“Nay, tomorrow is soon enough, for we want no mishaps on the road. It could be that Will is taken, and the law must not be led back to us. You understand?”
Lenore nodded her black curls soberly, for his admonition had reminded her that her present assignment was not without its dangers.
That night, ringed around a campfire, the company feasted on venison, and Monty and the others told her stories of the great days when they had worked at Blackfriars Theatre, built on the ruins of an old monastery—or the Swan or the Globe or other open-air theatres. Monty bragged of knowing Will Shakespeare, dead more than thirty years, and the others chimed in. For most of these men had spent their lives on the boards; they had been boy actors or had come of acting families.
In their company for a little while she was able to tear her mind from Lorena—was she happy, was she smiling, did she—and this very humbly—did she miss her mother? Lenore knew such thoughts were useless, for the die was well cast, but they tormented her just the same.
Monty fixed her a bed in the wagon and promised kindly that she would not be disturbed. She took his meaning and gave him a rather trusting smile. She slept well, not feeling a need to stay alert lest something pounce on her in the night.
She waked once at the cry of an owl, night-hunting.
A white moon cast its frosty light upon the forest, silvering the little clearing. All were sleeping but one; hands clasped behind his back, head bowed, Montmorency Hogue walked back and forth. She had learned enough this night to know that the responsibility for this company lay on his shoulders and that times were indeed hard for them. She liked him and thought that no matter how many summers lay behind him, he would never truly grow old.
The sun and sounds of stirring around the campfire’s ashes woke her the next morning. Automatically she reached out to make sure Lorena was all right—and pain struck through her that her baby would not soon lie in the crook of her arm again. By the time she could come for her, the first bloom of babyhood would be gone, and Lorena would look to Flora, perhaps, for mothering—not Lenore.
Lenore lay there in the morning sunlight with her eyes squeezed shut, willing tears not to trickle down her face. And that morning she swore a great oath to herself: she would not look back. As soon as she could, she would go back for Lorena, but she must not waste her energy in grief, she would need all the strength she had to make her way in the world so that she could have her daughter with her again. She refused to let Geoffrey enter her mind—but he was there, always, in her soul, in her broken heart.
She ate a companionable breakfast, with the company, of cold venison and cider. Before she had finished, some were already hard at work learning their lines, practicing their swordplay—or the jigs the whole company performed between acts. They looked very merry as they pranced about the green, and they gave her a rousing cheer as she mounted up.
Feeling well fed and with her horse fed and refreshed, she set out for Cirencester along the path to which they directed her—a black-haired woman well disguised in her widow’s weeds. Many roads since time immemorial had led through the Wold to Cirencester: the White Way which led to Winchcombe, and the great Salt Way—and when she had lived in Twainmere, Lenore had ridden both of them. But now Lenore caught the Fosse Way, which had been built by the Romans on an ancient Celtic track, and which led from Exeter to Lincoln and passed Cirencester en route. So deserted was this stretched of blue-stone road as it wound through what Will Shakespeare had called the “high wild hills” that she passed but one village before she rode out of the leafy green woodlands, predominantly of ash and elm and beech that would flame to red and yellow come September, and saw ahead the towering perpendicular spire of Cirencester’s beautiful cathedral-like church with its famous peal of twelve bells.
Though she had been there but once, to a fair with Meg, Lenore remembered Cirencester well. Lenore could not have told you that this had once been the lavish Roman city of Corinthium, wrecked by the Saxons at the end of the sixth century—but she knew where the Ox and Bow was. The ruins of the great abbey she could see—and regretted its state of disrepair—and she had once been told that the city had been taken during England’s Civil War by Prince Rupert. But Cirencester’s rich past was far from her thoughts as she rode in; what interested her was the tall-hatted Puritans who walked or rode by, studying the woman on the gray horse with interest. Lenore looked down, intently studying the road, for any of them, she feared, might remember having seen her at some time—in fact, there might be among them someone from Twainmere.
