The Silent Woman

by Edward Marston

  ‘He thinks himself a man of principle.’

  ‘Why, so do I, and so do you, and so does every one of us. We are all men of principle but we must learn to bend them to necessity. Ha!’ He slapped his side in annoyance. ‘I’ll brook no argument from a churchman who earns a mere thirty pounds a year.’

  ‘Arthur Calmady does hold other benefices.’

  ‘But they are far away, Barnard,’ said the merchant. ‘The law now stops a man from holding benefices within twenty-six miles of each other and it is right to do so. These nibbling ecclesiastics will eat up the whole church if they are allowed. They’d have a dozen parishes giving them money and never serve one of them honestly.’

  ‘Our vicar is conscientious, let us grant him that.’

  ‘Yes,’ mocked the other, ‘he is a man of principle. But I am old enough to remember other men of principle who took the cloth in Devon. One was so drunk on a Sunday that he could not say service. Another wore a sword and was a notable fornicator. One even brewed ale in the vicarage and sold it to friends like any common innkeeper.’

  ‘Arthur Calmady is not guilty of those crimes,’ argued the lawyer, ‘but he can be obstinate. I think I have cured that obstinacy. With the vicar on our side, we are assured of success. It is only a matter of time.’

  ‘That thought fills my every waking hour.’

  ‘There is no cloud to threaten us.’ He paused. ‘Save one, perhaps.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘That cloud has blown over, sir. There’ll be no storm.’

  ‘Can you be certain?’

  ‘Lamparde knows his trade. I employ only the best.’

  ‘Nicholas has his father’s determination.’

  ‘He is dead even as we speak.’

  ‘You have heard?’

  ‘I do not need to hear.’

  ‘But if Lamparde should fail …’

  ‘Have faith in him.’

  ‘I am a lawyer,’ said Sweete, ‘and we do not believe in faith. Facts are our currency. You have faith in Lamparde, but fact put Nicholas Bracewell on the road to Bristol. That is too close for comfort. If your man should fail …’

  ‘Even that has been considered,’ said Livermore, ‘for I leave nothing to chance. If a miracle occurs and he escapes from Lamparde, he will never get within ten miles of here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I have placed six stout fellows on the road that he must take. They have orders to stop him in his tracks and bury the evidence where it falls.’ He smiled complacently. ‘You have my word on it. We are secure. There is no way that Nicholas Bracewell could possibly reach Barnstaple.’

  Bristol harbour was as busy as ever that morning with ships docking while others cast off to set sail. Fishermen were landing their catch. Merchants were buying and selling. Craft of all sizes drew patterns of foam with their prows. Seagulls swooped around the sterns of the departing vessels as they headed for open sea. Westfield’s Men were well represented. Lawrence Firethorn was there with a cheerful wave and some bellowed advice. Edmund Hoode mixed anxiety with his good wishes. Barnaby Gill mumbled his embarrassed thanks over and over again. Owen Elias found a song to suit the occasion. Richard Honeydew cried at the temporary loss of his friend and George Dart, at last confronted with the reality of the sailor’s life, noting the weather-beaten faces and sea-hardened eyes of the mariners on deck, hearing the vigour of their obscenities, watching the intense physical demands made on a crew, began to think that life in a theatre company might, after all, have its virtues.

  The six of them set up a rousing cheer to send the ship on its way. With the horse securely tethered aboard, Nicholas Bracewell was setting sail for Barnstaple.

  Chapter Ten

  Israel Gunby noticed the difference immediately. As he sat with the audience in the sumptuous Guildhall, he watched a performance of The Happy Malcontent and felt a niggling disappointment. The play was a delight, the actors skilled and the whole production well crafted. Indeed, the people of Bristol who had come in such numbers to see Westfield’s Men clearly adored the rich comic talents that were set before them. Laughter was virtually continuous and applause broke out spontaneously at regular intervals. Gunby, however, was still dissatisfied without quite knowing the cause of that dissatisfaction. On the previous afternoon, he had been one of the standees at the back of the hall when the Mayor and his Corporation had been stirred by the tragic wonder of Death and Darkness. The whole company had been superb on that occasion and Gunby had wept real tears when Count Orlando killed himself in a fit of grief so that he could lie in the vault beside the wife who had been cruelly cut down on their wedding day. Lawrence Firethorn had been so magnificent in the leading role that Gunby had almost felt a twinge of guilt at having robbed him of money and of carnal pleasure at High Wycombe.

