Free The Silent Woman by Edward Marston

firmly on his. A handsome woman with a vivacity that tilted towards excess, she had always been fond of the book holder and sensed his dismay at Anne Hendrik’s absence. Relationships within the theatrical world explored all the extremes of human behaviour, and Margery had learnt to accommodate the caprices and eccentricities of her husband’s colleagues. Nicholas Bracewell was the most stable man in the company in every way. If he had parted from a lover, it would not have been done lightly.
    ‘Write to her, Nick,’ she purred in his ear.
    ‘What do you say?’
    ‘Absence can soften even the hardest heart.’
    She gave him another kiss then went across to snatch her children away from the arms of Lawrence Firethorn so that she could take a wifely leave of him. Like everything that the actor did, it was a performance in itself and he might have been playing a scene from a tragedy of love. Margery was an ideal soulmate, matching him in passion and tenderness, yet able to summon up reserves of fury that made even his tirades seems mild by comparison. Whether she was caressing or quarrelling with her husband, she was a most formidable woman. Husband and wife now reached down to lift up the children again into communal embrace. When it was over, the actor-manager leapt into his saddle, pulled out his rapier and held it high as he delivered a short speech to give inspiration to his company.
    It was time to leave. Nicholas rode up beside him.
    ‘We must tarry, master. Edmund is not yet here.’
    ‘He was amongst the first to appear.’
    ‘I do not see him.’
    ‘That is because he does not wish to be seen.’
    ‘He is hidden in the waggon?’
    ‘Our poet has found another disguise. Mark this.’
    Firethorn nudged his friend and indicated the crooked figure of an old parson who sat on a horse near the gateway. He was completely detached from the others and seemed to be deep in solemn contemplation. Firethorn brought him out of it with a clarion call.
    ‘Edmund!’ he cautioned, ‘there’s one Master Matthew Diamond here to seek a word with you.’
    The parson came alive, the horse neighed and the pair of them went cantering out into the street. Westfield’s Men took their cue and rolled out after him. The tour had begun.
    Waving his hat in farewell, Lawrence Firethorn led his company away on his bay stallion, a prancing animal with a mettle commensurate with that of its rider. Barnaby Gill rode beside him on a striking grey mare, dressed in his finery and revelling in the opportunity to parade it through the streets. True to prediction, no money was forthcoming from their patron, but Lord Westfield did lend a bevy of horses from his stables so that most of the sharers could make the journey in the saddle. One who did not was Owen Elias, self-appointed driver of the waggon that carried the company’s costumes, properties and scenic devices. The two mighty animals between the shafts were also pulling along the four apprentices and a couple of hired men. George Dart and two other unfortunates trotted at the waggon’s tail with the weary resignation of convicted criminals being dragged to the place of execution. Only when the procession left London and needed to pick upspeed would they be allowed to ride aloft with the others.
    Nicholas Bracewell brought up the rear on the roan that he had inherited from the dead girl. This not only enabled him to make sure that the pedestrian members of the company did not straggle, it also gave him the opportunity for a last, long, hopeful gaze around the yard as he left it but there was still no sign of her. Leonard trotted beside him and thrust the ballad into his hand.
    ‘You are famous, Master Bracewell.’
    ‘That is not how your employer would speak of me.’
    ‘Forget his hot words,’ said Leonard. ‘I will work on him in your absence and change his mind completely.’
    ‘Thank you, my friend.’
    ‘Come back to us one day.’
    ‘We will, Leonard.’
    ‘God be with