The Silent Woman (6 page)

Emotions were running high in the yard and sobbing was breaking out among the women. When Nicholas saw husbands reassure their wives and lovers embrace their mistresses, his sense of desolation grew. The only person he wanted to see at that moment in time was not there. At the start of any previous tour, Anne Hendrik had always sent him on his way with love and best wishes, but there would be no farewell kiss this time. It emphasised the anomaly of his position. Nicholas was in limbo. He was making a journey between past lives, between a woman who had turned him out and a family he had disowned. It was a dispiriting itinerary because it left him without a final destination.

Someone else took note of his condition and intervened.

‘Come here, Nicholas!’

‘Gladly, mistress.’

‘Where is your good lady?’

‘Detained elsewhere, I fear.’

‘Then I shall give you her due of kisses as well.’

Margery Firethorn fell on him with unashamed affection and planted her lips firmly on his. A handsome woman with a vivacity that tilted towards excess, she had always been fond of the book holder and sensed his dismay at Anne Hendrik’s absence. Relationships within the theatrical world explored all the extremes of human behaviour, and Margery had learnt to accommodate the caprices and eccentricities of her husband’s colleagues. Nicholas Bracewell was the most stable man in the company in every way. If he had parted from a lover, it would not have been done lightly.

‘Write to her, Nick,’ she purred in his ear.

‘What do you say?’

‘Absence can soften even the hardest heart.’

She gave him another kiss then went across to snatch her children away from the arms of Lawrence Firethorn so that she could take a wifely leave of him. Like everything that the actor did, it was a performance in itself and he might have been playing a scene from a tragedy of love. Margery was an ideal soulmate, matching him in passion and tenderness, yet able to summon up reserves of fury that made even his tirades seems mild by comparison. Whether she was caressing or quarrelling with her husband, she was a most formidable woman. Husband and wife now reached down to lift up the children again into communal embrace. When it was over, the actor-manager leapt into his saddle, pulled out his rapier and held it high as he delivered a short speech to give inspiration to his company.

It was time to leave. Nicholas rode up beside him.

‘We must tarry, master. Edmund is not yet here.’

‘He was amongst the first to appear.’

‘I do not see him.’

‘That is because he does not wish to be seen.’

‘He is hidden in the waggon?’

‘Our poet has found another disguise. Mark this.’

Firethorn nudged his friend and indicated the crooked figure of an old parson who sat on a horse near the gateway. He was completely detached from the others and seemed to be deep in solemn contemplation. Firethorn brought him out of it with a clarion call.

‘Edmund!’ he cautioned, ‘there’s one Master Matthew Diamond here to seek a word with you.’

The parson came alive, the horse neighed and the pair of them went cantering out into the street. Westfield’s Men took their cue and rolled out after him. The tour had begun.

Waving his hat in farewell, Lawrence Firethorn led his company away on his bay stallion, a prancing animal with a mettle commensurate with that of its rider. Barnaby Gill rode beside him on a striking grey mare, dressed in his finery and revelling in the opportunity to parade it through the streets. True to prediction, no money was forthcoming from their patron, but Lord Westfield did lend a bevy of horses from his stables so that most of the sharers could make the journey in the saddle. One who did not was Owen Elias, self-appointed driver of the waggon that carried the company’s costumes, properties and scenic devices. The two mighty animals between the shafts were also pulling along the four apprentices and a couple of hired men. George Dart and two other unfortunates trotted at the waggon’s tail with the weary resignation of convicted criminals being dragged to the place of execution. Only when the procession left London and needed to pick up
speed would they be allowed to ride aloft with the others.

Nicholas Bracewell brought up the rear on the roan that he had inherited from the dead girl. This not only enabled him to make sure that the pedestrian members of the company did not straggle, it also gave him the opportunity for a last, long, hopeful gaze around the yard as he left it but there was still no sign of her. Leonard trotted beside him and thrust the ballad into his hand.

‘You are famous, Master Bracewell.’

‘That is not how your employer would speak of me.’

‘Forget his hot words,’ said Leonard. ‘I will work on him in your absence and change his mind completely.’

‘Thank you, my friend.’

‘Come back to us one day.’

‘We will, Leonard.’

‘God be with you!’

Leonard had more to say but no breath with which to say it. He staggered to a halt and let his smile and his wave convey his message. Clustered around him were the other well-wishers, calling out their farewells and their encouragement. When the waggon and its cargo were swallowed up in the seething morass of people in the Bailey, a sudden grief descended on the watching group. Touring had its hardships but it was preferable to being left behind. As the company now headed west along Holborn, it left unemployed men and weeping women in its wake. Set apart from the former by virtue of his occupation, Leonard sided instead with the latter and copious tears trickled down his face. Westfield’s Men made the Queen’s Head an exciting place to work. It would seem dull and lifeless without them.