  A lesser brilliance radiated from The Happy Malcontent and Ellen was able to identify one of the main reasons for this. She had enjoyed the play so much in Marlborough that she was eager to see it again in Bristol but the second performance was only a pale imitation of the first. Ellen was dowdily dressed as the wife of the fat old merchant beside her. She leant across to her husband.

  ‘Master Gill is unwell,’ she decided.

  ‘The whole company is ailing.’

  ‘He has lost his voice, his power, his joy.’

  ‘And his legs,’ added Gunby. ‘He danced better for us at the Fighting Cocks. Something has taken the spring from Barnaby’s step.’

  ‘Look,’ said Ellen, pointing. ‘I am right.’

  The play ended to general acclamation and the company came out to take its bow. Barnaby Gill had rushed to the centre of the stage in Marlborough but he yielded that position to Lawrence Firethorn here and stood slightly behind him. Signs of strain were now all too apparent. Gill was so exhausted by the performance that he almost keeled over and Firethorn had to steady him before helping him off. The audience thought that Doctor Blackthought’s stagger was a final humorous comment on the character and they clapped appreciatively. Israel Gunby and his wife were not misled.

  ‘There is something else amiss,’ he said ruminatively.

  ‘Master Gill’s indisposition affects them all.’

  ‘No, Ellen. These are cunning actors. They could carry one man and hide his shortcomings but there was another hole in the fabric of their play.’

  ‘It was much too slow.’

  ‘Fast enough for the burgesses of Bristol.’

  ‘Yet half the pace of Marlborough.’

  ‘Who is to blame for that?’

  Gunby realised. ‘They have lost their book holder!’

  The play had not only been weakened by a lacklustre actor onstage, it had been seriously hampered by the absence of a controlling hand off it. Entrances had been missed and changes of scenery had been slow. When Barnaby Gill fumbled his words and signalled for a prompt, it came so late and so loud that it seemed to be one more comic touch deliberately inserted to amuse the audience. Israel Gunby had enjoyed the performance which he had commissioned at the Fighting Cocks but it was not only the actors who caught his attention. Nicholas Bracewell had organised everything with laudable expertise. His invisible presence was the scaffolding which held the whole company up. Without him, Westfield’s Men were distinctly rickety.

  ‘Master Bracewell has gone,’ said Gunby.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That is his business, my love.’

  ‘Apart from Master Firethorn, he was the handsomest man among them,’ said Ellen. ‘Were I to play that love scene we have just witnessed, I think I would just as soon be seduced by the book holder as by the actor. Master Bracewell was a marvellous proper man.’

  ‘Yet he has left them.’

  ‘His deputy is a poor substitute.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men will suffer.’

  ‘We have seen that already.’

  ‘They will suffer offstage as well as on, Ellen,’ he said as an idea formed.
‘Master Bracewell was their sentry. With him gone, their defences may more easily be breached. Do you follow me here?’

  ‘I do, husband.’

  ‘Their loss is our gain.’

  ‘When do we strike?’

  ‘Give them a day or so,’ he advised. ‘That will make them feel more secure and put more money into their coffers. Death and Darkness filled this Guildhall until it burst and The Happy Malcontent, as you see, has made the coins jingle. If we wait awhile, Firethorn’s capcase will have twenty pounds and more in it.’

  ‘How will we empty it?’

  He gave his wife a sly smile and squeezed her arm. The other spectators had largely drifted away now and they were among the stragglers. Nobody sat in front of them so they had an uninterrupted view of the makeshift platform which Nicholas Bracewell had erected at the end of the hall so that it would catch maximum light through the windows. The stage was still set for the last act of the play.

  ‘You admired Lawrence Firethorn, I think,’ he said.

