‘That was Nick’s feeling.’
‘I trust in his instinct, Lawrence. What’s to stop the boy vanishing again?’
‘Loyalty to the company. He’ll soon settle down.’
Margery was sad. ‘I hope so. I do so want to like young Davy.’
A hush fell on the congregation as some chords on the organ announced the entrance of the vicar who came walking down the aisle with stately tread to begin the service. Firethorn was involved from the start, nestling into the familiar ritual as into a favourite chair. It was only when the sermon began that his mind wandered. The text was taken from an obscure part of Deuteronomy, the sermon was contradictory rather than explanatory, and it was delivered in such a monotonous drone that it inspired none of the parishioners and eased a few into a blissful slumber.
Lawrence Firethorn was not among the sleepers. In his mind, he was already at Silvermere, thrilling an audience as Henry the Fifth, working on their emotions as the tragic Vincentio and rendering them helpless with laughter by his portrayal of Lord Malady in The Witch of Colchester. The spiritual setting helped to soften his view of the hapless Egidius Pye. The man deserved sympathy. He had written an outstanding play yet had been exiled from its rehearsal. Firethorn wondered if he should have relented and let the lawyer at least watch the piece being slowly put together by the actors. If nothing else, Pye would benefit from the experience. He was still musing on the new play when the vicar reached the climax of his peroration.
‘And so,’ he declared, eyes raised to heaven, ‘when God asks us to open our hearts to him, my friends, what must we answer?’
It was a rhetorical question but it got an instant reply from Firethorn.
‘No, no, no!’ he howled in despair.
Rising to his feet, he clutched at his body as if in intense pain and staggered out into the aisle. The congregation looked on in horror. Before anyone could catch him, he shivered violently then fell to the floor, seized by such dramatic convulsions that one woman fainted and two had a screaming fit. The vicar was so upset that he had to be helped down from the pulpit by the verger. Firethorn completed his ruination of the sermon with a loud moan of agony that echoed around the church like a death knell. Quite involuntarily, the actor had once again had a remarkable effect on the spectators.
Word of Lawrence Firethorn’s collapse threw the whole company into turmoil. There was no miracle recovery this time. Carried home by neighbours, the actor had been confined to bed with an illness that was way beyond the reach of Doctor Whitrow. All that he had done was to prescribe medicine to ease the pain. Firethorn had grown drowsy and was barely able to keep his eyes open when Nicholas Bracewell, summoned from Bankside, hastened to the house in Shoreditch. Before he fell into a deep sleep, the actor had been insistent that Westfield’s Men should depart on the following morning as planned. With or without its motive force, the company had to honour its commitment.
Gloom descended on the actors like a pall. As they gathered at the Queen’s Head on Monday morning, they were in a state of disarray. Firethorn was not merely their leader, he was the single biggest reason for the troupe’s success. With him, they could outshine any other theatrical company in the land; without him, they were palpably weakened. His absence would take the glow off their welcome at Silvermere. In the new play, in particular, he would be sorely missed. Concealing his own fears, Nicholas tried to fend off questions and still the pessimists.
‘When is Lawrence going to join us, Nick?’ asked Owen Elias.
‘Soon,’ said the book holder. ‘Very soon.’
‘Today? Tomorrow?’
‘I can’t give you a date, Owen.’
‘Is it that serious?’ said Hoode.
‘He’s on the road to recovery Edmund.’
‘But he should be on the road to Essex with the rest of us. I know Lawrence. Only plague, palsy or death would keep him away at a time like this. What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Nicholas, raising his voice so that all could hear. ‘And he implores you not to be downhearted. We’re to go on ahead and he’ll follow.’
‘Supposing that he doesn’t?’ said Barnaby Gill, irritably. ‘It throws our choice of plays into the melting pot. How can we play Vincentio’s Revenge without Vincentio? Or Henry the Fifth without a king? Changes will have to be made.’
Elias was aghast. ‘Surely, you don’t want to take over those roles, Barnaby?’
‘Of course, not,’ retorted Gill. ‘I recommend that we insert Cupid’s Folly into the list. I carry that piece so Lawrence will not be needed.’
‘I’ve a better idea,’ said the Welshman scornfully, ‘why not cancel all the plays we chose and give six performances of Cupid’s Folly instead? Will that content you, Barnaby? Fie in thee!’ he exclaimed. ‘Lawrence lies sick and all that you can think about is trying to advantage yourself. It’s despicable.’
Gill was unmoved. ‘It’s practical.’
‘Practical but unnecessary,’ said Nicholas firmly.
‘We must have contingency plans, Nicholas.’
‘We have them, Master Gill. We leave without him.’
Nicholas clambered up on to the cart to supervise the last of the loading. George Dart and the four apprentices were to travel with him. The rest of the company had brought their own horses except for Owen Elias who had borrowed one from an unnamed lady. Since the husband of the Welshman’s earlier benefactor had returned home, Nicholas surmised that he had prevailed upon another of his conquests. It did not matter. The book holder had enough to worry about without speculating on Elias’s extraordinary private life. It was the fate of Lawrence Firethorn that dominated Nicholas’s thinking. A singularly healthy man had been struck down twice by a mystery illness in less than a week. Whatever was wrong with him?
‘It was frightening,’ confessed Richard Honeydew, standing beside him.
‘Was it?’ said Nicholas.
‘He stood up in the middle of the sermon and shook all over. I’ve never heard such a cry of pain. Mistress Firethorn fears that he may die.’
‘That’s not what she told me,’ said the other, anxious to suppress the suggestion. ‘She knows her husband better than any of us and assured me that he would be back on his feet in no time at all.’
‘The whole congregation prayed for him yesterday.’
‘There you are, Dick. That’s bound to help his recovery.’
The apprentice was sceptical. ‘It hasn’t worked so far.’
‘Give it time, lad.’
Departures from London were usually occasions of hope tinged with sadness as the members of the company set out on a new adventure, bidding farewell to their wives and children, or their lovers and friends. Emotions of a different kind now prevailed. The shortness of their stay in Essex made for less tearful scenes with their loved ones but there was none of the sense of curiosity with which they invariably set out. A misery verging on despair touched all but a few of them. Instead of delighting in the fact that they were to perform to a select audience in a beautiful country house, they feared that their chances of theatrical triumph had gone before they had even left. Only one thing could have made the scene more depressing and he stepped out of the inn to oblige. Surveying them with hangdog disgust, Alexander Marwood, the egregious landlord who had tried so many times to evict them from his premises, now had the gall to berate them for deserting him and taking a major part of his custom away.
‘I deserve better than this!’ he said in a voice like a wailing wind. ‘What will you find in Essex that I cannot offer you here?’
‘Decent beer!’ shouted Elias. ‘And an audience.’
‘Warmer weather will soon come.’
‘Yes, Master Marwood, but you’ll stay as cold as a block of ice.’
Muted laughter greeted the exchange. The landlord normally provoked scorn and derision among the actors but the sight of him merely depressed them even more on this occasion. He was a symbol of woe, a harbinger of ill fortune. Nicholas decided that it was time to get them on their way, resigned to the fact that he could take them free of the watching Marwood but he couldn’t dispel the heaviness in their hearts. After making sure that his passengers and cargo were secure, he got into the driving seat and used the reins to flick the two massive horses into motion. As the cart rumbled noisily across the yard, the rest of the company mounted up and followed it. The clatter of approaching hooves brought them all to a halt. A horse came cantering into the yard before being reined in by its rider. Lawrence Firethorn saluted them with a raised arm and gave a chuckle.