The Silent Woman (18 page)

‘Where is this letter?’ asked Firethorn.

‘It is couched in filth and flattery.’

‘Show it me, good sir.’

‘What have you brought into my town!’ wailed the mayor.

‘A feast of theatre.’

‘One man murdered, one woman about to be defiled!’

‘Hold there and show me this false document.’

‘We will drive Westfield’s Men out!’ The mayor took the letter from his belt and thrust it at Firethorn. ‘Take your foul proposals back, sir! My wife’s favours are not for you.’

Lawrence Firethorn read the missive, recoiled from the bluntness of its carnality and scrunched it up in an angry hand. He held it up inside his bunched fist.

‘Hell and damnation! I’ll not endure this!’

‘Did you not write it, Master Firethorn?’

‘Write it? No, sir. Send it? Never, sir. Wish it? Not in a thousand years, sir. This is a trick practised on us to set the one against the other. You have a dear and loving wife. Do not let some villain turn her into a whore.’

‘How can I believe you?’ stuttered the mayor. ‘This letter carries your name upon it.’

‘My name but written by another hand. Fetch me pen and ink and I will show you my true signature. Compare the two and you will see the falsehood here. Besides, sir,’ he said with a consoling smile, ‘what fornicator, liar or adulterer would be so foolish as to reveal himself to the husband of a woman he is trying to lead astray? If you entreated a lady to bestow her favours upon you, would the letter bear your name and title?’

The mayor was persuaded. Lawrence Firethorn and his wife were not, after all, secret lovers. He might yet enjoy again unbridled passion in his chain of office. Relief and remorse seized him, but before he could bury the wrongly accused actor beneath a mound of thanks and apologies, there was a knock at the door and the landlord entered.

‘The chamberlain is here, Master Firethorn,’ he said.

‘Let him wait.’

‘He will not. Some letter has put him to choler.’

‘Not another!’ snarled Firethorn.

‘The town clerk also attends with impatience.’

‘Here’s a third ordeal!’

‘He curses your name on account of his wife.’

‘God’s blood!’

Lawrence Firethorn mastered the urge to take the first letter and force it down the throat of the landlord. It was important to separate message and messenger. The
landlord was not responsible for the news that he brought. Firethorn was evidently the butt of some mischievous pen and he needed to identify the correspondent without delay. Unfolding the paper, he studied the uncouth hand that had dared to impersonate his own. Who could seek to embarrass him in this way? He thought of a bewitching young woman at the Fighting Cocks, of a dispute in her bedchamber with a supposed rival and of a pillaged capcase. He thought of an old shepherd on the road out of Oxford. He thought of the biggest villain in Christendom and he named his man at last.

‘Israel Gunby!’

Nicholas Bracewell had a much happier morning than his employer. The shining success of
The Happy Malcontent
had been besmirched by the murder of one of its spectators, and this had obliged him to give a sworn statement to the magistrate about how he had found the dead body. Nicholas disclosed that the victim was an accomplice of Israel Gunby, but he made no mention of the likely killer. Westfield’s Men were absolved of all involvement in the crime and he wished to distance it from them as much as possible. The assassin was a personal problem for Nicholas Bracewell and he was keen to deal with it himself. Nothing could be gained by speculations to the local representatives of law and order. After joining the company in the now-muted celebrations at the White Hart, he went off to spend a watchful night in his bedchamber.

Morning brought comfort, pleasure and qualified delight. Comfort came from the fact that he had, for once, spent a night outside London without being the subject of an attack. Pleasure was assured by the news that Edmund Hoode was now so caught up with
The Merchant of
Calais
that he was
locked in his chamber and writing furiously. With his creative juices flowing freely once more, the playwright would soon complete the new play and add it to their repertoire. Nicholas still had qualms about his own contribution to the work, but common sense now told him that it could not be as central as he feared. Edmund Hoode had been working on the new drama for several weeks now and the main lines of plot and character had already been laid down. Nicholas had merely added depth and reality to the scenes of mercantile life. The merchant of Calais would not be Robert Bracewell.

