‘Nothing but this.’
He produced the dagger, which had been dropped in the scuffle on the previous night. It was a handsome weapon, a slender-bladed poniard with a decorated hilt that was shaped to allow a firm grip. As Nicholas held it again, he felt its perfect balance and looked with apprehension at its gleaming point. Owen Elias had been supremely lucky. The dagger was not used to inflicting mere wounds when it could kill with a single thrust.
‘That belongs to no common cut-throat,’ said Firethorn as he examined the weapon. ‘Nor was it made by any English craftsman. That is French workmanship. The man who owned that paid highly for the privilege.’
‘He will be back to collect it.’
‘Then let him collect it between his ribs, Nick.’
‘I will be watchful.’
‘We need you alive, dear heart!’
‘He will not take me unawares.’
‘Call on your friends. We are here to protect you.’
‘I need to tempt him to attack once more.’
‘Are you run mad?’
‘It is the only way,’ said Nicholas. ‘While he is out there, I am under threat, and the company suffers because of it. This man would kill me to stop me reaching Barnstaple. He must have good reason for that. I need to find out what that reason is. He must be drawn out into the open.’
‘With live bait on the hook! No, Nick, it is lunacy!’
‘Bear with me. I will catch him.’
‘When you do, hand over the wretch to me,’ said Firethorn, taking the dagger and slashing the air with it. ‘I’ll cut the truth out of his black heart.’
The man reached Marlborough an hour before Westfield’s Men and he was standing in the High Street when they rode into town. News of the evening’s performance was soon broadcast and the ripples of excitement spread quickly out to the surrounding areas. London companies rarely toured when they could be playing to larger audiences in the theatres of the capital. Marlborough appreciated its good fortune and took full advantage. Both performances were guaranteed a capacity audience. The man decided to be among the spectators that evening. A third attempt on Nicholas Bracewell’s life in as many days was unwise. The book holder would be at his most alert and — as the man had discovered to his cost — he had vigilant friends at his side. The assassin could not kill his way through the entire company in order to reach Nicholas. There had to be another means of achieving this vital aim. Watching the play that evening, he hoped, might suggest another route to his grisly destination.
He took a room at an inn near the ruins of the castle at the bottom end of the town. The afternoon gave him an opportunity to catch up on some of the sleep he had been forced to surrender in his pursuit of his elusive prey. Early evening found him refreshed and eager to prepare himself for the visit to the Guildhall. He called for a looking glass and the girl who brought it arrived with a compliant giggle. She had been struck by his craggy charm and marked him out as a gentleman. There was a saturnine quality about him, but it only increased his appeal. As she stood beaming before him, she expected money but hoped for a kiss by way of reward. She got neither. Her willingness irritated the man so much that he snatched the looking glass from her and pushed her out. The only thing that brushed her lips was the door, which was slammed in her face.
Though the man had brought a change of apparel, he kept on his riding clothes. They were less ostentatious in a provincial market town where he needed to blend into the crowd. Beard and hair were a different matter, and he spent a long while in front of the mirror with a comb. He held a pearl earring up to one lobe and enjoyed its sparkle before putting it aside again. What he could wear without comment in London would attract too much attention in Wiltshire. He was still angry at the loss of his dagger, but it had a matching companion and he slipped this into the scabbard at the rear of his belt. After checking his appearance in the looking glass once more, he was ready to leave.
The Guildhall was filling rapidly when he got there and his twopence bought one of the last few unoccupied chairs. He chose one that was in the middle of a row halfway back from the stage so that he could lose himself in the very centre of the audience. To the right of him was an amiable farmer who had ridden five miles in order to enjoy the treat. On his left was a fleshy young man with less interest in theatrical entertainment. He complained bitterly to his attractive wife for making him bring her to the Guildhall. The man paid little interest in any of his neighbours. He wished that the farmer’s breath was not so foul and that the squabbling couple — a miller and his wife, judging by the few words he did overhear — would settle down to watch the play. The assassin was there for a purpose that required his full concentration.
The Happy Malcontent answered all needs. It was a witty comedy about a London physician, Doctor Blackthought, who went through life dispensing criticism and disgust wherever he could. Nothing could please him. He railed against the world and its ways with caustic invective. Instead of curing his patients, the malcontented Doctor Blackthought only infected them with his own vexation. The problem became so acute that his wife and friends got together to devise a plan of rescue for him, but it was all to no avail. When they addressed the fundamental causes of his rancour — and actually managed to remove them by financial or other means — Blackthought was outraged because he no longer had a mainspring for his black thoughts. He was only truly happy in his disaffection. When they realised this, the others wreaked such a cruel revenge on him that lifelong discontent was assured. The doctor howled against a malevolent fate with undisguised delight.
It was a good choice of play. The spectators adored it, the actors played it superbly, and Barnaby Gill went through his full range of comic gestures and voices as the dissatisfied doctor. The medical theme had a particular relevance for a town that was troubled by early signs of plague, and laughter gave them enormous relief from their anxieties. Gallows humour had more depth. Even in the attenuated version forced on them by a smaller cast, The Happy Malcontent brought rich contentment. It was a stylish and well-constructed piece to set before Marlborough.
Lawrence Firethorn was in his element. Westfield’s Men were holding yet another audience spellbound and his was the star performance. Barnaby Gill might have the title role but it was the effervescent Sir Lionel Fizzle who stole scene after scene. As the ebullient knight, Firethorn turned in a cameo performance that was mesmeric. It was he who made the malcontent really happy in his misery by cuckolding him. During the seduction scene with Richard Honeydew, the winsome but knowing wife, Firethorn had such a powerful effect on the female segments of the audience that they could be heard swooning. It put the actor-manager in high humour. When he came offstage at the end of the scene, he had a brief exchange with Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Barnaby still thinks that this play is his!’
‘It is going well,’ said Nicholas, keeping one eye on the prompt copy. ‘Master Gill is in good form.’
Firethorn grinned. ‘He is an old horse who gallops round and round the stage in circles while I do tricks on his back like a performing monkey.’ He nudged the book holder. ‘Pick your part, that is the secret of acting. Barnaby does all the work, I get all the plaudits.’
Nicholas eased him aside to give a signal to a group of actors who were now due onstage. George Dart — playing his fifth part of the evening — was one of them, and he went about his work with bewildered resignation. The reduced size of the company placed many extra burdens on the book holder but it was the little assistant stagekeeper who suffered most. As well as erecting the stage, putting up the curtains and placing all the costumes and properties in the tiring-house, George Dart acted as one of the gatherers who took the admission money before racing backstage again to change the scenery during the performance, to play each of his five parts with identical lack of talent and to discharge his more familiar role as the whipping boy of Westfield’s Men. Here was one malcontent with no time to be happy.