The Silent Woman (12 page)

‘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 knew 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.’

‘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.’