‘Lucy is no problem to us. Mary Whetcombe is.’
‘I must have her!’
‘The possibility grows stronger every day, Gideon.’
‘I must have her!’
Sweete was about to add a comment when he realised that his companion was not talking about Mary Whetcombe at all. With a merchant’s instinct for the approach of a new sail on the horizon, Gideon Livermore had turned to look downriver. A stately vessel was approaching the harbour. Even at that distance, Livermore could pick it out. Its size and its position in the water were clues enough for him. He was looking at the ship that Matthew Whetcombe had named after his wife, a one-hundred-ton vessel that carried eighty men aboard and was the pride of Barnstaple. Few of the merchants owned their own ships. Even wealthy ones like Gideon Livermore only had shares in one. Matthew Whetcombe was the exception to the rule in this as in everything else, and it stirred great envy. After a career based largely on a quarter-share of a sixty-ton ship, Gideon Livermore coveted the vessel that was now riding towards them on the waves.
Mary Whetcombe might one day lie beside him as his wife, but a much deeper desire burned inside him. He wanted the Mary itself. That was the real marriage that he sought. The love affair between a merchant and a ship could only be sanctified in ownership.
‘I must have her!’ he repeated.
They broke away and walked back up towards the town. Livermore had documents to sign at the lawyer’s chambers and business to conduct with associates. He led the way in through West Gate so that they could look up at the house where Mary Whetcombe kept her forlorn vigil, but it was not the lovely face of his future wife who gazed down on him. It was the hard and inexpressive countenance of Lucy.
Gideon Livermore turned away and hurried quickly past.
‘Have you spoken with Calmady?’ he said curtly.
‘We had a long discussion.’
‘Is he of our mind?’
‘He is now, Gideon.’
‘You had resistance from this prating vicar?’ said the other with irritation. ‘What is the fool playing at?’
‘He thinks himself a man of principle.’
‘Why, so do I, and so do you, and so does every one of us. We are all men of principle but we must learn to bend them to necessity. Ha!’ He slapped his side in annoyance. ‘I’ll brook no argument from a churchman who earns a mere thirty pounds a year.’
‘Arthur Calmady does hold other benefices.’
‘But they are far away, Barnard,’ said the merchant. ‘The law now stops a man from holding benefices within twenty-six miles of each other and it is right to do so. These nibbling ecclesiastics will eat up the whole church if they are allowed. They’d have a dozen parishes giving them money and never serve one of them honestly.’
‘Our vicar is conscientious, let us grant him that.’
‘Yes,’ mocked the other, ‘he is a man of principle. But I am old enough to remember other men of principle who took the cloth in Devon. One was so drunk on a Sunday that he could not say service. Another wore a sword and was a notable fornicator. One even brewed ale in the vicarage and sold it to friends like any common innkeeper.’
‘Arthur Calmady is not guilty of those crimes,’ argued the lawyer, ‘but he can be obstinate. I think I have cured that obstinacy. With the vicar on our side, we are assured of success. It is only a matter of time.’
‘That thought fills my every waking hour.’
‘There is no cloud to threaten us.’ He paused. ‘Save one, perhaps.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘That cloud has blown over, sir. There’ll be no storm.’
‘Can you be certain?’
‘Lamparde knows his trade. I employ only the best.’
‘Nicholas has his father’s determination.’
‘He is dead even as we speak.’
‘You have heard?’
‘I do not need to hear.’
‘But if Lamparde should fail …’
‘Have faith in him.’
‘I am a lawyer,’ said Sweete, ‘and we do not believe in faith. Facts are our currency. You have faith in Lamparde, but fact put Nicholas Bracewell on the road to Bristol. That is too close for comfort. If your man should fail …’
‘Even that has been considered,’ said Livermore, ‘for I leave nothing to chance. If a miracle occurs and he escapes from Lamparde, he will never get within ten miles of here.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have placed six stout fellows on the road that he must take. They have orders to stop him in his tracks and bury the evidence where it falls.’ He smiled complacently. ‘You have my word on it. We are secure. There is no way that Nicholas Bracewell could possibly reach Barnstaple.’
Bristol harbour was as busy as ever that morning with ships docking while others cast off to set sail. Fishermen were landing their catch. Merchants were buying and selling. Craft of all sizes drew patterns of foam with their prows. Seagulls swooped around the sterns of the departing vessels as they headed for open sea. Westfield’s Men were well represented. Lawrence Firethorn was there with a cheerful wave and some bellowed advice. Edmund Hoode mixed anxiety with his good wishes. Barnaby Gill mumbled his embarrassed thanks over and over again. Owen Elias found a song to suit the occasion. Richard Honeydew cried at the temporary loss of his friend and George Dart, at last confronted with the reality of the sailor’s life, noting the weather-beaten faces and sea-hardened eyes of the mariners on deck, hearing the vigour of their obscenities, watching the intense physical demands made on a crew, began to think that life in a theatre company might, after all, have its virtues.
The six of them set up a rousing cheer to send the ship on its way. With the horse securely tethered aboard, Nicholas Bracewell was setting sail for Barnstaple.
Chapter Ten
Israel Gunby noticed the difference immediately. As he sat with the audience in the sumptuous Guildhall, he watched a performance of The Happy Malcontent and felt a niggling disappointment. The play was a delight, the actors skilled and the whole production well crafted. Indeed, the people of Bristol who had come in such numbers to see Westfield’s Men clearly adored the rich comic talents that were set before them. Laughter was virtually continuous and applause broke out spontaneously at regular intervals. Gunby, however, was still dissatisfied without quite knowing the cause of that dissatisfaction. On the previous afternoon, he had been one of the standees at the back of the hall when the Mayor and his Corporation had been stirred by the tragic wonder of Death and Darkness. The whole company had been superb on that occasion and Gunby had wept real tears when Count Orlando killed himself in a fit of grief so that he could lie in the vault beside the wife who had been cruelly cut down on their wedding day. Lawrence Firethorn had been so magnificent in the leading role that Gunby had almost felt a twinge of guilt at having robbed him of money and of carnal pleasure at High Wycombe.
A lesser brilliance radiated from The Happy Malcontent and Ellen was able to identify one of the main reasons for this. She had enjoyed the play so much in Marlborough that she was eager to see it again in Bristol but the second performance was only a pale imitation of the first. Ellen was dowdily dressed as the wife of the fat old merchant beside her. She leant across to her husband.
‘Master Gill is unwell,’ she decided.
‘The whole company is ailing.’
‘He has lost his voice, his power, his joy.’
‘And his legs,’ added Gunby. ‘He danced better for us at the Fighting Cocks. Something has taken the spring from Barnaby’s step.’
‘Look,’ said Ellen, pointing. ‘I am right.’
The play ended to general acclamation and the company came out to take its bow. Barnaby Gill had rushed to the centre of the stage in Marlborough but he yielded that position to Lawrence Firethorn here and stood slightly behind him. Signs of strain were now all too apparent. Gill was so exhausted by the performance that he almost keeled over and Firethorn had to steady him before helping him off. The audience thought that Doctor Blackthought’s stagger was a final humorous comment on the character and they clapped appreciatively. Israel Gunby and his wife were not misled.