The Silent Woman Read online

  With this hope in mind, Nicholas turned to him.

  ‘Who is she, Edmund?’ he asked. ‘Tell me all …’

  When Lawrence Firethorn adjourned to his bedchamber, he put the money into his capcase then turned his thoughts to Mistress Judith Grace. Young and untutored, she was desirous of experience and ready to place her education in the hands of a master. Her brief taste of theatre had opened up both mind and heart in a most bewitching way. It would be churlish of Firethorn to deny her the crowning act of pleasure. In the nakedness of their embrace, he would also be her knight in shining armour, jousting with the unwanted attentions of his adversary and knocking the rude fellow from his saddle. Altruism would be truly served.

  Twopence in the palm of one of the chamberlains had bought him the location of her bedchamber, and he gave her plenty of time to detach herself from her father and make her preparations. Meanwhile, he addressed himself to his moustache and beard, peering by candlelight into his mirror in order to twist the one and curl the other to the required degree of excellence. When fingers and comb had done their work, he left the room, locked the door then crept along the dark corridor with the noiseless tread of a seasoned lecher. Lawrence Firethorn was equally sure-footed, whether performing at the centre of the stage or going about some backstairs work.

  He felt his way to her chamber, tapped lightly on the door and waited. There was no answer. He knocked more loudly but still elicited no reply. Trying the latch, he was pleased to find the door unbolted and was inside the room at once. A lone candle was flickering beside the bed like a gentle invitation. Judith Grace had covered her modesty with white linen and was a timid protuberance between the sheets. He simply had to take his place beside her and wear down her token resistance. Before he could bolt the door behind him, there was another tap, accompanied by a hoarse whisper and the raising of the latch. Lawrence Firethorn leapt back into the shadows as a hefty profile came into view. The newcomer shut the door behind him then gazed at the bed.

  ‘Judith!’ he called softly. ‘I have come.’

  ‘Then you may depart again,’ growled Firethorn, stepping out to confront the man who had tried to force himself upon the girl earlier. ‘Away, you rogue!’

  ‘I say the same to you, sir!’

  ‘Will you quarrel with me?’

  ‘I’ll quarrel with anyone who stands between me and my prize. You intrude, Master Firethorn. I am here by right.’

  ‘You are a walking insult to womanhood!’

  ‘I was chosen.’

  ‘A blind hag with a withered arm would not choose you.’

  ‘Nor you, sir!’

  ‘She swooned at my feet.’

  ‘She preferred my wooing.’

  ‘She squeezed my palm.’

  ‘She gave me her handkerchief.’

  ‘Stay further, and I’ll strike you!’ hissed Firethorn then he blinked as he actually heard what the man had just told him. ‘Handkerchief?’

  ‘What clearer signal could be given?’

  ‘Handkerchief!’

  ‘I have it here.’

  Even in the gloom, Firethorn could see that it was hers and catch her perfume upon it. This fat and unprepossessing creature did actually have a reason for being in her bedchamber. The actor spun round to accuse Judith Grace but he was talking to some large pillows. Each man had thought himself a favoured lover when both of them were mere gulls. It was Firethorn who reacted most quickly to the situation.

  ‘We are abused, sir,’ he said.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Return to your chamber.’

  ‘My chamber?’

  ‘They mean to rob us.’

  ‘Heaven forfend!’

  They went out, groping their way in opposite directions to their rooms. Firethorn found his unlocked and ran across to his capcase. The night’s takings had vanished along with the rest of the money he carried. While he had been sliding off to deflower a virgin, she and her accomplice had robbed him and his company of over fifteen pounds. Vengeance sent molten lava coursing through his veins and he reached for his rapier. The clatter of hooves on the cobbles below took him quickly to the window where moonlight gave him a glimpse of two figures riding out of the yard before they merged conspiratorially with the darkness. Firethorn slashed the air wildly with his sword in a futile display of rage. What hurt him most was not that the thieves had escaped with his money, that of his supposed rival and, presumably, with additional valuables lifted from other unsuspecting guests. Real mortification came from the affront to his professional pride.

  Lawrence Firethorn had been out-acted.

  ‘Women are all devils, Nick,’ said Edmund Hoode with glazed horror. ‘They flaunt their beauty to drag us down to hell.’

  ‘That is not the case here,’ observed Nicholas.

  ‘It is. She held me in thrall.’

  ‘The fault may lie with you rather than her, Edmund.’

  ‘Indeed, it does! I confess it. That is the hideous truth of it. I put my head willingly upon the block of disgrace. I am mine own executioner.’

  Nicholas disagreed but he was too tactful to explain why. From what he had heard, he was fairly certain that the axe had been held by a familiar headsman. The unexpected return of an irate husband had the ring of stage-management to him, and he guessed at once who had usurped his role. To tell Edmund Hoode that he had been duped by a colleague as well as being deprived of his carnal rewards would be to sew perpetual enmity between playwright and actor-manager. Nicholas was forced to conceal what he would never condone.

  His distraught companion detected a pattern.

  ‘Disaster is triple-tongued,’ he groaned. ‘This is the third time that it has blown its blast in my ears.’

