‘It’ll put you on the way to Reading in the morning.’
‘But we travel to Marlborough.’
‘Then you need the Dog.’
‘Saints preserve us! Make up your mind!’
‘Dog and Bear, sir.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Turn right when the road forks. The Dog is a goodly inn and you will soon reach it.’
‘Thank the Lord for that!’
‘If you want my advice—’
‘Go your way,’ said Firethorn, cutting him off. ‘You have confused us enough already. We will find our Dog and you may search for your sheep.’
‘That will I, sir.’
The old shepherd tugged deferentially at the brim of his hat then lumbered away across a field. Firethorn raised a hand and signalled the company forward. They followed the winding track in a careworn mood and longed for the comforts they had left behind in London. Hired men who considered themselves blessed to be taken on the tour now felt that a curse had been laid upon them. It had only subjected them to robbery and plague so far. What further trials awaited them?
It was half an hour before they turned into the courtyard of the Dog and Bear. Though much smaller than the Fighting Cocks, it gave them a ready welcome and marked the end of a most dispiriting day’s travel. The inn sign, which swung in the light breeze, showed a bear chained to a stake, striking out with its claws at the dog who was baiting it. The violent image made Lawrence Firethorn growl in kinship. He himself was a great bear who had been chained to the stake of a cruel fate. While the animal on the sign had only one dog to contend with, the actor had a whole pack. With a surge of anger, he resolved to tear the stake from the ground and beat his enemies off with it. Westfield’s Men had suffered enough. Firethorn would assert himself against misfortune and lead his company on to the glory they so richly deserved and the payment they so badly needed.
Nicholas Bracewell judged his moment well. As he and his employer dismounted, ostlers came forward to take charge of their horses. The book holder took Firethorn aside for a moment. Dipping a hand into his purse, Nicholas brought out the coins that he had been given in Oxford. He held them on his palm and affected a mock surprise.
‘See here,’ he said. ‘That stubborn mayor would not be denied his generosity. He must have thrust the money into my purse when I was looking elsewhere.’
‘How much?’
‘Two pounds.’
‘We will not take it.’
‘Then let me hurl it away into the trough.’
‘No!’ said Firethorn, grabbing his wrist as he made to discard the coins. ‘Let us not be too rash here. There is a sense in which Westfield’s Men earned that money. We entered that verminous town with the best of intentions. It was not our fault that the plague was giving its performance there.’
‘Take it as a small reward, then,’ offered Nicholas.
‘I will not,’ decided Firethorn, folding his arms with disdain. ‘Our company cannot be bought off with Danegeld. Hurl it into the water and show our content!’ Once again, he clutched at Nicholas’s wrist to stop him. ‘Wait!’
‘Why not sleep on the matter?’
‘That is good advice, Nick.’
‘Take the money and get the feel of it.’
‘Then decide in the morning, eh?’
‘When you come to pay the reckoning.’
Lawrence Firethorn thought of his empty capcase and snatched the two pounds from his friend. Nicholas knew him so well and adapted so quickly to his caprices. Money that the actor-manager had repudiated in Oxford was legal tender now they were well clear of the town. Thanks to Nicholas, it was the first income they had managed to keep. Coins had never jingled so sweetly in Firethorn’s hands. He dropped them into his own purse then gave his book holder a hug of gratitude. The actor had enjoyed his exhibition of pique but it was heartening to know that there was still one practical man in the company. Firethorn sounded a haughty note.
‘I will merely keep it until morning,’ he said.
Nicholas smiled. ‘Of course.’
The old shepherd who directed them to Dog and Bear did not have to search long for his sheep. He found them browsing on the lush grass near the edge of a copse. Walking into the trees, he came to a clearing where two figures reclined on the ground. The fleshy young man was fast asleep but the girl jumped lightly to her feet and ran to embrace the newcomer. Israel Gunby tore off his false beard so that he could kiss his wife without impediment, then he shed both his hat and his threadbare smock. Ellen was inquisitive.
‘Did you speak with them?’ she said.
‘I sent them to the Dog and Bear.’
