The Silent Woman (2 page)

‘Nick, dear heart! We are ever in your debt!’

‘You are our Deliverer,’ added Edmund Hoode.

‘I will never act with a brazier again,’ said Barnaby Gill testily. ‘My performance was ruined.’

Firethorn bristled. ‘The fate of the company is more important than the quality of your performance. It was your idiocy that is to blame, Barnaby. Thanks to you, our theatre was almost razed to the ground. Thanks to Nicholas, we still have a future at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Not for some time,’ said Nicholas with a sigh.

The smoke had now cleared enough for him to appraise the extent of the damage. It was far less than it might have been and was largely confined to the tiring-house and to the galleries directly above, but substantial rebuilding would still be necessary. Main beams had burnt through or been severely weakened. Floors had collapsed. Nicholas could see that it would be several weeks – if not months – before the Queen’s Head was able to host a theatre company once more.

Alexander Marwood set an even longer time limit on their return. When the fire was eventually brought under control, he did not know whether to be happy that his inn survived or feel hurt because his prophecy did not, and so he opted for a relieved misery by way of compromise. He hated plays, he loathed players and he was revolted by the sight of the debris all around him. This was his reward for the lunacy of permitting irresponsible actors to hire his property. He twitched his way across to Lawrence Firethorn and issued his death sentence.

‘Westfield’s Men will never play here again!’

‘But we have an agreement,’ said Firethorn.

‘It has been revoked.’

‘Silence, you gibbering nonentity!’

‘That is my final word, sir.’

‘And so it shall be!’ snarled Firethorn, pulling out his dagger and raising it to strike. ‘Die, you venomous little toad! Perish, you vermin!’

‘Hold!’ shouted Nicholas, interposing himself between the two men and easing Marwood away. ‘Do not be too hasty here,’ he said in soothing tones. ‘This has been highly unfortunate and we regret it as much as you, but the Queen’s Head still stands. It can be restored to its former glory. And we have been spared to continue our work.’

‘Not in my inn, Master Bracewell.’

Firethorn’s dagger glinted. ‘Remember our contract.’

‘It was the bane of my life.’

‘A contract is a contract.’

‘No, Master Firethorn!’ The landlord was adamant. ‘You were entitled to stage your plays in my yard, not to burn down my premises. Behold your accursed work, sir!’ Marwood made a histrionic gesture with his arm that was worthy of the actor-manager himself. ‘The Devil has no need to ride through London when Westfield’s Men may do his work for him. Talk not to me of our contract. It has gone up in smoke!’

London was a rapidly expanding community that had long since pushed out beyond the high city walls that had defined and defended it since Roman times. Suburbs thickened both north and south of the Thames to make the capital ten times larger than Norwich, its nearest English rival. In size and importance, it was the equal of any city in Europe with a bustle and energy that were beyond compare. The sounds and smells of London spread for miles in every direction. It was much more than a geographical phenomenon. Whether serving as a home, market, port or seat of government, the city was wholly and triumphantly alive.

There was no better place to observe the variety and vitality of the place than at Ludgate, one of the mighty portals that pierced the wall and allowed citizens and visitors alike to stream in and out beneath the raised portcullis. The gate had recently been rebuilt and the decorative statues of Queen Elizabeth, King Lud and his two sons now looked down from renovated perches upon the scene of activity below. Carts, coaches and drays rumbled into the city. The clack of hooves was never ending. Children played recklessly amid the traffic. Dogs sniffed and fought and yelped. Beggars lurked to solicit newcomers or to importune those taking their leave. Friends met to converse. A knot of spectators gathered to watch a malefactor being whipped by a beadle. Darker punishments were being endured by those who were incarcerated in Ludgate prison and who thrust their imploring arms through barred windows in search of food and drink. Birds flapped and swooped.

The man who sat astride his horse just outside the gate observed it all with a shrewd eye. His build and bearing suggested a yeoman but his doublet and hose were closer to those worn by a city gentleman. There was fur trim around his hat. He was of medium height and his craggy face bore the imprint of at least thirty eventful years. His raven-black beard was well barbered enough to hint at vanity and he stroked it with ruminative care. The faint air of a countryman seemed to linger only to be dispelled by the knowing sophistication of a Londoner.

He had been there since dawn, when the market traders streamed into the city with their produce to set up their stalls. Nobody who passed through Ludgate during a long morning escaped his scrutiny, and the man hardly moved from his position of vantage, except to dismount from time to time in
order to stretch his legs. Even when he relieved himself against a wall in a sheltered corner, he did not relax his surveillance. As noon was proclaimed by a jangling choir of bells, he was back in the saddle, raking the latest batch of arrivals with a stern gaze, then clicking his tongue in irritation when he did not find the face he so earnestly sought.

