As the emperor reappeared to lead his company on to the stage, dark clouds parted and a shaft of sunlight peeped through. It was like a heavenly benediction. Applause was slow at first but it quickly built to a crescendo. Those in the pit stamped and cheered, those in the balconies were on their feet to acknowledge a magnificent performance by Lawrence Firethorn and his company. The ovation seemed to go on forever. Nobody clapped louder than Michael Grammaticus. Released at last from the tension that had made the afternoon something of an ordeal, he was overcome with joy at having fulfilled his ambition. A play with his name on it had taken the stage by storm. A whole new life had suddenly opened out before him.
Chapter Two
While the actors discarded their costumes and adjourned to the taproom to celebrate, Nicholas Bracewell organised the dismantling of the stage and made sure that the scenery and properties were safely locked away. He and Owen Elias then permitted themselves only one tankard of ale with their fellows at the Queen’s Head before they slipped away to visit a friend. Edmund Hoode was dozing when they arrived at his lodging but his eyelids soon fluttered open. He gave them a tired smile of welcome.
‘Nick … Owen,’ he murmured. ‘What brings you here?’
‘We came to see how you are,’ said Nicholas.
Elias grinned. ‘Speak for yourself,’ he joked. ‘I only came to catch a glimpse of the landlady’s beautiful daughter. What a fetching young creature she is, Edmund! Were I lodged here, I’d never spend a night alone in that bed.’
‘Both mother and daughter have been very good to me,’ said Hoode.
‘You’ve enjoyed the two of them?’ said Elias with a cackle of delight. ‘No wonder you look so weary, if you’ve been ravishing them in turn. Your chamber is a veritable leaping house.’
‘This is no time for mockery, Owen,’ warned Nicholas, distressed at the sight of Hoode’s deathly pallor. ‘It’s cruel to tease him so.’ He put a considerate hand on the patient’s shoulder. ‘How are you, Edmund?’
‘All the better for seeing two friendly faces,’ replied Hoode in a querulous voice. ‘I just feel so fatigued, Nick. I’ve scarcely the strength to sit up in bed.’
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘That the only remedy is a long rest.’
‘A long rest?’ echoed Elias, anxiously. ‘I can see that the doctor knows little of a theatre company. If our beloved playwright has a long rest, we suffer the consequences. Westfield’s Men without Edmund Hoode is like a river without water.’
‘I think that you exaggerate, Owen.’
‘We miss you on and offstage. It’s like losing a limb. Is it not so, Nick?’
‘Edmund is certainly missed,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but he must be fully recovered before he returns to the fray. What has the doctor given you?’
‘A magic potion that took aware all my pain,’ said Hoode, gratefully. ‘I was in agony when you carried me back here and thought I was like to die. Then I took this potion that Doctor Zander mixed. It saved my life.’
Elias was suspicious. ‘Zander? That sounds like a foreign name.’
‘So does Owen Elias,’ said Nicholas with a smile, ‘for nobody is more foreign to us than the Welsh. What does it matter where the good doctor hails from as long as he can cure this strange disease? Do you have faith in him, Edmund?’
‘I do. Emmanuel Zander is kind and gentle.’
‘When will he call again?’
‘Tomorrow, Nick. But enough of me,’ he said, trying to bring himself fully awake. ‘Tell me about the play. How did Caesar’s Fall fare this afternoon?’
‘Excellently well.’
‘Apart from scenes involving Casca, that is,’ said Elias, trying to rally him with praise. ‘Strive as he might, James Ingram was but a poor shadow of you in the part. You were Casca to the life, Edmund.’
‘Is this true, Nick?’
‘True enough, you were indeed a fine Casca,’ said Nicholas, ‘but James was a capable deputy. He never faltered. Lawrence and Barnaby stole most of the plaudits, as is usual, but Owen here matched them for quality as Brutus, and Frank Quilter’s scheming Cassius was his best performance yet. Caesar’s Fall was a signal triumph.’
