue launch his next assault? Which of us will be wounded on that occasion?’ He nudged Firethorn. ‘Get rid of him, Lawrence. Put the safety of the company first and send him off to Barnstaple. Or this fellow who pursues him will murder us all, one by one!’

Marriage to an actor was always a hazardous undertaking and when that actor was Lawrence Firethorn, the relationship could never even approximate to conventional notions of holy matrimony. Solemn vows made before the altar could not bind a couple in perpetuity. In the interests of survival, they had to be continuously rearranged to meet each new situation as it arose. Margery Firethorn was a potent woman with a single-minded commitment to getting her own way, but even she could not impose a rigid structure upon her connubial bliss. Her husband could be guided but never wholly controlled. It would be easier to stitch the Lord’s Prayer onto a soap bubble than to fit Lawrence Firethorn into anything that resembled normal married life, and Margery’s own tempestuous nature could never be contained within a wifely role. Their love had been tested many a time, and although it had acquired layers of cynicism on her side and a few startling blemishes on his, it had never been found wanting. They might wrangle and accuse but they were always working together and the sense of a common vision kept them immoveably in each other’s arms and minds.

The common vision took her to the Queen’s Head.

‘They have started in earnest.’

‘I see that, Leonard.’

‘The carpenters will be here for a fortnight or more,’ he said, ‘then the plasterers and painters will come, too.’

‘There’s thatch to be replaced as well,’ she noted, looking up at the part of the roof where Nicholas Bracewell had prostrated himself. ‘You’ll need fresh reeds up there to keep out the wind and rain.’

‘It will all be done in time, mistress.’

They were in the courtyard of the inn amid the rasp of saws and the din of hammers. Carpentry was a deafening occupation. The problem with the work of restoration was that the Queen’s Head had to look worse before it could look better. A section of the balconies had been cut away entirely to leave a yawning hole in the corner of the yard. Wooden scaffolding held up the remaining part of the structure. Where supports had burnt through, props had been temporarily inserted to prevent any further subsidence. They would be replaced in time by the stout oak of ship’s timbers that were finding a useful purpose in life now that their sailing days were over. The work was slow, hard and expensive but it conformed to a definite plan.

‘Did you find the courier?’ asked Leonard.

‘He left the city at dawn,’ said Margery. ‘With God’s speed, he should reach Marlborough some time tomorrow. We must pray that the warning is in time to be of use.’

‘Did you tell Master Bracewell that I saw the man?’

‘It has not been forgotten, Leonard.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’

‘That portrait was largely your work.’

‘I am glad to be of service.’

Margery gave him a gracious smile. ‘Do not let me detain you from your duties,’ she said, gazing around the yard, ‘for I must be about mine. Where is that whining innkeeper who pays your wages?’

‘He is in the taproom. Do you wish to speak with him?’

‘No, I wish to know that he is occupied so that I may place my argument where it will have more influence. It is too soon to reason with Alexander Marwood.’

‘It is,’ agreed Leonard. ‘He has a fit of the ague every time the name Westfield’s Men is heard. I will hold back my plea until he is more settled in his mind.’

‘Tread with care.’

‘I go on tiptoe.’

‘Choose your moment to woo the wretch back to us.’

‘I will. And you?’

‘Leave me to work upon his wife.’

They bade their farewells and parted. Leonard went off to unload some more barrels from the dray while Margery took a first small step towards repairing the shattered relations between the Queen’s Head and Westfield’s Men. She had come at the express request of her husband. While the company was on the road, she and Lord Westfield were its representatives in London. The aristocrat would be brought into the scheme of things later on when the pontification of a patron might have more impact. At this stage, Margery Firethorn was a much more effective advocate for the exiled troupe. She could insinuate herself into places where no sane man would ever dare to venture.

Sybil Marwood was in the room at the rear of the inn, which was used as a parlour during the rare moments when she and her husband could actually pause for rest. She was a plump, severe and unlovely woman who was spending her middle years bitterly regretting the follies of her youth. What had once been pleasant features had now congealed into a mask of deep disappointment. Sybil Marwood had so much iron in her soul that a team of miners would be kept busy for a month trying to extract it and several picks would be broken in the process.

She gave Margery a gruff welcome and invited her in.

‘We have met before,’ reminded Margery.

‘Yes,’ came the tight-lipped reply.

‘I gave you sound advice. On that occasion, too, I was able to show you the error of your ways and point out where true profit and advancement lay.’