  ‘Every woman here did that.’

  ‘And you said before, you would like to play that scene with him. Could you do it as well as Richard Honeydew?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘The boy was excellent.’

  ‘But he remained a boy. His voice and gestures were a clever copy of a young woman but he could not compare with a lady herself.’ Ellen bunched her fists in envy as she looked at the stage. ‘Had I been up there with Lawrence Firethorn, I would have overshadowed the young apprentice quite.’

  ‘Women are not allowed to act upon the stage, my love.’

  ‘That is a pity and a crime.’

  ‘They may still perform in another theatre.’

  ‘The bedchamber?’

  ‘You’d oust this apprentice there!’ said Gunby with feeling. ‘I know that to be true! But could you carry it off with Firethorn himself?’

  ‘No question but that I can.’

  ‘He is a shrewd man and will not be easily fooled.’

  ‘I have done it once and may do so again.’

  ‘There will be danger, Ellen.’

  ‘I do not give a fig for that,’ she replied. ‘Where danger lies, the best rewards are found. You taught me that. Lawrence Firethorn will never recognise me for a second.’

  ‘Then let’s about it!’

  ‘I’ll need some new apparel.’

  ‘All things will be provided.’

  ‘Then I’ll show him how a real woman can act!’

  Israel Gunby chuckled and put an arm around her. When they got up to walk towards the door of the hall, they saw the distraught figure of George Dart holding out a bowl to the last few spectators. They had already paid an admission fee but the performance had inspired them to part with a few additional coins. Gunby tossed an angel into the collection and Dart gabbled his gratitude. It was a chance to confirm the facts. The assistant stagekeeper was more harassed than ever. He did not connect the fat old merchant with Samuel Grace at the Fighting Cocks. Gunby used a local accent.

  ‘Master Bracewell is not with you, I hear.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Has he left the company?’

  ‘I fear me that he has!’ wailed Dart.

  ‘Where has he gone?’

  ‘To Barnstaple.’

  ‘A strange departure when he is needed here.’

  ‘Even so, sir. He will return one day but it may not be for a week or more and we struggle without him.’

  ‘That was my observation,’ said Gunby. ‘Westfield’s Men have a fine reputation but it will not be enhanced by the bungling of your present book holder. We have seen many plays performed in this hall but few with such a lack of judgement behind the scenes.’ He leant in close. ‘Tell me, young sir. What poor, fumbling idiot took over from Master Bracewell as the book holder today? Who was that fool?’

  George Dart’s hunted face answered the question.

  ‘That fool stands before you,’ he admitted.

  Gunby threw another angel in the bowl and they left.

  The Gabriel was a coastal trader that was owned by five Barnstaple merchants who each had an equal share. It had been to Carmarthen and Tenby before putting into Bristol and its cargo included tin, oats, barley and four thousand sheepskins. The Gabriel was a vessel of only fifteen tons and it was one of a number with overtly religious names. Nicholas Bracewell soon learnt that there was nothing angelic about its embittered old captain.

  ‘A turd in his teeth!’ sneered the sailor.

  ‘You know him, then?’

  ‘Everyone in Barnstaple knew Matthew Whetcombe.’

  ‘Knew?’ echoed Nicholas. ‘He has left the town?’

  ‘No, sir. He is still there – God rot him!’

  ‘Then your acquaintance must hold.’

  ‘It does,’ said the other. ‘I may speak to the good merchant on my own terms now. Whenever I pass his grave, I can spit on it twice and lift a leg to fart on it three times. That’s all the conversation he deserves.’

  Nicholas had been fortunate enough to find a vessel that was sailing to Barnstaple. It was not the speediest way to reach the town but it would save him from a long and dangerous journey alone over extremely bad roads. It would also help him to elude any trap that was set for him near Barnstaple. Nicholas had killed off one threat but the man who had employed Lamparde could pay a dozen more to do the same service. It was important to find out as soon as possible who that paymaster was and he could not do that if he was ambushed before he even reached the town.