Delight came soon after. While Lawrence Firethorn was grappling with a disagreeable letter, Nicholas was handed one that was as unexpected as it was welcome. The courier had ridden hard from London. A change of horses at intervals and an overnight stop at an inn had brought him to Marlborough by mid-morning. The whole town knew where the players were staying and he presented himself at the White Hart at once. Nicholas was moved. To send a letter so far and so fast was highly expensive, and it spoke volumes for Anne Hendrik’s generosity and concern. He thanked the courier, gave him a few coins then sent him off into the taproom to spend them.

When he broke the seal and opened the letter, the mere sight of her signature revived him. The substance of the message made his love for her surge even more. Anne had gone to enormous trouble on his behalf and enlisted the aid of Leonard. She had not only discovered the exact poison that killed the girl from Devon, she had even acquired a rough description of the man thought to be the poisoner. Nicholas looked at the sketch with interest and gratitude. Anne had no great gift for portraiture, but she had caught enough of the man’s features for Nicholas to be able to recognise him if they met. Her letter was not just
a testimony of her desire to help. It put a powerful weapon into his hands. He was no longer up against an invisible assailant.

His delight, however, was not unrestrained. The missive contained nothing of an intimate nature. There was no hint of regret, no apology for her harsh treatment of him, no wish that he should ever return to the house in Bankside. Anne Hendrik would go to any lengths to help to save his life but she did not appear to want to share it. Nicholas settled for a modified solace. Contact with Anne was re-established. It was a positive foundation on which he could build.

A rehearsal was now due and Nicholas could spend no more time perusing her words and studying the portrait. He was needed in the Guildhall to supervise matters. Pushing the letter inside his jerkin, he collected the hired men from the taproom and took them with him. He had a spring in his step and a sense of having crossed an important boundary.

One silent woman had finally spoken.

Their fears proved groundless. Because a murder had occurred during their performance of
The Happy Malcontent
on the previous night, Westfield’s Men braced themselves for a greatly reduced audience on the following afternoon. People could not be expected to sit comfortably in a hall where a man had so recently been stabbed. The tragedy was bound to have an adverse effect on the company. In the event, the opposite was the case. Since the murder victim was not a local man, his death lacked any resonance to frighten away the townspeople. Prompted by the glowing reports of the company’s quality and by a ghoulish curiosity to view the very seat in which Ned Robinson had expired, spectators came in such large numbers that not all could be accommodated in the Guildhall. All doors
in the auditorium were left open so that people could stand outside and yet peer in at the play, and there were clusters of eager patrons outside pressing their noses against each window.

Marlborough had been blessed with ample entertainment that year with musicians, jugglers, tumblers, bear-wards and swordplayers making it a port of call. Wrestlers had also visited the town more than once, and a few companies of strolling players had been allowed to display their wares. Westfield’s Men were a distinct cut above all others. They offered genuine quality in place of more homespun show. Mayoral blessing was another factor. Reconciled with his wife, the contrite mayor could think of no better way to please her and to placate Lawrence Firethorn than by coming to the Guildhall in his regalia for the second time. He was back in the front row, playing with his chain and with his fantasies, and meditating on the joys of married life. The seal of civic approval was firmly stamped on the company.

‘George!’

‘Here, Master Bracewell.’

‘The bench.’

‘I have it with me.’

‘You have the small bench,’ said Nicholas tolerantly. ‘This scene requires the larger one.’

‘Are we in Act Four already?’

‘Act Three Scene Two.’

‘That is the small bench.’

‘Large.’

‘I know
Vincentio’s Revenge
by heart.’

‘We are playing
Black Antonio.
’

George Dart’s confusion was understandable. He was near exhaustion. Since the joyous moment when he had been able
to cram a breakfast into his tiny frame, he had not stopped fetching and carrying. His legs hurt, his arms ached and his mind was a total blank. Though he had made three separate entries in the play – as guard, servant and chaplain – he had been given no lines to speak. The play felt like
Vincentio’s Revenge
to him even if it turned out to be
Black Antonio
. Both were swirling tragedies of thwarted love and each was propelled by a mixture of jealousy, intrigue and violence. George Dart could be forgiven for his mistake. He could rely on Nicholas Bracewell to cover it with his usual discretion.