‘What do you want?’ hissed Sybil.

‘To speak with you, woman to woman.’

‘Wife to wife, more like!’

‘That, too.’

‘I know your game, Mistress Firethorn,’ said Sybil with a derisive sneer. ‘My husband has broken with your husband and you seek to use me to join them together again.’

‘That is quite false.’

‘Why else would you deign to visit me?’

‘To keep them apart.’

Sybil Marwood was taken aback. She had been extremely displeased to see her visitor and to be reminded of the man whose company had all but burnt her home and workplace to the ground. Her immediate assumption was that Margery had come on behalf of Westfield’s Men to sue for reinstatement at the Queen’s Head. What other motive would bring her there? Sybil turned on the basilisk gaze she usually reserved for her husband but Margery did not wilt. Calm and poised, she waited for her cue to offer a full explanation. Her husband had taught her the importance of dressing for the occasion, so Margery had put on her smartest attire and her most spectacular hat. Shoes, gloves and all accessories combined to give a stunning effect. Sybil Marwood was in the presence of a lady, and it made her self-conscious about her own drab clothes and greasy mob cap. She became fractionally more respectful.

‘Would you care to sit down, mistress?’ she said.

‘I may not stay long,’ said Margery, glancing at the dust on every surface in the room and vowing not to soil her dress by contact with it. ‘I have too much to do.’

‘You spoke of keeping them apart.’

‘So I did.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘Westfield’s Men must never return here.’

‘Nor will they,’ promised Sybil. ‘My husband has sworn that they will never cross our threshold again and I will keep him to that decision.’

‘I pray that you do, mistress.’

‘Why?’

‘Because our good fortune collapses else.’

‘Good fortune?’

Margery took a step towards her and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. The basilisk glare had now been diluted to a look of open-eyed wonder.

‘May I trust you never to repeat this?’ said Margery.

‘On my honour!’

‘Most of all, you must not tell your husband.’

‘Alexander is a fool. I tell him nothing.’

‘A sound rule for any marriage.’

‘What is this good fortune?’

‘Westfield’s Men have been approached.’

‘By whom?’

‘Another innkeeper. Hearing that their contract here had been torn up, he straightway stepped in to offer a home for the company. Is not this wonderful news?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Sybil, uncertainly, feeling the first itch of envy. ‘Who is this innkeeper?’

‘That is a secret I must keep locked in my bosom. But I tell you this, though his inn be smaller than yours, he looks to make a larger profit out of his new tenants.’

‘Profit?’ The word was a talisman.

‘He cannot understand why the Queen’s Head would let such a rich source of income go.’

‘That rich source of income set fire to our premises!’

‘It was the wind that did that, mistress,’ said Margery. ‘Westfield’s Men saved your inn from complete destruction. That ballad says it all. Nicholas Bracewell and the others put their lives at risk for you and your husband. It is one of the reasons that persuaded this other interested party to step forward. He admires men of such quality.’

‘Where is this hostelry?’ said Sybil.

Margery clapped her hands in glee. ‘That is a further boon,’ she explained. ‘It is outside the city walls and therefore free from the jurisdiction of the authorities. They hate the theatre and do all they can to suppress it. If Westfield’s Men leave here, they leave behind interference and disapproval. Nothing will hinder them from now on.’

Sybil was mystified. ‘So why do you come to me?’

‘To ensure the safety of the new contract.’

‘In what way?’

‘The innkeeper is a possessive man. He wants the company to be solely his. My husband has assured him that the Queen’s Head has repudiated its contract with the company. Is that not so?’

‘It is, it is.’

‘Then it must be seen to be so,’ stressed Margery. ‘If your husband were even to consider renewing that contract, I fear it will frighten our new landlord away. He is very jealous and prone to impulsive action. You know how men are when they set their minds on something.’

‘Only too well!’

‘May we count on your help here?’

‘Indeed,’ said Sybil. ‘I will ensure that Alexander has no further contact with Westfield’s Men. What did the actors do except fill our yard with people of the lower sort?’

‘They filled your balconies with gallants and their ladies,’ reminded Margery. ‘And they also filled your pockets with money. How much beer and ale did you sell when a play brought the crowds to the Queen’s Head?’ She rammed home another argument. ‘How much fame did the company bestow upon your inn? Why did so many visitors to London flock to Gracechurch Street for their entertainment instead of to Southwark or Shoreditch? Westfield’s Men gave you a noble reputation.’

