‘Murder!’
‘The messenger died elsewhere, but the villainy took place not twenty yards from where we stand. It would not advantage you, if that story were to spread.’
‘It must not!’
‘Nicholas Bracewell is discreet on your behalf.’
‘We are greatly indebted to him.’
Margery Firethorn was a prudent gardener. ‘Such an event could be the ruination of you,’ she said, irrigating the seeds once more with a final sprinkling. ‘When the Queen’s Head was the home of Westfield’s Men it had renown and distinction. Who would wish to visit an establishment that was notorious for its poisonous ale?’
She could almost hear the first green shoots pushing up.
Berkshire was a beautiful county and the drizzle relented to enable them to see it at its best. Warm sunshine dried them off, lifted their heads and gladdened their hearts. The Vale of the White Horse was unusual in being set aside almost exclusively for corn production, and fields of gold danced and waved all around them. Seen from the top of a rolling waggon, the simplicity of country life had an appeal that was very beguiling, and more than one of the travellers mused about exchanging it for the vicissitudes of their own existence. Local inhabitants took an opposite view, looking up in wonder as the gaily attired troupe went past and imagining the joys of belonging to such an elite profession. Even jaded actors knew how to catch the eye of an audience.
Wantage supplied a surgeon for Owen Elias, and the wound was treated before being bound up again. Since the injury had been sustained because of him, Nicholas Bracewell paid the surgeon, who complimented him on the way that he himself had first attended to the patient. An inn at Hungerford gave the company excellent refreshment, and they set off for the final stage of their journey with their misgivings largely subdued. Even Barnaby Gill had lost his sourness. With the prospect of willing spectators ahead of them, Westfield’s Men rallied even more. The waggon broke into song and Owen Elias’s voice was now merry as well as melodious.
When they crossed the border into Wiltshire, the company gave an involuntary cheer. They did not have too far to go now. Richard Honeydew clambered into the driving seat beside Nicholas Bracewell and sought to improve his education.
‘They say that Wiltshire is covered with forests.’
‘That is only partly true,’ said Nicholas, still at the reins. ‘There are belts of woodland stretching right across the county, and when we reach Marlborough, we will be sitting on the edge of one of the finest forests in England.’
‘What is it called?’
‘Savernake.’
The boy’s face ignited. ‘Does it have wild animals?’
‘Hundreds of them, Dick.’
‘Bears and wolves?’
‘They were killed off centuries ago when Savernake was a royal forest. You’ll still find foxes, badgers, rabbits and hares, not to mention herds of deer. And there are game birds of all description.’ Nicholas turned to smile at him. ‘But most of the wild animals there run on two legs.’
‘Two legs?’
‘Poachers,’ explained Owen Elias, who sat behind them. ‘When we get there, Savernake will have another two-legged wild animal. I can snare a rabbit or catch a pheasant with the best of them. Put your trust in me, lads, and we’ll have roast venison for a week.’
‘And the law down upon our necks,’ warned Nicholas.
‘You told me it was only partly true,’ the apprentice said to him. ‘What else does this county have?’
‘Great windswept plains and downs. That is where the real wealth of Wiltshire lies, not in its woods and its ploughland. Do you know why, Dick?’
‘No.’
‘Sheep.’
‘We have seen hundreds already.’
‘Travel around the county and you will see thousands upon thousands.’ Nicholas warmed to his theme. ‘Wiltshire is able to support an endless number of sheep on its thin soil. Their fleeces and flesh have made many people rich. Take but the case of William Stumpe.’
‘Who?’
‘William Stumpe of Malmesbury.’
The boy giggled. ‘It is a funny name.’
‘Nobody laughed at him when he was alive for he became the most prosperous man in the town. Shall I tell you how?’
‘Please.’ Richard Honeydew nodded his enthusiasm.
‘William Stumpe was a clothier,’ said Nicholas. ‘He bought himself an abbey at the Dissolution.’
‘Why?’
‘A man must have somewhere to set his looms. He paid over fifteen hundred pound for Malmesbury Abbey, then granted to the town the nave of the abbey church so that it could serve the parish.’
‘What did he do with the rest of the building?’
‘He moved in his weavers,’ said Nicholas. ‘Within a few years, they were turning out three thousand cloths a year. It brought in a huge income. Stumpe was of humble parentage yet he rose to be member of parliament and high collector for North Wiltshire. Even that did not satisfy him. He had another project that was far more ambitious.’
‘What was it?’
‘Osney Abbey.’
‘At Oxford?’
‘We drove right past it, Dick.’
‘Did this clothier want to buy that as well?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, who knew the story by heart. ‘He planned to have as many as two thousand workers employed at Osney. Two thousand — can you imagine the size of such an enterprise? The cost of such an operation?’ He shrugged. ‘We shall never know if the scheme at Osney Abbey would have worked because he did not proceed with it, but you have to admire the man’s boldness. Two thousand.’
‘What happened to William Stumpe?’
‘He invested his money in land, Dick, and that made him wealthier than ever. He lived to see his son knighted, and his three granddaughters have all married earls.’ Nicholas flicked the reins to coax more speed out of the two horses then he underlined the moral of his story. ‘Stumpe showed the value of hard work and a clear imagination. No matter where you begin in life, you can fight your way up.’
‘How do you know so much about him?’ said the boy.
‘My father told me.’
The sentence slipped out so easily that it was a few moments before Nicholas understood its significance. He was jarred into silence. Without realising it, he had just told Richard Honeydew a story that his father had often used as an example for him when Nicholas was about the same age as the apprentice. It was a cruel reminder of a time when Robert Bracewell would instruct and entertain his son for hours on end with his tales of enterprising businessmen. Wiltshire had always been a principal producer and exporter of cloth and — though its wool could not match the quality of that from the Welsh Borders and the Cotswolds — fortunes could still be made in the trade. Most of the output was now sold in London through members of the Company of Merchant Adventurers, which had superseded the old Merchant Staplers. Others now followed where William Stumpe had led.
Nicholas Bracewell had happily imbibed such stories and uncritically accepted his father’s interests and attitudes. That was no longer the case. Disillusion was total. It was almost obscene to dwell upon a time in his past when he and Robert Bracewell had actually been friends. Nicholas stole a glance at his young companion. Richard Honeydew’s innocence and inquisitive streak reminded him of his own. Since he was very much an alternative father to the boy, he resolved that he would never betray his illusions in the way that his own had been shattered. The apprentice must be saved from that.
Richard Honeydew was unaware of his friend’s turmoil.
‘Is your father still alive?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘He will be pleased to see you when you get to Devon.’
Nicholas could not trust his tongue with any words.
Marlborough was an attractive town. Set on a hill above the meandering River Kennet, it commanded a superb view of the Savernake Forest to the south-east and of the rolling landscape in other directions. The High Street was a wide thoroughfare that swept all the way down from St Mary’s Church at the top to the Church of Saints Peter and Paul at the bottom. Houses, shops, inns and other buildings stood side by side in a street to which religion gave such clear demarcation. There was a profusion of thatched roofs.