‘I heard neither at the Queen’s Head today.’
‘That is because an older loyalty dictated my hand,’ he said. ‘I tried to write for you but found myself composing a new prologue to The Merchant of Calais. ’Tis all done now, Avice. My debt to the company has been discharged. I am yours alone.’
‘For how long, Edmund?’
‘For all eternity.’
‘And how long will that last?’ she asked scornfully. ‘Until the company next call upon you? Until you feel the need again to disregard my orders? You swore to love and honour me for all eternity once before. Its span was a matter of days.’
‘Only because of circumstance.’
‘I fondly imagined that I was the only circumstance in your life.’
‘You were, you are, and ever more will be.’
‘Leave off your protestations, sir. They are too hollow.’
‘I acted with the best of intentions, Avice.’
‘Yet you achieved the worst of results,’ she said coldly. ‘You rebuffed me, treated my wishes with open contempt and showed yourself unworthy of my love.’
‘Is there no way that I can earn it back again?’ he pleaded.
‘None, sir.’
‘Avice!’
‘The damage is done, Edmund. It cannot be repaired.’
‘Would you rather I had let Westfield’s Men fade out of existence?’
‘Yes,’ she said angrily. ‘The first time I made trial of your love, it failed. And there is nothing I abhor so much as failure, unless it be rank disobedience. You were guilty of both, Edmund, and are no longer welcome in my house.’
Hoode’s dreams suddenly went up in smoke and all that he was left with was an acrid smell in his nostrils. Still mouthing his apologies, he backed his way out and opened the front door. He walked away from Avice Radley in a daze. Hoode did not blame her for what she had done. He had brought her ire down on himself. When he was offered the one chance of marital bliss that he was ever likely to get, he had deliberately cast it away. Westfield’s Men had been given priority — if only fleetingly — over Avice Radley and she would not endure it. Love had cooled, vows of fidelity were discarded. He was completely numbed by the interview with her. It was several minutes before he realised that his feet were taking him towards the Queen’s Head. One love had perished but another remained. Rejected by Avice Radley, he would be given a hero’s welcome by Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill. They did not expect perfection. They and the others loved him for his weaknesses as much as for his strengths. He began to smile. There was a world elsewhere and it was one in which he could be himself.
When Nicholas Bracewell met up with his friend, Francis Quilter had a familiar figure with him. Armed and eager, Owen Elias did not wish to miss out on what he suspected would be some violent action.
‘Something is afoot, Nick,’ he said. ‘Do not deny it. There has to be a reason why Edmund hurled those thunderbolts at Sir Eliard Slaney today. When I saw Frank sneaking away, I went after him.’
‘I could not shake him off,’ said Quilter.
Nicholas smiled. ‘We may have employment for him.’
‘Sword or dagger?’ asked Elias.
‘Wait and see.’
‘And why are you dressed like a Dutch hatmaker? Do you work for Anne now?’
‘I did this afternoon, Owen.’
Nicholas fell in beside them and explained what had transpired. Quilter was thrilled that the crucial evidence had been obtained and that the would-be assassin had been killed with his own dagger. Though he regretted he had not been there to help Nicholas, the Welshman was fascinated by all that he heard and understood why The Merchant of Calais had been slanted in a particular direction that afternoon. The fact that Sir Eliard had bought up all of their patron’s debts made him seethe with rage.
‘Destroy us out of spite?’ he roared. ‘Let me get my hands on the rogue.’
‘The law will do that,’ said Nicholas.
‘He deserves to be hanged from the nearest tree. When they learn what he tried to do, the whole company will dance around him with glee.’
‘Let us confront him, Nick,’ said Quilter.
‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We will save him until the last. I think we should strike at one of his lieutenants first. A confession from him will speed up retribution.’
‘From whom?’
‘You will soon guess when we pass the Golden Fleece.’
‘Bevis Millburne?’
‘Yes, Frank. One of the men who sent your father to his grave and who now enjoys the proceeds of that crime. He is a liar and a knave. I talked to the man. I do not take him to be brave and steadfast under questioning.’
‘I’ll question the rogue with the point of my dagger,’ said Elias.
‘It may not come to that, Owen.’
When they reached the house, Nicholas sent the Welshman around to the rear before he and Quilter went up to the front door. Their knock brought a manservant to the threshold. He refused to admit them until he had gained permission from his master. Quilter was too impatient to wait. Shoving the man aside, he stepped into the hall and yelled at the top of his voice.
‘Bevis Millburne! The son of Gerard Quilter would have words with you!’
The anxious face of Millburne appeared at the door of the parlour, took one look at the two visitors then vanished. They heard a key turning in the lock. When Quilter put his shoulder to the door, he could not budge it.
‘Come, Frank,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s see what fish Owen has caught.’
They left by the front door and made their way to the back of the property. Elias was as good as his work. Eyes popping and chest heaving, Millburne was pinned against a wall with a dagger at his throat. When his friends approached, the Welshmen pricked his captive’s skin enough to draw blood. Millburne yelped.
‘You chose the right man, Nick,’ said Elias genially. ‘Master Millburne could not be more obliging. When I offered to trim his beard for him, he promised to tell us all that we wished to know.’
‘Did you give false evidence against my father?’ demanded Quilter.
Millburne looked hunted. Elias flicked the knife to open another small cut.
‘Give the gentleman his answer, Master Millburne,’ he said.
‘We have Sir Eliard’s ledger in our possession,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is a record of payments to you and all the others involved in the conspiracy. Admit your crime now and it might buy you some leniency.’
‘Yes,’ added Elias. ‘I’ll only cut off one of your ears.’
‘Did you lie at my father’s trial?’ said Quilter, inches from Millburne’s face.
The captive’s resolution crumbled. Surrounded by three strong men, faced with the information that Sir Eliard’s payment to him could be verified and realising that the forces of law and order would descend on them all with a vengeance, he did what he always did in a crisis and tried to blame others.
‘I did perjure myself, sirs,’ he admitted, ‘but only under duress. Sir Eliard forced me to do it even though my senses rebelled against the notion. He and Cyril Paramore are the real culprits. Believe me, sirs, they worked on me until I consented.’
Nicholas was satisfied. ‘Let’s take him before a magistrate,’ he said.
‘Which one?’ asked Quilter with a grim chuckle. ‘Justice Haygarth?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘We need to collect him on the way.’
Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill rarely spent much time alone. While they worked together with surpassing brilliance onstage, they were less than friendly towards each other when they left it. The mutual antagonism went deeper than professional envy. Their private lives occupied such different worlds and their attitudes towards their fellow men were at such variance that they could find nothing to share with pleasure. It was all the more surprising, then, that the two of them sat apart from the rest of the company, deep in conversation and, apparently, in close agreement for once. Everyone else contributed to the boisterous atmosphere in the taproom but the two principal actors were solemn. Over a cup apiece of Canary wine, they brooded on their future.