The Silent Woman (16 page)

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.’

‘It holds warm memories for him.’

‘And for us, my friend. And for us.’

The mayor was a short, bearded, misshapen man in his fifties with such a fondness for his chain of office that he wore it at all times and fingered it incessantly. Though delighted to see the company, he had to season good news with bad. A few cases of plague had broken out in Marlborough. It had not yet spread and – they were earnestly praying in both churches – it might never reach the epidemic proportions it had attained in Oxford, but it did exist and visitors ought to be made aware of the fact. The mayor said he would deeply regret it if Westfield’s Men felt unable to perform in the light of this intelligence, but he would understand if they decided that there was too large a risk involved.

‘We will stage our work,’ said Nicholas firmly.

‘Then Marlborough greets you with open arms.’

‘Master Firethorn would not hear of running away.’

‘Our Guildhall will be put at your disposal.’

Nicholas was empowered to make all arrangements and to exercise his judgement. Westfield’s Men, they agreed, were to give two performances, one in the Guildhall that evening and another at the same venue the following afternoon. That would enable a large number of the people of Marlborough to enjoy their work and would put them on the road to Bristol by the early evening of the next day. The brief stay also reduced the chances of contracting the infection, which had already killed off three victims. For the first performance, attended by all the town luminaries, the mayor volunteered to pay twenty shillings out of the civic purse. This was a generous offer. If Nicholas had perused the chamberlain’s accounts for the last decade, he would have seen that most visiting companies were paid considerably less, some as little as two shillings. Like Westfield’s Men, those troupes had been able to supplement the civic payment by charging admission money or by holding a collection at the end of a play. At the performance on the following afternoon, Lawrence Firethorn would instruct the gatherers to do both.

Nicholas took his leave of the mayor and hurried back to the White Hart to report to Lawrence Firethorn. Early signs of plague did not deter the actor-manager at all.

‘Give me an audience and I’ll play in a leper colony.’

Barnaby Gill sniggered. ‘It would sort well with the quality of your acting,’ he said.

‘Do you dare to insult my art!’

‘I will tell you if I chance to see it.’

‘Away, you prancing ninny!’

‘Those who come to see Lawrence Firethorn will go away talking about Barnaby Gill.’

‘Who was that blinking idiot, they will say!’

‘Genius will always shine through.’

‘Remember that when mine dazzles your eyes tonight.’

A mood of contentment pervaded the White Hart. When Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill were at each other’s throats again, all was right with Westfield’s Men.

Nicholas Bracewell took control. Two of the hired men were dispatched to go around the town and advertise the evening’s performance. One was to beat a drum, the other to blow a horn. They were assigned to deafen Marlborough into submission then entice them to the play by declaiming a few choice speeches from it. Nicholas himself repaired to the Guildhall with his assistants to take stock of its potential. It was a large, low room with thick rafters bending to accommodate the dip in the ceiling. The book holder chose the location of the stage at once, placing it at the far end where a door to an ante-room gave them a natural tiring-house. Chairs would be given pride of place in the front rows, benches would seat those of lesser station, and there would be ample standing room for anyone else. A charge of twopence for a seat and a penny to stand would bring in a fair amount of money.

The major decision concerned lighting. Performances at the Queen’s Head were at the mercy of the open sky, and the company relied on its audience to make allowances for this. But there was still ribald laughter when scenes that were set in the deserts of Asia were played by actors shivering in a cold wind, or when characters complained about snow and
ice while sweating in the afternoon sun. Action set at the dead of night would always be mocked by bright weather. The Guildhall altered the performing conditions and permitted some measure of control. Nicholas decided to make use of the natural light that would stream in through the windows during the first half of the play, and to supplement it in gradations with candles, torches and lanterns. For the final scene, tarred rope would be set alight in holders.

Lawrence Firethorn came in on an exploratory prowl.

‘Is all well, Nick?’

‘I foresee no problems.’

‘This Guildhall has tested my mettle before.’

‘Voices carry well.’

‘Mine will reach to Stonehenge itself!’ boomed the actor with an expansive gesture of his hand. ‘Listen! Can you not hear those stones cracking and shaking at the sound of my thunder? I can out-shout Jove himself!’

‘I believe it well, master.’

Nicholas turned to the hired men who waited nearby and gave his orders. They ran off to collect the makeshift stage and curtains that had been brought in the waggon. A rehearsal was imminent and there was no time to dawdle. The book holder was a patient man, but he could be stern with anyone caught slacking. Nicholas was determined that the initial performance of their tour would set a high standard. It would not only enthral the audience, it would also release the company’s tensions and restore its self-confidence.

Left alone with him, Lawrence Firethorn took the opportunity of snatching a private word with Nicholas.

‘We must talk of Owen’s injury,’ he said.

‘It will not stop him performing tonight.’

‘I am more concerned with how he came by it, Nick. The dagger in the darkness was intended for you, was it not?’

‘I fear me that it was.’

‘Do you know who the villain is?’

‘Not yet,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘The ostler at the Dog and Bear caught no more than a glimpse of the man in the shadows, and simply gained some idea of his height and age. These I had already surmised.’

‘There is no more clue to his identity?’

‘Nothing but this.’

He produced the dagger, which had been dropped in the scuffle on the previous night. It was a handsome weapon, a slender-bladed poniard with a decorated hilt that was shaped to allow a firm grip. As Nicholas held it again, he felt its perfect balance and looked with apprehension at its gleaming point. Owen Elias had been supremely lucky. The dagger was not used to inflicting mere wounds when it could kill with a single thrust.