Act Five called for the small
and
the large bench. In the final harrowing scene, Lawrence Firethorn, supreme as ever in a title role written especially for him, kicked over the one bench and fell headlong across the other. It was a death so poignant and dramatic that it struck the audience dumb. Transfixed by the fate of noble Antonio, they completely overlooked the demise of Ned Robinson. A real murder in the Guildhall was a small event. The feigned death of Lawrence Firethorn would be talked about in hushed tones for weeks. It would be something for the mayor to discuss in bed with his wife before he removed his chain of office.

Solemn music played, Antonio was borne away and the play ended. The only sound that broke the taut silence was the muffled weeping of women. It was a bright afternoon but the most exquisite sense of loss lay across them like penumbra. Black Antonio exhumed himself and strode out onto the stage to collect his applause in armfuls. The company followed and the audience gave them unstinting acclaim. Even George Dart took his bow with pleasure. He was always gratified when a play was finally over and his slow torture was suspended.

‘Master Bracewell …’

‘Speak to me later, George.’

‘There may be no time. We leave Marlborough now.’

‘Can you only talk within the town limits?’

‘We are alone now. Others will be on the waggon.’

‘Is it so important, George?’

‘I think it is.’

‘Then stand aside, lad, but be swift.’

The Guildhall had now been cleared of all trace of Westfield’s Men. The prompt copy of
Black Antonio
was safely locked away in Nicholas Bracewell’s chest, and both benches – along with all the other properties – were stowed in the waggon. Marlborough belonged to their past. Bristol was their future. As the company gathered in the yard of the White Hart prior to departure, George Dart saw the chance of a private word with the book holder.

‘Speak up, George,’ said Nicholas. ‘What ails you?’

‘They say you go on to Barnstaple.’

‘That is so.’

‘Take me with you!’ he begged.

‘What?’

‘Take me with you to Barnstaple!’

‘Why?’

‘So that I may follow
you
.’

‘I attend to family business and it may not be shared.’

‘You mishear me, sir,’ said Dart, checking that they could not be overheard so that his secret would not excite the derision of the others. ‘I wish to follow your example. Take me to Barnstaple and I will run away to sea.’

Nicholas was astounded. ‘You are no sailor, George.’

‘I could become one,’ said the other defensively. ‘I am no true mariner of the theatre. I run aground too often. If I stay with
Westfield’s Men, I may mistake this play for that one yet again. A ship is a ship. No sailor would confuse it with something else.’ He voiced his despair. ‘I am not made for this life.’

‘But we
need
you in the company.’

‘
You
may do so, Master Bracewell. All that the others need is something to bully and beat and shout at.’

‘Are you so unhappy?’

‘I want to run away to sea as you did.’

‘It is no life for you, lad,’ said Nicholas sadly. ‘You have to be born to it. I grew up by the sea and served my apprenticeship as a merchant. It is in my blood.’

‘Then why have you left it?’

‘I have not, George. Theatre is a voyage of discovery. I sail beneath canvas with Lawrence Firethorn as my captain now.’ Nicholas gave him a confiding smile. ‘He may be more pirate than naval commander but he runs a tight ship and I serve him willingly.’

‘I am but the cabin boy here,’ said George Dart.

‘Would you rather beg in the streets of London? That is what some of those left behind will do. Stay with us.’

‘The sea calls me.’

Nicholas grew philosophical. ‘No, George. What calls you is the idea of escape. You are not running
to
something but
away
from it. That was my error, too, and I hope to put it right at last. If you do not like something, work to change it until it suits you.’

‘I did,’ moaned Dart. ‘I changed
Vincentio’s Revenge
into
Black Antonio
– and where did that get me?’ Others came towards them and he was forced to make a final plea. ‘Take me to Barnstaple with you and save my miserable life!’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I must go alone.’

‘Show me the sea.’