Robert Bracewell was a name he kept locked away in the darkest corner of his mind. He had not even spoken it to Anne Hendrik. On the ride to Oxford, his father had been set free at last. What was more remarkable was that, in talking about someone he despised and disowned, Nicholas actually came to feel vague pangs of sympathy for him and even tried to excuse his faults. Robert Bracewell was a hostage to fortune. Ill luck had dogged him. Shortly after he became a Merchant of the Staple, the last English foothold in France was lost and British merchants were promptly expelled. Queen Mary died saying that the name ‘Calais’ was engraved on her heart, but it was tattooed on the soul of Robert Bracewell. More setbacks stemmed from that first dreadful shock, and Nicholas recalled the locust years when his father trembled on the verge of bankruptcy. It took enormous strength of will to rebuild his reputation and his company. Any man should surely be admired for that.
Nicholas’s sympathy dried up instantly. Strength of will could destroy as well as create. The driving energy that enabled Robert Bracewell to win back his status in the mercantile community had another side to it, and his elder son had been one of its prime victims. Though he divulged much to his friend, Nicholas had concealed far more and he knew why. The deep shame of being a member of that family was still there, and it made the name he bore feel like a species of plague. Nicholas was frankly appalled at the prospect of going back to the town that held so many bleak associations for him but it was a sacred commitment that had to be honoured. He concentrated his mind on more immediate difficulties and lengthened his stride.
Westfield’s Men had taken themselves into the inn for a restorative meal, but Lawrence Firethorn was waiting to accost his book holder in the courtyard. The actor-manager’s belligerence masked his niggling despair.
‘Where the devil have you been, Nick!’ he demanded. ‘I sent you an hour ago at least.’
‘The mayor was engaged when I arrived.’
‘Engaged!’
‘I was forced to wait.’
‘Engaged!’ howled Firethorn. ‘If the wretch had kept me waiting, I’d have engaged him with sword and dagger, then hanged him from the church steeple with his chain of office. What did the arrant knave tell you?’
‘The plague has closed this town to us.’
‘God’s mercy! We are the cure for this contagion. Does he not see that? We bring joy into a cavern of misery. We bring life to a dying people. We bring hope.’
‘The mayor appreciates that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but the ordnance holds. No plays, no games, no public gatherings of any sort. He sends his abject apologies but we must be out of Oxford before the sun goes down.’
‘Out of Oxford!’
‘We are strangers in the town and carry a threat.’
‘I’ll carry a threat to the viperous villain!’ said the other. ‘He’ll have a plague of naked steel about his ears. Does he tell Lawrence Firethorn not to act? Will he order my company to leave his town?’ He strutted around in a display of defiance then adopted his most regal pose. ‘I am a king of the stage and he will not force me to abdicate.’
‘It is no personal rebuff for you,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘Plague deaths rise every day. If they continue at this rate then the churches will have to be closed. The market has already been shut down. These are the sensible precautions that any town must take when disease takes a hold.’
Firethorn accepted the truth of this. He still ranted away for a few minutes but the venom had been drained out of his bluster. Oxford was a lost cause. They had to move on. When Firethorn’s bluster subsided, he raised an eyebrow.
‘Were you offered any compensation?’ he said.
‘You told me not to accept it, master.’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ reaffirmed Firethorn. ‘Fling it back at him, I said, and I hope that is what you did.’
‘I declined the money.’
‘Good.’ The other eyebrow lifted. ‘How much was it?’
‘Two pounds.’
Firethorn’s sigh of remorse was like a protracted hiss of steam. Thanks to his pride, they were creeping away from the town without a penny. Anger relieved him but it was an expensive item. Firethorn knew that the rest of the company would suffer as a result. He gave Nicholas a task that he had no heart to perform himself.
‘Tell the others,’ he said. ‘We leave within the hour.’
‘I’ll about it straight.’
‘Oh, and Nick …’
‘Yes?’
‘Say nothing of that two pounds.’
The house in Shoreditch was of middling size with a neat garden at its rear and a tiny orchard. A half-timbered structure like its neighbours, its second storey was fronted with plastered wattle work that was showing signs of age. Both storeys projected at least a foot above the floor below and they had settled into a comfortable position like two fishwives leaning their arms contentedly on a wall for a lifelong exchange of gossip. The roof was fairly sound, but it would soon need the attention of a thatcher. Whatever the defects of its exterior, the house was kept in an excellent state of repair on the inside. Margery Firethorn saw to that. She was a meticulous housewife who made sure that every floor was swept, every window was cleaned and every cobweb brushed away on a daily basis. She shared the abode with her husband, their children and servants, the four apprentices and the occasional hired man with nowhere else to lay his head. Margery loved her role as mother of an extended family and she offered all those who stayed beneath her roof the rather caustic brand of affection that she had developed through marriage to Lawrence Firethorn. The house seemed empty now and the rooms silent. She missed the happy turbulence of life with Westfield’s Men and she was therefore delighted when she had two unexpected visitors to brighten up her day.
‘And what happened then?’ she said, all agog.
‘We visited an apothecary in Paternoster Row,’ said Anne Hendrik. ‘It was there that we found guidance at last.’
‘I know the man,’ chimed in Leonard.
‘What man?’ said Margery.
‘Him. The poisoner. That beard, that earring, that smell.’
‘What is the fellow blabbering about, Anne?’
‘Let me explain.’
Anne took over the narrative and Margery listened with a burgeoning apprehension. When she heard all the facts, she agreed that Nicholas Bracewell could well be in serious danger, and even if his own life were not threatened, he would value all the information that had been gleaned about the girl’s killer. Leonard’s contribution was the monotonous repetition of the story of his meeting with the man at the Queen’s Head. Each time he mentioned this, he beamed vacuously, as if expecting a round of applause. Margery’s tolerance soon frayed at the edges and she took the well-meaning giant into the kitchen, assigning one of the servants to look after him until he was needed again. She then went back into the parlour and sat in an upright chair beside Anne. Margery could now probe without hindrance.
‘What will you do, Anne?’ she asked.
‘Send a message to Nicholas.’
‘Why send it when you can take it yourself?’
Anne blinked. ‘Me?’
‘When a man’s life is at risk, you do not count the personal cost or inconvenience. Look at me. I once rode all the way to York to reach Lawrence.’
‘Was he in danger?’
‘Yes!’ said Margery with a laugh. ‘From two madwomen he picked up on his way. One was a pilgrim and the other as near to a punk as decency would allow. If I had not mounted a horse and ridden north, Lawrence would have had the pair of them in the same bed, saying prayers with the one while he and the other recited a more sinful creed together. I had a sore rump from the journey but I saved my marriage.’