One observer was impervious to the general melancholy. The
man with the trim attire and the well-barbered black beard was pleased with what he had witnessed. He had singled out Nicholas Bracewell at once and studied him intently. All that he needed to know was the route the company had taken out of the city and that was now clear. They had followed the line of the city wall as far as Newgate then swung left to take the Uxbridge Road. There was no hurry to follow them. He could judge their pace and how far it was likely to take them by nightfall. His pursuit needed to be stealthy. Their progress would be remarked by all whom they passed on the way, so it would be easy to pick up their trail by enquiry. Westfield’s Men were a memorable spectacle.

He estimated that their first day on the road would take them into the Chilterns. Beaconsfield was probably too close a destination and Stokenchurch too far, so they would find some intermediate spot to spend the night. That was when he would strike. He carried dagger, rapier and club, but it was the knotted cord in his capcase that elected itself as the murder weapon. Putting his foot in the stirrup, he hauled himself up into the saddle and patted the leather bag, which held the cord. It would lie quietly in there like a snake in its lair until it was allowed out to strike with its deadly fangs. Nicholas Bracewell was evidently a strong and alert man who would need to be taken unawares. He was a far worthier target than the innocent girl whose life he had so casually snuffed out. She had been no match for him but Nicholas was a quarry he could be proud to hunt.

He would enjoy killing him.

M
orning brought no relief from a night of suffering. Anne Hendrik awoke from a troubled sleep to find that Nicholas Bracewell had left. His bed had not been used and his room had been stripped of all his possessions. As she stood alone in the small, bare, forlorn chamber, she was hit by an onrush of guilt that made her sway and reach out for support. She had been too quick to condemn him, too slow to give him the benefit of the doubt. Years of trust and understanding had been vitiated in one burst of anger, and he had been forced to sneak away from her house in the middle of the night like an outcast. It was a severe punishment for a crime that might not even exist.

What had Nicholas actually done? Twenty-four hours earlier she had thought him the best of men and could call up a thousand examples of his goodness and reliability. Then a young traveller staggered into the house in search of her lodger and all was lost. Evidently, the messenger was bringing a call for
help, and it had sent Nicholas off to Devon, albeit by a winding route in the company of Westfield’s Men. Anne Hendrik’s first thought was that a woman was certainly involved. Shorn of her male attire and laid out on a stone slab, the girl had the look of a maidservant whose short hair and thickset features allowed her to conceal her sex. Her borrowed clothing had quality and her horse good breeding, so she had clearly worked in a prosperous household. No man would dispatch such an unprotected creature on such a difficult errand. Anne therefore assumed that she was sent by her mistress to summon the aid of Nicholas Bracewell, who was possibly her former lover, even her husband. But was this necessarily the case?

Nicholas did not deny the existence of a silent woman in his past but there did not have to be any romantic implications. Could the woman not just as easily be his mother, or sister, or a relation? And was there not – now that she paused to reflect upon it – another reason for his refusal to offer her a full explanation? Nicholas was shielding Anne. The message that the girl brought had already cost one life. He did not wish to put hers in jeopardy as well. As long as Anne Hendrik was kept in ignorance, she was safe. That was why he could not take her completely into his confidence. He had begged for her trust and she had held it back. Anne’s blind jealousy had clouded her judgement and blunted her finer feelings. She had lost him for ever.

Yet even as she swung once more towards him, there were considerations that drew her back into pained disapproval. Nicholas Bracewell had rejected her appeal. Given a stark choice between staying with her and going to Barnstaple, he selected the latter. Anne was hit by the realisation that, even if Devon had not been an option, he would still have left with
Westfield’s Men. They were the true centre of his life. She was merely a pleasant appendage to a real existence that took place elsewhere. It was a doomed relationship. Margery Firethorn had once told her that to marry an actor was to hurl oneself head first into a whirlpool of uncertainty. Sharing her bed with a man of the theatre had left Anne Hendrik in the same helpless predicament. The most sensible thing she could do was to put him from her mind and concentrate on her work.

‘You do not need to do this, mistress.’

‘What is that, Preben?’

‘I have been making hats for over thirty years and I am too old to learn new ways. Please do not stand over me like that.’ The Dutchman smiled respectfully up at her. ‘You are in my light.’

‘I am in your way,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but you are too kind to put it like that.’ Anne glanced around the room where her four employees and the apprentice were bent over the respective hats that they were working on. ‘Are there no more deliveries to be made this morning?’

‘None.’

‘What of our accounts?’