Could he have been mistaken? It was impossible to think that his vigilance had been at fault, but the sharpest eyes were useless if trained on the wrong location. Supposing his quarry had come along Holborn in order to enter the city through Newgate? Supposing he had struck even farther north and passed beneath the crenellations of Aldersgate or even Cripplegate? He discounted these alternatives almost as soon as he considered them. Someone who had ridden so far already would not needlessly add to the length of his journey. Most travellers approaching from the south-west would come by way of Westminster to Charing Cross then continue along the Strand until it merged into Fleet Street. That made Ludgate the only logical point of access.

So where was he? Had some accident detained or diverted him? The man’s information came from a reliable source and it had placed his quarry at Colnbrook on the previous night. Could it take so long to cover a distance of fifteen miles? Someone who was so eager to reach London would surely not be delayed. Unless he had some forewarning of what lay ahead. Was his absence due to a timely premonition? Did he sense what awaited him in the shadow of Ludgate? Had fear sent him by a more anonymous route into the city?

The anxious sentry was still trying to assimilate this new possibility when his long wait came to an end. Another bevy of travellers, some twenty or so, came trotting towards him. They were hot and dusty from a long ride but their discomfort
was forgotten in the excitement of their arrival. For most of them, it was clear, this was a first and overwhelming visit to the capital. These were provincial gapers. Eyes that had bulged at the myriad wonders of Westminster now widened in awe as the cathedral of St Paul’s rose up above the wall ahead of them like a mountain. The experience was at once exhilarating and intimidating.

He spotted his prey at once. The youth was in the middle of the cavalcade, using his companions as a protective ring, transfixed by what he saw and riding along in a kind of reverential daze. Short, plump and pale, he had plain features that were centred on a snub nose. His skin was soft, his face clean-shaven, his eyebrows thick and unsightly. He wore buff jerkin and hose with a cap pulled down over his close-cropped hair. The man put him around seventeen and knew that this was his designated target. Everyone else in the company was much older and the youth fitted in every detail the description he had been sent.

As the leaders went in through Ludgate, the man turned his own horse to join the rear of the group. There were fresh cries of astonishment as the travellers came face-to-face with the true heart of the city, with its mad jumble of houses, inns, churches and civic buildings, and with the happy turmoil of its streets. Voices lost in the din, they picked their way through the seething mass of bodies that converged on St Paul’s churchyard. By the time they reached Watling Street, they started to disperse to their destinations, some heading up towards Cheapside, others cutting down towards the river, a few turning off into Cordwainer Street to make a first purchase from the shoemakers.

The youth stayed with the rump of the party as it bore due east into Candlewick Street. Riding alongside him was
a big, well-dressed man of middle years on a chestnut mare. Unlike the others, he was evidently a seasoned traveller who had only joined the company for the safety it offered. Patently at ease in London, he showed an avuncular concern for the youth and pointed out each new item of interest. As further members of the group peeled away, only a handful were left to turn at last into Gracechurch Street. Still trailing at a discreet distance, the man with the black beard watched the youth and his obliging friend swing into the yard of the Queen’s Head. Though the fire on the previous day had closed part of the building down, the taproom was as busy and noisy as ever.

‘Come, lad. A drop of ale will revive you.’

‘No, sir. I will not tarry.’

‘A dusty ride leaves a dry throat. Swill away the taste of the journey before you go your way.’

‘There is no need, sir.’

‘I’ll not be denied. You’ll share a pint with me in the name of friendship. It is the least you can do.’

‘Indeed it is,’ conceded the youth. ‘I thank you for your help and I will drink to you but I may not stay long.’ He glanced nervously around the taproom. ‘I must be about my business.’

They were seated on stools beside a low wooden table. The youth was distinctly uncomfortable but his companion was very much at home in such surroundings. A waved hand brought a serving wench over and two tankards of ale were soon set in front of them. Pewter struck pewter in a toast then the man quaffed half of his pint in one thirsty gulp. The youth merely sipped at his drink. Having left his horse with an ostler, their shadow now stole into the taproom and sidled up so that he was within earshot. He took something
from the pouch at his belt, waited for the youth to speak again then moved quickly in with an ingratiating smile.

‘I know that voice!’ he said with a soft West Country burr. ‘It has a Tiverton ring to it, I’ll be bound!’

‘Not Tiverton, sir,’ said the youth. ‘But from that part of the country, it is true.’

