‘Steady, Master Hoode!’ said Dart in alarm.
‘Oh, forgive me, George. My thoughts were elsewhere.’
‘It was so for most of the company during the play, for their thoughts were neither on mirth nor madness. There were times when I wondered if I was holding the correct book. The actors wandered so.’
Dart was immensely proud that he had been chosen as Nicholas Bracewell’s deputy. While the others mocked him for his misfortunes onstage, the book holder showed tolerance towards him. He knew that the more responsibility Dart was given behind the scenes, the better he discharged it. Aided by Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, who stood at his side ready to box his ears in the event of a mistake, Dart had been remarkably efficient in his new role. He knew Mirth and Madness well, and had watched Nicholas in action enough times to pick up hints from him. While many others floundered onstage, Dart held his nerve. It was only when the play was over that he let his anxieties show.
‘I never thought to get through the afternoon,’ he confessed.
‘You did well, George.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘You held the tiller with a steady hand.’
‘It did not feel very steady, Master Hoode.’
‘Nick Bracewell would have been proud of you.’
‘There’s no higher praise than that.’ His face puckered with concern. ‘He is a prince of his craft. Westfield’s Men would be lost without him.’
‘That’s why we will never let him go.’
‘But he’s threatened to leave us. Have you not heard the news?’
Hoode came out of his daze. ‘News?’
‘There is a danger that we may lose Nicholas,’ said Dart, biting his lip. ‘Many people are calling for Master Quilter to be ousted from the company. If he goes, Nicholas has warned, then we will have lost our book holder as well.’
‘Nick Bracewell said that?’
Hoode was dumbfounded. He had heard the rumours earlier in the day but had been far too preoccupied take them in. If some as lowly as George Dart could report the ultimatum, then it must have a basis in truth. Hoode shuddered. Nicholas Bracewell was much more to him than a crucial member of the company. He was a close friend of the playwright’s, more reliable than Lawrence Firethorn and far less critical than Owen Elias. The one person to whom Hoode could turn in the emergencies that seemed to litter his life was the book holder.
Nicholas was also the only man in whom he confided details of his private life and, since that had taken such a delightful turn, he needed someone to listen to the tale of his good fortune. Hoode would sooner surrender a limb than lose the companionship of Nicholas Bracewell. The consequences for Westfield’s Men were unthinkable. The playwright resolved to raise the matter instantly with Lawrence Firethorn, who was sitting gloomily on a bench, contemplating the defects of his performance that afternoon. Hoode walked towards him. Before he could reach the actor-manager, however, he was intercepted by a shamefaced James Ingram.
‘You came to our rescue out there, Edmund,’ he said.
‘Did I?’
‘We gave a poor account of ourselves this afternoon. But for you and Barnaby, Mirth and Madness could more properly have been called Misery and Badness. We betrayed the play by being too full of self-affairs. Thank you for helping to save our reputation. You were heroic.’
‘I gave of my best, James, that is all.’
‘It was more than the rest of us managed to do.’
‘I felt inspired today.’
‘We were too jaded to follow your example.’
Patting him on the shoulder, Ingram moved away. His place was immediately taken by a servant who worked at the Queen’s Head. The lad blinked at Hoode for a moment then handed him a letter.
‘I was asked to deliver this, sir,’ he said.
‘By whom?’ The question became irrelevant when Hoode glanced at the handwriting. It was from her. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he mumbled.
While the boy ran off, Hoode retreated to a corner of the room so that he could read the letter. It contained only one sentence but it was enough to make his head spin. He almost swooned with delight. The first missive had been unsigned but this one had the tantalising initial of ‘A’. He speculated on what her name might be. Adele? Araminta? Alice? Arabella? Anne? Audrey? Antonia? Unable to select the correct name, he decided that ‘A’ must stand for ‘angel’, for that is what he felt she was, descending from heaven to bring him unexpected joy. The letter was a gift from God. All else fled from his mind. When the firm hand of Lawrence Firethorn fell on his shoulder, he hardly felt it.
‘We owe you a debt of gratitude, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Thank you.’
Hoode looked at him. ‘For what?’
‘The services you rendered the company this afternoon.’
‘Barnaby was the real saviour.’
‘He did no more than he always does,’ said Firethorn irritably. ‘Prancing and pulling faces is the height of his art. But you lifted yourself to a higher plain, Edmund. None of us could rival you.’
Ordinarily, Hoode would have lapped up the congratulations. They rarely came from such a source. A vain man, Firethorn spent more time in boasting about his own theatrical triumphs than in praising the work of others. He believed that simply by allowing other actors to appear beside him onstage, he was conferring tacit approval on them. They deserved no more encouragement. To admit that someone actually gave a superior performance to his was a unique concession. Yet Hoode was unable to enjoy it. He was still caught up in the mood of exhilaration. Hoode would listen to praise from only one source. Her letter was warm in his hand.
‘Will you stay to celebrate with us in the taproom, Edmund?’
‘No, Lawrence,’ he replied. ‘I must away.’
‘That’s dedication indeed! I’ll not try to keep you from it,’ said Firethorn. ‘Once it is finished, the whole company will be the beneficiaries. Then they will understand why you’ve scurried off alone each day.’ He nudged Hoode. ‘How goes it?’
‘Very well.’
‘Are you pleased with the results?’
‘Extremely pleased.’
‘When do we get to view this masterpiece?’
‘I’ve had not had that privilege myself yet, Lawrence.’
Firethorn gaped. ‘But you have been slaving at it for several weeks now.’
‘Have I?’
‘You know that you have, Edmund. You have devoted every waking hour to it. Though we missed your company, we admired your sense of purpose. So,’ he said, whispering into Hoode’s ear. ‘Where is it?’
‘What?’
‘The work of art you are rushing off to finish. The new play, man, the new play!’
Hoode stared at him with blank incomprehension.
‘Play?’ he said at length. ‘What play?’
Entertainment of a different kind was on offer at Smithfield that afternoon and it drew a more ghoulish audience. Spectators at the city’s playhouses had gone to be moved by counterfeit deaths and fake horrors. Those who congregated at Smithfield wanted no deceit. They came in search of the real thing. Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter were part of a milling crowd. Renowned for centuries for its horse-market, the grassy acres that comprised ‘Smoothfield’, as it had been called, were redolent of a grim history. It had been a place of public execution for over four hundred years. Countless villains had been put to death before the eyes of the commonalty. Most were hanged from the gallows that stood between the horse-pool and the wells, but, in the reign of Henry VIII, Tyburn became the regular site for executions. Smithfield, however, was not wholly discarded. At the command of Mary Tudor, over two hundred martyrs were burnt at the stake there and it continued to be used on certain occasions. Gerard Quilter was unfortunate enough to be singled out for one of those occasions.