‘They are all in order and up to date.’

‘There must be something I can do, Preben.’

‘No, mistress.’

‘Perhaps I could help to—’

‘Let hatmakers make their hats,’ he suggested quietly. ‘That is why you pay us. If you seek employment, go out and find new orders to keep our trade healthy.’

‘That is good advice.’

‘When Jacob was alive, he led by example and we toiled to keep up with his nimble fingers. His memory lives on to
guide us. We will not skimp or slack because we are left alone in our workplace. Jacob Hendrik watches over us.’

Anne sighed and accepted the wisdom of his comments.

Preben van Loew was a tall, spare, wizened man in his fifties with skills that had been chased out of his native Holland and that had settled in London. Dressed severely in black, he was modest and unassuming and always wore a dark skullcap on his domelike head. Anne owed him a tremendous amount because he had kept the business going when Jacob Hendrik, his closest friend, had died, and he had instructed her in all the subtleties of his craft when she decided to take over the reins herself. Her talents lay in managing the others, finding commissions, dealing with their many customers and helping to design new styles of headgear. Until that morning, she also knew when to leave her staff alone to get on with their work. Now she was simply using them to occupy her mind, and her presence was disruptive.

With a gesture of apology, she moved to the door. Preben van Loew spoke without looking up from his task of snipping through some material with his scissors.

‘I had hoped to see Master Bracewell this morning.’

‘Nicholas?’

‘He is leaving with Westfield’s Men.’

‘I know.’

‘He usually calls,’ said Preben with mild censure. ‘Whenever he has to go away for any length of time, he usually calls in here to bid us farewell.’

‘Nicholas was in a hurry,’ she explained.

‘He has always had time for friends in the past.’

Anne Hendrik needed a moment to control her features.

‘Times have changed,’ she said, then went sadly out.

Buckinghamshire was painted in its most vivid colours at this time of year and its variegated richness was refreshing to those whose palates had been jaded by city life and whose nostrils had been clogged by its prevailing stench. Westfield’s Men spent the first stage of their journey marvelling at the beauties of nature and inhaling clean country air. It helped them to forget their sorrows. The county was split in half by the Chilterns, which ran across it from east to west to lend a rolling charm. In earlier centuries, the hills had been entirely covered with magnificent beech trees, but they had been thinned out at the order of successive abbots of St Albans, who had owned much of the Chilterns, in order to help the Welsh drovers who were bringing their animals to sell in London. The beechwoods were ideal cover for thieves who stole cattle, sheep, pigs and geese with relative impunity until their places of ambush and refuge were felled by the axe.

Meadow and pasture now predominated, much of it set aside for the feeding and fattening of livestock from Wales before the last part of its trek to the capital. The clay soil responded to the plough and much corn was grown in addition to the grass and hay for the drovers’ animals. Sheep seemed to be grazing everywhere and the rumble of their waggon could make a whole flock go careering around a field as if their tails were on fire. What was amusing to the passing company of actors, however, held a more serious meaning for others. Because of the profits to be gained from offering keep, many landowners converted from arable farming to sheep grazing. The subsequent enclosures brought grave hardship to small farmers, tenants and labourers, and Buckinghamshire was one of several midland counties that suffered periodic rioting against the new dispensation. A tranquil scene held rebellion in its sub-soil.

Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe at a steady pace and they only paused once, at an inn near Uxbridge, to take refreshment and to rest the horses after the first fifteen miles. Anxious to make as much headway as daylight and discretion would allow, the company then pressed on to Beaconsfield before making a final spurt of five miles to bring them to High Wycombe. Firethorn was satisfied. They were over halfway to Oxford and they were offered cordial hospitality at the Fighting Cocks, a fine, big, rambling inn with good food and strong ale in plenty, and rooms enough to accommodate them and three more such companies. For that night at least, they would all sleep in fresh linen.

Nicholas Bracewell took charge of the stabling of the horses and the unloading of the waggon. Everything was carried into the hostelry and put under lock and key. The item that Nicholas guarded most carefully was the chest in which he kept the company’s stock of plays. Since most of them only existed in a single copy, the chest contained the very lifeblood of Westfield’s Men. It was stowed beneath his bed in the chamber that the book holder was to share with Edmund Hoode, a particularly suitable venue since the chest held the entire dramatic output of the playwright.

Hoode had now exchanged his clerical garb for doublet and hose, but his sombre mood retained its hold on him. He stared down at the chest with doleful eyes.

‘Such small accomplishment in so many years!’ he said. ‘That chest contains my whole misguided life, Nick.’

‘Your plays have brought delight to thousands.’

‘And misery to their author.’

