The Silent Woman (13 page)

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 kicked 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 time.’ 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.

His sword lay beside him and he snatched it up. He took a few steps towards the front door then checked. What if the challenge was a ruse? The man might have set a trap with the aid of confederates. Nicholas pondered for a moment then came to the conclusion that he was up against a lone enemy. If there had been accomplices, he would not have survived the first assault at High Wycombe. The man was paying him a perverse compliment. Nicholas was being congratulated on his earlier success and given a return engagement on more equal terms. Except that a man who tries to strangle an opponent from behind will always have distorted ideas of equality.

Nicholas accepted the challenge but tempered boldness with caution. Instead of leaving by the front door, he moved quickly to the back of the taproom and slipped out into a narrow passageway with a stone-flagged floor. The door ahead of him gave access to some outbuildings and he could use those as cover while working his way around to the stables. Letting himself noiselessly out into the night, he kept his sword at the ready and crept furtively along. An owl hooted in the distance. A vixen answered with a high-pitched call. Clouds drifted across the moon. The lanterns threw only the patchiest light onto the courtyard.