Deciding it was best to take a bold course, she rode directly up to the Ox and Bow—thankful, at least, that this was one place she was not known. She dismounted, strode into the common room, drank a tankard of cider, and inquired of the innkeeper about her “uncle,” Will Summers, who had arrived here some two weeks past. Her own husband, she declared with a deep sigh, had recently passed away, and she was seeking her uncle, who would "know what she should do.”
The innkeeper’s sympathy was aroused at once. He was more than helpful to the lissome young widow who asked his aid so prettily. Regretfully he informed her that Will Summers had indeed stopped here. He had seemed of good health, he had drunk deep of the claret, eaten generously of the leg of lamb, and more than generously of the plum pudding—and that night had complained of great pains in his stomach and chest. Though the doctor had been hastily summoned, Will had died—and since none knew where his relatives might be that they could notify them, he had been hastily buried in an unmarked grave as a pauper. Will had once said he lived in Torquay; did he still have people there?
Lenore murmured that she would let them know.
Will’s clothes and the few coins on him had not fetched enough to pay for his burial, the landlord promptly explained but Will had had a watch he always carried, and the landlord had saved it in case any relatives showed up looking for Will.
Dabbing at her eyes—for she pretended to be much affected by the news of her “uncle’s” death—Lenore suggested that the landlord’s sister might like to have it as a keepsake; “Uncle Will” had been very fond of her.
The landlord brightened and refused to take any coin for the cider and urged on her a pasty and a joint of meat. Regretfully Lenore refused this offer. She had managed to down the cider gracefully, holding the veil so that it concealed her eyes, but she would have to throw aside her veil to eat, and this would expose her face to the curious view of the inn’s patrons. She was, she choked, too upset to eat a bite, but she thanked him deeply.
As she remounted the gray mare, her mind was racing ahead.
Will Summers’s death in Cirencester would indeed be a blow to Monty. With their advance man gone, the troupe would be in desperate trouble. Will had apparently had no time to make any arrangements, had died, in fact, the very night he arrived. She could turn about, of course, and ride back the way she had come and bring the disappointing news to Montmorency Hogue.
Or she could make the arrangements herself! With mounting excitement she rode the gray mare to a public horse trough and let her drink. Why should she return with bad tidings? Why should she not make the arrangements for the performance herself? There was an old stone barn outside town where illegal cockfights were held. She and Meg had stopped by there once for a dipper of water from the farmer’s well on the road to the fair. The farmer—a pleasant round-faced man in his forties—had been enchanted by the two pretty girls from Twainmere and had leaned upon his pitchfork and engaged them in conversation in the midday heat. He had even unbent so far as to bring them a tall pitcher of milk which had been cooling in his springhouse, and Meg had twitted Lenore all day about her “conquest.”
That barn, which was easily reached by a good road, yet was isolated, would make an excellent theatre—far better than the barn where she had attended a play in Oxford. Its stone walls gave coolness against the muggy summer heat, and—she would do it! If the arrangements were successful and Monty approved them, he might let he
r take over Will’s job—she would be able to earn her keep, she could even in time look forward to having Lorena with her again!
Seething with excitement, she guided the gray mare out of Cirencester on the road to Twainmere. It made her uneasy to be heading so directly for Twainmere, for anyone from Twainmere might well recognize her gray horse— even if they did not immediately identify the rider—and she was glad when, without incident, she saw over the next rise the roof of the big stone barn she remembered so well. That the farmer would recognize her, she had no fear, for her widow’s weeds and black wig were a good disguise. She could tell him her late husband had frequented his cockfights and so feel him out about holding a play there. He must be well acquainted, he could circulate the word and so procure the audience!
As she approached, she slowed her pace to a demure jog, mindful that in her widow’s weeds it would seem odd to dash up at a great speed. In the distance she could see the farmer’s wife washing goose feathers to stuff a featherbed, and a couple of bright-eyed little girls who seemed to be leaching wood ashes for lye to make soap. She was growing anxious, for she did not wish to speak to the woman and children about this, and she could not remember the farmer’s name. But just then around the corner of the barn walked the farmer, a bit plumper than she remembered him, and she greeted him.
