‘Good morrow, gentleman,’ he said. ‘At each other’s throats so soon?’
Firethorn glowered. ‘It is all I can do to hold back from slitting Edmund’s.’
‘Are you still jealous because he outshone you in Mirth and Madness?’
‘No, Barnaby. I was the first to acknowledge his superiority in the play. But, having helped to save us on one day, he threatens us with extinction on the next.’
‘You exaggerate, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.
‘Let Barnaby be the judge of that,’ retorted Firethorn, turning to the newcomer. ‘Edmund has been slaving for weeks at his new play and was so enamoured of it that he pronounced it the finest piece he had ever written. It is all but finished, Barnaby, yet he has put down his pen and resolved never to take it up again in our name.’
‘But he must,’ said Gill sharply. ‘Edmund has a contract with us.’
‘Contracts can be revoked,’ argued Hoode.
‘I’ll hear no talk of revocation,’ growled Firethorn. ‘By heavens, Edmund, you’ll finish that accursed play if I have to stand over you with a sword and dagger.’
‘I’ll not be moved, Lawrence.’
‘Can you be serious?’ demanded Gill, seeing the implications.
‘The decision has already been made, Barnaby.’
‘Without even consulting your fellows?’
‘It was the only way.’
‘Are you saying that you’ll never write a play for us again?’
‘That yoke has finally been lifted from my shoulders.’
Gill blenched. ‘But your work — along with my own, of course — is one of the crowning glories of Westfield’s Men.’
‘You waste your breath in praising him, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’ve told him a dozen times how much we rely on his genius and he shrugs the compliment off as if it were without meaning.’
‘It is now, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘I need no compliments from you.’
‘You cannot simply walk out on the company.’
‘I understand that and I will honour some of my obligations. It would be wrong to do otherwise. Count on me to take my role in Love’s Sacrifice this afternoon, and in every play we stage from now until the end of next month. That will give you time to seek a replacement for Edmund Hoode.’
‘There is no replacement for you!’ howled Firethorn.
‘I agree,’ said Gill. ‘Lose you and we lose the best of our drama.’
Hoode was magnanimous. ‘I bequeath you all my plays.’
‘We need you to write new ones, Edmund. Novelty is ever in request. As one piece drops out of fashion, we must have fresh material at hand.’
‘London is full of eager playwrights.’
‘Eager for success, perhaps,’ said Firethorn, ‘yet lacking the talent to achieve it. We’ve plenty of authors who can write one, even two, plays of merit but there it stops. No dramatist has your scope and endurance, Edmund. Will you take it from us?’
‘Forever.’
‘But why?’ asked Gill in dismay.
Firethorn was sour. ‘Can’t you guess, Barnaby?’
‘Surely not a mere woman?’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Hoode proudly. ‘She is much more than that.’
‘You would put a female before the future of the company?’ said Gill with utter disgust. ‘I abhor the whole gender. I cannot understand why any man should let a woman near him. To squander an occupation at the request of one of those undeserving creatures beggars belief. You are bewitched, Edmund.’
‘I am, I am, Barnaby. And happily so.’
‘Then you’d do well to remember what happens to witches.’
‘Well-spoken,’ said Firethorn, taking over once more. ‘Barnaby gives us a timely reminder. Yesterday, at Smithfield, a foul witch was burnt at the stake. Had the decision been in my hands, Edmund, this sorceress of yours would have burnt beside her.’
‘She is no sorceress,’ said Hoode. ‘She has ethereal qualities.’
‘Well, they are not in demand among Westfield’s Men.’
‘I am sorry to leave you, Lawrence, but I go to a better life.’
‘How can you say that when you are taking a leap into the unknown?’
‘I take it without the slightest hesitation.’
‘For whom?’ asked Gill. ‘Does this enchantress have a name?’
‘She does, Barnaby. She is Mistress Avice Radley.’
‘How long has this foolish romance simmered? A fortnight? A month? A year?’
‘Two days.’
‘Two days!’ echoed Gill in disbelief.
‘The most wonderful two days of my life.’
‘And the worst of ours, it seems,’ added Firethorn. ‘Would you really turn your back on us for the sake of a woman you have known but two days? Merciful heaven! You could not even learn to fondle her paps properly in so short a time, let alone get to know the rest of her body with requisite thoroughness. It takes at least a decade to understand a woman’s true character. I learn new things about Margery every day.’
‘Yet you married her without the slightest fear.’
Firethorn’s face darkened. ‘Fear came soon afterwards, I assure you.’
‘That will not be the case with me.’
‘Stop him, Lawrence,’ cried Gill, puce with anger. ‘He must not be allowed to break his contract like this, especially for some simpering dame with a pretty face. Does she know the havoc she is creating? My whole career is at stake here. I rely on Edmund to tailor roles to my particular needs. I’ll not have him whisked away from me.’
‘No more will I,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘However many lawyers it takes, we’ll hold you to your contract. Be warned, Edmund. Defy us and we’ll take you to court.’
‘Proceed, then, if you must,’ said Hoode.
‘You’ll not only lose the case, you’ll be faced with a crippling fine that you cannot afford to pay.’ He wagged a finger in Hoode’s face. ‘Do you wish to invite financial ruin?’
‘That will not occur,’ said Hoode blithely. ‘Avice is a wealthy woman. She has promised to meet any costs that are incurred. Regardless of your protests, we mean to be together soon.’
‘Sharing a cell in Bedlam,’ sneered Gill.
‘Tasting a love and freedom I have never known, Barnaby. Scoff, if you will,’ he went on as both men sniggered, ‘but I am resolved. Avice, too, is resolute. If it is the only way to secure Edmund Hoode, she is prepared to buy the Queen’s Head outright.’ He grinned inanely at them. ‘Now, do you see what a paragon among women I have found?’
Bartholomew Fair was an annual event, held on the broad acres of Smithfield, and mixing commerce with entertainment so skilfully that visitors came flocking from far afield. It had been founded almost five hundred years earlier by Rahere, jester to King Henry I. The story went that Rahere had been taken ill during a pilgrimage to Rome, reflected on the errors of his ways and became determined to amend his character. Accordingly, he founded a priory and hospice dedicated to St Bartholomew. The fair that was held for three days from the eve of St Bartholomew’s Day, late in August, was the greatest cloth fair in England. Even when he became Prior, the reformed jester, Rahere, still acted as Lord of the Fair and frequently performed his juggling tricks for the amusement of the crowd. The influence of the Church over the event had long since declined but the spirit of Rahere survived. Jugglers, dancers, clowns, acrobats, puppeteers, wrestlers, strong men, freaks and performing bears were just as much a part of the fair as the hundreds of stall holders who came to sell their wares.
Though there were still two days to go, some of the participants had already started to converge on London and a number of booths were being erected. Among the early arrivals was Moll Comfrey, a pert young peddler whose large basket was filled to the brim with pins, needles, combs, brushes, assorted trinkets and rolls of material of every kind and colour. Hanging from the basket were sundry ballads and pinned to her skirt were dozens of other bits of material that could be used to patch clothing. Her frail appearance belied her robust health. Moll walked long distances between fairs and markets, in all weathers, and carried her heavy basket with practised ease. Her occupation had given her a strength and tenacity that were not visible. What people saw on first acquaintance was a pretty girl of no more than seventeen or eighteen years with fair curls poking out from beneath her bonnet. There was an air of battered innocence about her that made her stand out in a crowd.