‘Were you not afraid they would recognise you?’
‘I am the Lawrence Firethorn of the highway.’
‘They did not suspect you?’
‘No, my love,’ said Gunby, lapsing back into the accent he had used as the old shepherd. ‘I was born in these parts so the dialect is second nature. I could have talked for three whole days and not a man amongst them would have been any the wiser.’
‘Do we strike at the Dog and Bear?’
‘They have nothing left to steal.’
‘What, then?’
‘We meet them again at Marlborough.’
‘When do they play there?’
‘Tomorrow, if all goes well.’
‘What parts shall we take?’
‘I will assign them when I have worked it out.’ He glanced across at their supine accomplice. ‘That belly of Ned’s is not so easy to hide. I can get rid of my paunch like this.’ He pulled out the heavy padding that was stuffed inside his belt and flung it away. ‘We cannot alter Ned’s shape in that way.’
Ellen eased him away a few yards to whisper in his ear.
‘There is a way we could hide that swelling stomach.’
‘How?’
‘Bury it six feet in the ground.’
Israel Gunby smirked. ‘That will come, my dear.’
‘When?’
‘When he has served his purpose. Ned will be useful in Marlborough, for three people may work much more craftily than two. We’ll keep him alive till then.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘We’ll cut the fat-gutted rascal down to size!’
Israel Gunby drew his dagger from his belt and hurled it with a flick of the wrist. It sunk into the ground only inches from the head of their associate and brought him instantly awake. Ned gabbled his apologies for falling asleep and scrambled to his feet. The stench of strong ale still hung around him.
‘You drank too freely,’ reprimanded Israel Gunby.
‘That was my part,’ said the other. ‘I was to keep them merry in the taproom while you and Ellen sneaked into their chambers. We got away from the Bull and Butcher with all but a few pence short of twenty pounds.’
The haul had been far more than that, but they had given him a lower figure so that he could be cheated out of his portion. In the guise of a farmer, Ned had been the decoy at an inn once again and shown as much outrage as the rest of them when the theft was discovered. By the time the other travellers sobered up enough to give chase, Ned himself had vanished into the woods to join his confederates.
‘We must ride on,’ said Gunby, pulling on his doublet. ‘I have had enough of being an old shepherd. It is a stinking occupation and it offends my nose.’
The bleating of sheep jogged his memory and he gathered up the smock and the hat before reclaiming his dagger. Strolling back through the trees, he came to a spot where an old man was trussed up half-naked on the ground. A dozen snuffling ewes were clustered around their shepherd with timid curiosity and they fled as soon as Gunby appeared. Smock and hat were dropped to the ground once more but the knife flashed in the hand. The old man let out a squeal of fear and closed his eyes against the pain, but the blade drew no blood from his ancient carcass. It sliced instead through his bonds and left him free to rub his tender wrists and ankles.
Israel Gunby kick
ed the man’s smock across to him.
‘Thank you, kind father,’ he said. ‘For my part, I would rather be tied up for a week than wear that reeking garment for an hour, but it was needful.’ He dropped a small purse into the man’s lap. ‘There’s for your pains. I am a thief and a villain and all that men say I am. But you may tell them one thing more, my friend.’
‘What is that, sir?’ gibbered the other.
‘Israel Gunby does not rob the poor.’
Nicholas Bracewell was in a quandary. Wanting to be alone with his thoughts, he yet needed the company of his fellows to ensure safety. The inn was comfortable, its hospitality was cordial and there was no whiff of danger within its walls but those qualities had been obtained at the Fighting Cocks and he had nevertheless found himself fighting for his life against a vicious assailant. It was best to take no chances. On the ride from Oxford, he constantly scoured the landscape for signs of pursuit, but none came. That did not induce him to lower his guard. Nicholas had been unaware of being trailed from London yet that was almost certainly what had occurred. Shadows moved according to the disposition of the sun. They could walk briskly before you or steal silently after you. In the darkness, you never even knew that they were there.
