The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (42 page)

Harsnett followed and cornered him against a wall. The single eye blinked until it managed to focus.

‘Jack!’ said the man with the patch. ‘How are you?’

‘What do you care?’

‘I heard you’d left Parkbrook.’

‘Thrown out.’

‘Master Jordan is a hard man, sir.’

‘I heard you use his name in the tavern.’

‘Did I?’ An evasive smile came. ‘I doubt it.’

‘What did you say?’ grunted the forester.

‘Who knows?’

‘Tell me.’

‘About Master Jordan?’ He gave a drunken laugh then became rueful. ‘There’s things I could say about that one! He’s bad, Jack, bad as they come. He gave me this here on
my face.’ He exhibited the long scar that had been caused by the riding crop. ‘Keep out of his way.’

‘Why?’

‘No matter. I must go.’

‘Answer me,’ said Harsnett, holding him by his hair.

‘More than my life’s worth, Jack, and that’s the truth.’

‘Tell me about Master Jordan,’ insisted the forester.

The man with the black patch twitched and whined. ‘He’ll kill me if I do that.’

Harsnett thrust the blade of his axe against the other’s throat.

‘I’ll
kill you if you don’t.’

It was a pleasant ride across the estate. Nicholas borrowed a horse from the stables so that his own could recover against its journey on the morrow. Having got directions from the ostler, he headed in the direction of the adjoining property and reached it after a couple of miles. It was less of a mansion than an overgrown cottage, but its half-timbering was well-maintained and the thatch was recent. Stables and outbuildings spread out behind it and it was towards these that Nicholas now spurred his horse.

The man was cleaning the carriage with a rag that he dipped into a bucket of water. Though his back was to the visitor, Nicholas knew him at once. The thick bandage that was wound around his head and down over the top of one eye was further confirmation.

Hearing the approach of hooves, the man turned around with easy curiosity. His smile froze when he saw who it
was and he dropped his rag back in the water. Nicholas dismounted, tethered his horse then came across for a confrontation. From his garb and his bearing, it was clear that the man was a coachman.

‘I was arrested at your suit, Master Grice.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I did not like my lodging at the Counter.’

‘Nor I the cut over my eye,’ said Grice warily. ‘Besides, you would have been released after a couple of days. The case would have been dropped long before it came to court.’

‘That does not salve my wounds.’

He took a step towards Grice who put up his large fists.

‘Stay where you are, sir, or you’ll feel the weight of my punches again.’ He turned to the house to raise the alarm. ‘Master!’

Reaching for the driving seat of the carriage, he then grabbed his long whip and drew back his arm but he was given no chance to demonstrate his skill. As he tried to lash Nicholas, the latter stepped smartly out of the way then dived at Grice, twisting the whip from his hand within seconds. Grice was powerful but he had none of the other’s experience in a brawl. Nicholas punched his body hard and ducked the savage blows that came in return. A punch on Grice’s chin made the coachman reel. Recovering after a few moments, he flung himself at Nicholas with such force that he would have knocked him flying had the charge succeeded.

But the book holder used the man’s lunge against himself. As he came in, Nicholas dodged him, caught hold
of his shoulders and pushed him hard against the side of the carriage where Grice’s head took the main impact. He buckled at the knees and cursed violently.

‘Hold still, Walt! I will take him.’

The other nocturnal assailant came running out of the house, followed by the young man with the signet ring. Nicholas squared up to the newcomer then flashed out a straight left which drew blood from the other’s nose. Enraged by the pain, the man flailed and kicked but he was unable to make contact. Another straight left darkened his cheek and a sequence of punches to the body slowed him right down. Mustering his strength for a last effort, the man dashed to the stable, caught hold of a hay rake, then brandished it above his head as he stormed back. Nicholas ducked just in time as the rake scythed through the air. He closed with the man and wrested the implement from him. Grice was now getting up to rejoin the fray and that could not be allowed. Holding his opponent by one arm, Nicholas suddenly swung him around with great force and let go. The hurtling body collided with Grice and both went down groaning.

‘That will be enough from you, sir,’ said the young man.

Nicholas was now threatened by the point of a rapier.

‘Why have you come here?’ continued the swordsman.

‘To settle a score.’

‘Leave us while you still may.’

