Edward Marston - The Silent Woman

Five verses were allotted to a description of how Nicholas Bracewell had helped to prevent the fire from spreading across the roof. The pedlar had not witnessed the event but he had picked up enough details from those who had to be able to compose his ballad with confidence. Using the licence of his trade, he embellished the facts wildly but nobody complained except Alexander Marwood. The landlord sang a woeful descant until he was cowed into silence by the reproach of the final verse.

‘Be warned now you stage strutters all

Lest you again be catched

And such a burning do befall

As to them whose house is thatched

Forbear your whoring breeding biles

And lay up that expense for tiles

Oh sorrow pitiful sorrow and yet all this is true.’

Leonard clapped his huge palms together to lead the applause then lumbered forward to buy one of the copies of the ballad. Though he could not read, he stared at it in utter fascination and let out a rumbling laugh.

‘I’ll give this to Master Bracewell himself,’ he said proudly. ‘It will send him on his way in good humour.’

‘Where does he travel?’ asked a neighbour.

‘With Westfield’s Men, sir. Our yard is so damaged that they have no theatre and needs must make shift. They are forced to go on tour.’ Leonard enjoyed being the holder of privileged information from his friend. ‘The company makes for Oxford and Marlborough, I hear, but they will lose their book holder at Bristol.’

‘Why so?’

‘Because he must go on to Barnstaple.’

The other man blenched. ‘Barnstaple?’ he exclaimed, his West Country accent breaking through his London vowels.

‘He has been called back home. And your voice tells me that you may be from those parts yourself.’ The gravity of his news made Leonard speak in a respectful whisper. ‘We have had strange portents. A message was sent to him but the messenger was poisoned here in this taproom.’

‘How then was it delivered?’ asked the man.

‘The murder was message enough for Master Bracewell. He knows that he is needed in Barnstaple and he will be there when time and Westfield’s Men allow him.’

The listener stroked his raven-black beard and cursed himself for not killing his victim more promptly with the thrust of a dagger. The poison had only done its worst after the messenger had reached the intended recipient. Hired for his ruthless proficiency, the man had for once failed, and dangerous loose ends now trailed from his botched work. Those loose ends would have to be severed before he could collect his reward. He turned back to Leonard, who was still perusing the ballad with a childlike delight.

‘When do Westfield’s Men leave London?’ said the man.

‘At noon, sir.’

‘From the Queen’s Head?’

‘No,’ said Leonard, ‘they would not show themselves here while our landlord still burns so brightly about their fire. I’ll be taking this ballad to the Bel Savage Inn on Ludgate Hill. That is where they set forth upon their adventure.’

‘What manner of man is this Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘A hero, sir.’ He waved the ballad. ‘Here’s warranty.’

‘How would you pick him out from his fellows?’

‘’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.