Nicholas’s sympathy dried up instantly. Strength of will could destroy as well as create. The driving energy that enabled Robert Bracewell to win back his status in the mercantile community had another side to it, and his elder son had been one of its prime victims. Though he divulged much to his friend, Nicholas had concealed far more and he knew why. The deep shame of being a member of that family was still there, and it made the name he bore feel like a species of plague. Nicholas was frankly appalled at the prospect of going back to the town that held so many bleak associations for him but it was a sacred commitment that had to be honoured. He concentrated his mind on more immediate difficulties and lengthened his stride.
Westfield’s Men had taken themselves into the inn for a restorative meal, but Lawrence Firethorn was waiting to accost his book holder in the courtyard. The actor-manager’s belligerence masked his niggling despair.
‘Where the devil have you been, Nick!’ he demanded. ‘I sent you an hour ago at least.’
‘The mayor was engaged when I arrived.’
‘Engaged!’
‘I was forced to wait.’
‘Engaged!’ howled Firethorn. ‘If the wretch had kept me waiting, I’d have engaged him with sword and dagger, then hanged him from the church steeple with his chain of office. What did the arrant knave tell you?’
‘The plague has closed this town to us.’
‘God’s mercy! We are the cure for this contagion. Does he not see that? We bring joy into a cavern of misery. We bring life to a dying people. We bring hope.’
‘The mayor appreciates that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but the ordnance holds. No plays, no games, no public gatherings of any sort. He sends his abject apologies but we must be out of Oxford before the sun goes down.’
‘Out of Oxford!’
‘We are strangers in the town and carry a threat.’
‘I’ll carry a threat to the viperous villain!’ said the other. ‘He’ll have a plague of naked steel about his ears. Does he tell Lawrence Firethorn not to act? Will he order my company to leave his town?’ He strutted around in a display of defiance then adopted his most regal pose. ‘I am a king of the stage and he will not force me to abdicate.’
‘It is no personal rebuff for you,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘Plague deaths rise every day. If they continue at this rate then the churches will have to be closed. The market has already been shut down. These are the sensible precautions that any town must take when disease takes a hold.’
Firethorn accepted the truth of this. He still ranted away for a few minutes but the venom had been drained out of his bluster. Oxford was a lost cause. They had to move on. When Firethorn’s bluster subsided, he raised an eyebrow.
‘Were you offered any compensation?’ he said.
‘You told me not to accept it, master.’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ reaffirmed Firethorn. ‘Fling it back at him, I said, and I hope that is what you did.’
‘I declined the money.’
‘Good.’ The other eyebrow lifted. ‘How much was it?’
‘Two pounds.’
Firethorn’s sigh of remorse was like a protracted hiss of steam. Thanks to his pride, they were creeping away from the town without a penny. Anger relieved him but it was an expensive item. Firethorn knew that the rest of the company would suffer as a result. He gave Nicholas a task that he had no heart to perform himself.
‘Tell the others,’ he said. ‘We leave within the hour.’
‘I’ll about it straight.’
‘Oh, and Nick …’
‘Yes?’
‘Say nothing of that two pounds.’
The house in Shoreditch was of middling size with a neat garden at its rear and a tiny orchard. A half-timbered structure like its neighbours, its second storey was fronted with plastered wattle work that was showing signs of age. Both storeys projected at least a foot above the floor below and they had settled into a comfortable position like two fishwives leaning their arms contentedly on a wall for a lifelong exchange of gossip. The roof was fairly sound, but it would soon need the attention of a thatcher. Whatever the defects of its exterior, the house was kept in an excellent state of repair on the inside. Margery Firethorn saw to that. She was a meticulous housewife who made sure that every floor was swept, every window was cleaned and every cobweb brushed away on a daily basis. She shared the abode with her husband, their children and servants, the four apprentices and the occasional hired man with nowhere else to lay his head. Margery loved her role as mother of an extended family and she offered all those who stayed beneath her roof the rather caustic brand of affection that she had developed through marriage to Lawrence Firethorn. The house seemed empty now and the rooms silent. She missed the happy turbulence of life with Westfield’s Men and she was therefore delighted when she had two unexpected visitors to brighten up her day.
