The Silent Woman Page 7

  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 ne
ver 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.

  Nicholas, meanwhile, aided by George Dart and the other hired men, cleared tables and chairs to create an acting area at the far end of the taproom. Candles and lanterns were set with strategic care to shed light on the arena, and the guests adjusted their seating accordingly. Samuel Grace and his daughter occupied a prime position in the front row. The other sponsor of the entertainment – a rather stout, florid man in his twenties – placed his chair so that he could both view the stage and feast his gaze on the maiden modesty of Judith Grace. He licked his lips in a manner that suggested he had really parted with his money in order to be able to view her reactions to the performance. Judith Grace was to be his night’s entertainment.

  The stage was set, there was a fanfare of trumpets and Owen Elias entered in a black cloak to declaim a Prologue. He cut such a dashing figure and attacked the lines with such vigour that he drew a burst of applause. Lawrence Firethorn then swept in as Charlemagne, leading four armed soldiers and yet somehow managing to convince the onlookers that he led a mighty host. He addressed his troops before battle to instil a sense of mission into them then he led the army off with a cry of such piercing volume that it shattered a bottle of Venetian glass that stood on a table for ornament. Martial prowess was followed by rustic comedy as Barnaby Gill took over to play a scene with Edmund Hoode from Cupid’s Folly. The whole room was soon awash with laughter, and Gill compounded their glee by concluding with one of the hilarious jigs that were his hallmark.

  It was left to Richard Honeydew to restore order and raise the tone. Dressed as a French princess, he sat on a stool, stroking his long auburn hair and singing plaintive love songs to the accompaniment of the lute. He was the youngest and most talented of the four apprentices and his piping treble had a most affecting timbre. The audience was enchanted and Judith Grace was so struck with it all that she almost swooned. Her father steadied her with his arm.

  ‘It is only a boy who sings, Judith, no real princess.’

  ‘I will never believe that is a boy.’

  ‘She is a lad, I tell you. Cunning in his skills.’

  ‘It is a girl, father. As I am a girl – so is she.’

  Her ogling admirer leant across to make contact.

  ‘Your father speaks true,’ he said in an oily whisper. ‘Our princess is a mere apprentice with a pretty voice. Girls are not allowed to appear upon the stage. Boys must take their parts and they do it with rare skill.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Judith, then she joined in the clapping as Richard Honeydew ended his contribution and curtseyed. ‘This boy is a girlish miracle.’

  Watching from the side, Nicholas Bracewell had also been touched by the apprentice’s solo performance but for another reason. Edmund Hoode had written the lyrics of the songs but they had been set to music by Peter Digby, the brilliant if erratic leader of their consort, yet another to be discarded through the exigencies of the tour. Digby had been replaced by a hired man who, as an actor-musician, could offer double value, indeed, would have a range of functions that his former director could never fulfil. The substitute was now leaving the stage with his lute but the next day would find him harnessing the dray horses, loading the waggon, setting up a stage when they got to Oxford, sweeping and strewing it with fresh rushes, then conning his lines so that he could play half a dozen different roles in a play he had never seen before. An actor’s life was a rehearsal for the madhouse.

  As Richard Honeydew and his accompanist left, Nicholas whisked all furniture from the stage so that the six dancers who now entered could cavort at will. Moving with formal grace, they went through a whole range of courtly dances, and the flagstones of the Fighting Cocks became a marble floor at a royal palace. Farce now surged gloriously onto the stage as Barnaby Gill, Owen Elias and Edmund Hoode played three gullible bumpkins who, rousing themselves from a drunken stupor, mistake an old friar for Saint Peter and imagine that they have died and been sent to heaven. In the robes of his order, Lawrence Firethorn was a jolly churchman who took advantage of the men’s stupidity to catechise them about their sins and see if they were fit to be admitted through the gates of what was, in fact, the very ale house where they had first become hopelessly inebriated.

