The Silent Woman Read online

  She gave Margery a gruff welcome and invited her in.

  ‘We have met before,’ reminded Margery.

  ‘Yes,’ came the tight-lipped reply.

  ‘I gave you sound advice. On that occasion, too, I was able to show you the error of your ways and point out where true profit and advancement lay.’

  ‘What do you want?’ hissed Sybil.

  ‘To speak with you, woman to woman.’

  ‘Wife to wife, more like!’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘I know your game, Mistress Firethorn,’ said Sybil with a derisive sneer. ‘My husband has broken with your husband and you seek to use me to join them together again.’

  ‘That is quite false.’

  ‘Why else would you deign to visit me?’

  ‘To keep them apart.’

  Sybil Marwood was taken aback. She had been extremely displeased to see her visitor and to be reminded of the man whose company had all but burnt her home and workplace to the ground. Her immediate assumption was that Margery had come on behalf of Westfield’s Men to sue for reinstatement at the Queen’s Head. What other motive would bring her there? Sybil turned on the basilisk gaze she usually reserved for her husband but Margery did not wilt. Calm and poised, she waited for her cue to offer a full explanation. Her husband had taught her the importance of dressing for the occasion, so Margery had put on her smartest attire and her most spectacular hat. Shoes, gloves and all accessories combined to give a stunning effect. Sybil Marwood was in the presence of a lady, and it made her self-conscious about her own drab clothes and greasy mob cap. She became fractionally more respectful.

  ‘Would you care to sit down, mistress?’ she said.

  ‘I may not stay long,’ said Margery, glancing at the dust on every surface in the room and vowing not to soil her dress by contact with it. ‘I have too much to do.’

  ‘You spoke of keeping them apart.’

  ‘So I did.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘Westfield’s Men must never return here.’

  ‘Nor will they,’ promised Sybil. ‘My husband has sworn that they will never cross our threshold again and I will keep him to that decision.’

  ‘I pray that you do, mistress.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because our good fortune collapses else.’

  ‘Good fortune?’

  Margery took a step towards her and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. The basilisk glare had now been diluted to a look of open-eyed wonder.

  ‘May I trust you never to repeat this?’ said Margery.

  ‘On my honour!’

  ‘Most of all, you must not tell your husband.’

  ‘Alexander is a fool. I tell him nothing.’

  ‘A sound rule for any marriage.’

  ‘What is this good fortune?’

  ‘Westfield’s Men have been approached.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Another innkeeper. Hearing that their contract here had been torn up, he straightway stepped in to offer a home for the company. Is not this wonderful news?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Sybil, uncertainly, feeling the first itch of envy. ‘Who is this innkeeper?’

  ‘That is a secret I must keep locked in my bosom. But I tell you this, though his inn be smaller than yours, he looks to make a larger profit out of his new tenants.’

  ‘Profit?’ The word was a talisman.

  ‘He cannot understand why the Queen’s Head would let such a rich source of income go.’

  ‘That rich source of income set fire to our premises!’

  ‘It was the wind that did that, mistress,’ said Margery. ‘Westfield’s Men saved your inn from complete destruction. That ballad says it all. Nicholas Bracewell and the others put their lives at risk for you and your husband. It is one of the reasons that persuaded this other interested party to step forward. He admires men of such quality.’

  ‘Where is this hostelry?’ said Sybil.

  Margery clapped her hands in glee. ‘That is a further boon,’ she explained. ‘It is outside the city walls and therefore free from the jurisdiction of the authorities. They hate the theatre and do all they can to suppress it. If Westfield’s Men leave here, they leave behind interference and disapproval. Nothing will hinder them from now on.’

  Sybil was mystified. ‘So why do you come to me?’

  ‘To ensure the safety of the new contract.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The innkeeper is a possessive man. He wants the company to be solely his. My husband has assured him that the Queen’s Head has repudiated its contract with the company. Is that not so?’

  ‘It is, it is.’

  ‘Then it must be seen to be so,’ stressed Margery. ‘If your husband were even to consider renewing that contract, I fear it will frighten our new landlord away. He is very jealous and prone to impulsive action. You know how men are when they set their minds on something.’

  ‘Only too well!’

  ‘May we count on your help here?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Sybil. ‘I will ensure that Alexander has no further contact with Westfield’s Men. What did the actors do except fill our yard with people of the lower sort?’

  ‘They filled your balconies with gallants and their ladies,’ reminded Margery. ‘And they also filled your pockets with money. How much beer and ale did you sell when a play brought the crowds to the Queen’s Head?’ She rammed home another argument. ‘How much fame did the company bestow upon your inn? Why did so many visitors to London flock to Gracechurch Street for their entertainment instead of to Southwark or Shoreditch? Westfield’s Men gave you a noble reputation.’

  ‘That is true,’ conceded the other then hardened. ‘But it is a reputation for licentious behaviour. Actors are born lechers. Our daughter, Rose, barely escaped with her virginity twice a day when we harboured those lusty gentlemen.’

  ‘Come, come,’ said Margery roguishly, ‘we were young ourselves at one time. Think back. Lusty gentlemen were not so unwelcome then.’