‘And what happened then?’ she said, all agog.
‘We visited an apothecary in Paternoster Row,’ said Anne Hendrik. ‘It was there that we found guidance at last.’
‘I know the man,’ chimed in Leonard.
‘What man?’ said Margery.
‘Him. The poisoner. That beard, that earring, that smell.’
‘What is the fellow blabbering about, Anne?’
‘Let me explain.’
Anne took over the narrative and Margery listened with a burgeoning apprehension. When she heard all the facts, she agreed that Nicholas Bracewell could well be in serious danger, and even if his own life were not threatened, he would value all the information that had been gleaned about the girl’s killer. Leonard’s contribution was the monotonous repetition of the story of his meeting with the man at the Queen’s Head. Each time he mentioned this, he beamed vacuously, as if expecting a round of applause. Margery’s tolerance soon frayed at the edges and she took the well-meaning giant into the kitchen, assigning one of the servants to look after him until he was needed again. She then went back into the parlour and sat in an upright chair beside Anne. Margery could now probe without hindrance.
‘What will you do, Anne?’ she asked.
‘Send a message to Nicholas.’
‘Why send it when you can take it yourself?’
Anne blinked. ‘Me?’
‘When a man’s life is at risk, you do not count the personal cost or inconvenience. Look at me. I once rode all the way to York to reach Lawrence.’
‘Was he in danger?’
‘Yes!’ said Margery with a laugh. ‘From two madwomen he picked up on his way. One was a pilgrim and the other as near to a punk as decency would allow. If I had not mounted a horse and ridden north, Lawrence would have had the pair of them in the same bed, saying prayers with the one while he and the other recited a more sinful creed together. I had a sore rump from the journey but I saved my marriage.’
‘My case is not the same,’ said Anne defensively. ‘You had reason to go. Lawrence was your husband.’
‘He is my man. Is not Nicholas yours?’
Anne snatched back the words that almost sprang from her mouth and gestured with fluttering hands. Margery’s shrewd gaze caught every nuance of her reaction. During her farewell to Nicholas at the Bel Savage Inn, she was alerted to the possibility of a rift between the two of them, and Anne’s bruised silence now confirmed it. Anne lowered her head and played with the sleeve of her dress. Margery leant forward with an understanding smile.
‘You fell out over this poor girl,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘Did Nicholas not explain everything to you?’
‘No, Margery.’ Anne bit her lip then looked up at the other woman again. ‘That is what vexed me so. Something calls him back to Devon yet I am kept ignorant of it.’
‘Nick may have good reason for that.’
‘He has never lied to me before.’
Margery cackled. ‘Is that all the problem here? A few lies and deceptions? Forget them. Honesty is a virtue but it needs to be spiced with at least a hint of vice. I
could never bear to live with a man who was so open that I knew everything about him. By my troth, I would die of boredom within a fortnight! Lawrence always garnishes the truth with a rich sauce of lies and I would have it no other way.’ She became wistful. ‘Secrecy makes a man interesting. That is why we all love dear Nicholas Bracewell – for his mystery.’
Anne’s eyes filmed over and she struggled to keep the tears from flowing. In another mood, she would have taken Margery’s jocular advice in her stride but her estrangement from Nicholas made the words cut deep. His refusal to talk about his earlier life had indeed enhanced his appeal for her. Anne solved the problem of the hidden years in his life by inventing her own fantasy existence for him at that time. She knew him so well, she felt, that she could translate him back into the past and fill in the missing details of his childhood and adolescence by instinct. Her version was now shown to be highly romanticised and plainly inaccurate. She shared her life with one Nicholas Bracewell but there had been another quite different man living under the same name in Devon all those years ago.
Margery could see her visitor’s ambivalent feelings.