‘That belongs to no common cut-throat,’ said Firethorn as he examined the weapon. ‘Nor was it made by any English craftsman. That is French workmanship. The man who owned that paid highly for the privilege.’

‘He will be back to collect it.’

‘Then let him collect it between his ribs, Nick.’

‘I will be watchful.’

‘We need you
alive
, dear heart!’

‘He will not take me unawares.’

‘Call on your friends. We are here to protect you.’

‘I need to tempt him to attack once more.’

‘Are you run mad?’

‘It is the only way,’ said Nicholas. ‘While he is out there,
I am under threat, and the company suffers because of it. This man would kill me to stop me reaching Barnstaple. He must have good reason for that. I need to find out what that reason is. He must be drawn out into the open.’

‘With live bait on the hook! No, Nick, it is lunacy!’

‘Bear with me. I will catch him.’

‘When you do, hand over the wretch to me,’ said Firethorn, taking the dagger and slashing the air with it. ‘I’ll cut the truth out of his black heart.’

The man reached Marlborough an hour before Westfield’s Men and he was standing in the High Street when they rode into town. News of the evening’s performance was soon broadcast and the ripples of excitement spread quickly out to the surrounding areas. London companies rarely toured when they could be playing to larger audiences in the theatres of the capital. Marlborough appreciated its good fortune and took full advantage. Both performances were guaranteed a capacity audience. The man decided to be among the spectators that evening. A third attempt on Nicholas Bracewell’s life in as many days was unwise. The book holder would be at his most alert and – as the man had discovered to his cost – he had vigilant friends at his side. The assassin could not kill his way through the entire company in order to reach Nicholas. There had to be another means of achieving this vital aim. Watching the play that evening, he hoped, might suggest another route to his grisly destination.

He took a room at an inn near the ruins of the castle at the bottom end of the town. The afternoon gave him an opportunity to catch up on some of the sleep he had been forced to surrender in his pursuit of his elusive prey. Early
evening found him refreshed and eager to prepare himself for the visit to the Guildhall. He called for a looking glass and the girl who brought it arrived with a compliant giggle. She had been struck by his craggy charm and marked him out as a gentleman. There was a saturnine quality about him, but it only increased his appeal. As she stood beaming before him, she expected money but hoped for a kiss by way of reward. She got neither. Her willingness irritated the man so much that he snatched the looking glass from her and pushed her out. The only thing that brushed her lips was the door, which was slammed in her face.

Though the man had brought a change of apparel, he kept on his riding clothes. They were less ostentatious in a provincial market town where he needed to blend into the crowd. Beard and hair were a different matter, and he spent a long while in front of the mirror with a comb. He held a pearl earring up to one lobe and enjoyed its sparkle before putting it aside again. What he could wear without comment in London would attract too much attention in Wiltshire. He was still angry at the loss of his dagger, but it had a matching companion and he slipped this into the scabbard at the rear of his belt. After checking his appearance in the looking glass once more, he was ready to leave.

The Guildhall was filling rapidly when he got there and his twopence bought one of the last few unoccupied chairs. He chose one that was in the middle of a row halfway back from the stage so that he could lose himself in the very centre of the audience. To the right of him was an amiable farmer who had ridden five miles in order to enjoy the treat. On his left was a fleshy young man with less interest in theatrical entertainment. He complained bitterly to his attractive wife
for making him bring her to the Guildhall. The man paid little interest in any of his neighbours. He wished that the farmer’s breath was not so foul and that the squabbling couple – a miller and his wife, judging by the few words he did overhear – would settle down to watch the play. The assassin was there for a purpose that required his full concentration.

The Happy Malcontent
answered all needs. It was a witty comedy about a London physician, Doctor Blackthought, who went through life dispensing criticism and disgust wherever he could. Nothing could please him. He railed against the world and its ways with caustic invective. Instead of curing his patients, the malcontented Doctor Blackthought only infected them with his own vexation. The problem became so acute that his wife and friends got together to devise a plan of rescue for him, but it was all to no avail. When they addressed the fundamental causes of his rancour – and actually managed to remove them by financial or other means – Blackthought was outraged because he no longer had a mainspring for his black thoughts. He was only truly happy in his disaffection. When they realised this, the others wreaked such a cruel revenge on him that lifelong discontent was assured. The doctor howled against a malevolent fate with undisguised delight.

It was a good choice of play. The spectators adored it, the actors played it superbly, and Barnaby Gill went through his full range of comic gestures and voices as the dissatisfied doctor. The medical theme had a particular relevance for a town that was troubled by early signs of plague, and laughter gave them enormous relief from their anxieties.
Gallows humour had more depth. Even in the attenuated version forced on them by a smaller cast,
The Happy Malcontent
brought rich contentment. It was a stylish and well-constructed piece to set before Marlborough.

Lawrence Firethorn was in his element. Westfield’s Men were holding yet another audience spellbound and his was the star performance. Barnaby Gill might have the title role but it was the effervescent Sir Lionel Fizzle who stole scene after scene. As the ebullient knight, Firethorn turned in a cameo performance that was mesmeric. It was he who made the malcontent really happy in his misery by cuckolding him. During the seduction scene with Richard Honeydew, the winsome but knowing wife, Firethorn had such a powerful effect on the female segments of the audience that they could be heard swooning. It put the actor-manager in high humour. When he came offstage at the end of the scene, he had a brief exchange with Nicholas Bracewell.