‘No, Master Napier,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is your name, I believe? You had a familiar look and I remember where I had seen it before. It was upon your sister, Grace. You are her brother, Gregory.’
The young man held him at bay with the sword, but it was a very temporary advantage. With dazzling speed, Nicholas stooped to take hold of the bucket and hurl its contents all over the young man. Before the latter could resist, he had the rapier plucked from him and was pressed backwards against the carriage. Nicholas kept the point of the sword against Gregory Napier’s heart to discourage either of his servants from coming to his aid. The young man paled.

‘Do not kill me, sir! We meant you no harm.’

‘You have a peculiar way of showing it.’

‘We bore no grudge against you.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lord Westfield was your target. You sought to hurt him through me just as you tried to damage the company with your merry devils. You wanted revenge, Master Napier. Why?’

‘I cannot tell you.’

‘Then I will have to loosen your tongue. sir.’

He let the sword-point gently explore the other’s doublet.

‘Have a care, Master Bracewell!’

‘You had no care of me when I was thrown into the Counter.’

‘Please, sir. Be gentle with that sword.’

Nicholas let the rapier slice through the satin doublet.

‘Why did you attack Lord Westfield?’

‘Do not ask me.’

‘I’ll have an answer if I have to cut it out of you,’ said Nicholas dangerously. ‘We have suffered much at your hands, sir. A whole company was terrified because of you.
One of our sharers narrowly escaped injury. A stagekeeper lost his life. So do not wave me away.’ He split the doublet open again. ‘
Why
did you do all this to Lord Westfield?’

The voice behind him was clear and unashamed.

‘Because
I
made him, Master Bracewell.’

Grace Napier stood in the doorway of the house.

It was not an entirely new play. Ralph Willoughby had devised the plot some time earlier and constructed scenes in his mind. When he got the commission from Banbury’s Men, therefore, he was not starting from scratch. Rather was he developing and refining a drama which he had carried around inside his head for months. Now that he came to write it, the words flowed freely and he remained at his table for long hours each day, sustained by an inner fire and by the firmness of his purpose. There was no drinking during the period of composition and no debauchery. It obsessed him totally. Appropriately, it was finished on a Sunday.

Willoughby had never before worked so quickly or felt so happy with the result of his creative endeavours. As he blotted the last line, he knew that the play was exactly as he envisaged it. With the crucial help of Doctor John Mordrake, he had given it a texture of authenticity that would beguile spectators. Banbury’s Men would appreciate the play’s wit and wisdom, its topicality at a time when there was growing witch-mania, and its sheer entertainment value. They would also enjoy his many clever allusions to the part of Oxfordshire from which their noble patron hailed.

What they would not at first see was the peril that lay at the heart of the work. Willoughby had disguised it very carefully. He turned back to the first page and began to read. His dark laughter soon filled the room. He was truly delighted with the play.

The Witch of Oxford
would be a fitting epitaph.

Nicholas Bracewell was candidly surprised. As he sat in the parlour of the house and listened to Grace Napier, he saw that his major assumption had been wrong.

‘I thought that you used Edmund Hoode to get information at the request of your brother,’ he said. ‘You needed an inside knowledge of our work and friendship with our playwright was a way to obtain it.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I am sorry to have taken advantage of Master Hoode in this way. It must seem to you that I toyed cruelly with his affections, but I took no pleasure in it, sir, and it caused me much heartache. But my hand was forced. The end justified the means.’

‘What was that end?’ he asked.

‘Revenge.’

If Nicholas was surprised then Isobel Drewry was openly amazed. She sat alongside Gregory Napier and heard the truth emerge for the first time. It showed her just how little she really knew her friend.

‘You
are
a deep one, Grace!’ she said.

‘I was not able to confide in you, Isobel.’

‘It is just as well,’ added the other with a giggle. ‘I could never keep a secret. As it was, I had no notion that any of
this was going on and can now understand why you were always a little disappointed at the performances.’

‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘My plans did not quite work out. I wanted to humiliate Westfield’s Men in public but we failed each time. I own that I needed your company at the theatre to hide my purposes. I hope that you will not feel too abused, Isobel.’

‘Not at all,’ said the other chirpily. ‘I had some wonderful afternoons that have helped to change my whole life.’

‘Let us come back to the revenge,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘What reason could you have for hating Lord Westfield so?’