‘Go to him,’ she urged.
‘He may not wish to see me, Margery.’
‘Pish! That’s of no account. Do you wish to see him?’
‘He must be warned!’
‘Then take the warning with you.’
‘No,’ said Anne. ‘This is not work for me. I still have too much to think about here before I see him again.’ Sudden fear made her catch her breath. ‘If I see him again.’
‘You will certainly do that,’ Margery assured her. ‘He is more than able to take care of himself. But we must get word to him and without delay.’
‘That is why I came to you. We parted in anger so I have no knowledge of his whereabouts. Help me, Margery. What is their itinerary? Where are Westfield’s Men now?’
‘They should have arrived at Oxford this afternoon.’
‘Oxford!’ Anne grew hopeful. ‘With a change of horses, a man might ride that distance in a day.’
Margery was doubtful. ‘If he sets off in the morning, he will not find them there.’
‘Will they not stay overnight and perform tomorrow?’
‘Oxford will not allow it.’
‘Why not?’
‘There are rumours of plague in the town.’
‘Plague!’
‘I went to market today,’ explained Margery. ‘Some of the traders who came in from Aylesbury caught wind of it. If the disease has a grip, it will send the company packing.’
‘In which direction?’
‘Marlborough.’ Margery needed a moment to think it through, then she made up her mind. ‘They will choose an inn to the south of Oxford and rest for the night. My guess is that Lawrence will have them in the saddle at first light and riding into Marlborough as soon as may be.’
‘I’ll reach him there,’ decided Anne, then she glanced towards the kitchen as an idea formed. ‘Leonard will carry it. A faithful friend will readily do such a service.’
‘Take pity on a dumb animal.’
‘Animal?’
‘Yes,’ said Margery. ‘Leonard would never walk there on those tree trunks they felled to make his legs. It would take him a month or more. He would need a horse – and what animal is strong enough to bear such a weight and gallop at speed?’ She pushed Leonard aside with a palm. ‘Forget him. He is no swift messenger. Besides, we need one friend at the Queen’s Head to speak up for Westfield’s Men. Leonard must melt the icy heart of its landlord.’
‘So who will take the letter?’
‘A courier. It will be my charge to find the man.’
‘I’ll go home and write the letter at once.’
‘We have ink and parchment here, Anne,’ said the other woman. ‘But a letter will not suffice.’
‘How else can I warn him?’ asked Anne. ‘He must be made aware of what we learnt at the apothecary’s shop. I will pen a description of the man we believe did the foul deed.’
‘Marry, there’s a better way than that.’
‘Show it me.’
Margery studied her. ‘That is a fine hat you wear.’
‘Why are we talking of my hat?’
‘Who made it, Anne?’
‘Preben van Loew.’
‘At whose behest?’
‘My own.’
‘But from what design?’
‘I drew a likeness for him to follow.’ Margery grinned at her and Anne realised what was being suggested. ‘No, no. I am no artist.’
‘A hand that can fashion something as delicate as that hat can pick out the features of a man’s face.’
‘I have only the apothecary’s description.’
‘And Leonard to guide your fingers. He has seen the man, I do believe. He vouched for it three thousand times.’
The women shared a laugh then Margery called for her servant to fetch writing materials. Leonard was thrilled to be brought back into action again and to be given a major role in creating the likeness of the man with the raven-black beard. Anne worked slowly but carefully with the quill, using the apothecary’s description as her starting point then adding or amending as directed by Leonard. When the paper was a mass of squiggles, she took a fresh piece of parchment and worked to produce a clearer portrait. The face of a ruthless killer soon glowered up at them.
Leonard jumped about with lumpen excitement.
‘That is him!’ he congratulated. ‘That is him!’