‘Well met, lad!’ The black beard came close to the young face as the man clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Devon is a sweeter place than London. What brings you here?’

An embarrassed stutter. ‘An … an errand, sir.’

The youth was quite unable to cope with this sudden acquaintance thrust upon him and his travelling companion rose to come to his defence but his help was superfluous.

‘Welcome, young friend!’ said the newcomer, backing away with a farewell grin. ‘Enjoy your stay here.’

As he moved swiftly away they lost sight of him among the shifting patterns of humanity beneath the low beams. Both had resented the intrusion and were glad that they were now alone again. Neither had noticed that something was slipped deftly into the boy’s ale as his fellow Devonian leant across to him. The older man now raised his tankard once more.

‘Drink up, lad!’ he insisted.

‘Very well, sir.’

The youth supped more deeply this time. To please his kind friend, he even pretended to enjoy the bitter taste. The man finished his own ale and licked his lips while beaming across at his companion. There was no better way to mark the end of a long journey than to celebrate good fellowship in a hostelry. He chuckled happily. It never occurred to him that he had just become an accomplice in a murder.

T
he meeting was held at Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch because it was imperative to keep well clear of the fulminating landlord at the Queen’s Head. On that point, at least, there was general agreement. On a more pressing issue, however, there was deep dissension, and it came from a most unlikely person.

‘No, no, no!’ said Edmund Hoode firmly. ‘I will not.’

‘Leave off these jests,’ cooed his host.

‘I speak in earnest, Lawrence. I will not quit London.’

‘Stay here and we starve,’ said Barnaby Gill with utter distaste for the notion. ‘Westfield’s Men must tour. I quiver at the thought of wasting my God-given genius on the heathen swine of the provinces, but there is no help for it. Actors who lose a theatre must seek elsewhere for another.’

‘Edmund will join us in that quest,’ said Firethorn with assurance. ‘He would never desert us in our hour of need. Betrayal is foreign to his nature. He would sooner die than
see his company struggle off into the wilderness. The name of Hoode is a seal of loyalty and comradeship.’

‘You’ll not persuade me, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘I merely remind you of your reputation and honour.’

‘They are needed here at home.’

‘Home is where the company is,’ chanted Gill with a petulant flick of his hand. ‘It is your duty to come.’

‘Duty and obligation,’ reinforced Firethorn.

‘I do not give a fig for either.’

‘Edmund!’

‘Pray excuse me, gentlemen. I am wanted elsewhere.’

‘Stay!’

Firethorn barked a command that would have stopped a cavalry charge in its tracks then he placed his ample frame in the doorway to block his friend’s departure. Hoode met his steely gaze with equanimity. They stood there for some minutes, locked in a trial of brute strength. Firethorn went through his full repertoire of glaring, eyebrow raising, lip curling and teeth grinding, but all to no avail. Barnaby Gill threw in an occasional flaring of the nostril and stamping of the foot but even this additional parade of displeasure failed to bring the miscreant to his senses.

The three men were all sharers with the company, ranked players who were listed in the royal patent for Westfield’s Men and who were thus among the privileged few in the profession to be accorded legal recognition. Being sharers entitled them to first choice of the major parts in all plays that were performed as well as a portion of any profits made by the company. There were a number of other sharers but policy was effectively controlled by this trio. To be more exact, it was devised by Lawrence Firethorn and then placed before
his two colleagues for their comment and approval. Barnaby Gill, conceited and temperamental, always challenged Firethorn’s authority as a matter of course, and the house in Shoreditch had frequently echoed with the sound of their acrimonious exchanges. Edmund Hoode’s accustomed role was that of peacemaker and he had reconciled the squabbling rivals more times than he chose to recall, yet here was this same gentle, inoffensive man, this moon-faced romantic, this poet and dreamer, this voice of calm and moderation, this apostle of friendship, daring to abandon his fellows at a time of acute crisis. It was unthinkable.

Firethorn shattered the tense silence with a bellow.

‘Obey me, man! Or, by this hand, I’ll tie you to a hurdle and drag you along with us.’

Hoode was unmoved by the threat. ‘I will not go.’

‘You will.’

‘Take another in my place.’

‘God’s tits, Edmund! You
must
come!’

He attacked the renegade with a burst of expletives that turned the air blue and dislodged clouds of dust from the overhead beams. Hoode winced but he did not weaken. It was time for Barnaby Gill to take over and to replace apoplectic bluster with cool reasoning. Edmund Hoode was the resident actor-playwright, the creative source of the company, the only true begetter of that gallery of characters immortalised on the stage by the sheer flair of Firethorn and Gill. The way to appeal to him was through his work.