‘That is true,’ conceded the other then hardened. ‘But it is a reputation for licentious behaviour. Actors are born lechers. Our daughter, Rose, barely escaped with her virginity twice a day when we harboured those lusty gentlemen.’

‘Come, come,’ said Margery roguishly, ‘we were young ourselves at one time. Think back. Lusty gentlemen were not so unwelcome then.’

A distant gleam of pleasure lit up Sybil’s face, but it was extinguished immediately as she spat out an accusation.

‘One of the players kept sending Rose some verses.’

‘A rhyming couplet will not get you with child.’

‘My daughter cannot read.’

‘Then she is safe from corruption.’

‘We are glad to see the last of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Then you see the last of the profits they brought in.’

Sybil snorted. ‘Where is the profit in a raging fire? How much money do we make from fighting apprentices?’

‘Fire is an act of God,’ said Margery, ‘and every inn and dwelling in London lives in fear of it. As for affrays among apprentices, they are caused by your ale and not by any play. Besides, no performance by Westfield’s Men has ever been stopped because of a riot. Drama imposes order on the unruly. It is only afterwards that the drunkards fight.’

‘Not any more. We have Leonard to quell any brawls.’

‘And who brought Leonard to the Queen’s Head?’

Sybil paused. ‘Master Bracewell.’

‘It was only one of many favours he did you.’

Margery had sewed the seeds of self-interest and given them enough water to promote growth. She could now let Sybil Marwood loose on her long-suffering husband. The notion of handing over a lucrative contract to another landlord would at least make Alexander Marwood think again, and the fact that their rival had been plucked out of the air by Margery would never occur to them. An abode that thrived on marital discord had now been given fruitful source of conflict.

Pausing at the door, Margery threw in a last argument.

‘You have another reason to thank Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘How so?’

‘A messenger, sent to him from Devon, took refreshment here at the Queen’s Head and died before the message could be delivered.’

‘Died? From what cause?’

‘Poisoned ale.’

‘Our drink is the purest in London.’

‘That is what everyone believes,’ said Margery. ‘I am sure you would not have them think otherwise.’

‘How could they?’

‘By mischievous report. Nicholas Bracewell says that poison was put into the ale in the taproom by one of your patrons. Murder occurred under this very roof.’

‘Murder!’

‘The messenger died elsewhere, but the villainy took place not twenty yards from where we stand. It would not advantage you, if that story were to spread.’

‘It must not!’

‘Nicholas Bracewell is discreet on your behalf.’

‘We are greatly indebted to him.’

Margery Firethorn was a prudent gardener. ‘Such an event could be the ruination of you,’ she said, irrigating the seeds once more with a final sprinkling. ‘When the Queen’s Head was the home of Westfield’s Men it had renown and distinction. Who would wish to visit an establishment that was notorious for its poisonous ale?’

She could almost hear the first green shoots pushing up.

Berkshire was a beautiful county and the drizzle relented to enable them to see it at its best. Warm sunshine dried them off, lifted their heads and gladdened their hearts. The Vale of the White Horse was unusual in being set aside almost exclusively for corn production, and fields of gold danced and waved all around them. Seen from the top of a rolling waggon, the simplicity of country life had an appeal that was very beguiling, and more than one of the travellers mused about exchanging it for the vicissitudes of their own existence. Local inhabitants took an opposite view, looking up in wonder as the gaily attired troupe went past and imagining the joys of belonging to such an elite profession. Even jaded actors knew how to catch the eye of an audience.

Wantage supplied a surgeon for Owen Elias, and the wound was treated before being bound up again. Since the injury had been sustained because of him, Nicholas Bracewell paid the surgeon, who complimented him on the way that he himself had first attended to the patient. An inn at Hungerford gave the company excellent refreshment, and they set off for the final stage of their journey with their misgivings largely subdued. Even Barnaby Gill had lost his sourness. With the prospect of willing spectators ahead of them, Westfield’s Men rallied even more. The waggon broke into song and Owen Elias’s voice was now merry as well as melodious.

When they crossed the border into Wiltshire, the company gave an involuntary cheer. They did not have too far to go now. Richard Honeydew clambered into the driving seat beside Nicholas Bracewell and sought to improve his education.

‘They say that Wiltshire is covered with forests.’

‘That is only partly true,’ said Nicholas, still at the reins. ‘There are belts of woodland stretching right across the county, and when we reach Marlborough, we will be sitting on the edge of one of the finest forests in England.’

