‘We can never outrun the past, Nick,’ he said. ‘Try as we may, it will always catch up with us sooner or later. Look at my case. Wales never releases its sons.’
‘You managed to break free, Owen.’
‘A trick of the light but no more. Listen to this voice of mine. I can sound like an Englishman when I choose but my tongue hates to play the traitor.’ He emptied his tankard and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I carry my country on my back like a snail carrying its shell. Wales will always be my home — even though I left a wife and a child and an honest occupation to run away to London when the madness of the theatre seized me.’
‘I did not know you were married, Owen.’
‘It was a mistake that I try to keep buried.’
‘And a child, you say?’
‘He died soon after I left. He had always been a sickly boy and not long for this harsh world.’ He toyed guiltily with his tankard. ‘I sent what little money I could back to my wife but we lost touch after Rhodri died. She was a good woman, Nick, and deserved better than me.’
‘Have you never been back home?’
‘Never.’
‘Do you not wonder what became of your wife?’
‘All the time, but I content myself with the thought that life without a bad husband must be an improvement of sorts. She has a large family and will not want for anything.’ His hands tightened around the tankard. ‘They do not speak well of me. I would not be welcome.’
‘You have always talked so fondly of your country.’
‘Wales is in my blood,’ said Elias with simple pride. ‘I could never deny my birthright. But a wife is another matter. I did not just leave, Nick, she begged me to go.’
‘I see.’
‘We all have our cross to bear.’
Nicholas was touched that his friend should confide something so private in him, and it helped to explain a maudlin vein that sometimes came out in the Welshman. At the same time, he realised very clearly why Owen Elias touched on the subject of the unforgiven sins of the past. In showing his own wounds, he was offering a set of credentials to a kindred spirit. He was assuring Nicholas of sympathy and understanding if the latter chose to talk about the problems that were taking him back home. Men of the theatre were nomads, wandering from company to company, drifting from woman to woman, leaving their failures behind them in the ceaseless quest for a perfection they would never attain. Talent and status were transient assets. Lawrence Firethorn had no peer as an actor yet here he was, having abandoned his family in London, scurrying from town to town with a demoralised troupe in search of work and wages. Security and continuity were rare commodities in the acting world, and those who joined it had to accept that. Indeed, for many — Owen Elias among them — its recurring perils and sudden fluctuations were part of its attraction. Theatre was a game of chance. With its unquestioning camaraderie, it was also a good place to hide. Elias could recognise another fugitive.
‘Why are you going to Barnstaple?’ he asked.
‘I may tell you when I return.’
‘If you return.’
‘Oh, I will come back,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘There is nothing to keep me there any longer. My only concern is that I actually reach the town.’
‘Nobody will stop you while I am around.’
‘We cannot live in each other’s laps.’
Owen chuckled. ‘Barnaby Gill would die with envy!’
‘Meanwhile, we have plays to present. Think on them.’
‘Oh, I do, Nick. I am an actor. My vanity is quite monstrous. I strut and pose before the looking glass of my mind all the time.’ He winked at the other. ‘But I can still spare a thought for a friend in need.’
‘Thank you, Owen.’
‘Do not be afraid to call on me.’
Nicholas smiled his gratitude. Some of the others began to play cards at a nearby table and Owen excused himself to go and join them. The apprentices had already gone to their beds and a few of the sharers had also seen the virtue of an early night. Lawrence Firethorn sat with Barnaby Gill and discussed the choice of plays for Marlborough and Bristol. Two actor-musicians were busy drinking themselves into a stupor. Nicholas was content to be left alone on his oak settle and let his thoughts swing to and fro between London and Barnstaple, between the pain of a loss and the impending displeasure of a renewed acquaintance. An hour sped by. When he next looked up, most of his fellows had tottered off upstairs and the taproom was virtually empty. Nicholas was just about to haul himself off to his own bedchamber when one of the ostlers came in through the main door. He peered around until his gaze settled on the book holder then he hurried across.
‘Master Bracewell?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Nicholas Bracewell?’
‘That is me.’
‘Then I have a message for you, sir.’
‘Who sent it?’
‘A gentleman. I am to tell you he wishes to see you.’
‘Let him come on in.’
‘He wants private conversation, sir. Outside.’
‘In the dark?’
‘There are lanterns burning by the stables.’
‘What did the man look like?’ asked Nicholas.
‘A fine upstanding fellow.’
‘Young or old? What does he wear? How does he speak?’
‘I was only paid to deliver a message, sir,’ said the ostler, turning to go. ‘He waits for you by the stables.’
Nicholas had a dozen more questions but the ostler had scampered off before he could put them. The man who summoned him needed to be treated with utmost suspicion. He must have kept watch on the taproom until it was almost cleared then sent in a messenger to fetch out the straggler. Nicholas had no immediate support beyond two actor-musicians on the verge of collapse and a diminutive servingman. Owen Elias had now gone off to bed and Edmund Hoode was deep in the throes of composition. Why should the man invite him to the stables? Nicholas started as it dawned on him. He was being issued with a challenge. Having failed to dispatch him in the stables of the Fighting Cocks, his adversary was inviting him to a second duel. It had to be single combat. If Nicholas walked out of the taproom with others at his back, the man would vanish into the night. Only if he went alone would the book holder stand a chance of meeting and killing his foe.
His sword lay beside him and he snatched it up. He took a few steps towards the front door then checked. What if the challenge was a ruse? The man might have set a trap with the aid of confederates. Nicholas pondered for a moment then came to the conclusion that he was up against a lone enemy. If there had been accomplices, he would not have survived the first assault at High Wycombe. The man was paying him a perverse compliment. Nicholas was being congratulated on his earlier success and given a return engagement on more equal terms. Except that a man who tries to strangle an opponent from behind will always have distorted ideas of equality.
Nicholas accepted the challenge but tempered boldness with caution. Instead of leaving by the front door, he moved quickly to the back of the taproom and slipped out into a narrow passageway with a stone-flagged floor. The door ahead of him gave access to some outbuildings and he could use those as cover while working his way around to the stables. Letting himself noiselessly out into the night, he kept his sword at the ready and crept furtively along. An owl hooted in the distance. A vixen answered with a high-pitched call. Clouds drifted across the moon. The lanterns threw only the patchiest light onto the courtyard.
As he came round the angle of a building, Nicholas could hear the faint jingle of metal as a horse chewed on its bit. The animal was saddled and ready at the edge of the stables. Nicholas could just make out its shape in the gloom. He was now satisfied that he was up against only one man. The horse made possible a hasty retreat after the task was done, but Nicholas intended to frustrate his opponent’s plans. Bending low, he inched forward with his weapon guiding the way. He heard the sound behind him far too late. There was a thud, a loud grunt and a brief clash of steel. When Nicholas swung round, he was hit in the chest with such force by a solid shoulder that he dropped his sword to the ground and did a backward somersault. Two figures grappled violently above him but the fight was over before he could get to his feet to join in. There was a howl of pain and a clatter as something hit the cobbles beside Nicholas, then one of the figures went haring across the yard and vaulted into the saddle of the horse. For the second time, the assassin galloped safely away into the night.