The Silent Woman Read online

  ‘’Tis no great art,’ said Leonard. ‘He is a proper man in every aspect with fair hair and a beard of like description. And though he lives among players who are practised at catching the eye, he is the tallest and the best of them.’ He beamed with nostalgia. ‘Master Bracewell is my friend. I know him by his kindness and good fellowship.’

  His companion thanked him and drifted away. He had heard enough to identify his target. Preparations had to be made. There must be no margin of error this time.

  Nicholas Bracewell was the first to arrive at Ludgate Hill. Having spent the night at a friend’s lodging in Southwark, he was up early to make the last arrangements for the departure of Westfield’s Men. Taking a company out on the open highway was always a hazardous enterprise and it obliged them to travel armed and ready to repel attacks from one of the many bands of robbers, outlaws and masterless men who roved the countryside. The quality of their venues would fluctuate drastically, and their audiences would be neither as large nor as well tuned to their work as those in London. Bad weather would only hinder a performance at the Queen’s Head. It could cause the company far more inconvenience if it struck them suddenly on some lonely road, soaking their costumes and sapping their morale. Nicholas Bracewell knew that wet, unhappy actors are far more inclined to friction than those who are dry and content.

  ‘Good morrow, Nick!’

  ‘Welcome!’

  ‘A plague on this damnable tour!’

  ‘Yes, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘and yet it is the one tour that is not forced upon us by the plague. London is having a healthy summer and there is no cause to close the theatres and throw us out of our occupation. Fire drives us away.’

  ‘And it may keep us there in perpetuity.’

  ‘The Queen’s Head will be restored when we return.’

  ‘But will that miserable maggot of a landlord allow us near the place? Diu! It gives me the sweating sickness just to look upon Marwood, yet for all that, I’d sooner endure his woebegone hospitality than drag my talent the length and breadth of England.’

  Nicholas smiled. ‘What about Wales?’

  ‘That is different. I would gladly lead Westfield’s Men across the border to the land of my ancestors.’

  Owen Elias was an exuberant Welshman, who was becoming one of the mainstays of the company. Dark and manic, he was a gifted actor whose career had been held back by a quickness of temper and a fatal readiness to acquaint people with his true opinion of them. Wearied by his lack of progress, Elias had defected to his company’s arch-rivals, Banbury’s Men, and he was only brought back by the promise of promotion to the rank of sharer. Now that he had a real stake in Westfield’s Men, his forthrightness was slightly diminished, but he still enjoyed a rancorous dispute when he felt – as he did without fail – that he had right on his side. Nicholas Bracewell was very fond of the Welshman and knew that his talent was strong enough to bear the extra weight that a tour placed upon it. A sturdy, fearless character of middle height, Owen Elias was also an extremely useful man to have at your side in a brawl or a swordfight.

  ‘How now, gentlemen!’

  ‘Hail, sirs!’

  ‘I am glad to see your worships so well.’

  ‘God save you all!’

  ‘A thousand welcomes.’

  ‘Farewell, dear London!’

  ‘Owen, you rogue!’

  ‘Nick, dear heart!’

  Greetings assailed them as the company arrived, singly or in pairs, many with tearful wives or sweethearts clinging to their arms and a few, like Lawrence Firethorn, with their entire family. It would be a poignant leave-taking. The Bel Savage was an apposite location. Standing outside Ludgate itself, it was a big, sprawling, cavernous building that had been in existence for over a hundred and forty years and which occupied its site with half-timbered familiarity. Savage’s Inn, as it had initially been called, was also known as the Bell on the Hoop, and the names had made common cause to give the property a clear title. Long before the first custom-built theatre in London was opened in 1576, the Bel Savage had been staging plays in its courtyard, and it was in this evocative arena that Westfield’s Men now met. Countless prizefights, fencing displays and other entertainments had been held there as well, but the actors saw it solely as part of their heritage. When they gazed up at the three levels of galleries that jutted out at them on every side, they saw cheering spectators and heard the ghost of some dear departed speech. It was only when they glanced across at their leader that they realised the ghost had come back to life because Lawrence Firethorn was declaiming one of the soliloquies he had spoken when he played Hector at that same venue in his younger days.

  Nicholas Bracewell had chosen the meeting place as the closest alternative to the Queen’s Head, but he might have been less ready to nominate it if he had known that it overlooked the very spot where the messenger from Devon had first been marked out by her killer. The yard continued to fill and servingmen brought out ale to whet the appetite of the travellers. All but one of the company had now appeared, and Nicholas was touched to see how many of its discarded members had also made the effort to get there in order to wave off their fellows. Thomas Skillen stood nearby, alternately chiding and hugging George Dart, the smallest and youngest of his assistant stagekeepers, clipping his ear as he warned him to discharge his duties correctly and enfolding him in his old arms lest it be the last time they might ever meet. It was a moving sight and it epitomised the true spirit of theatre. Tradition was handing over the torch to innovation.

  George Dart would have quailed to hear that such a construction was being placed on his separation from a loved but feared mentor. The hired man occupied the most menial station in the company and it obliged him to be the butt and scapegoat with depressing regularity, yet at least he was still employed. A tour would double the already heavy workload that was thrust upon him and condemn him to play a string of minor parts in the plays, but even these guarantees of additional pain and humiliation were preferable to being cast out with Thomas Skillen and the others.

  It was the scurrying legs of George Dart that Nicholas Bracewell used on the previous evening to notify the chosen company of the time and place of departure. The tiny stagekeeper had been given good news to spread while Nicholas reserved for himself the more onerous and saddening task of telling the rest of his fellows that they had been set aside. Knowing their haunts and their habits, he had spent long hours in tracking them down to pass on the bad tidings as gently as he could. It now struck him as a harsh irony that a man enjoined to oust so many others had then himself been ejected from a cherished home.

  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.

  Chapter Four

  Morning 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 ha
d 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.’