  ‘You have had ill luck, Edmund, that is all.’

  ‘I have been punished for meddling with devils.’

  ‘You do the lady a disservice.’

  ‘Look back, Nick. You were there on both occasions.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the scene of my calamities.’ Hoode counted them off on his fingers. ‘One, my play The Merry Devils. Remember what afflictions that brought in its wake, and how I suffered vile torments. Two, my other venture into hell, The Devil’s Ride Through London. I paid for that rash mockery as well. Our theatre was all but burnt to the ground. Three, Mistress Jane Diamond. The vintner was not her true husband. She was contracted to Satan himself and set me up to suffer the worst pangs of all. I have been well paid for my folly.’

  ‘It is not so, Edmund.’

  ‘Where is your proof?’

  ‘Let me follow your numbers.’ Nicholas held up his finger. ‘One, The Merry Devils was not your play but a work jointly written by you and Ralph Willoughby. He it was who had the kinship with the Devil and who paid for it with his life. You at least survived. Two—’

  But Nicholas got no further with his argument. Lawrence Firethorn came hurtling down the stairs with his sword in his hand and his teeth bared. The book holder abandoned one injured party and rushed to the assistance of a more recent one. Firethorn was berserk.

  ‘What ails you, sir?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Betrayal! Perfidy! Wickedness.’

  Hoode actually laughed. ‘She turned him down,’ he said.

  ‘The villains have robbed me!’ yelled Firethorn. ‘They took all the money that we strove to earn tonight.’

  ‘How?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘They got into my chamber while I remained here below. It was only when I checked the contents of my capcase that I discovered the theft.’

  ‘Hold there, Lawrence,’ said Hoode sceptically. ‘Our takings went into your purse and stayed there until you went upstairs. They could not steal money that was not yet placed in your chamber.’

  ‘Do you call me a liar!’

  Firethorn bludgeoned him into silence with a burst of vituperation then gave an edited version of events. He could never admit that he had been lured away from his room by the wiles of a pretty face,
though Nicholas was already certain that that was what had happened. Hearing of the flight of the putative father and daughter, he pressed for detail.

  ‘Has anyone else been robbed?’

  ‘That fellow who paid us for our entertainment.’

  ‘Master Fat-Guts?’ said Hoode.

  ‘They emptied his pockets as well.’

  ‘How do you know?’ wondered Nicholas.

  ‘I met the man on the landing.’

  ‘Did he tell you that he had been fleeced?’

  ‘Forget about him, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Our own money is gone. That is our only concern.’

  ‘I fear not.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There is deeper villainy here. Call the landlord.’

  ‘He cannot chase those two rogues.’

  ‘They may be three in number,’ said Nicholas.

  Hauled from his bed, the landlord was alarmed at the news and identified the obese guest as one William Pocock. Nicholas asked to be taken to the man’s bedchamber, and all four of them went tramping up the staircase. The book holder’s fears were realised. When he saw that Pocock’s room was empty, he guessed that the man had gone off to join his two partners. Evidently, all three had worked cleverly together.

  Lawrence Firethorn was completely abashed. Cheated by a young woman, he had also been led astray by another ruse, for Pocock’s role in the enterprise had been to detain him long enough in Judith Grace’s bedchamber for his confederates to gain entry to the actor’s own room. Firethorn was too busy nursing his bruised dignity to spy any poetic justice in it all, but Nicholas saw it at once. Having caused havoc in a bedchamber for Edmund Hoode, the culprit had now experienced shame and panic of the same order. It was not a thought over which the book holder lingered. In the vague hope that Pocock might not yet have left the premises, he ordered the others to search the establishment and went racing off downstairs to the taproom. He grabbed one of the lanterns and hastened out into the yard.

  The place was deserted. Apart from the whistle of a slight breeze and the occasional movement of horses in the stables, there was no noise. To make a swift departure, Samuel Grace and his daughter – and Nicholas doubted very much if that was their true relationship – must have had their mounts saddled and ready. Pocock would likewise have an animal in waiting that could be ridden instantly away. Nicholas therefore headed for the stables, using the lantern to throw its meagre light a few paces ahead of him. He reached the door of the first stable block, lifted the wooden bar that held it in place, drew it open and went in. Hooves shifted in straw and there was a stray whinny from the far end of the stables. All the horses were tethered to their mangers. Wooden pails of water stood beside them.

  Nicholas checked each beast but none was saddled. If Pocock had a horse in readiness, it must be on the other side of the yard. The book holder turned to walk back down the rows of horses when he had a mild shock. The door, which he had left open, had now been shut, and the faint square of light that he would have aimed for had disappeared. If the wind had been responsible, the door would have creaked on its hinges and banged. Some human agency was involved. The animals confirmed it because they became restive and inquisitive. One neigh set off a few more, a bucket was kicked over and the rustling of straw was constant. The lantern was an inadequate guide but it made Nicholas an obvious target, so he quickly doused the flame and put the object aside. He slipped a hand around to the back of his belt to remove his dagger from its scabbard.