He came politely over to the side of the road, and she told him she was riding out “for the air” since her “good uncle” had died as well as her young husband, and the black hangings of her room made her mournful. The farmer nodded and asked her who her “good uncle” and young husband might be, would he perchance know them?
When she replied hesitantly that her young husband was from Bath and had died there, but that her uncle was named Will Summers and had been staying at the Ox and Bow, the farmer looked surprised. “Aye, I knew Will,” he replied. “And I am sorry indeed to hear of his death.”
“Then—then you knew how he earned his livelihood?”
“Aye—he did arrange for plays to be held.”
“I—I knew you used to hold cockfights here,” she ventured, hoping the little breeze that had sprung up would not blow back her veil, for he well might remember her, might have heard indeed that the law was looking for her. And if a reward had indeed been offered, she would not care to put any man to the test—he might seize her and haul her to the nearest authorities, even though some of his own doings would not bear looking into.
“Aye, I held them. Until last year. Then the authorities closed down on me and did put me in the pillory. See this eye?” She peered at a long, jagged scar that ran from his eyebrow past the corner of his eye and down his cheek. “Someone did throw a rock at me while I was in the pillory and I near lost my eye!” He went on vengefully denouncing the Puritan authorities, and Lenore felt the time was ripe.
“Would you let our players hold a performance here in your barn?” she asked him bluntly. “For now that Will Summers is dead, we have no one to take his place. I rode in for news of him.”
“You are not Will’s niece, then?”
“No, I never knew him. I come from Montmorency Hogue.”
The farmer reached down and pulled up a grass blade, bit into it, and spat. He appeared to be thinking.
“Aye—I might,” he said at last. “For you see yon feathers my wife washes? Two geese run down by coaches within a week! My barley crop ruined by blight. No cockfights in more than a year—I’m hard put to rub two coins together! Yes, I could give ye shelter for the players, a place to perform—and I could arrange for the audience, too, for I’ve but to pass the word around!”
She had chosen the right man! Lenore was congratulating herself when he gave her a sudden sly look. “Of course, I’d need some money now to get me started. . .”
She hadn’t expected that. She hesitated. “Monty never expected anything like this to happen. All I have with me is lodging-money for the night. I could give you that, if you’d let me sleep in your barn and have a bite of bread and cheese for supper.”
“Ye can sleep in the barn,” he said shortly, “and ye can eat with us. But the money’s not enough.”
Desperate, Lenore promised him a share of the profits and told him they’d be ready to perform three days hence —she hoped it was true the troupe would be ready and prayed Monty would find the deal reasonable. If not, she was out the lodging-money and would have spent the night in a barn for nothing.
The farmer seemed so mollified by the share she had mentioned that she wondered fearfully whether it was too large.
“Come in and sup,” he said.
Lenore bethought her that he might remember her face if she took off her veil; a careless word that she’d been seen in Cirencester and they’d be after her again, hound her to her death.
“I—I have a rash on my face and do not wish to be seen,” she objected.
“ ’Tis not a pox, is it?” he cried. “We want no pox here, mistress!”
Lenore sighed. “Actually ’tis bruises from a cuffing my husband gave me when I wanted to join up with Monty’s troupe. I am ashamed—I will have no one staring at me.”
The farmer peered at her suspiciously. Muttering to himself, he went back to the farmhouse and she noticed that he brought out her food himself—his wife and daughters stayed within the farmhouse. She breathed a sigh of relief and ate hungrily the thick clotted country cream, the fresh berries, the wholesome brown bread and thick slab of cold mutton that he brought her. After eating she climbed into the loft and slept while below her the gray mare bedded down contentedly, having eaten her fill.