Oxford had murder enough of its own. With the plague now scything its way through the population and killing them in droves, there was no need for the man to enter the town in search of an individual victim. He might himself be infected before he could even reach Nicholas Bracewell and that would be a double catastrophe. The plague was an assassin that liked to torture its prey unmercifully before it finally released them to the grave. He preferred a waiting game, and his patience reaped its reward that evening. From his place of vantage on a wooded slope, he watched Westfield’s Men leave the town and head south-west past the ruins of Osney Abbey, set among the island meadows beyond the castle. Plundered of its stone for the building of Christ Church, the abbey had a shattered grandeur that could still arrest attention and it did hold the distinction of being – for a few years after its dissolution as a monastery in 1539 – Oxford’s first cathedral. Its religious affiliations seemed to make Lawrence Firethorn even more irate and he pulled his horse in a semicircle so that he could deliver a blistering rebuke to the town that had just evicted them.
The man on the slope was over two hundred yards away and concealed among the trees, but he heard the tirade as clearly as if he were standing beside the actor-manager.
‘Oxford, adieu!’ snarled Firethorn. ‘The Devil take you! We quit your foul streets for fresher pastures. What is your famous university but a set of mangy, maggot-filled colleges set up by Roman Catholic prelates! Keep your bishops and your great fat cardinal. God has sent down a plague on your popery! We are true Protestants and refuse to ply our trade in this grisly Vatican.’ He widened his attack to include the other university town. ‘Scholarship rots the mind! It breeds Puritans in Cambridge and Papists in Oxford. Show me a student and you show me a lesser breed of man. If you begged us, Westfield’s Men would not play before you.’ A waved fist accompanied his final taunt. ‘You do not turn us out: we spurn you! There is a world elsewhere.’
The words shot across the grass like a fusillade and scattered the wildlife before rebounding harmlessly off the town walls. Oxford was the target of much criticism for its vestigial Roman Catholicism, but it was in no position to defend itself against this latest theological attack. All its attention was fixed on a virulent plague that killed Christians of all denominations with random savagery. Lawrence Firethorn had merely exercised his lungs. He did nothing to revive a disconsolate company and they trundled away like outcasts.
When the man with the raven-black beard saw the road they chose, he kne
w where he could catch up with them. Close pursuit was unnecessary and he was anxious not to be seen by Nicholas Bracewell. The scuffle in the stables at the Fighting Cock had taught him to respect his adversary. It was vital to retain the advantage of surprise if he wanted to succeed against such a powerful man. Forewarned and forearmed, Nicholas was now a very troublesome opponent. He would have to be stabbed in the back.
While the man stayed in his hiding place, the company rolled unhappily away from Oxford. The haven of rest had been a hell of disquiet that had moved them on as fast as it could. What guarantee did they have that Marlborough would not do the same to them and manufacture some entirely new and even more jolting setback? Their tour was fast becoming a kind of penance. Lawrence Firethorn led them in search of an inn where they could spend the night, somewhere close enough to Oxford to spare them and their horses further weariness yet far enough away to be totally free from its pestilential air.
When an old shepherd stumbled out onto the road ahead of them, Firethorn called to him for advice.
‘We seek shelter, friend,’ he said.
‘So do I, sir,’ replied the shepherd, ‘for I’ve been up since dawn chasing stray sheep.’
‘Which is the nearest inn?’
‘That could be the Bull and Butcher, sir.’
‘How far is that?’
‘Two mile or more,’ said the shepherd, ‘but the Dog and Bear may be closer. Then again, it may not. Let me think.’
The old man’s ruddy face was largely obscured by a wispy grey beard and a battered hat, and he had a habit of clearing his throat and spitting absent-mindedly onto the ground. His shoulders were hunched and his legs bent by the weight of the paunch he carried beneath the torn smock. He leant on his crook as he deliberated, mumbling to himself in the local dialect while he weighed up the competing merits and locations of the two hostelries. Firethorn soon tired of the countryman’s irritating slowness.
‘Which one, man?’ he pressed. ‘Bull or Dog?’
‘Bull, sir. Yes, I’d say Bull.’
‘Thank you.’
The Silent Woman Page 12
