Davy steeled himself to be brave and pressed on, using the stick to push aside bushes or to support him across a ditch. He kept calling for his horse but with decreasing hope. When he stumbled into a clearing, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been there before and had simply travelled through the wood in a wide circle. It was galling. He rested against the trunk of an ash tree to catch his breath and consider his next move. The animal let out a third cry but it was far more distant now. As the noise died away, it was replaced by a more welcome sound. Davy heard a faint neigh off to his left. Was it Hotspur? Had the pony come to a halt at last? His spirits revived. Pushing himself away from the tree, he set off in the direction of the neigh, ears pricked to catch any repetition of the sound. When it finally came, his hopes were confirmed. It was the distinctive neigh of his pony, waiting for him not far away. Davy broke into a run, blundering through the undergrowth as quickly as his aching legs would carry him.
He had not been deceived. Hotspur was under a tree, searching the ground for a morsel of grass. Davy burst into tears when he saw him and ran towards the pony but he never reached the animal. Two men leapt out of the bushes to grab him. One of them clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth to stifle his yell.
‘Come on, lad,’ he said grimly. ‘You’re going with us.’
Margery Firethorn gave her husband a warm embrace and stood back to appraise him.
‘I’ll miss you, Lawrence,’ she sighed.
‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my love.’
‘You always say that on the eve of departure.’
‘That’s because it’s always true, Margery,’ he said, tickling her under the chin with an index finger. ‘The longer I’m away from you, the more I appreciate you. It’s agony for me. Being apart from my dear wife for any length of time is like losing a limb.’
‘Is it?’ she said sceptically. ‘I know you better than that, Lawrence.’
He gave a roguish smile. ‘So I should hope.’
‘Marry an actor and you must suffer the consequences.’
‘Travel is forced upon us. We have to go where the work beckons.’
‘As long as your affections don’t wander while you’re away.’
‘Perish the thought!’
‘It would not be the first time you went astray.’
‘Why ever should I do that, my love?’ he said with an expression of injured innocence. ‘It’s madness. Why should I pick an occasional wild cherry when I have a basket of ripe strawberries waiting for me in my bed?’
‘Is that all I am?’ she teased. ‘Something sweet to pop into your mouth?’
‘No, Margery. You’re much, much more. Wife, mother, lover, partner and soul mate. I tell you this,’ he said impulsively, ‘if you didn’t have to look after the house and the children, I’d throw you over my shoulder and take you with us to Essex. Perhaps not,’ he added after a pause. ‘You’d only provoke the envy of the rest of the company and distract them from their work.’
‘Away with you!’ she said, giving him a playful push.
After a day’s rehearsal and a long talk with Edmund Hoode, Firethorn had returned to his house in Shoreditch. Enticing smells from the kitchen told him that Margery had a hot meal waiting for him and she herself was a welcoming sight. Their marriage had its tempestuous moments but they were always obliterated by the passion of their reconciliations. Though his eye and hand might wander occasionally, Firethorn’s heart remained firmly with his beloved wife.
‘Is all well, Lawrence?’ she asked.
‘Exceptionally so.’
‘The company must be delighted to be called to arms again.’
‘Overjoyed, my love. We worked with true zeal. It’s been a day of pure delight. Apart from a little petulance from Edmund, that is.’
‘Edmund? That’s not like him. Petulance is one of Barnaby’s tricks.’
‘Barnaby was in a good mood for once. Thanks to Doctor Putrid.’
‘A strange name for a doctor. Has Barnaby been unwell?’
‘No, Margery,’ he explained. ‘Doctor Putrid is the character he’ll play in our new piece. A juicy role and one that cured Barnaby of his petulance. He’s thrilled with The Witch of Colchester. The same, alas, cannot be said of Edmund Hoode.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he has the task of burnishing the play for us.’
‘A simple chore for someone with Edmund’s skill.’
‘That’s what he thought until he met the author,’ said Firethorn with a mirthless laugh. ‘A skulking lawyer named Egidius Pye. I met him at Edmund’s lodging and wondered which mouse hole he’d crawled out from. Still, enough of him!’ he went on with a dismissive wave. ‘Pye is only a minor irritation at worst. I’ll slap him down.’
‘How large a company will you take to Essex?’
‘A round dozen in all.’
‘Does that include the musicians?’
‘Yes, Margery. I’ve had to be ruthless there and choose men who give me double value. Musicians who can act and actors who can play an instrument or two.’
‘That must have hurt the ones you turned away.’
He heaved a sigh. ‘It did but there’s no remedy for it. The invitation dictated the size of the troupe. Sir Michael Greenleaf cannot accommodate unlimited numbers.’
‘What about the apprentices?’
‘They’re additional to the twelve. Four boys only require one bed between them.’
‘Four?’ she said. ‘Does that mean Davy Stratton is to be left behind?’
‘I think not. John Tallis is the loser. He’s too gruff to take a woman’s role any more and too puny to play a man. I’ll leave him here to kick his heels.’
‘But he has far more experience than Davy.’
‘Granted,’ said Firethorn, ‘but his father will not be sitting in the audience at Silvermere, will he? We have to play politics, Margery. Like our own dear patron, Jerome Stratton is a friend of Sir Michael Greenleaf. We must humour him. He’ll want to see his son on the stage even if the lad only stands there for a second.’
‘You’ve had to make some harsh decisions, Lawrence,’ she observed.
He gave her his broadest smile. ‘I made the best decision when I married you, my love.’ He leant over to kiss her tenderly on the lips. ‘All else pales beside the wisdom of that choice.’
‘Does that mean I can have the new dress you promised?’
‘In time,’ he said, stepping back at once. ‘In time.’
‘And when will that be?’
His shrug was noncommittal. ‘Who can tell?’
‘You never change, Lawrence, do you?’ she said with a resigned laugh. ‘No matter for that. I love you as you are. Now, then. Are you hungry?’
‘Close to starvation.’
‘Go to the table and I’ll bring the meal into you.’
‘I smell beef and onions.’
‘And lots more beside. Now, off with you,’ she ordered, pushing him towards the dining room. ‘I’ve work to do in the kitchen. Call in the others and we’ll all eat together. I want to enjoy my family while I still have them all together.’
‘Not all, Margery.’
‘Who have I forgotten?’
‘The smallest and youngest. Davy Stratton. Don’t ask me to call him,’ he warned, moving away. ‘Even my voice won’t reach the depths of Essex.’
Margery bustled off to the kitchen to check the contents of the pot as it hung over the fire and to chide her servant for not putting more salt into it. Too eager to make amends, the girl tipped more salt than was necessary into the soup and was chastised roundly by her mistress. When Margery called for bread, the servant fetched it from the larder then took it into the dining room. It was some time before she returned to the kitchen. Annoyed by the delay, Margery swung round to scold her once more but the girl’s expression made her desist. Pale and trembling, the servant pointed to the door.