Delight came soon after. While Lawrence Firethorn was grappling with a disagreeable letter, Nicholas was handed one that was as unexpected as it was welcome. The courier had ridden hard from London. A change of horses at intervals and an overnight stop at an inn had brought him to Marlborough by mid-morning. The whole town knew where the players were staying and he presented himself at the White Hart at once. Nicholas was moved. To send a letter so far and so fast was highly expensive, and it spoke volumes for Anne Hendrik’s generosity and concern. He thanked the courier, gave him a few coins then sent him off into the taproom to spend them.
When he broke the seal and opened the letter, the mere sight of her signature revived him. The substance of the message made his love for her surge even more. Anne had gone to enormous trouble on his behalf and enlisted the aid of Leonard. She had not only discovered the exact poison that killed the girl from Devon, she had even acquired a rough description of the man thought to be the poisoner. Nicholas looked at the sketch with interest and gratitude. Anne had no great gift for portraiture, but she had caught enough of the man’s features for Nicholas to be able to recognise him if they met. Her letter was not just a testimony of her desire to help. It put a powerful weapon into his hands. He was no longer up against an invisible assailant.
His delight, however, was not unrestrained. The missive contained nothing of an intimate nature. There was no hint of regret, no apology for her harsh treatment of him, no wish that he should ever return to the house in Bankside. Anne Hendrik would go to any lengths to help to save his life but she did not appear to want to share it. Nicholas settled for a modified solace. Contact with Anne was re-established. It was a positive foundation on which he could build.
A rehearsal was now due and Nicholas could spend no more time perusing her words and studying the portrait. He was needed in the Guildhall to supervise matters. Pushing the letter inside his jerkin, he collected the hired men from the taproom and took them with him. He had a spring in his step and a sense of having crossed an important boundary.
One silent woman had finally spoken.
Their fears proved groundless. Because a murder had occurred during their performance of The Happy Malcontent on the previous night, Westfield’s Men braced themselves for a greatly reduced audience on the following afternoon. People could not be expected to sit comfortably in a hall where a man had so recently been stabbed. The tragedy was bound to have an adverse effect on the company. In the event, the opposite was the case. Since the murder victim was not a local man, his death lacked any resonance to frighten away the townspeople. Prompted by the glowing reports of the company’s quality and by a ghoulish curiosity to view the very seat in which Ned Robinson had expired, spectators came in such large numbers that not all could be accommodated in the Guildhall. All doors in the auditorium were left open so that people could stand outside and yet peer in at the play, and there were clusters of eager patrons outside pressing their noses against each window.
Marlborough had been blessed with ample entertainment that year with musicians, jugglers, tumblers, bear-wards and swordplayers making it a port of call. Wrestlers had also visited the town more than once, and a few companies of strolling players had been allowed to display their wares. Westfield’s Men were a distinct cut above all others. They offered genuine quality in place of more homespun show. Mayoral blessing was another factor. Reconciled with his wife, the contrite mayor could think of no better way to please her and to placate Lawrence Firethorn than by coming to the Guildhall in his regalia for the second time. He was back in the front row, playing with his chain and with his fantasies, and meditating on the joys of married life. The seal of civic approval was firmly stamped on the company.
‘George!’
‘Here, Master Bracewell.’
‘The bench.’
‘I have it with me.’
‘You have the small bench,’ said Nicholas tolerantly. ‘This scene requires the larger one.’
‘Are we in Act Four already?’
‘Act Three Scene Two.’
‘That is the small bench.’
‘Large.’
‘I know Vincentio’s Revenge by heart.’
‘We are playing Black Antonio.’
George Dart’s confusion was understandable. He was near exhaustion. Since the joyous moment when he had been able to cram a breakfast into his tiny frame, he had not stopped fetching and carrying. His legs hurt, his arms ached and his mind was a total blank. Though he had made three separate entries in the play — as guard, servant and chaplain — he had been given no lines to speak. The play felt like Vincentio’s Revenge to him even if it turned out to be Black Antonio. Both were swirling tragedies of thwarted love and each was propelled by a mixture of jealousy, intrigue and violence. George Dart could be forgiven for his mistake. He could rely on Nicholas Bracewell to cover it with his usual discretion.
Act Five called for the small and the large bench. In the final harrowing scene, Lawrence Firethorn, supreme as ever in a title role written especially for him, kicked over the one bench and fell headlong across the other. It was a death so poignant and dramatic that it struck the audience dumb. Transfixed by the fate of noble Antonio, they completely overlooked the demise of Ned Robinson. A real murder in the Guildhall was a small event. The feigned death of Lawrence Firethorn would be talked about in hushed tones for weeks. It would be something for the mayor to discuss in bed with his wife before he removed his chain of office.
Solemn music played, Antonio was borne away and the play ended. The only sound that broke the taut silence was the muffled weeping of women. It was a bright afternoon but the most exquisite sense of loss lay across them like penumbra. Black Antonio exhumed himself and strode out onto the stage to collect his applause in armfuls. The company followed and the audience gave them unstinting acclaim. Even George Dart took his bow with pleasure. He was always gratified when a play was finally over and his slow torture was suspended.
‘Master Bracewell …’
‘Speak to me later, George.’
‘There may be no time. We leave Marlborough now.’
‘Can you only talk within the town limits?’
‘We are alone now. Others will be on the waggon.’
‘Is it so important, George?’
‘I think it is.’
‘Then stand aside, lad, but be swift.’
The Guildhall had now been cleared of all trace of Westfield’s Men. The prompt copy of Black Antonio was safely locked away in Nicholas Bracewell’s chest, and both benches — along with all the other properties — were stowed in the waggon. Marlborough belonged to their past. Bristol was their future. As the company gathered in the yard of the White Hart prior to departure, George Dart saw the chance of a private word with the book holder.
‘Speak up, George,’ said Nicholas. ‘What ails you?’
‘They say you go on to Barnstaple.’