‘Edmund—’

‘Bury that box in the ground,’ he said. ‘It will give but short
work to the spade. Those are the useless relics of an idle brain and they should be covered with unforgiving earth.’ He heaved a sigh and wrote an epitaph. ‘Here lies Edmund Hoode, a poor scribe, who took his own life with quill and parchment, and left no memory of his passing. Pity him for the emptiness of his existence and despise him for the failure of his ambition. Amen.’

Nicholas put a consolatory arm around his shoulders. Yet another of his friend’s love affairs had miscarried and yet another set of lacerations had been inflicted on a soul that was already striped with anguish. In view of his own broken relationship, the book holder now had a closer affinity with the wounded playwright.

‘Let’s go below for supper,’ he said. ‘A full stomach will remind you of your sterling worth, then you may tell me what has happened.’

‘The words would choke me, Nick!’

‘You need some Canary wine to ease their passage. Come, sir. Let’s join the others.’

After locking the door, they went down to a taproom that was already bubbling with merriment. Westfield’s Men had taken over the largest tables and were tucking into their meal with relish. Fatigue was soon washed away with ale. The landlord was a fund of jollity, the other guests warmed to the lively newcomers and there was a general atmosphere of camaraderie. It was all a far cry from the charred wreck of the Queen’s Head and the ever-lamenting Alexander Marwood. Mine host of the Fighting Cocks clearly liked actors.

His affection was shared by some of the other guests.

‘You are players from London, I hear,’ said one.

‘Westfield’s Men,’ announced Lawrence Firethorn with pride. ‘No company has finer credentials.’

‘Your fame runs before you, sir.’

‘It is no more than we deserve.’

The man stood up from his chair to cross over to them. His grey hair framed a long, clean-shaven face that shone with affability, and his bearing indicated a gentleman. He wore fine clothes and there was further evidence of his prosperity in the rings that adorned both hands. He was in excellent humour.

‘Westfield’s Men,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Are you not led by a titan of the stage called Lawrence Firedrake?’

‘
Thorn
!’ corrected the other, irritably. ‘Firethorn, sir. If you saw him act, you would never mistake his sharp thorn for the quack of a drake. Lawrence Fire-
thorn
!’

‘Pardon me, sir,’ said the man. ‘No offence was intended, I assure you.’ He glanced around. ‘And is this same Master Firethorn with you at this time?’

The actor-manager rose to his feet and drew himself to his full height, hands on hips, feet splayed and barrel chest inflated. Inches shorter than the older man, he yet seemed incomparably taller as he imposed his presence upon the taproom. An arrogant smile slit his beard apart.

‘Lawrence Firethorn stands before you now, sir!’

‘Then we are truly honoured,’ said the man with a mixture of delight and humility. ‘My name is Samuel Grace and I travel to London with my daughter, Judith.’ He turned to indicate the attractive young woman who sat at his table. ‘She has never seen a company of actors perform and I would remedy that defect. I beg you, Master Firethorn, let’s have a play here and now.’

Other guests seized on the idea and added their pleas. The landlord was in favour of anything that kept his guests happy and the girl herself, pale, withdrawn and demure, looked up with trembling interest. Firethorn knew better than to
comply before any terms had been offered. He held up his hands to quieten the noise then spoke with mock weariness.

‘We thank you all for the compliment of your request,’ he said, resting a hand on the table, ‘but we have travelled well above twenty miles this day. You call for a play that would last two hours and drain us to the very dregs. Our reputation rests on giving of our best and we will not offer your indulgence any less.’

‘Come, come, we must have
something
!’ insisted Samuel Grace. He appealed to the other guests. ‘Is that not so?’

‘Yes,’ agreed a voice from another corner. ‘Give us a scene or two, Master Firethorn. Speeches to stir our hearts and songs to delight us.’

‘Well said, friend,’ thanked Grace, resuming the task of persuasion. ‘Amuse us with a dance at least. I never saw a play yet that did not end in a fine galliard or a merry jig. My daughter, Judith – God bless the child! – loves the dance. Westfield’s Men surely have enough sprightly legs among them to carry it off. Entertain us, Master Firethorn,’ he instructed, putting a hand into the purse at his belt, ‘and you will be five pounds the richer for it.’

‘I will add half as much again,’ said the man in the corner, ‘if you will put on your costumes and treat this assembly to the wonder of your art.’

Firethorn closed with the offer at once. Seven and a half pounds was considerably more than they would be given at other venues where they might stage a full play, and there was a possibility, if they gave enough pleasure, that the company could coax more money out of other purses. It was a good omen for their tour. Firethorn had a brief consultation with his book holder then he withdrew with his company to acquaint
them with the nature of their impromptu performance and to don the appropriate costumes.