When morning came, she downed a hasty breakfast of barley-cakes and a big tankard of milk and departed with a bag full of apples to eat on the way. She’d slept later than she meant to, and she had to ride hard to reach the woodland glade, where the troupe waited, before sundown.
Monty strode to meet her when she rode in. She threw back her veil and slid from the gray mare’s back.
“What news?” he demanded.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” said Lenore, and told him of Will Summers’s death.
Monty was stunned by the news, and around him the others gathered, muttering. There was a general air of consternation.
“We’ll miss Will,” said Monty slowly. “We’ve known him for a long time.”
“What will you do now?” asked Lenore.
“Will’s death means we must have a new advance man,” he said, running a hand through his thick white hair. “And there are none of us who do that well.” His green eyes looked sad. “I would hate to disband the troupe.”
“You’ve no need to,” Lenore told him. Amethyst lights flickered in her violet eyes, and her voice held an undertone of suppressed excitement as she outlined the arrangements she had made.
An amazed smile broke over Monty’s face. “I cannot believe it,” he said. “We have found our new advance man—and she is a woman!” He turned to the others. “I think Will himself could not have done better. Are we not agreed that Mistress Lenore should be our new advance man?”
There was surprise on every face as they looked at Lenore. Then heads began to nod.
“It is agreed!” cried Monty. “And if there’s enough money from the performance in Cirencester, we’ll erect a stone to Will!”
There was a murmur of approval, and Lenore smiled at Monty—she approved of erecting a stone to Will, too.
So a strange new occupation opened up for Lenore. As “advance man” for a troupe of strolling players, putting on clandestine Shakespearean plays in stern Puritan England, she had need to use her wits. The varied disguises their wigs and costumes gave her helped considerably. Sometimes she rode into a town in the guise of a tavern maid, seeking employment; sometimes as a lady with a plumed hat and lace—albeit a bit mended—at throat and cuffs; sometimes--as at Cirencester—as a widow in deep mourning garb. Although her activities were known, none could really identify her.
The beauty from Twainmere had found a new profession.
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br /> And it was well she had, for with Geoffrey’s loss and the stunning additional blow of having to desert Lorena—and no matter how good the home where she had left her, Lenore considered that she had indeed deserted her daughter—ice had locked around her heart. The bitterness she had felt as a girl toward men—and which had made her a shameless flirt—now hardened into a cold inner hostility. For Lenore, Geoffrey’s abandonment was the first bitter blizzard in a long, cold winter of the heart.
She did not take a lover. If the troupe found that odd, they kept their silence about it because Lenore was so valuable to them. And, too, she was seldom with them, because as soon as a performance in one town was arranged, she must be off to another town to arrange the next one.
She journeyed openly into towns, always with a new story and differently garbed. Sometimes her wig was red, sometimes brown or black or even pale as honey. Her beauty quickly gained her the confidence of men, and she made arrangements for the players’ performances to be held swiftly and well. As time went by, the troupe came to consider her their lucky charm.
Her share of the profits was not so much as she had hoped. Although she often wore fine clothes and even stayed at good inns, the troupe was always beset by money problems, and Lenore always remembered that she—and they—were outside the law. She must not attract too much attention lest she be too well remembered. She must not form lasting attachments . . . the rules of the road were harsh.
Still she earned enough that sometimes she could send pincushions with a few gold coins stuck inside, to Twainmere by way of travelers crossing the Wolds. It was dangerous, and she was careful never to send letters, but Flora knew whence these coins came and bought Lorena pretty clothes and bright ribbons for her hair.
Monty would gladly have taken Lenore to his bed. She knew that from the way his green eyes glinted as they followed her, from the timbered resonance of his voice when he spoke to her, front something indefinably protective in his manner—more than from anything he said. But Monty too, was interested in keeping the services of a superb “advance man.” He made occasional overtures—a gift of a pair of sheer silk stockings or beribboned garters, the offer to share a bottle of sack with him when they were in funds. Lenore talked to him companionably as an equal, but she did not share his bed.
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