It took some time before the little cavalcade came round the bend and started to descend the slight gradient. Driven by Nicholas Bracewell, the cart was leading the way with Lawrence Firethorn and the others riding in pairs behind it. Unaware of what lay ahead of them, they were all chatting happily. It was only when they came right around the bend that they saw the obstacle ahead of them. Nicholas pulled hard on the reins to stop the horses but he was too late. They had already walked past the trap. The hole that Orr and Upchard had dug with such difficulty in the bone hard earth had been covered with branches to conceal it. One of the cartwheels rolled on to the scattered branches and they gave way at once, dropping the wheel so deep into the hole that the cart lurched over at an angle and shed half its cargo and most of its occupants. Bruised apprentices cried in pain as Nicholas struggled to control the neighing horses.
There was more to come. With their way ahead blocked and their cart disabled, Westfield’s Men were confronted with another problem. Someone came out of the copse and used a pitch fork to toss sheaves of burning hay at the visitors. Fire seemed to be raining from the sky. Horses reared, men yelled, boys cried and the cartwheel in the hole decided to part company with the axle, sending the remainder of its load on to the ground. The two Puritans rode away in high spirits. They were well pleased with their work. No plays would now pollute their county. Firmly repulsed, Westfield’s Men would slink back to London with their tails between their legs.
Chapter Eight
Panic reigned for several minutes. With their road blocked, their horses bucking wildly, their cart disabled and its occupants all thrown to the ground, and their retreat cut off by sheaves of blazing hay, Westfield’s Men were utterly confused. The boys cried, Firethorn roared and the animals became even more crazed. Nicholas Bracewell was the first to recover. Tossed from his seat on the wagon when the axle broke, he hit the ground and did a somersault before coming to a halt beside the howling Davy Stratton. He gave the boy a reassuring pat before leaping to his feet to take stock of the situation. Edmund Hoode was having enormous difficulty staying in the saddle as his horse reared madly. Nicholas ran over to grab the reins, holding on until the animal was brought sufficiently under control for Hoode to be able to dismount. The playwright took hold of the reins himself so that Nicholas was free to lend help elsewhere.
Fire was the chief problem. Nobody was actually burnt by the flames but they were causing havoc among the horses. Nicholas ran to the fallen tree, snapped off a branch and used it to beat out the nearest fire. Owen Elias followed his example, jumping down from the saddle, tethering his horse to the cart and snapping off a branch of his own. The hay burnt fiercely but only for a short while. The book holder and the Welshman soon tamed the little circle of fires, stamping out the last of the flames with their feet to leave piles of smoking debris in their wake. The crisis was over. Noise subsided, horses were calmed, apprentices were back on their feet and it was possible to take a proper inventory of the damage.
They had been fortunate. Cuts and bruises had been sustained by all who had been hurled to the ground and George Dart had acquired a spectacular black eye but there were no bad injuries. The company was more shocked than hurt. Several of the properties and some of the scenery had been damaged when flung from the cart but nothing was beyond repair. It was Barnaby Gill’s dignity that had been most seriously wounded.
‘Is this the kind of welcome we receive in Essex?’ he said, surveying the scene with bulging eyes. ‘I’ll no more of it. I say that we should turn back immediately.’
‘Never!’ yelled Firethorn, silencing the few murmurs of assent. ‘A silly jest is not going to stop us fulfilling our obligations.’
‘This is more than a jest, Lawrence,’ retorted Gill. ‘I might have been killed.’
‘No,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘This was meant to frighten us away rather than to harm us. Swords or stones would have been used if someone really intended to kill some of us. This was simply a warning.’
‘And one that we’ll ignore,’ insisted Firethorn.
‘The best place to ignore it is back in London,’ said Gill.
‘That would be cowardice, Barnaby.’
‘I call it plain common sense.’
‘So do I,’ intervened Nicholas, keen to stifle the argument. ‘Since Master Gill feels threatened by this incident, let him return to the safety of London on his own. We shall miss his genius but there are others in the company who can take over the roles that he vacates. Meanwhile,’ he went on, looking around the others, ‘the rest of us will ride on to Silvermere where a more cordial reception than this is guaranteed.’
Gill was outraged. ‘Someone else will steal my roles?’
‘Only until you are ready to rejoin us.’
‘I forbid anyone to touch Doctor Blackthought in The Happy Malcontent.’
‘Somebody must if you desert us, Master Gill,’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes,’ said Elias, realising the book holder’s stratagem. ‘It’s a part I’ve always coveted, Barnaby. I’ll keep it warm for you while you sneak back to London.’
‘No!’ shouted Gill, horrified at the notion. ‘I’ll not let you near the role. Besides, how could you play anything at Silvermere when you’ll not even get there? This tree is blocking your way completely.’
‘It can easily be moved,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We’ll unhitch the horses from the cart and let them drag the tree clear.’
‘But our cart is broken. Without that, we have no scenery, costumes or property.’
Nicholas inspected the damage. ‘The axle is sound. It’s only the wheel that needs to be repaired and that is not beyond our ability.’
‘No,’ said Firethorn, dismounting from his horse, ‘that’s a task I’ll take upon myself. I was raised in a blacksmith’s forge and watched my father prove himself an able cartwright on many an occasion.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s see if my own skills are still in good order.’
‘Are you still here, Barnaby?’ teased Elias. ‘I thought you were fleeing?’
‘We were attacked, Owen,’ replied Gill. ‘Our lives were in danger. How can you pretend that nothing has happened?’
‘Because that’s the only way to get our revenge on whoever laid this ambush.’
‘And who was that?’
‘We’ll find out,’ said Nicholas, guessing who had tried to scare them away but not wishing to discuss the matter in front of the whole company. ‘Meanwhile, there’s work to do here for those of us who mean to go on.’
‘Yes,’ added Firethorn, hands on hips, ‘let those who wish to turn their back on us in our hour of need, depart now with my curse upon them. We’ve suffered worse setbacks than this and always come through. So, my friends, either show loyalty to Westfield’s Men and stay or take your miserable carcasses out of my sight.’
Everyone turned expectantly to Gill. Seeing that he had no support, he began to bluster but quickly gave up. He eventually got down from his horse to indicate that he would stay. Nicholas took charge at once, organising people to gather up the scattered contents of the cart while he unhitched the two horses and, with the aid of ropes, got them to drag the heavy tree aside. Firethorn, meanwhile, addressed the problem of the broken wheel, using the tools they always took with them when on tour and displaying the skills picked up in his father’s forge. When the apprentices had gathered wood, Nicholas lit a fire to keep up their spirits then suggested that the actor-musicians might take out their instruments to play some cheerful dances. The shock of the ambush was slowly wearing off. Even the irritable Barnaby Gill was soothed. A sense of camaraderie returned.