After supper in the taproom, Edmund Hoode retired to his chamber to work on the new play. Nicholas was both pleased and nervous, delighted that his friend had recaptured his creative urge but fearful lest he use too much of the background material that the book holder had given him. The Merchant of Calais was set fifty years earlier, at a time when the French port was still an English possession. Hoode was attracted by the notion of a tiny segment of British soil perched on the edge of a large and hostile country. It allowed him to explore a number of favourite themes. What troubled Nicholas was the fear that his own father might now be introduced into the play. Hoode had been so intrigued by what he was told that he had been asking for further details ever since. Always ready to help the playwright, Nicholas did not, however, want to read The Merchant of Calais and find that Robert Bracewell was its central character. The sight of his father being brought to life onstage by Lawrence Firethorn would be too painful for the renegade son to bear.
‘What ails you, Nick?’ said a concerned voice.
‘Nothing, Owen.’
‘You have been in a dream all evening.’
‘I am weary, that is all.’
‘Retire to your chamber.’
‘Not yet. I will stay here a little while longer.’
Owen Elias was in a jovial mood now that he had supped well and shaken the unpleasant memories of their visit to Oxford from his mind. Actors were easily crushed by any form of rejection but they had a resilience that bordered on the phenomenal. Nicholas had seen it many times before, but it still astonished him when men who had been squirming in a pit of despair one minute could then stride onto a stage with gusto and acquit themselves superbly in a comic role. Owen Elias was an archetype, thriving on deep conflict, shifting from melancholia to manic joy in a twinkling, suffering blows to his self-esteem that seemed like mortal wounds and then leaping nimbly out of his coffin with boundless vitality.
‘Have no fear while you are with me, Nick.’
‘Thanks, Owen.’
‘I’ll be a trusty bodyguard.’
‘Sharp eyes. Give me sharp eyes.’
‘They would cut through teak.’
Nicholas was glad he had taken the Welshman into his confidence. Elias had his faults and it was the book holder’s unenviable task to point them out to him from time to time, but the actor’s attributes heavily outweighed his defects. There was another reason why the Welshman was so eager to lend all the help he could to Nicholas. It was the book holder who had manoeuvred his promotion in the company. After languishing for so long in the ranks of the hired men, Owen Elias felt that his true worth was not appreciated and he succumbed to the blandishments of Banbury’s Men. Only some deft stage-management from Nicholas rescued him from the rival company and secured his position as a sharer with Westfield’s Men. Elias was eternally grateful to his friend and would fight to the death on his behalf. Nicholas hoped that he could solve the problem himself, but if assistance was needed, the strength of the pugnacious Welshman would be more useful than the diffidence of a gentle soul like Edmund Hoode.
Drink exposed a vein of regret in Owen Elias.
‘We can never outrun the past, Nick,’ he said. ‘Try as we may, it will always catch up with us sooner or later. Look at my case. Wales never releases its sons.’
‘You managed to break free, Owen.’
‘A trick of the light but no more. Listen to this voice of mine. I can sound like an Englishman when I choose but my tongue hates to play the traitor.’ He emptied his tankard and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I carry my country on my back like a snail carrying its shell. Wales will always be my home – even though I left a wife and a child and an honest occupation to run away to London when the madness of the theatre seized me.’
‘I did not know you were married, Owen.’
‘It was a mistake that I try to keep buried.’
‘And a child, you say?’
‘He died soon after I left. He had always been a sickly boy and not long for this harsh world.’ He toyed guiltily with his tankard. ‘I sent what little money I could back to my wife but we lost touch after Rhodri died. She was a good woman, Nick, and deserved better than me.’
‘Have you never been back home?’
‘Never.’
‘Do you not wonder what became of your wife?’
‘All the time, but I content myself with the thought that life without a bad husband must be an improvement of sorts. She has a large family and will not want for anything.’ His hands tightened around the tankard. ‘They do not speak well of me. I would not be welcome.’
‘You have always talked so fondly of your country.’
‘Wales is in my blood,’ said Elias with simple pride. ‘I could never deny my birthright. But a wife is another matter. I did not just leave, Nick, she begged me to go.’