‘We will perform your new play, Edmund,’ he said.

‘It is not yet finished.’

‘Use the time out of London to complete it.’ Gill took his arm and guided him across the parlour to the bow window.
‘The Merchant of Calais
will be your masterpiece. We may try it out on tour and polish it until it dazzles like the sun. Anything penned by Edmund Hoode commands attention but this play will lift you high above your peers.’ Personal interest intruded. ‘Is my part written yet? Does it have true passion? Are there songs for me? And I must have a dance.’ He squeezed Hoode’s arm as he offered further flattery. ‘
The Merchant of Calais
will take the stage by storm. Does that prospect not entice you?’

‘No,’ said the playwright angrily. ‘I do not wish to take the stage by storm in front of farting country bumpkins in some draughty village hall. Is that the only carrot you can dangle, Barnaby?’ He turned to face his colleague and brushed away his hand.
‘The Merchant of Calais
was to have been performed at The Rose in Bankside before the cream of London. I’ll not let it be played in a barn to please the vulgar taste of rustics with a piece of straw in their mouths. Find some other argument. This one falters.’

‘Mine will not,’ said Firethorn, seizing the initiative once more and striding across the room to confront him. ‘You have no choice but to travel with us, Edmund. Loyalty demands it. Friendship compels it. Legal process enforces it.’

‘I am deaf to all entreaty.’

‘Hell and damnation! You are a sharer!’

‘Then I will share in the joys of London.’

‘You are contracted to serve us.’

‘I do that best by resting from the company.’

‘You have no choice, man!’

‘My decision is final.’

‘This wrings my heart,’ said Gill, striking a pose.

‘It rots my innards!’ howled Firethorn. ‘No more evasion.
We are sworn fellows in a sacred brotherhood. Deny us and you deny God himself. Look me in the face, Edmund.’ His voice took on an eerie stillness. ‘Now hear me plain. Cease this nonsense and pledge yourself to this tour. Or never call me friend again.’

The warning had the power of a blow and Hoode recoiled from it. His eyes moistened, his cheeks coloured and his Adam’s apple grew restless. His resolve had finally cracked and he was visibly squirming in pain as he wrestled with his dilemma. Westfield’s Men were his family. To foresake them now would be an act of malign cruelty, but as contrition began to flood through him and make his lower lip tremble, an even louder prompting filled his ears. Edmund Hoode could simply not leave London. With a supreme effort of will, he mastered all his misgivings then made a swift but dignified exit. The ultimate plea had failed.

Torn between rage and sadness, Firethorn gesticulated impotently, shocked that the most reliable member of his company should dare to reject him. Hoode’s behaviour was quite baffling until Barnaby Gill snorted with contempt and provided the explanation.

‘This is woman’s work, Lawrence,’ he sneered.

‘Edmund? Never!’

‘The fool is in love.’

‘He is
always
in love, Barnaby. Suffering is the badge of his existence. There is no surer way to wallow in anguish than to scatter the seed of your affections on stony ground, and he does that every time. Edmund Hoode is a martyr to unrequited love. When he dies, they will make him the patron saint of pining hearts.’

‘He is not pining now.’

‘How say you?’

‘Some woman has at last returned his love and bewitched his legs. They will not stir from London lest he lose her. Our amorous poet is being led by the pizzle.’

‘Can this be so?’

‘Have you seen him so
happy
before? It is unnatural!’

Firethorn was astonished. ‘What simpleton of her sex would choose Edmund as her swain? He would sooner stroke her body with his verses than lay lascivious hands upon her. I will not believe it. Westfield’s Men are in dire need of him. Who is stupid enough to put the charms of a woman before the fate of his fellows?’

‘
You
are, Lawrence, to name but one.’

‘What!’

‘Have you so soon forgotten Beatrice Capaldi?’

‘Hold your serpent’s tongue!’

‘Then there was Mistress Par—’

‘Enough!’ roared Firethorn, glancing around with apprehension in case his wife should hear them from the kitchen. ‘
I
am not on trial here. It is Edmund Hoode who stands accused of corruption.’

‘He caught the disease from you,’ said Gill with a vindictive leer. ‘The infection is called the Itching Codpiece. It is compounded of naked folly and throbbing inflammation.’

‘Your own codpiece has itched enough when it caught the scent of a male varlet,’ retorted Firethorn vehemently. ‘At least – thanks be to heaven! – Edmund does not suffer from
your
contagion. He would never sell his soul for pouting lips and a pair of boyish buttocks.’

‘Enough! I’ll not endure this!’