  Firethorn was so well versed in the part that he was able to touch off explosions of mirth and give himself the pleasure of gazing upon Judith Grace until the uproar began to fade. He noted that the portly man near the front of the audience had made her the object of his attention as well, but her father was too busy leading the laughter to observe this. Firethorn’s rising lust had the excuse it needed. He would not be pursuing the girl for his own gratification but in order to rescue her from the clutches of a leering stranger. His holy friar vibrated with irreligious intent.

  The audience was now treated to music in a lighter vein as two other apprentices – Martin Yeo and John Tallis – sang duets with a fuller musical accompaniment. Wigs, gowns and make-up transformed them into winsome young ladies, though the lantern jaw of John Tallis had an unfeminine solidity to it. When they left the stage, the climax of the entertainment was reached in an extract from Vincentio’s Revenge, a full-blooded tragedy that was synonymous with the name of Westfield’s Men. Lawrence Firethorn, supreme as ever in the title role, had chosen to play the scene in which Vincentio declared his love for the beauteous Cariola, unaware that she was already dying from poison that had been administered in her wine. Richard Honeydew was a superb foil for him as the ill-starred heroine. Here were the two ends of the acting profession – veteran and apprentice – meeting in the middle to produce ten minutes of memorable theatre.

  The audience was enthralled, but Firethorn’s interest lay in one particular spectator. His wooing of Cariola was an elaborate courtship of Judith Grace, and the girl eventually seemed to realise this. Surprise gave way to alarm but he soon turned that into burning curiosity. He could feel her gaze following him like a beam of
light and when he finally allowed himself to meet her eyes over the fallen body of Cariola, he saw that the conquest had been made. Firethorn and Richard Honeydew took several bows before they were allowed to leave then they returned with the full company to take a final toll of applause.

  Samuel Grace was positively hopping with joy. He pressed the five pounds into Firethorn’s hand and thanked him for bringing the magic of theatre into his daughter’s life. The actor-manager was given the opportunity to kiss her hand and inhale her fragrance. It was enough. The caress that she gave his fingers and the secret glance that she shot him were sureties of mutual pleasure and he vowed to bring even more magic into her life in the privacy of her bedchamber. Firethorn had a competitor. The plump man first paid up his share of the cost then tried to engage her in conversation, but Judith Grace turned away with head downcast and hands in her lap. Other guests came up to make smaller contributions for the entertainment and ten pounds in all went into the communal purse of Westfield’s Men.

  As the guests dispersed to their beds, Firethorn treated the company to a last drink. One by one, they, too, began to slip away, conscious that they would be off again soon after dawn and hoping to snatch some sleep before first light scratched at the shutters. Lawrence Firethorn produced a monster yawn and pretended to drag himself up the staircase in order to fall upon his bed. The performance did not fool Edmund Hoode for a second.

  ‘The old cat is mousing again!’ he said bitterly. ‘How does he do it, Nick? Why does he do it?’

  ‘Because he is Lawrence Firethorn.’

  ‘Well, let him go his way! I do not envy him. I forswear all women. They will never ensnare me again.’

  ‘How so?’

  They were among the last to linger in the taproom and sat companionably at a table. Nicholas Bracewell was in no mood to hear about a fractured romance, because the scene from Vincentio’s Revenge had reminded him irresistibly of his own loss. As the poisoned Cariola died in twitching agony, he saw the murdered girl from Devon stretched out on the floor of his chamber in Bankside. It was not only the young messenger who was beyond his reach. Anne Hendrik was gone as well. The killer had poisoned their friendship. Notwithstanding the twinges that it might bring him, however, Nicholas agreed to listen to Edmund Hoode’s tale of woe for two reasons. It was his duty as a friend to offer sympathy and it would advantage the whole company if he could help to dig their playwright out of his pit of despair and restore him to his rightful position. The chest that held his other plays also housed his foul papers of The Merchant of Calais, last of the three new dramas he was commissioned to write that year. If Hoode were allowed to rid his mind of its latest torment, he might find the impetus to reach once more for his pen.