‘That will have made Michael happy.’
‘You’d never have thought it from his face,’ complained Elias. ‘He squinted at us as if he was trying to read scribble. Michael Grammaticus lives inside his head. That’s the failing of these university men. They do not know how to enjoy life.’
Nicholas grinned. ‘That’s not what I hear, Owen. The cry against most who study at Oxford or Cambridge is that they enjoy life far too much. They are forever being swinged for their indulgences. Michael is the exception to the rule,’ he said. ‘He’s a true scholar, wedded to his studies.’
‘Is that why he is so disdainful?’
‘I’ve not seen that particular fault in him.’
‘Nor me,’ said Hoode. ‘Michael Grammaticus has been politeness itself to me and, as you well know, I’m no university wit whose brain is crammed with Greek and Latin sayings. Compared to him, I’m raw and untutored.’
‘But a far better playwright, for all that,’ said Elias, loyally.
‘Be fair,’ urged Nicholas. ‘Michael has great promise.’
‘But he lacks Edmund’s humanity. He’s a dry stick, and I’ve never met a young man who carries such an old head on his stooping shoulders. Still,’ he went on, ‘let’s forget our creeping playwright. We’ve news for you that will make you jump out of your sick bed with delight.’
‘What news is that, Owen?’ asked Hoode, stifling a yawn.
‘Our landlord has quit London.’
‘Only for a matter of weeks,’ explained Nicholas. ‘He has gone to Dunstable. His elder brother is ill and he means to keep vigil. For a while, it seems, we’ll have no more black looks and stern reproaches from Alexander Marwood and his wife.’
‘And the best of it is,’ said Elias, ‘that the new landlord admires our work. He watched the play this afternoon and cheered us to the echo. Do you see what this means? In place of an arch enemy, we have gained a dear friend, one Adam Crowmere by name.’
Hoode yawned again. ‘Fortune has smiled on us at last.’
‘We deserve some consolation for the loss of Edmund Hoode.’
‘What is the inn like without that melancholy landlord?’
‘A place of mirth and merriment. But you shall judge for yourself.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Adam Crowmere wants to atone for the shabby treatment meted out to us at the inn. He also wishes to get to know us better. With that in mind, he is laying on a feast for the whole company on Sunday next, inviting Lord Westfield to join us in the festivities.’
Elias grimaced. ‘Can you imagine Alexander Marwood doing such a thing?’
‘He’d sooner turn us out into the street, Owen.’
‘Adam Crowmere is a breath of fresh air, blowing through the Queen’s Head. He understands the trade. His cordiality will double the profits of the inn. Our fellows cannot believe the changes he has wrought in a single day.’
‘But you’ll meet this paragon for yourself, Edmund,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘When Sunday comes, you’ll feast alongside us. And if you are not well enough to walk to the inn, Owen and I will gladly carry you there.’
‘Aye,’ said Elias. ‘Being with the company will be a medicine in itself.’
‘What do you say, Edmund? Are these not glad tidings?’
There was no reply. The effort of staying awake to greet his friends had exhausted Hoode’s limited strength. His eyes rolled, his lids closed and he went off into a deep slumber. A gentle snore soon rose from the bed. Nicholas looked down at him with mingled affection and sadness.
‘Come, Owen,’ he said, quietly. ‘He needs his rest.’
The lane was long, narrow and twisting. Because it linked two main thoroughfares, it was always busy as people hurried to and fro about their affairs. Suddenly, the traffic came to a halt. Dressed in mud-covered rags, a young man promptly dropped to the ground as if he had been shot and went into a series of violent convulsions. There was blood on his face and he was foaming at the mouth. His female companion immediately went down on her knees and cradled him in her arms as she tried to stay his fit. The convulsions slowly died away but he lay unconscious in the dirt. Everyone crowded around to see what had happened to the unfortunate young man