‘What is it called?’

‘Savernake.’

The boy’s face ignited. ‘Does it have wild animals?’

‘Hundreds of them, Dick.’

‘Bears and wolves?’

‘They were killed off centuries ago when Savernake was a royal forest. You’ll still find foxes, badgers, rabbits and hares, not to mention herds of deer. And there are game birds of all description.’ Nicholas turned to smile at him. ‘But most of the wild animals there run on two legs.’

‘Two legs?’

‘Poachers,’ explained Owen Elias, who sat behind them. ‘When we get there, Savernake will have another two-legged wild animal. I can snare a rabbit or catch a pheasant with the best of them. Put your trust in me, lads, and we’ll have roast venison for a week.’

‘And the law down upon our necks,’ warned Nicholas.

‘You told me it was only partly true,’ the apprentice said to him. ‘What else does this county have?’

‘Great windswept plains and downs. That is where the real wealth of Wiltshire lies, not in its woods and its ploughland. Do you know why, Dick?’

‘No.’

‘Sheep.’

‘We have seen hundreds already.’

‘Travel around the county and you will see thousands upon thousands.’ Nicholas warmed to his theme. ‘Wiltshire is able to support an endless number of sheep on its thin soil. Their fleeces and flesh have made many people rich. Take but the case of William Stumpe.’

‘Who?’

‘William Stumpe of Malmesbury.’

The boy giggled. ‘It is a funny name.’

‘Nobody laughed at him when he was alive for he became the most prosperous man in the town. Shall I tell you how?’

‘Please.’ Richard Honeydew nodded his enthusiasm.

‘William Stumpe was a clothier,’ said Nicholas. ‘He bought himself an abbey at the Dissolution.’

‘Why?’

‘A man must have somewhere to set his looms. He paid over fifteen hundred pound for Malmesbury Abbey, then granted to the town the nave of the abbey church so that it could serve the parish.’

‘What did he do with the rest of the building?’

‘He moved in his weavers,’ said Nicholas. ‘Within a few years, they were turning out three thousand cloths a year. It brought in a huge income. Stumpe was of humble parentage yet he rose to be member of parliament and high collector for North Wiltshire. Even that did not satisfy him. He had another project that was far more ambitious.’

‘What was it?’

‘Osney Abbey.’

‘At Oxford?’

‘We drove right past it, Dick.’

‘Did this clothier want to buy that as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, who knew the story by heart. ‘He planned to have as many as two thousand workers employed at Osney. Two thousand — can you imagine the size of such an enterprise? The cost of such an operation?’ He shrugged. ‘We shall never know if the scheme at Osney Abbey would have worked because he did not proceed with it, but you have to admire the man’s boldness. Two thousand.’

‘What happened to William Stumpe?’

‘He invested his money in land, Dick, and that made him wealthier than ever. He lived to see his son knighted, and his three granddaughters have all married earls.’ Nicholas flicked the reins to coax more speed out of the two horses then he underlined the moral of his story. ‘Stumpe showed the value of hard work and a clear imagination. No matter where you begin in life, you can fight your way up.’

‘How do you know so much about him?’ said the boy.

‘My father told me.’

The sentence slipped out so easily that it was a few moments before Nicholas understood its significance. He was jarred into silence. Without realising it, he had just told Richard Honeydew a story that his father had often used as an example for him when Nicholas was about the same age as the apprentice. It was a cruel reminder of a time when Robert Bracewell would instruct and entertain his son for hours on end with his tales of enterprising businessmen. Wiltshire had always been a principal producer and exporter of cloth and — though its wool could not match the quality of that from the Welsh Borders and the Cotswolds — fortunes could still be made in the trade. Most of the output was now sold in London through members of the Company of Merchant Adventurers, which had superseded the old Merchant Staplers. Others now followed where William Stumpe had led.

Nicholas Bracewell had happily imbibed such stories and uncritically accepted his father’s interests and attitudes. That was no longer the case. Disillusion was total. It was almost obscene to dwell upon a time in his past when he and Robert Bracewell had actually been friends. Nicholas stole a glance at his young companion. Richard Honeydew’s innocence and inquisitive streak reminded him of his own. Since he was very much an alternative father to the boy, he resolved that he would never betray his illusions in the way that his own had been shattered. The apprentice must be saved from that.

Richard Honeydew was unaware of his friend’s turmoil.