  The Gabriel was a small and ageing vessel but it was good to be under sail again and to feel the wind ripping at his hair and clothing. Nicholas stood in the prow and let the salt spray bathe his face. In the port books, the ship was listed with a flourish as Le Gabryelle de Barnstaple and its gnarled captain was proud of a name he constantly used without ever getting close to an intelligible pronunciation of it. The man was teak-hard and foul-mouthed but Nicholas was more than ready to share his company. Though hailing from Ilfracombe, the sailor had worked out of Barnstaple for the last decade and he knew all the leading merchants there. In the taverns along the wharf, he picked up all the local gossip and it was this which Nicholas now mined.

  ‘When did Matthew Whetcombe die?’

  ‘A month or two back, sir. Maybe more.’

  ‘What was the cause of his death?’

  ‘Plague, pox and sweating sickness.’ He spat into the wind. ‘At least, it would have been if I’d had my choice of his going. I’d have bound the villain in chains and used him as my anchor, so I would, excepting that I’ve too much respect for Le Gabryelle de Barnstaple to have him hanging from it.’

  ‘You did not like the man, I see,’ said Nicholas with cool understatement. ‘What dealings did you have with him?’

  ‘None, sir, and that’s the rub!’

  ‘You sought employment?’

  ‘I deserved it!’ ranted the sailor. ‘There’s no more experienced a seaman along the Devon coast than me. When he was looking for a new master of the Mary, he should have looked no further than me, but he scorned my claim, sir. He said I was too old! Old! Ha! I’m young enough to drop a turd on his coffin the next time I go past!’

  The narrative broke down into a welter of expletives and Nicholas had time to assimilate the facts he had so far managed to glean. Matthew Whetcombe had been immensely wealthy but that wealth was based not so much on legitimate trade as on privateering. Nobody appreciated the hypocrisy that underlay that word more than Nicholas Bracewell because he had sailed under one of the most celebrated privateers in England. Letters of marque had given Francis Drake, and many others like him, a licence to indulge in piracy. In the five years since the Spanish Armada, privateering had been particularly rewarding and Matthew Whetcombe had been one of its beneficiaries.

  In 1590 the Mary had sailed over the bar with a full crew and a fine array of cannon. After a raid on a foreign vessel off the coast of Guinea, she returned to harbour with a pri
ze that kept the whole town in a state of excitement for a week. Four chests of gold were unloaded from its hold along with a basket of jewellery. The total value of the haul was almost fifteen thousand pounds, a fortune which elevated Matthew Whetcombe above the wealth of any of his contemporaries. Though he boasted that the money had been made in trade, it was the fruit of naked piracy. Letters of marque were no more than a legalised skull and crossbones.

  To stop the captain’s wild fulminations, Nicholas moved him to an allied subject. He gritted his teeth before asking the question but he had to learn the truth sooner or later.

  ‘Have you heard tell of one Robert Bracewell?’

  ‘I might have done some years ago.’

  ‘Is he then dead as well?’ said Nicholas in surprise.

  ‘Oh, no, sir. Fallen on hard times, I think.’ He removed his cap to scratch his head with cracked fingernails. ‘My mind is not what it used to be but I do recall the name. Let me think now. It will come.’ Eventually it did and he replaced his cap to mark the event. ‘Robert Bracewell, eh? Was not he one of the merchants who exported kersey and baize to France?’

  ‘That was him.’

  ‘I have him now. His ship would bring back flax and hempen cloths from Rouen and St Malo.’ The sailor nodded. ‘’Tis the same man but not with the same trade. He works only in a small way on the quayside.’

  ‘He had two sons,’ prompted Nicholas.

  ‘That was part of his tragedy, sir. The younger fell out with him and went off to live in Exeter. He is a merchant there himself, I do believe, and is well clear of his father.’

  ‘And the other son?’

  ‘He broke his father’s old heart.’ The captain had more grasp on the tale now. ‘This other lad went off to Plymouth to sail with Drake. He never returned. Gallant Sir Francis is a great seaman, no doubt of that, but he lost far too many men on his voyage. I’d keep a keener eye on my crew. If I’d taken the Mary around the world, I’d not have lost a single man. I should have been master of that ship.’