  A distant gleam of pleasure lit up Sybil’s face, but it was extinguished immediately as she spat out an accusation.

  ‘One of the players kept sending Rose some verses.’

  ‘A rhyming couplet will not get you with child.’

  ‘My daughter cannot read.’

  ‘Then she is safe from corruption.’

  ‘We are glad to see the last of Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Then you see the last of the profits they brought in.’

  Sybil snorted. ‘Where is the profit in a raging fire? How much money do we make from fighting apprentices?’

  ‘Fire is an act of God,’ said Margery, ‘and every inn and dwelling in London lives in fear of it. As for affrays among apprentices, they are caused by your ale and not by any play. Besides, no performance by Westfield’s Men has ever been stopped because of a riot. Drama imposes order on the unruly. It is only afterwards that the drunkards fight.’

  ‘Not any more. We have Leonard to quell any brawls.’

  ‘And who brought Leonard to the Queen’s Head?’

  Sybil paused. ‘Master Bracewell.’

  ‘It was only one of many favours he did you.’

  Margery had sewed the seeds of self-interest and given them enough water to promote growth. She could now let Sybil Marwood loose on her long-suffering husband. The notion of handing over a lucrative contract to another landlord would at least make Alexander Marwood think again, and the fact that their rival had been plucked out of the air by Margery would never occur to them. An abode that thrived on marital discord had now been given fruitful source of conflict.

  Pausing at the door, Margery threw in a last argument.

  ‘You have another reason to thank Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘A messenger, sent to him from Devon, took refreshment here at the Queen’s Head and died before the message could be delivered.’

  ‘Died? From what cause?’r />
  ‘Poisoned ale.’

  ‘Our drink is the purest in London.’

  ‘That is what everyone believes,’ said Margery. ‘I am sure you would not have them think otherwise.’

  ‘How could they?’

  ‘By mischievous report. Nicholas Bracewell says that poison was put into the ale in the taproom by one of your patrons. Murder occurred under this very roof.’

  ‘Murder!’

  ‘The messenger died elsewhere, but the villainy took place not twenty yards from where we stand. It would not advantage you, if that story were to spread.’

  ‘It must not!’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell is discreet on your behalf.’

  ‘We are greatly indebted to him.’

  Margery Firethorn was a prudent gardener. ‘Such an event could be the ruination of you,’ she said, irrigating the seeds once more with a final sprinkling. ‘When the Queen’s Head was the home of Westfield’s Men it had renown and distinction. Who would wish to visit an establishment that was notorious for its poisonous ale?’

  She could almost hear the first green shoots pushing up.

  Berkshire was a beautiful county and the drizzle relented to enable them to see it at its best. Warm sunshine dried them off, lifted their heads and gladdened their hearts. The Vale of the White Horse was unusual in being set aside almost exclusively for corn production, and fields of gold danced and waved all around them. Seen from the top of a rolling waggon, the simplicity of country life had an appeal that was very beguiling, and more than one of the travellers mused about exchanging it for the vicissitudes of their own existence. Local inhabitants took an opposite view, looking up in wonder as the gaily attired troupe went past and imagining the joys of belonging to such an elite profession. Even jaded actors knew how to catch the eye of an audience.

  Wantage supplied a surgeon for Owen Elias, and the wound was treated before being bound up again. Since the injury had been sustained because of him, Nicholas Bracewell paid the surgeon, who complimented him on the way that he himself had first attended to the patient. An inn at Hungerford gave the company excellent refreshment, and they set off for the final stage of their journey with their misgivings largely subdued. Even Barnaby Gill had lost his sourness. With the prospect of willing spectators ahead of them, Westfield’s Men rallied even more. The waggon broke into song and Owen Elias’s voice was now merry as well as melodious.

  When they crossed the border into Wiltshire, the company gave an involuntary cheer. They did not have too far to go now. Richard Honeydew clambered into the driving seat beside Nicholas Bracewell and sought to improve his education.

  ‘They say that Wiltshire is covered with forests.’

  ‘That is only partly true,’ said Nicholas, still at the reins. ‘There are belts of woodland stretching right across the county, and when we reach Marlborough, we will be sitting on the edge of one of the finest forests in England.’

  ‘What is it called?’

  ‘Savernake.’

  The boy’s face ignited. ‘Does it have wild animals?’

  ‘Hundreds of them, Dick.’

  ‘Bears and wolves?’

  ‘They were killed off centuries ago when Savernake was a royal forest. You’ll still find foxes, badgers, rabbits and hares, not to mention herds of deer. And there are game birds of all description.’ Nicholas turned to smile at him. ‘But most of the wild animals there run on two legs.’

  ‘Two legs?’

  ‘Poachers,’ explained Owen Elias, who sat behind them. ‘When we get there, Savernake will have another two-legged wild animal. I can snare a rabbit or catch a pheasant with the best of them. Put your trust in me, lads, and we’ll have roast venison for a week.’

  ‘And the law down upon our necks,’ warned Nicholas.

  ‘You told me it was only partly true,’ the apprentice said to him. ‘What else does this county have?’

  ‘Great windswept plains and downs. That is where the real wealth of Wiltshire lies, not in its woods and its ploughland. Do you know why, Dick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sheep.’