‘Is your father still alive?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘He will be pleased to see you when you get to Devon.’

Nicholas could not trust his tongue with any words.

Marlborough was an attractive town. Set on a hill above the meandering River Kennet, it commanded a superb view of the Savernake Forest to the south-east and of the rolling landscape in other directions. The High Street was a wide thoroughfare that swept all the way down from St Mary’s Church at the top to the Church of Saints Peter and Paul at the bottom. Houses, shops, inns and other buildings stood side by side in a street to which religion gave such clear demarcation. There was a profusion of thatched roofs.

Westfield’s Men liked what they saw and the excited interest of the townspeople was especially gratifying after the subdued response of Oxford. Lawrence Firethorn led them down the High Street and turned in through the gate of the White Hart. It was a large and well-appointed inn with a yard in the shape of a horseshoe as well as a garden with three arbours. Though Nicholas knew that performances by visiting troupes took place in the adjacent Guildhall, he nevertheless assessed the yard as a potential outdoor venue. Its shape made it easily adaptable, and seating could be placed in the galleries above to increase the size of the audience. The White Hart would be an ideal amphitheatre for the actors. Like the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street.

Firethorn wasted no time with formalities. While the waggon was being unloaded, Nicholas was sent off to find the town officials and secure permission to stage a play. On such occasions, the book holder always carried the company’s licence because this legitimated their work and set them apart from the haphazard groups of strolling players who roamed the country in search of audiences less concerned with high quality. The law branded such actors as outlaws. Only licensed companies bearing the name of a patron could have a legal claim to perform whenever they visited a new town or city. Since officials were always officious, Nicholas never went to them without his credentials.

‘Westfield’s Men! We are honoured!’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Lawrence Firethorn has graced our town before.’

‘It holds warm memories for him.’

‘And for us, my friend. And for us.’

The mayor was a short, bearded, misshapen man in his fifties with such a fondness for his chain of office that he wore it at all times and fingered it incessantly. Though delighted to see the company, he had to season good news with bad. A few cases of plague had broken out in Marlborough. It had not yet spread and — they were earnestly praying in both churches — it might never reach the epidemic proportions it had attained in Oxford, but it did exist and visitors ought to be made aware of the fact. The mayor said he would deeply regret it if Westfield’s Men felt unable to perform in the light of this intelligence, but he would understand if they decided that there was too large a risk involved.

‘We will stage our work,’ said Nicholas firmly.

‘Then Marlborough greets you with open arms.’

‘Master Firethorn would not hear of running away.’

‘Our Guildhall will be put at your disposal.’

Nicholas was empowered to make all arrangements and to exercise his judgement. Westfield’s Men, they agreed, were to give two performances, one in the Guildhall that evening and another at the same venue the following afternoon. That would enable a large number of the people of Marlborough to enjoy their work and would put them on the road to Bristol by the early evening of the next day. The brief stay also reduced the chances of contracting the infection, which had already killed off three victims. For the first performance, attended by all the town luminaries, the mayor volunteered to pay twenty shillings out of the civic purse. This was a generous offer. If Nicholas had perused the chamberlain’s accounts for the last decade, he would have seen that most visiting companies were paid considerably less, some as little as two shillings. Like Westfield’s Men, those troupes had been able to supplement the civic payment by charging admission money or by holding a collection at the end of a play. At the performance on the following afternoon, Lawrence Firethorn would instruct the gatherers to do both.

Nicholas took his leave of the mayor and hurried back to the White Hart to report to Lawrence Firethorn. Early signs of plague did not deter the actor-manager at all.

‘Give me an audience and I’ll play in a leper colony.’

Barnaby Gill sniggered. ‘It would sort well with the quality of your acting,’ he said.

‘Do you dare to insult my art!’

‘I will tell you if I chance to see it.’

‘Away, you prancing ninny!’

‘Those who come to see Lawrence Firethorn will go away talking about Barnaby Gill.’

‘Who was that blinking idiot, they will say!’

‘Genius will always shine through.’

‘Remember that when mine dazzles your eyes tonight.’

A mood of contentment pervaded the White Hart. When Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill were at each other’s throats again, all was right with Westfield’s Men.

