‘What’s the import of all this?’
‘The brace of happy poets you spied are really a pair of bickering snails.’
‘Has the play not been improved, Edmund?’
‘Only with painful slowness.’
‘That will not do,’ said Firethorn warningly. ‘Let me speak to Master Pye. I’ll light such a fire beneath that arse of his that he’ll burn with zeal to work faster. The Witch of Colchester must be finished soon so that we can start rehearsals on it. Every other play we take to Silvermere has been tried and tested at the Queen’s Head. We could perform some of them with our eyes closed. But not this new piece.’
‘It was a mistake to accept it,’ said Hoode dolefully.
‘Nick Bracewell spoke up for it. So did you at first.’
‘I stand by that judgement. There are parts of it I would be proud to have written, Lawrence, and I confess it freely. Had we the play without the playwright, all would be well. But we do not. The witch comes with a spell called Egidius Pye.’
Firethorn laughed. ‘Leave him to me. I’ll put the wretch in his place.’
‘I’m coming around to the view that only a sharp sword could do that.’
‘Now, now, Edmund, you were a callow author once. Spread a little forgiveness. Bake him aright and this Pye will be delicious when he comes out of the oven.’ His eye fell on the pages littering the table. ‘What changes have you made?’
‘Only the obvious ones so far.’
‘Keep the essence of the piece. It has quality. And retain the bawdy, Edmund,’ he instructed. ‘Master Pye is wonderfully coarse and comical at the same time.’
‘That was the alteration he resisted most strenuously.’
‘What was?’
‘The bawdy,’ said Hoode. ‘I pointed out that we must bear our audience in mind. Ribaldry that would please the stinkards at the Queen’s Head might only offend the more refined sensibilities we’ll encounter at Silvermere.’
‘I don’t agree.’
‘We play to the gentry, Lawrence.’
‘So? The crudest laughter always comes from the gentry, not to mention the aristocracy. I’m at one with Egidius Pye on this. Leave his bawdy unmolested. Lord Westfield will also be in the audience, remember. Our patron will complain loudly if there’s no base humour to set him roaring.’
‘What of the other guests?’
‘They’ll split their sides at some of Pye’s jests, I warrant you.’
Hoode shook his head. ‘I still have my doubts, Lawrence.’
‘Then leave the matter until Nick Bracewell returns. He means to discuss the repertoire with Sir Michael Greenleaf to see what is and what’s not in demand. We’ll soon know if the people of Essex enjoy some cheerful vulgarity in their drama.’ He put a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Take heart, Edmund. All is well.’
‘Not to my eye. I fear for the whole enterprise.’
‘That’s treasonable talk. Would you rather sit out the winter writing sonnets or composing epitaphs for dear departed loved ones whom you never met?’
‘No.’
‘Then rejoice in our good fortune.’
‘I did until I met Egidius Pye.’
‘He’s one small part of a very large bounty,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have work at last, Edmund. Gainful employment. You should have seen the faces of the company when we had our first rehearsal today. They shone with happiness. It was as if they’d just been let out of the darkest dungeon in Newgate. They are actors once more. Would you deprive your colleagues of such joy?’
‘I share it with them.’
‘Then why these sad looks and silly fears?’
‘I have a presentiment of catastrophe.’
‘A hard winter was our catastrophe. It almost froze our art to death. Suddenly, a thaw has set in,’ said Firethorn, swallowing the last of his wine with a gurgle. ‘Our work is in demand and our finances are repaired. Six plays at Silvermere will bring in as much money as a dozen at the Queen’s Head and we’ve no lugubrious landlord to bark at our heels. Then there is the additional benison of a new apprentice.’
‘Davy Stratton has yet to show his mettle.’
‘I have no qualms about the lad. Nor about his father, for that matter.’
‘His father?’
‘Yes, Edmund,’ said Firethorn, pouring himself some more wine. ‘I’ve more good news for you. Master Jerome Stratton not only gave us thirty pounds when the contract was signed. He has promised us another five pounds out of his own pocket when we perform at Silvermere.’
Hoode was impressed. ‘That’s very generous of him.’
‘Generosity may break out in other places. Who knows? If we give a good account of ourselves in Essex, other spectators may be moved to put their hands in their purses. Westfield’s Men are in the ascendant,’ he declared, raising an arm aloft. ‘We travel on the road to glory. Nothing can stop us now.’
Nicholas Bracewell paced out the Great Hall to get a more precise idea of its dimensions then he ran his eye over the gallery to estimate its distance from the floor. Owen Elias, meanwhile, was declaiming a speech from Love’s Sacrifice at the request of Lady Eleanor, using the soliloquy both to display his vocal gifts and to test them in the new performing venue. His voice reached every corner of the room without effort. When the speech came to an end, he gave his standard bow and Lady Eleanor applauded him. Hers were not the only palms that were clapped together. Standing in the doorway with his steward beside him was Sir Michael Greenleaf.
‘Well done! Well done, sir!’ he congratulated.
As he walked down the hall towards them, Elias gave him a bow of his own. Romball Taylard displayed no admiration. Remaining at the door, he looked on with a mixture of curiosity and reproach.
‘Ah!’ said Lady Eleanor, hands outstretched. ‘Here is my husband!’
Sir Michael Greenleaf took her hands in his and kissed them both before turning to regard the visitors. Introductions were performed by his wife. Sir Michael greeted both men warmly, treating them more like honoured guests at Silvermere than members of an itinerant theatre company. It was another paradox. With a social position that entitled them to condescension, Sir Michael and Lady Greenleaf were friendly and approachable. It was their household steward who gave himself the airs and graces to which he had no legitimate claim. Surprised by their host’s affability, Nicholas and Owen were startled by his appearance. Sir Michael was no slave to fashion. Plain doublet and hose of a greenish hue were supplemented by a white ruff that was coming adrift from its moorings. He was a short, rotund man in his late fifties with an unusually large head that was topped with the last of his hair. The few surviving silver wisps were clogged with a dark substance, as were his beard and his ruff. Cheeks, nose and forehead were also blackened.
Lady Eleanor saw the look of astonishment on the visitors’ faces.
‘You must excuse my husband,’ she said smoothly. ‘He has been experimenting with a new gunpowder. Unsuccessfully, by the look of it.’
‘Not at all, not at all, Eleanor,’ he said excitedly. ‘It’s almost perfect.’
‘Almost?’
‘I still have to cure the cannon’s tendency to backfire.’
Elias was amazed. ‘You make your own gunpowder, Sir Michael?’
‘Of course,’ replied the other. ‘It’s vastly better than any that I could purchase and may soon be ready for use. I just need to mix the ingredients more exactly.’
‘You mentioned a cannon?’ said Nicholas.
‘That’s right. A culverin of my own design.’
‘I’d be interested to see it, Sir Michael.’
‘Then you shall, my friend.’
‘Nick sailed around the world with Drake,’ explained Elias, proud of his friend’s achievement. ‘He has first-hand experience of firing a cannon.’
‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Sir Michael. ‘I insist that you see my whole arsenal. I thought you had the look of a seafaring man about you. A voyage with Drake. What a splendid adventure. I envy you, sir. It must mean that you know how to read the stars.’