‘You and Frank were not the only ones to witness an execution today,’ he confessed. ‘Our audience was present at one as well. Mirth and Madness was butchered to death by Westfield’s Men. I’ll warrant that you can guess why.’
‘Unease about Frank’s position in the company?’
‘That was only a minor cause, Nick. This afternoon’s disaster arose mainly from another source. It concerns the future of our book holder.’ A pleading note came into his voice. ‘You surely cannot mean to leave us.’
‘I stand by my word. If Frank is evicted, I go with him.’
‘But where would the company be without Nicholas Bracewell?’
Margery came sailing in from the kitchen with a tray that bore two cups of Canary wine and some honey cakes. She arrived in time to catch her husband’s last remark and it put an expression of disbelief on her face.
‘Westfield’s Men without Nicholas?’ she cried. ‘That would be like the River Thames without water — empty and meaningless. What’s all this talk of losing Nicholas?’
‘A mere jest, my love,’ said Firethorn, patting her affectionately on the rump. ‘It was in bad taste and I withdraw it forthwith.’
‘I should hope so, Lawrence,’ she warned, putting the tray on the table. ‘When you find a jewel among men, you do not throw him heedlessly away. Hold on to your book holder with both hands, do you hear? By heavens!’ she exclaimed, face reddening with indignation. ‘The very notion makes every part about me quiver. I’ll not stand for it. Let me be blunt, Lawrence. Lose Nicholas and you lose my love. It is as simple as that.’
She handed them a cup of wine each then pressed a honey cake upon Nicholas while studiously ignoring her husband. Tossing her head to indicate her displeasure, she swept out of the room. Firethorn took a long sip of wine.
‘You see my dilemma, Nick,’ he asked. ‘If you desert us, the marital bed will turn to ice. Can you not see what harm you will bring to this house?’
‘Not of my own choosing.’
‘What Margery says is what the rest of the company believe. Except for Barnaby, of course,’ he added, ‘but his voice will always dissent. You are our guardian angel. When they heard that you might be leaving us, our fellows were stricken with remorse. The results were on display this afternoon at the Queen’s Head.’
‘How does the company feel about Frank Quilter?’
Firethorn paused. ‘Uncertainly.’
‘Would they welcome him back?’
‘Not without reservations,’ admitted the actor.
‘Then my own place with Westfield’s Men is in jeopardy.’
‘Do not be so rash, Nick! Would you turn your back so easily on our years of fellowship and achievement? Think of all we have been through, all that we have accomplished together.’
‘I do think about it,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘I weighed it carefully in the balance. Truly, it would break my heart to leave the company, but I could not stay if it turned on one of its number at a time when his condition is so piteous. All I ask for Frank is simple justice. It was denied his father but it must not be held back from him.’
‘I agree, I agree.’
‘Yet you declared that there was no place for him in Westfield’s Men.’
‘You misheard me, Nick,’ said Firethorn, renouncing his earlier decision. ‘What I was trying to do was to protect Frank from further ignominy.’
‘By taking his occupation away from him?’
‘No, by removing him from the public gaze. Murder has strong lungs. At present, it is bellowing the name of Quilter throughout London. Some of those raucous knaves you saw at Smithfield will seek their amusement at the Queen’s Head tomorrow. They will be part of our audience. What will happen if they discover that Gerard Quilter’s son is in the company?’ He drank more wine. ‘They will turn their abuse on him and we will all suffer as a result.’
‘That is not what you were saying this morning,’ observed Nicholas.
‘It is what I am saying now.’
‘Then you still mean to expel Frank?’
‘No, dear heart. I’d stop well short of that. The plan I’d commend to the others is that we simply rest him for a while, until his name no longer excites unruly elements. When the tumult dies down,’ he said with a persuasive smile, ‘we invite him back to grace our stage. This was my intent all along.’
‘Then it accords with my own suggestion,’ said Nicholas, grateful that Firethorn had been forced to change his mind. ‘Frank is resolved to clear his father’s name. Give him leave of absence to do so by releasing him from his contract, and, when he returns, the family name will be a source of pride once more.’
‘And you’ll stay with us?’
‘All the gunpowder in London would not shift me.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Firethorn, slapping his thigh.
‘But I’ll hear no disparagement of Frank Quilter,’ Nicholas cautioned. ‘Those who traduce him behind his back will have to answer to me.’
Firethorn rose quickly from his seat. ‘They’ll feel my wrath first, Nick,’ he promised, grabbing a honey cake to slip into his mouth before washing it down with the remainder of the wine. ‘I’ll ban the very mention of his name.’
‘There is no need for that.’
‘Great minds think alike. I knew that we could make common cause.’
Nicholas sampled his own wine before nibbling at the honey cake. He was pleased with the compromise that had been reached, especially as it had required little advocacy on his part. Margery’s intervention had been crucial. She had applied the kind of pressure that her husband was powerless to resist. Nicholas was glad that he had confronted the actor in his own home rather than in the crowded taproom at the Queen’s Head. He recalled an earlier remark made by his host.
‘You made mention of Edmund a while ago.’
‘Why, so I did.’
‘And you say that he alone burgeoned on the stage?’
‘He put the rest of us to shame, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Edmund was burning with zeal during the performance today. He was happier than I have ever seen him. I thought at first his elation sprang from the progress he was making on his new play.’
‘And it was not?’
‘Alas, no. When I asked him about the piece, he looked at me as if he did not understand what I was talking about. His mind was miles away.’
‘Oh dear!’ sighed Nicholas. ‘That can only mean one thing.’
Firethorn grimaced. ‘Who is the poor creature this time?’
Avice Radley was a comely woman in her late twenties with a buxom figure and a face of quiet loveliness. Still in the dress she wore to the play, she sat on a high-backed chair in the parlour of the house and composed herself for what she believed would be a significant encounter in her life. When the front door was opened to admit the visitor, she heard the sound of voices then footsteps echoed across the oak boards. There was a knock on the door before her maidservant entered. After ushering Edmund Hoode into the room, the girl withdrew as swiftly as she had been ordered. Avice Radley smiled. There was a long silence while the two of them appraised each other. Hoode was transfixed, staring at his admirer with mingled awe and hope. The vision he had glimpsed in the upper gallery at the Queen’s Head now took on corporeal shape and additional lustre. His nostrils detected the same perfume that had enchanted him when it arose from her first letter. Hoode was enraptured.
For her part, Avice Radley was in no way disappointed. The dramatist whose plays she had watched and whose acting she had applauded could never be described as handsome, but his features were so pleasant and his manner so willing that his outward defects became invisible. After receipt of her invitation, Hoode had repaired to his lodging to put on his finest doublet and hose. Remembering that he had not yet doffed his hat, he whisked it off with a flourish and gave a low bow. She smiled again.
‘Thank you for coming, Master Hoode,’ she said.