Nicholas Bracewell took control. Two of the hired men were dispatched to go around the town and advertise the evening’s performance. One was to beat a drum, the other to blow a horn. They were assigned to deafen Marlborough into submission then entice them to the play by declaiming a few choice speeches from it. Nicholas himself repaired to the Guildhall with his assistants to take stock of its potential. It was a large, low room with thick rafters bending to accommodate the dip in the ceiling. The book holder chose the location of the stage at once, placing it at the far end where a door to an ante-room gave them a natural tiring-house. Chairs would be given pride of place in the front rows, benches would seat those of lesser station, and there would be ample standing room for anyone else. A charge of twopence for a seat and a penny to stand would bring in a fair amount of money.

The major decision concerned lighting. Performances at the Queen’s Head were at the mercy of the open sky, and the company relied on its audience to make allowances for this. But there was still ribald laughter when scenes that were set in the deserts of Asia were played by actors shivering in a cold wind, or when characters complained about snow and ice while sweating in the afternoon sun. Action set at the dead of night would always be mocked by bright weather. The Guildhall altered the performing conditions and permitted some measure of control. Nicholas decided to make use of the natural light that would stream in through the windows during the first half of the play, and to supplement it in gradations with candles, torches and lanterns. For the final scene, tarred rope would be set alight in holders.

Lawrence Firethorn came in on an exploratory prowl.

‘Is all well, Nick?’

‘I foresee no problems.’

‘This Guildhall has tested my mettle before.’

‘Voices carry well.’

‘Mine will reach to Stonehenge itself!’ boomed the actor with an expansive gesture of his hand. ‘Listen! Can you not hear those stones cracking and shaking at the sound of my thunder? I can out-shout Jove himself!’

‘I believe it well, master.’

Nicholas turned to the hired men who waited nearby and gave his orders. They ran off to collect the makeshift stage and curtains that had been brought in the waggon. A rehearsal was imminent and there was no time to dawdle. The book holder was a patient man, but he could be stern with anyone caught slacking. Nicholas was determined that the initial performance of their tour would set a high standard. It would not only enthral the audience, it would also release the company’s tensions and restore its self-confidence.

Left alone with him, Lawrence Firethorn took the opportunity of snatching a private word with Nicholas.

‘We must talk of Owen’s injury,’ he said.

‘It will not stop him performing tonight.’

‘I am more concerned with how he came by it, Nick. The dagger in the darkness was intended for you, was it not?’

‘I fear me that it was.’

‘Do you know who the villain is?’

‘Not yet,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘The ostler at the Dog and Bear caught no more than a glimpse of the man in the shadows, and simply gained some idea of his height and age. These I had already surmised.’

‘There is no more clue to his identity?’

‘Nothing but this.’

He produced the dagger, which had been dropped in the scuffle on the previous night. It was a handsome weapon, a slender-bladed poniard with a decorated hilt that was shaped to allow a firm grip. As Nicholas held it again, he felt its perfect balance and looked with apprehension at its gleaming point. Owen Elias had been supremely lucky. The dagger was not used to inflicting mere wounds when it could kill with a single thrust.

‘That belongs to no common cut-throat,’ said Firethorn as he examined the weapon. ‘Nor was it made by any English craftsman. That is French workmanship. The man who owned that paid highly for the privilege.’

‘He will be back to collect it.’

‘Then let him collect it between his ribs, Nick.’

‘I will be watchful.’

‘We need you alive, dear heart!’

‘He will not take me unawares.’

‘Call on your friends. We are here to protect you.’

‘I need to tempt him to attack once more.’

‘Are you run mad?’

‘It is the only way,’ said Nicholas. ‘While he is out there, I am under threat, and the company suffers because of it. This man would kill me to stop me reaching Barnstaple. He must have good reason for that. I need to find out what that reason is. He must be drawn out into the open.’

‘With live bait on the hook! No, Nick, it is lunacy!’

‘Bear with me. I will catch him.’

‘When you do, hand over the wretch to me,’ said Firethorn, taking the dagger and slashing the air with it. ‘I’ll cut the truth out of his black heart.’

The man reached Marlborough an hour before Westfield’s Men and he was standing in the High Street when they rode into town. News of the evening’s performance was soon broadcast and the ripples of excitement spread quickly out to the surrounding areas. London companies rarely toured when they could be playing to larger audiences in the theatres of the capital. Marlborough appreciated its good fortune and took full advantage. Both performances were guaranteed a capacity audience. The man decided to be among the spectators that evening. A third attempt on Nicholas Bracewell’s life in as many days was unwise. The book holder would be at his most alert and — as the man had discovered to his cost — he had vigilant friends at his side. The assassin could not kill his way through the entire company in order to reach Nicholas. There had to be another means of achieving this vital aim. Watching the play that evening, he hoped, might suggest another route to his grisly destination.

