Hoode had betrayed them in the most signal way. It was one thing to resign his place in the company. To walk away when he was in a position to secure their continued existence was quite another. Avice Radley might admire from the gallery what she had seen of Westfield’s Men but she knew nothing of the inner working of a theatre company. During the rehearsal and performance of a play, hearts were bonded and minds were linked in perpetuity. The playhouse bred a comradeship that was unlike any other. A week earlier, he would have died for men like Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn, knowing that they would willingly have made the supreme sacrifice for him. Yet he could not even bring himself to make a few changes to a play that might never have been finished had it not been for the help of the book holder. Hoode writhed with guilt.
When his thoughts turned to Avice Radley again, the remorse faded. In pursuit of her, he believed, everything was permissible. A new and better life beckoned. The sooner he shuffled off the old one, the better. He decided to say as much in the opening line of the sonnet. Dipping his quill into the ink, he wrote the first thing that sprang to mind then paused to admire it. Hoode could not believe his eyes. Having thought of nothing but his beloved, he had somehow committed to paper four words that had no bearing on her.
The Merchant of Calais.
‘This must be some mistake Cyril,’ he said angrily. ‘They would not dare to attack me.’
‘I heard it voiced abroad this very morning, Sir Eliard.’
‘There is to be a satire on me?’
‘Westfield’s Men are striking back at you.’
‘I’ll take out an action for seditious libel.’
‘You may still be held up to ridicule,’ said Cyril Paramore. ‘Laughter is a cruel weapon. It leaves wounds that last a long time.’
Paramore called at the house in Bishopsgate to report what he had heard. He found his master in his counting house, estimating how much he had gained from his latest seizure of property. The smile of satisfaction was soon rubbed from Sir Eliard’s face. He smacked the table with a palm.
‘This must be stopped!’
‘On what grounds, Sir Eliard?’
‘The ones that you have just given me. I am to be held up for mockery.’
‘So it is rumoured,’ said Paramore, ‘but we have no proof.’
‘Go to the Queen’s Head and secure it. Then we’ll prevent this scurrilous play from ever being presented.’
‘But it is not scurrilous, Sir Eliard. The Merchant of Calais has been licensed by the Master of the Revels and performed with success before. I have seen the piece and could recommend it warmly.’
Sir Eliard glared at him. ‘You’d recommend a play that attacks your employer?’
‘No, no. That is not what I said.’
‘Then what do you say?’
‘We can only be sure that libel takes place if we see the performance tomorrow.’
‘Am I to sit there and suffer the gibes of the audience?’
‘Send me on your behalf, Sir Eliard.’
‘But you have already seen the play.’
‘I am given to understand that parts of it have been rewritten,’ said Paramore, ‘so there will be enough novelty to retain my interest.’
‘Is that all this defamation of me will do?’ asked Sir Eliard, eyes aflame. ‘Retain your interest? You should be as outraged as I. Nobody works as closely with me as you, Cyril. An assault on my reputation is an assault on you as well.’
‘I know that, Sir Eliard. And I apologise.’
‘Tell me about this play.’
‘It concerns an English merchant, late of Calais.’
‘Is there a moneylender in the story?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Paramore, searching his memory. ‘I believe there is but his part in the action is quite small. He is a villainous Frenchman.’
‘Is this the character who will counterfeit me?’
Paramore shrugged. ‘There is only one way to find out, Sir Eliard. Shall I go to the Queen’s Head tomorrow? I’ll give you a full account of what happens.’
Sir Eliard Slaney pondered, his ire mingling with a strange curiosity.
‘We’ll go together in disguise,’ he decided. ‘I want to see this play for myself. If they have the audacity to put me on the stage, Westfield’s Men will turn to dust sooner than they imagine.’
On the third day, Bartholomew Fair was as vibrant as ever. Additional visitors poured into London from the surrounding areas and those who had already tasted the delights of Smithfield returned there once more. There was always something new to buy or see. Horse trading was especially busy but no part of the fair lacked its surging crowd. The performing bear was at his best, the Strongest Man in England did feats of wonder before his paying audience and the extraordinary Hermat drew the longest queues of all. Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter were among the mass of visitors late afternoon. Dodging some scavenging dogs, they made their way to the ring and singled out Lightfoot for a quiet word.
‘Your time has come,’ Nicholas told him.
‘You need my help?’ asked the tumbler eagerly.
‘Your help and your agility.’
‘Take me with you, sir.’
‘Tomorrow afternoon is when I’ll call on you, Lightfoot.’
‘You’ll find me waiting.’
‘Let me go with you, Nick,’ urged Quilter. ‘It was I who set you out on this trail and I who should be there at the finish.’
‘We are well short of any finish, Frank,’ said Nicholas. ‘If I am to be absent, you are needed at the Queen’s Head to do my office. Though your face may be recognised onstage, none but the players will see you behind the scenes.’
‘I’m no book holder.’
‘I’m no thief but necessity compels me to take up that occupation.’
‘Thievery?’ said Lightfoot. ‘Is that what we are about?’
‘Do you have any objection?’
The tumbler chortled. ‘None at all, sir. You’ve come to the right person. If I did not have a quick hand, I’d long ago have starved.’
‘We will not so much steal as borrow,’ explained Nicholas.
‘That’s the excuse I always give myself, sir.’
‘Do not forget the lock,’ prompted Quilter. ‘That is highly important.’
Nicholas gave a nod. ‘I know. It stands between us and success.’ He turned to Lightfoot. ‘Do you have any skill in picking locks, my friend?’
‘No, sir,’ said the tumbler. ‘I never mastered that art.’
‘Do you know anyone who has?’
‘Yes, sir. And so do you.’
‘Do we?’
‘Luke Furness the blacksmith is your man,’ replied Lightfoot. ‘He makes locks, keys, bolts and other means of safeguarding property. If you pay him enough,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘he’ll give you a key that will open almost any door.’
‘We’ll pay him anything,’ announced Quilter. ‘Let’s to him straight.’
There was a buzz of expectation in the yard at the Queen’s Head. It was a long time since The Merchant of Calais had been performed there and its reputation drew a large audience. Many of those who stood in the pit had never heard of Sir Eliard Slaney but it was a name that most people in the galleries knew and, in some cases, had learnt to dread. The rumour that the moneylender was about to be ridiculed onstage had spread quickly, adding a spice and promise to the occasion. Moneylenders were universally loathed, none more so than Sir Eliard. Usury was forbidden by law under a statute that had been in existence for over twenty years, because the profession was declared to be against Christian precepts. Notwithstanding this, loans were still made openly with a maximum of ten per cent interest permitted. Sir Eliard Slaney was known to charge much more.