other's experience in a brawl. Nicholas punched his body hard and ducked the savage blows that came in return. A punch on Grice's chin made the coachman reel. Recovering after a few moments, he flung himself at Nicholas with such force that he would have knocked him flying had the charge succeeded.
But the book holder used the man's lunge against himself. As he came in, Nicholas dodged him, caught hold of his shoulders and pushed him hard against the side of the carriage where Grice's head took the main impact. He buckled at the knees and cursed violently.
'Hold still, Walt! I will take him.'
The other nocturnal assailant came running out of the house, followed by the young man with the signet ring. Nicholas squared up to the newcomer then flashed out a straight left which drew blood from the other's nose. Enraged by the pain, the man flailed and kicked but he was unable to make contact. Another straight left darkened his cheek and a sequence of punches to the body slowed him right down. Mustering his strength for a last effort, the man dashed to the stable, caught hold of a hay rake, then brandished it above his head as he stormed back. Nicholas ducked just in time as the rake scythed through the air. He closed with the man and wrested the implement from him. Grice was now getting up to rejoin the fray and that could not be allowed. Holding his opponent by one arm, Nicholas suddenly swung him around with great force and let go. The hurtling body collided with Grice and both went down groaning.
'That will be enough from you, sir,' said the young man.
Nicholas was now threatened by the point of a rapier.
'Why have you come here?' continued the swordsman.
'To settle a score.'
'Leave us while you still may.'
'No, Master Napier,' said Nicholas. 'That is your name, I believe? You had a familiar look and I remember where I had seen it before. It was upon your sister, Grace. You are her brother, Gregory.'
The young man held him at bay with the sword but it was a very temporary advantage. With dazzling speed, Nicholas stooped to take hold of the bucket and hurl its contents all over the young man. Before the latter could resist, he had the rapier plucked from him and was pressed backwards against the carriage. Nicholas kept the point of the sword against Gregory Napier's heart to discourage either of his servants from coming to his aid. The young man paled.
'Do not kill me, sir! We meant you no harm.'
'You have a peculiar way of showing it.'
'We bore no grudge against you.'
'I know,' said Nicholas. 'Lord Westfield was your target. You sought to hurt him through me just as you tried to damage the company with your merry devils. You wanted revenge, Master Napier. Why?'
'I cannot tell you.'
'Then I will have to loosen your tongue, sir.'
He lei the sword-point gently explore the other's doublet.
'Have a care, Master Bracewell!'
'You had no care of me when I was thrown into the Counter.
'Please, sir. Be gentle with that sword.'
Nicholas let the rapier slice through the satin doublet.
'Why did you attack Lord Westfield?'
'Do not ask me.'
‘I’ll have an answer if I have to cut it out of you,' said Nicholas dangerously. 'We have suffered much at your hands, sir. A whole company was terrified because of you. One of our sharers narrowly escaped injury. A stagekeeper lost his life. So do not wave me away.' He split the doublet open again. 'Why did you do all this to Lord Westfield?'
The voice behind him was clear and unashamed.
'Because I made him, Master Bracewell.'
Grace Napier stood in the doorway of the house.
*
It was not an entirely new play. Ralph Willoughby had devised the plot some time earlier and constructed scenes in his mind. When he got the commission from Banbury's Men, therefore, he was not starting from scratch. Rather was he developing and refining a drama which he had carried around inside his head for months. Now that he came to write it, the words flowed freely and he remained at his table for long hours each day, sustained by an inner fire and by the firmness of his purpose. There was no drinking during the period of composition and no debauchery. It obsessed him totally. Appropriately, it was finished on a Sunday. Willoughby had never before worked so quickly or felt so happy with the result of his creative endeavours. As he blotted the last line, he knew that the play was exactly as lie envisaged it. With the crucial help of Doctor John Mordrake, he had given it a texture of authenticity that would beguile spectators. Banbury's Men would appreciate the play's wit and wisdom, its topicality at a time when there was growing witch-mania, and its sheer entertainment value. They would also enjoy his many clever allusions to the part of Oxford-shire from which their noble patron hailed.
What they would not at first see was the peril that lay at the heart of the work. Willoughby had disguised it very carefully. He turned back to the first page and began to read. His dark laughter soon filled the room. He was truly delighted with the play.
The Witch of Oxford would be a fitting epitaph.
*
Nicholas Bracewell was candidly surprised. As he sat in the parlour of the house and listened to Grace Napier, he saw that his major assumption had been wrong.
'I thought that you used Edmund Hoode to get information at the request of your brother,' he said. 'You needed an inside knowledge of our work and friendship with our playwright was a way to obtain it.'
'Yes,' she agreed. I am sorry to have taken advantage of Master Hoode in this way. It must seem to you that I toyed cruelly with his affections but I took no pleasure in it, sir, and it caused me much heartache. But my hand was forced. The end justified the means.'… 'What was that end?' he asked.
'Revenge.'
If Nicholas was surprised then Isobel Drewry was openly amazed. She sat alongside Gregory Napier and heard the truth emerge for the first time. It showed her just how little she really knew her friend.
'You are a deep one, Grace!' she said. I was not able to confide in you, Isobel.'
'It is just as well,' added the other with a giggle. 'I could never keep a secret. As it was, I had no notion that any of this was going on and can now understand why you were always a little disappointed at the performances.'
Yes,' said Grace. 'My plans did not quite work out. I wanted to humiliate Westfield's Men in public but we failed each time. I own that I needed your company at tine theatre to hide my purposes. I hope that you will not feel too abused, Isobel.'
'Not at all,' said the other chirpily. 'I had some wonderful afternoons that have helped to change my whole life.'
'Let us come back to the revenge,' suggested Nicholas. 'What reason could you have for hating Lord Westfield so?'
'His callous treatment of his nephew.'
'Master Francis Jordan?'
'Do not mention that foul name to me, sir,' she said with asperity. 'It is not to stand alongside that of his brother. I am speaking of David Jordan.' A mixture of pride, anger and intense passion made her features glow. 'David is the cause of all that has happened.'
'How?'
'I will tell you, sir.'
Grace Napier was calm, poised and highly articulate. Her story was a revelation. Instead of being simply a mercer's daughter who liked to visit the theatre, she was a young woman so deeply and desperately in love that she would stop at nothing to avenge what she saw as the terrible wrong done to her inamorato. She had met David Jordan over a year earlier when she was out riding near the boundary of his land. He was in a severely depressed state. His wife had died recently and the baby daughter who survived her lingered for only four days before she