He took a room at an inn near the ruins of the castle at the bottom end of the town. The afternoon gave him an opportunity to catch up on some of the sleep he had been forced to surrender in his pursuit of his elusive prey. Early evening found him refreshed and eager to prepare himself for the visit to the Guildhall. He called for a looking glass and the girl who brought it arrived with a compliant giggle. She had been struck by his craggy charm and marked him out as a gentleman. There was a saturnine quality about him, but it only increased his appeal. As she stood beaming before him, she expected money but hoped for a kiss by way of reward. She got neither. Her willingness irritated the man so much that he snatched the looking glass from her and pushed her out. The only thing that brushed her lips was the door, which was slammed in her face.

Though the man had brought a change of apparel, he kept on his riding clothes. They were less ostentatious in a provincial market town where he needed to blend into the crowd. Beard and hair were a different matter, and he spent a long while in front of the mirror with a comb. He held a pearl earring up to one lobe and enjoyed its sparkle before putting it aside again. What he could wear without comment in London would attract too much attention in Wiltshire. He was still angry at the loss of his dagger, but it had a matching companion and he slipped this into the scabbard at the rear of his belt. After checking his appearance in the looking glass once more, he was ready to leave.

The Guildhall was filling rapidly when he got there and his twopence bought one of the last few unoccupied chairs. He chose one that was in the middle of a row halfway back from the stage so that he could lose himself in the very centre of the audience. To the right of him was an amiable farmer who had ridden five miles in order to enjoy the treat. On his left was a fleshy young man with less interest in theatrical entertainment. He complained bitterly to his attractive wife for making him bring her to the Guildhall. The man paid little interest in any of his neighbours. He wished that the farmer’s breath was not so foul and that the squabbling couple — a miller and his wife, judging by the few words he did overhear — would settle down to watch the play. The assassin was there for a purpose that required his full concentration.

The Happy Malcontent answered all needs. It was a witty comedy about a London physician, Doctor Blackthought, who went through life dispensing criticism and disgust wherever he could. Nothing could please him. He railed against the world and its ways with caustic invective. Instead of curing his patients, the malcontented Doctor Blackthought only infected them with his own vexation. The problem became so acute that his wife and friends got together to devise a plan of rescue for him, but it was all to no avail. When they addressed the fundamental causes of his rancour — and actually managed to remove them by financial or other means — Blackthought was outraged because he no longer had a mainspring for his black thoughts. He was only truly happy in his disaffection. When they realised this, the others wreaked such a cruel revenge on him that lifelong discontent was assured. The doctor howled against a malevolent fate with undisguised delight.

It was a good choice of play. The spectators adored it, the actors played it superbly, and Barnaby Gill went through his full range of comic gestures and voices as the dissatisfied doctor. The medical theme had a particular relevance for a town that was troubled by early signs of plague, and laughter gave them enormous relief from their anxieties. Gallows humour had more depth. Even in the attenuated version forced on them by a smaller cast, The Happy Malcontent brought rich contentment. It was a stylish and well-constructed piece to set before Marlborough.

Lawrence Firethorn was in his element. Westfield’s Men were holding yet another audience spellbound and his was the star performance. Barnaby Gill might have the title role but it was the effervescent Sir Lionel Fizzle who stole scene after scene. As the ebullient knight, Firethorn turned in a cameo performance that was mesmeric. It was he who made the malcontent really happy in his misery by cuckolding him. During the seduction scene with Richard Honeydew, the winsome but knowing wife, Firethorn had such a powerful effect on the female segments of the audience that they could be heard swooning. It put the actor-manager in high humour. When he came offstage at the end of the scene, he had a brief exchange with Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Barnaby still thinks that this play is his!’

‘It is going well,’ said Nicholas, keeping one eye on the prompt copy. ‘Master Gill is in good form.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘He is an old horse who gallops round and round the stage in circles while I do tricks on his back like a performing monkey.’ He nudged the book holder. ‘Pick your part, that is the secret of acting. Barnaby does all the work, I get all the plaudits.’