‘His callous treatment of his nephew.’

‘Master Francis Jordan?’

‘Do not mention that foul name to me, sir,’ she said with asperity. ‘It is not to stand alongside that of his brother. I am speaking of David Jordan.’ A mixture of pride, anger and intense passion made her features glow. ‘David is the cause of all that has happened.’

‘How?’

‘I will tell you, sir.’

Grace Napier was calm, poised and highly articulate. Her story was a revelation. Instead of being simply a mercer’s daughter who liked to visit the theatre, she was a young woman so deeply and desperately in love that she would stop at nothing to avenge what she saw as the terrible wrong done to her inamorato. She had met David Jordan over a year earlier when she was out riding near the boundary of his land. He was in a severely depressed state. His wife had died recently and the baby daughter who
survived her lingered for only four days before she went off to join her mother. David was distraught. The double blow shattered him completely.

Friendship with Grace Napier slowly helped to restore him. It was a gentle, unforced courtship that lasted many months. Drawn more and more together, they reached the point where they could think of nothing but sharing their whole lives together.

Tears sparkled in Grace’s eyes as she recalled it.

‘David proposed to me in the wood nearby. The sky was blue and the sun was slanting down through the branches of the trees. Birds were singing. Everything was so beautiful and tranquil.’

‘The romance of it!’ said Isobel, carried away.

‘Naturally,’ continued Grace with a soft smile, ‘I accepted the proposal. It was arranged that I would go to Parkbrook next day and the engagement would be formally announced.’

‘What happened?’ said Nicholas.

‘I never saw David again.’

‘Why?’

‘He was thrown from his horse and badly injured.’

‘Did you not rush to his bedside?’ said Isobel.

‘Immediately, but they would not admit me.’

‘But you were his fiancée.’

‘They would not accept that,’ said Grace. ‘Our courtship had been conducted in secret for obvious reasons. Father is wealthy but he is still only a tradesman. David comes from a family with noble blood. He wanted to announce
our engagement when it was too late for anyone to stop the marriage from going ahead.’ She winced as a memory haunted her. ‘I was turned away from Parkbrook.’

‘Did you not speak with Master Jordan’s physician?’ said Nicholas.

‘That was forbidden as well.’

‘By whom?’

‘Master Francis Jordan. He was staying at Parkbrook when the accident occurred and he took charge. Nobody was allowed in. I called, I wrote, I even tried to bribe the servants for information, but it was to no avail. David was kept from me.’

‘You must have been in despair!’ said Isobel.

‘I was. In the end, I turned to Lord Westfield for help, but he would not see me. I was told that his lordship could not spare the time. He was always too busy at court or spending time with his company. His nephew was in a parlous condition and Lord Westfield was watching plays! You can see I came to hate the company. Westfield’s Men became a symbol of all the things I detested.’

‘Lord Westfield has his faults,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but I cannot believe there was anything calculated in his behaviour. He was not to know that you had been on the point of joining the family.’

‘That was not the only reason I despised him, sir,’ she said. ‘It was he who allowed Parkbrook to be taken from David. It was Lord Westfield who helped his other nephew to become the new master.’

‘How was that done?’ wondered Nicholas.
‘Yes,’ said Isobel in bewilderment. ‘I know little of such things, but how could one man inherit when his elder brother was still alive and well?’

‘David was alive – but far from well.’

‘That does not alter the situation, Grace.’

‘It does, Isobel. I puzzled over that very point because it had such significance for me. After all, I was to have been the new mistress of Parkbrook. I felt that both David and I had been robbed.’

‘So what did you do?’ said Nicholas.

‘I consulted a lawyer in the Inns of Court. He explained that there
was
a way that David could lose his inheritance. If he railed to pass an inquiry
de idiota inquirendo
then he could be dispossessed. It is unusual but not unknown. The lawyer told me of a case in which he was involved some years ago. It concerned a large house in Petersfield. I cannot remember all the details, but it was to do with the conveyance of the fee simple and involved a breach of the entail. Anxious to get the house for himself, the offended party challenged the conveyance on the grounds of the vendor’s incompetence by reason of idiocy to conduct affairs. The Queen’s Escheator in Sussex was charged with an inquiry to establish the vendor’s sanity, with a view to placing the estate under the Court of Wards and Liveries.’