He was alone. Westfield’s Men were miles ahead of him and he was unprotected. It brought him no fear. Instead, it gave him a sudden sense of freedom. He was somewhere near the middle of his journey between London and Barnstaple. Behind him lay the ruins of a love that had sustained him for some years now: ahead of him was nothing but danger and uncertainty. If he turned back, he might yet recover what he had lost in Bankside. Anne Hendrik still cared. She sent word to him that might help to save his life, but that life would not be threatened if he abandoned his purpose. What could he hope to achieve in Barnstaple? The town was a branding iron that had burnt so many white-hot messages into his mind. Why suffer that hissing pain once more?
It was not just a decision between a new home and an old one. Nicholas was standing at a spiritual crossroads. If he went back, he would be renouncing a way of life as well. Westfield’s Men were his closest friends, but it was a highly unstable friendship. The loss of the Queen’s Head had not just expelled them from Gracechurch Street, it might keep them out of London for ever and condemn them to an almost permanent tour of the provinces. Lawrence Firethorn would never tolerate that and neither would Barnaby Gill. Other theatre companies would woo them back to the capital and Westfield’s Men would collapse. Nicholas did not wish to be there when that happened. A clean break now would rescue him from a slow professional death with an ailing troupe.
Even if the company found a new base in London, he was not sure whether he wanted to share it with them. Theatre was still a flight from reality. Owen Elias had reminded him of that. Nicholas was hiding. If he stayed in London and forged a new love with Anne Hendrik, he would be able to leave his refuge and live a normal life: if he pressed on to Devon, he would be calling up the very ghosts that had sent him away. Lawrence Firethorn and the others put enormous reliance on him, but it was not reflected in his status. Nicholas was still only a hired man with the company, one of the floating population of theatre people who were taken on and dismissed according to the whims of the sharers. The book holder might have created a fairly constant position in the company but it gave him only a very fragile security. In essence, Nicholas Bracewell was no better off than the disillusioned George Dart.
Going forward meant certain anguish while going back offered possible release. He would be insane to drive himself on. A settled life with a woman he loved was the best that any man could hope for. Nicholas wanted to start out for home at once and begin afresh with Anne Hendrik. She was the decisive factor in his life and it was time to acknowledge it. His love was guiding him back to her. Visions of quiet contentment came before him but they soon evaporated in the chill air of truth. Anne Hendrik was no longer alone. She had another lodger at her house, a dead girl who had made the long journey from Barnstaple in search of Nicholas. Her shadow would lay across that bedchamber for ever unless she was avenged. Returning to London meant considering only himself. When he remembered the girl and thought of the man who had poisoned her, he needed no signpost to point his way. He simply had to go on to the end of the journey.
Nicholas untethered his horse from the post and leapt into the saddle. He was ready to gallop after his fellows and reaffirm his kinship with them before going on to more personal commitments in Devon. Only after that would he have any chance of a reconciliation with Anne Hendrik.
‘Stay, sir!’ called the landlord.
‘What?’
‘I have spoken with my wife.’
‘I had quite forgot.’
‘Then your memory is like mine, sir,’ said the man. ‘I knew that I could count on her. Names stick in her mind like dried leaves to a hedgehog. She recalls his name.’
‘The man with the black beard?’
‘Even he, sir.’
‘What was it?’
‘A fine, mouth-filling name, sir. He told it to her.’
‘So what did the fellow call himself?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
Chapter Nine
Bankside was not a part of the city that Margery Firethorn often visited. Her only reason in the past for coming to Southwark was to watch Westfield’s Men perform at The Rose, one of only three custom-built theatres in London. Since the other two — The Theatre and The Curtain — were both in Shoreditch, she could walk to them from her home. With a servant for company and protection, she crossed the Thames by boat and made her way to the house of Anne Hendrik. The latter was surprised and slightly alarmed to see her. She took Margery into her parlour.
‘Have you heard any tidings?’ she asked.
‘The courier returned to London this very afternoon.’
‘Did he deliver my letter?’
‘In person,’ said Margery. ‘Nick is alive and well.’
‘Thank God!’ Anne waved her visitor to a chair and sat opposite her. ‘Where did the message reach him?’
‘In Marlborough.’
‘And he is well, you say?’
‘Excellent well, and delighted to hear from you.’
‘Haply, our fears were in vain,’ said Anne. ‘We send a warning that he does not need. The man in my drawing may not be stalking him, after all.’
‘He is, Anne.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘The courier told me,’ said Margery. ‘He drank with the players before he set off on the return journey. They were anxious to learn all the latest news from London but they had some of their own.’
‘What was it?’
‘Someone is indeed following the company.’
‘They have seen him?’
‘Worse still, Anne. They have tasted his venom.’
‘He has attacked?’
‘Nick has twice been his target.’
‘Heaven protect him!’
‘It already has,’ said Margery. ‘The courier spoke with Owen Elias. Our noisy Welshman, it seems, saved Nick from a dagger in the back on the second occasion. He paid for his bravery, too. Owen’s arm was sliced open from top to bottom.’ She gave a chuckle. ‘But it did not stop him from playing in Marlborough. Owen Elias is another Lawrence. Nothing short of death would prevent him from going onstage.’
‘This villain will not easily be stopped.’
‘Nick has good friends around him.’
‘But he’ll go on to Barnstaple alone.’
‘Trust him, Anne. He is a shrewd fighter.’
‘Yet still in danger.’ Anne fought to control a rising concern. ‘Was there … any reply to my letter?’
‘He sends thanks and good wishes.’
‘No more than that?’
‘Nick is judicious,’ said Margery. ‘He wanted to send his love but he was not sure how it would be received. You pushed him on his way and there was nothing in your letter that called him back.’ She watched the other woman closely. ‘Do you wish for his return?’
‘I do not want him murdered.’
‘And if he should escape — would you have him back?’
‘To lodge in my house?’
‘In your house and in your heart.’
Anne Hendrik shrugged her confusion. She was still in two minds about Nicholas Bracewell. Days and nights of brooding about him had yielded no firm decision. She feared for his life and, since he was so far away, that fear was greatly intensified. If he had still been in London, she could see and help him, but Nicholas was completely out of her reach now. It meant that the news from Marlborough was old news. He might have been alive the previous morning when the courier located him but he could now be lying in a ditch somewhere with his throat cut. The poisoner might even have resorted to poison again. Anne shuddered at the notion of such an agonising death for Nicholas.