‘I see.’
‘We all have our cross to bear.’
Nicholas was touched that his friend should confide something so private in him, and it helped to explain a maudlin vein that sometimes came out in the Welshman. At the same time, he realised very clearly why Owen Elias touched on the subject of the unforgiven sins of the past. In showing his own wounds, he was offering a set of credentials to a kindred spirit. He was assuring Nicholas of sympathy and understanding if the latter chose to talk about the problems that were taking him back home. Men of the theatre were nomads, wandering from company to company, drifting from woman to woman, leaving their failures behind them in the ceaseless quest for a perfection they would never attain. Talent and status were transient assets. Lawrence Firethorn had no peer as an actor yet here he was, having abandoned his family in London, scurrying from town to town with a demoralised troupe in search of work and wages. Security and continuity were rare commodities in the acting world, and those who joined it had to accept that. Indeed, for many – Owen Elias among them – its recurring perils and sudden fluctuations were part of its attraction. Theatre was a game of chance. With its unquestioning camaraderie, it was also a good place to hide. Elias could recognise another fugitive.
‘Why are you going to Barnstaple?’ he asked.
‘I may tell you when I return.’
‘If you return.’
‘Oh, I will come back,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘There is nothing to keep me there any longer. My only concern is that I actually reach the town.’
‘Nobody will stop you while I am around.’
‘We cannot live in each other’s laps.’
Owen chuckled. ‘Barnaby Gill would die with envy!’
‘Meanwhile, we have plays to present. Think on them.’
‘Oh, I do, Nick. I am an actor. My vanity is quite monstrous. I strut and pose before the looking glass of my mind all the ti
me.’ He winked at the other. ‘But I can still spare a thought for a friend in need.’
‘Thank you, Owen.’
‘Do not be afraid to call on me.’
Nicholas smiled his gratitude. Some of the others began to play cards at a nearby table and Owen excused himself to go and join them. The apprentices had already gone to their beds and a few of the sharers had also seen the virtue of an early night. Lawrence Firethorn sat with Barnaby Gill and discussed the choice of plays for Marlborough and Bristol. Two actor-musicians were busy drinking themselves into a stupor. Nicholas was content to be left alone on his oak settle and let his thoughts swing to and fro between London and Barnstaple, between the pain of a loss and the impending displeasure of a renewed acquaintance. An hour sped by. When he next looked up, most of his fellows had tottered off upstairs and the taproom was virtually empty. Nicholas was just about to haul himself off to his own bedchamber when one of the ostlers came in through the main door. He peered around until his gaze settled on the book holder then he hurried across.
‘Master Bracewell?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Nicholas Bracewell?’
‘That is me.’
‘Then I have a message for you, sir.’
‘Who sent it?’
‘A gentleman. I am to tell you he wishes to see you.’
‘Let him come on in.’
‘He wants private conversation, sir. Outside.’
‘In the dark?’
‘There are lanterns burning by the stables.’
‘What did the man look like?’ asked Nicholas.
‘A fine upstanding fellow.’
‘Young or old? What does he wear? How does he speak?’
‘I was only paid to deliver a message, sir,’ said the ostler, turning to go. ‘He waits for you by the stables.’
Nicholas had a dozen more questions but the ostler had scampered off before he could put them. The man who summoned him needed to be treated with utmost suspicion. He must have kept watch on the taproom until it was almost cleared then sent in a messenger to fetch out the straggler. Nicholas had no immediate support beyond two actor-musicians on the verge of collapse and a diminutive servingman. Owen Elias had now gone off to bed and Edmund Hoode was deep in the throes of composition. Why should the man invite him to the stables? Nicholas started as it dawned on him. He was being issued with a challenge. Having failed to dispatch him in the stables of the Fighting Cocks, his adversary was inviting him to a second duel. It had to be single combat. If Nicholas walked out of the taproom with others at his back, the man would vanish into the night. Only if he went alone would the book holder stand a chance of meeting and killing his foe.
The Silent Woman Page 13