Barnaby Gill stamped his foot so hard this time that it
jarred his body and made his teeth rattle. He and Firethorn knew how to rub salt in each other’s wounds then add vinegar for full measure. They smarted together for a long time before common sense finally deprived them of their weapons and imposed a truce. Another brawl between them would not bring their errant poet back into the fold. Joint action had to be taken and swiftly. They shook hands on it.

‘We must find out who this woman is, Barnaby.’

‘Then pluck him from between her lusty thighs.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘That will be my office …’

Nicholas Bracewell removed another garment from its hook and folded it carefully before placing it in the basket. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, a conscientious soul with responsibility for making, altering and taking care of the costumes worn by the company, identified each one as it was packed away by the book holder, and he ticked it off on the list before him.

‘Item, one scarlet cloak faced with green velvet and silver lace,’ he intoned. ‘Item, one woman’s gown of cloth of gold. Item, one black velvet pea with gold lace and blue satin sleeves. Item, Charlemagne’s cloak with fur. Item, a hermit’s grey gown. Item, one white satin doublet. Item, one pair of embroidered paned hose scaled with black taffeta …’

Nicholas was about to fold the next garment when he noticed the scorch marks and set it aside. The antic coat had been used during
The Devil’s Ride Through London
and was one of many casualties. All the costumes worn by actors who fought the blaze were damaged, and many of those hanging in the tire-house had perished when the flames penetrated to that area. What fire had not destroyed, smoke had blackened. The foul smell still lingered in the material.
It was the day after the tragedy and Nicholas had slipped unseen into the Queen’s Head with Hugh Wegges to salvage what they could from the tiring-house and add it to the larger stock of costumes, which was kept in a private room at the inn. It was important to make a proper inventory before the whole collection was moved to safer lodgings in the attic of Firethorn’s house. The list that the tireman would present to his employer would help to determine the plays that could be performed on tour.

‘
The Devil
will ride no more,’ said Wegges feelingly. ‘Not unless the whole cast goes naked for penance. The costumes are ruined, and I’ve no time to make new ones.’ A resigned note sounded. ‘Master Firethorn will not have room for me when the company moves on. I am like that antic coat you hold there – burnt out of my occupation.’

‘We shall return to London ere long,’ said Nicholas.

‘When we have no theatre?’

‘Our landlord may relent.’

‘And it may rain sovereigns!’ came the sarcastic reply. ‘Those of us set aside may never work with a company again.’

‘Take heart, Hugh. Bear up.’

But Nicholas did not feel as optimistic as he sounded. In order to tour, Westfield’s Men would have to reduce the size of the party to its bare essentials. The sharers would go along with the apprentices, but many of the hired men would be discarded. A tireman and his assistant were luxuries that could not be afforded when the troupe took to the road. Nicholas would be given the unhappy job of telling several actors, musicians and other members of the company that their services were no longer required. For men like Thomas Skillen, stagekeeper with Westfield’s Men since its creation,
the parting could be final because he might conceivably have died before they returned. The defects of age, which debarred him from the multiple rigours of a long tour, were only kept at bay by the daily exercise of his functions behind the scenes. Without chores to do and underlings to berate, the venerable figure would soon go into decline.

It all served to increase the sense of guilt that Nicholas felt about the fire itself. Though he could not have foreseen the freak gust of wind that turned the glowing coals into a lethal inferno, it had been his idea to place the lighted brazier onstage in the final scene, and none of the praise that was afterwards heaped upon him for his bravery could hide the fact that he was somehow obscurely responsible for the disaster. Since he had inadvertently brought about the loss of the company’s venue, he vowed that he would restore it to them when the renovations were complete. That would entail more delicate restoration, the careful rebuilding of a relationship with the irascible landlord, and such work could not be rushed. In the short term, therefore, everything must be done to appease Alexander Marwood and all trace of his despised tenants removed from the premises.

When Nicholas and Hugh Wegges finished, they loaded their baskets on to a waiting cart to make a stealthy exit, but their secret visit to the inn did not go unnoticed.

‘Master Bracewell!’

‘Good day, sir,’ said Nicholas, throwing the words over his shoulder and eager to leave. ‘We must hurry.’

‘But I have news for you.’

The amiable voice made him turn and he saw a welcome face approaching. It belonged to Leonard, a huge, waddling barrel of a man with a beard still flecked with the foam of
his last draught of ale. They were good friends, who had been drawn together while imprisoned in the Counter, and it was Nicholas who had secured Leonard’s employment at the Queen’s Head. The erstwhile brewer’s drayman had much to thank him for and did so on a regular basis with touching sincerity.