‘Did you speak with them?’ she said.
‘I sent them to the Dog and Bear.’
‘Were you not afraid they would recognise you?’
‘I am the Lawrence Firethorn of the highway.’
‘They did not suspect you?’
‘No, my love,’ said Gunby, lapsing back into the accent he had used as the old shepherd. ‘I was born in these parts so the dialect is second nature. I could have talked for three whole days and not a man amongst them would have been any the wiser.’
‘Do we strike at the Dog and Bear?’
‘They have nothing left to steal.’
‘What, then?’
‘We meet them again at Marlborough.’
‘When do they play there?’
‘Tomorrow, if all goes well.’
‘What parts shall we take?’
‘I will assign them when I have worked it out.’ He glanced across at their supine accomplice. ‘That belly of Ned’s is not so easy to hide. I can get rid of my paunch like this.’ He pulled out the heavy padding that was stuffed inside his belt and flung it away. ‘We cannot alter Ned’s shape in that way.’
Ellen eased him away a few yards to whisper in his ear.
‘There is a way we could hide that swelling stomach.’
‘How?’
‘Bury it six feet in the ground.’
Israel Gunby smirked. ‘That will come, my dear.’
‘When?’
‘When he has served his purpose. Ned will be useful in Marlborough, for three people may work much more craftily than two. We’ll keep him alive till then.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘We’ll cut the fat-gutted rascal down to size!’
Israel Gunby drew his dagger from his belt and hurled it with a flick of the wrist. It sunk into the ground only inches from the head of their associate and brought him instantly awake. Ned gabbled his apologies for falling asleep and scrambled to his feet. The stench of strong ale still hung around him.
‘You drank too freely,’ reprimanded Israel Gunby.
‘That was my part,’ said the other. ‘I was to keep them merry in the taproom while you and Ellen sneaked into their chambers. We got away from the Bull and Butcher with all but a few pence short of twenty pounds.’
The haul had been far more than that, but they had given him a lower figure so that he could be cheated out of his portion. In the guise of a farmer, Ned had been the decoy at an inn once again and shown as much outrage as the rest of them when the theft was discovered. By the time the other travellers sobered up enough to give chase, Ned himself had vanished into the woods to join his confederates.
‘We must ride on,’ said Gunby, pulling on his doublet. ‘I have had enough of being an old shepherd. It is a stinking occupation and it offends my nose.’
The bleating of sheep jogged his memory and he gathered up the smock and the hat before reclaiming his dagger. Strolling back through the trees, he came to a spot where an old man was trussed up half-naked on the ground. A dozen snuffling ewes were clustered around their shepherd with timid curiosity and they fled as soon as Gunby appeared. Smock and hat were dropped to the ground once more but the knife flashed in the hand. The old man let out a squeal of fear and closed his eyes against the pain, but the blade drew no blood from his ancient carcass. It sliced instead through his bonds and left him free to rub his tender wrists and ankles.
Israel Gunby kicked the man’s smock across to him.
‘Thank you, kind father,’ he said. ‘For my part, I would rather be tied up for a week than wear that reeking garment for an hour, but it was needful.’ He dropped a small purse into the man’s lap. ‘There’s for your pains. I am a thief and a villain and all that men say I am. But you may tell them one thing more, my friend.’
‘What is that, sir?’ gibbered the other.
‘Israel Gunby does not rob the poor.’
Nicholas Bracewell was in a quandary. Wanting to be alone with his thoughts, he yet needed the company of his fellows to ensure safety. The inn was comfortable, its hospitality was cordial and there was no whiff of danger within its walls but those qualities had been obtained at the Fighting Cocks and he had nevertheless found himself fighting for his life against a vicious assailant. It was best to take no chances. On the ride from Oxford, he constantly scoured the landscape for signs of pursuit, but none came. That did not induce him to lower his guard. Nicholas had been unaware of being trailed from London yet that was almost certainly what had occurred. Shadows moved according to the disposition of the sun. They could walk briskly before you or steal silently after you. In the darkness, you never even knew that they were there.
After supper in the taproom, Edmund Hoode retired to his chamber to work on the new play. Nicholas was both pleased and nervous, delighted that his friend had recaptured his creative urge but fearful lest he use too much of the background material that the book holder had given him. The Merchant of Calais was set fifty years earlier, at a time when the French port was still an English possession. Hoode was attracted by the notion of a tiny segment of British soil perched on the edge of a large and hostile country. It allowed him to explore a number of favourite themes. What troubled Nicholas was the fear that his own father might now be introduced into the play. Hoode had been so intrigued by what he was told that he had been asking for further details ever since. Always ready to help the playwright, Nicholas did not, however, want to read The Merchant of Calais and find that Robert Bracewell was its central character. The sight of his father being brought to life onstage by Lawrence Firethorn would be too painful for the renegade son to bear.
‘What ails you, Nick?’ said a concerned voice.
‘Nothing, Owen.’
‘You have been in a dream all evening.’
‘I am weary, that is all.’
‘Retire to your chamber.’
‘Not yet. I will stay here a little while longer.’
Owen Elias was in a jovial mood now that he had supped well and shaken the unpleasant memories of their visit to Oxford from his mind. Actors were easily crushed by any form of rejection but they had a resilience that bordered on the phenomenal. Nicholas had seen it many times before, but it still astonished him when men who had been squirming in a pit of despair one minute could then stride onto a stage with gusto and acquit themselves superbly in a comic role. Owen Elias was an archetype, thriving on deep conflict, shifting from melancholia to manic joy in a twinkling, suffering blows to his self-esteem that seemed like mortal wounds and then leaping nimbly out of his coffin with boundless vitality.
‘Have no fear while you are with me, Nick.’
‘Thanks, Owen.’
‘I’ll be a trusty bodyguard.’
‘Sharp eyes. Give me sharp eyes.’
‘They would cut through teak.’
Nicholas was glad he had taken the Welshman into his confidence. Elias had his faults and it was the book holder’s unenviable task to point them out to him from time to time, but the actor’s attributes heavily outweighed his defects. There was another reason why the Welshman was so eager to lend all the help he could to Nicholas. It was the book holder who had manoeuvred his promotion in the company. After languishing for so long in the ranks of the hired men, Owen Elias felt that his true worth was not appreciated and he succumbed to the blandishments of Banbury’s Men. Only some deft stage-management from Nicholas rescued him from the rival company and secured his position as a sharer with Westfield’s Men. Elias was eternally grateful to his friend and would fight to the death on his behalf. Nicholas hoped that he could solve the problem himself, but if assistance was needed, the strength of the pugnacious Welshman would be more useful than the diffidence of a gentle soul like Edmund Hoode.
Drink exposed a vein of regret in Owen Elias.