  ‘We have seen hundreds already.’

  ‘Travel around the county and you will see thousands upon thousands.’ Nicholas warmed to his theme. ‘Wiltshire is able to support an endless number of sheep on its thin soil. Their fleeces and flesh have made many people rich. Take but the case of William Stumpe.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘William Stumpe of Malmesbury.’

  The boy giggled. ‘It is a funny name.’

  ‘Nobody laughed at him when he was alive for he became the most prosperous man in the town. Shall I tell you how?’

  ‘Please.’ Richard Honeydew nodded his enthusiasm.

  ‘William Stumpe was a clothier,’ said Nicholas. ‘He bought himself an abbey at the Dissolution.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A man must have somewhere to set his looms. He paid over fifteen hundred pound for Malmesbury Abbey, then granted to the town the nave of the abbey church so that it could serve the parish.’

  ‘What did he do with the rest of the building?’

  ‘He moved in his weavers,’ said Nicholas. ‘Within a few years, they were turning out three thousand cloths a year. It brought in a huge income. Stumpe was of humble parentage yet he rose to be member of parliament and high collector for North Wiltshire. Even that did not satisfy him. He had another project that was far more ambitious.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Osney Abbey.’

  ‘At Oxford?’

  ‘We drove right past it, Dick.’

  ‘Did this clothier want to buy that as well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, who knew the story by heart. ‘He planned to have as many as two thousand workers employed at Osney. Two thousand – can you imagine the size of such an enterprise? The cost of such an operation?’ He shrugged. ‘We shall never know if the scheme at Osney Abbey would have worked because he did not proceed with it, but you have to admire the man’s boldness. Two thousand.’

  ‘What happened to William Stumpe?’

  ‘He invested his money in land, Dick, and that made him wealthier than ever. He lived to see his son knighted, and his three granddaughters have all married earls.’ Nicholas flicked the reins to coax more speed out of the two horses then he underlined the moral of his story. ‘Stumpe showed the value of hard work and a clear imagination. No matter where you begin in life, you can fight your way up.’

  ‘How do you know so much about him?’ said the boy.

  ‘My father told me.’

  The sentence slipped out so easily that it was a few moments before Nicholas understood its significance. He was jarred into silence. Without realising it, he had just told Richard Honeydew a story that his father had often used as an example for him when Nicholas was about the same age as the apprentice. It was a cruel reminder of a time when Robert Bracewell would instruct and entertain his son for hours on end with his tales of enterprising businessmen. Wiltshire had always been a principal producer and exporter of cloth and – though its wool could not match the quality of that from the Welsh Borders and the Cotswolds – fortunes could still be made in the trade. Most of the output was now sold in London through members of the Company of Merchant Adventurers, which had superseded the old Merchant Staplers. Others now followed where William Stumpe had led.

  Nicholas Bracewell had happily imbibed such stories and uncritically accepted his father’s interests and attitudes. That was no longer the case. Disillusion was total. It was almost obscene to dwell upon a time in his past when he and Robert Bracewell had actually been friends. Nicholas stole a glance at his young companion. Richard Honeydew’s innocence and inquisitive streak reminded him of his own. Since he was very much an alternative father to the boy, he resolved that he would never betray his illusions in the way that his own had been shattered. The apprentice must be saved from that.

  Richard Honeydew was unaware of his friend’s turmoil.

&n
bsp; ‘Is your father still alive?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He will be pleased to see you when you get to Devon.’

  Nicholas could not trust his tongue with any words.

  Marlborough was an attractive town. Set on a hill above the meandering River Kennet, it commanded a superb view of the Savernake Forest to the south-east and of the rolling landscape in other directions. The High Street was a wide thoroughfare that swept all the way down from St Mary’s Church at the top to the Church of Saints Peter and Paul at the bottom. Houses, shops, inns and other buildings stood side by side in a street to which religion gave such clear demarcation. There was a profusion of thatched roofs.

  Westfield’s Men liked what they saw and the excited interest of the townspeople was especially gratifying after the subdued response of Oxford. Lawrence Firethorn led them down the High Street and turned in through the gate of the White Hart. It was a large and well-appointed inn with a yard in the shape of a horseshoe as well as a garden with three arbours. Though Nicholas knew that performances by visiting troupes took place in the adjacent Guildhall, he nevertheless assessed the yard as a potential outdoor venue. Its shape made it easily adaptable, and seating could be placed in the galleries above to increase the size of the audience. The White Hart would be an ideal amphitheatre for the actors. Like the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street.

  Firethorn wasted no time with formalities. While the waggon was being unloaded, Nicholas was sent off to find the town officials and secure permission to stage a play. On such occasions, the book holder always carried the company’s licence because this legitimated their work and set them apart from the haphazard groups of strolling players who roamed the country in search of audiences less concerned with high quality. The law branded such actors as outlaws. Only licensed companies bearing the name of a patron could have a legal claim to perform whenever they visited a new town or city. Since officials were always officious, Nicholas never went to them without his credentials.

  ‘Westfield’s Men! We are honoured!’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Lawrence Firethorn has graced our town before.’