Nicholas eased him aside to give a signal to a group of actors who were now due onstage. George Dart — playing his fifth part of the evening — was one of them, and he went about his work with bewildered resignation. The reduced size of the company placed many extra burdens on the book holder but it was the little assistant stagekeeper who suffered most. As well as erecting the stage, putting up the curtains and placing all the costumes and properties in the tiring-house, George Dart acted as one of the gatherers who took the admission money before racing backstage again to change the scenery during the performance, to play each of his five parts with identical lack of talent and to discharge his more familiar role as the whipping boy of Westfield’s Men. Here was one malcontent with no time to be happy.

The Guildhall rejoiced. The mayor joined in the guffaws at Barnaby Gill while his wife fell quietly in love with Lawrence Firethorn. Those in the chairs applauded, those on the benches stamped their feet and those standing at the back did both simultaneously while yelling their approval. Some of the wit went over the heads of the audience but there was still more than enough to turn the event into a rollicking entertainment. Even the miller enjoyed it in the early stages. As the play neared its end, however, he seemed to lose interest very abruptly and dropped off to sleep. His head fell first on his wife’s shoulder and then, when she shook him off, onto the neck of the man in front of him. While everyone else was convulsed with laughter, the fleshy young man was snoring.

His immediate neighbour ignored him at first. Though he was there for a more sinister reason, he nevertheless enjoyed the play. He was especially impressed with the performance of Barnaby Gill and could not take his eyes off the actor. During the final scene, the hall was in darkness and the stage lit by candles and by the glow from the tarred rope, which burned in its bowls to give off a noisome smell. The snoring miller fell gently against the man with the raven-black beard, who instantly prodded him away. The jolt did not wake him nor did the thunderous appreciation that followed the end of the play. Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill competed for the position at the centre of the stage, each convinced that he was the crowning success of the evening.

The assassin watched Gill closely as the actor gave a deep bow and blew kisses to his public, but the man’s attention was soon torn away. Snoring louder than ever, the miller fell against his neighbour yet again but his hand was not asleep. With practised stealth, it closed on the man’s purse and felt the weight of its prize before pulling it gently away. The pickpocket was too slow. A grip of steel grabbed his wrist. His eyelids lifted in horror.

Lawrence Firethorn drained the applause to the last drop then took his company into the tiring-house to shower congratulations on them. The evening had been an unqualified triumph and all their setbacks had been submerged by five acts of frenzied comedy. Westfield’s Men had performed well and put an appreciable amount of money into their depleted coffers. They could now change out of their costumes and repair to the White Hart for a well-earned supper. Since the Guildhall would be locked, everything could be left there overnight until the performance on the morrow.

Barnaby Gill’s vanity needed even more stroking.

‘Did you recognise my performance, Lawrence?’

Firethorn groaned. ‘It was gruesomely familiar.’

‘I based it on a model.’

‘It was certainly based on no human being.’

‘Alexander Marwood.’

‘Do not soil your tongue with that poisonous name.’

‘I was a discontented innkeeper to the life.’

‘Leave the theatre and embrace your true profession.’

Edmund Hoode interposed himself between them and the banter soon died away. Firethorn was happy now that he had once more made Gill malcontent.

The spectators filed out of the hall with buzzing memories of the evening’s entertainment. Some recalled the jokes, others the comic songs and one even tried to mimic the steps of Doctor Blackthought’s manic jig. Nicholas Bracewell gave them a few minutes then ventured out. Only one person remained in the audience, slumped in his chair and quite impervious to the general departure. The book holder moved across to wake him before the actors saw the man. Sleep was adverse criticism. Firethorn and Gill would round on anyone who dared to slumber during one of their performances.

‘Awake, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘We are all done.’

The man did not move. Ruddy features were now white.

‘The play is over, sir. You must leave.’

Nicholas looked closer and half-recognised him.

‘Wake up, sir. You may not sleep here.’

The book holder shook him with some vigour but the man was well beyond waking. His head lolled sideways and he flopped down onto the floor. When Nicholas knelt down beside him, he saw who the man was. A change of garb and cap had turned the erstwhile William Pocock into a Wiltshire miller. The man had been stabbed so expertly through the heart that death had been instantaneous. Blood had welled up beneath his doublet and left a huge red stain on the material, but none of the spectators had seen it in the half-dark of the Guildhall. In the midst of their hilarity, one of their number had been callously murdered.

Nicholas Bracewell not only recognised Israel Gunby’s accomplice. The killer’s handiwork bore a signature as well. Nicholas had seen it already on the arm of Owen Elias. He paid the tribute of a small prayer for the soul of the dead man then he felt a shiver of alarm.

The assassin had struck again.