  Danger was an old enemy and Nicholas was not afraid of it. Anyone who walked home through the fetid streets and lanes of Bankside every evening developed a sixth sense for an impending threat. Who was in the stable and why was his presence so menacing? It was surely not Pocock, whose sole interest must be in immediate flight. Slovenly and overweight, the man was ill-equipped to take on the powerful Nicholas in any kind of fight. And what motive could he possibly have? The book holder carried no money. He was up against a more practised adversary, one who could close a squeaking wooden door without making a murmur, one who could lie patiently in wait for his quarry to come within range. Was he armed with sword, dagger or club? Or could he rely on the strength of his muscles to subdue Nicholas?

  Amid the breathing of the animals and the motion of their feet, Nicholas strained his ears to listen for sounds of the man’s whereabouts. The clink of harness made him swing around but it had been made by the toss of a horse’s head against a dangling bridle. A startled neigh made him face in the opposite direction but he could make nothing out in the thick gloom. It was the rat that betrayed him. It came out of the straw with such rustling urgency that Nicholas found himself jabbing his dagger in that direction. Something hard and numbing crashed down on his hand to knock the weapon from his grasp then the man was upon him from behind, tightening a knotted cord around his neck and trying to put his knee into the small of Nicholas’s back to get leverage. The cord had sharp teeth and seemed to be eating right through his throat. It was being held by a man who had used this instrument of death before.

  Nicholas responded at once, using both elbows to pump backwards into the man’s ribs then slipping one of his hands under the rope when there was a fleeting relief in tension. He began to twist and turn so violently that the man had to adjust his footing all the time and there was a slight loss of venom in the rope’s bite, but Nicholas could still not dislodge him and his own strength was waning. His cheeks reddened, his eyes bulged, his veins stood out, his mouth went dry and the pounding in his head became more insistent. He felt as if a dozen sword points were simultaneously pushing their way through his neck in order to meet in the middle.

  Summoning up all of his energy, he dipped down low then launched himself backwards, knocking the man into the side of a loose box with such force that his grip on the cord was lost. Nicholas tore it from his neck, threw it away and tried to meet his attacker face-to-face, but the flank of a horse came round at him to buffet him away. The man had had enough. Seeing the chance of escape, he scrambled to his feet and got in a glancing punch to Nicholas’s face before he scuttled off down the stables and out through the door. It banged madly this time and Nicholas lurched towards it, but the strangulation had squeezed much of the power from his limbs and he could offer no swift pursuit. The attacker was, in any case, already in the saddle and spurring his horse away from the inn. By the time Nicholas staggered out into the yard to rub at the stinging red weal on his neck and stare around with blurred eyes, his adversary was hundreds of yards away.

  When the mist cleared sufficiently from his mind for him to be able to think properly, Nicholas realised why the attempt on his life had been made. Simply because she bore a message to him, the life had been mercilessly crushed out of a harmless girl. Now that he was heading for home, Nicholas had become a potential murder victim. Someone was going to great lengths to stop him from reaching Barnstaple and he was lucky to be able to continue the journey. He would now do so with greater vigilance and increased determination because one thing was certain. The man who gained the advantage over him in the stables was undoubtedly proficient in his trade. He would strike again.

  The three confederates met up again at an abandoned hovel near Stokenchurch. By the light of a candle, they counted out their booty and divided it into four equal parts. The older man handed one share to the girl and another to the erstwhile William Pocock. As their leader, he claimed the other half of the money and stuffed it into a capcase that was already bulging. They compared notes over the night’s escapades and chuckled for a long time at the embarrassment they had inflicted on Westfield’s Men.

  ‘Firethorn was the biggest gull of them all,’ said the older man. He put a sly arm around the girl’s slim waist. ‘To think he could bed my wife with a wave of his arms and couple of ranting speeches. He got his just deserts. No, you are all mine, are you not, Judith Grace?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ she said with a sensual giggle.

  ‘Kiss me.’

  The other man
nibbled on a stolen leg of ham while the two of them enjoyed a long embrace with guzzling kisses. The young woman eventually threw a compliment across at their corpulent associate.

  ‘Ned served us well,’ she said.

  ‘So you did, Ned,’ agreed her husband.

  ‘Shall we work that ruse again?’ asked Ned.

  ‘No,’ said the older man. ‘We must find new ways to pluck the chicken each time or its feathers will stick. And we must give mine host of the Fighting Cocks a long rest before we use his inn as our lure again. We’ll ride to the other side of Oxford before we choose our next cony. That will mean a change of apparel for Ellen and me.’

  ‘I am Ellen again, am I?’ complained his wife. ‘I so enjoyed being Mistress Judith Grace. Virginity becomes me.’

  ‘And I was happy as William Pocock,’ said Ned.

  The older man was emphatic. ‘New places, new garb, new names. It is the one sure way to elude capture. If they search for a Samuel Grace, his beautiful daughter and a fat gentlemen with his breeches on fire for her, they will not look at two old Oxford scholars and their servant.’

  They ate, drank, discussed their plans further then lay out their bedding for the last few hours before dawn. As the three of them settled down, the old man came to a decision that made him cackle afresh.