‘I have thought of that already.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Fair Maid of Bohemia.’
***
A perverse contentment had settled on Alexander Marwood. He now had something about which he could be truly unhappy. Instead of circling the Queen’s Head like the lost soul, fearing the worst at every turn and viewing even the intermittent moments of good fortune as warnings of some future evil, he had a genuine cause for grief. Plague had not only emptied his innyard of playgoers, it had drastically reduced the number of visitors to London and thus depleted the traffic which came his way. Stables were bare, ostlers stood idle. Servingmen had little to occupy them in the taproom. Many regular patrons of the inn had either left the city or were keeping away from a public place where the lethal infection might conceivably lurk.
Personal inconveniences added to Marwood’s professional difficulties. His wife, Sybil, and his daughter, Rose, had joined the flight from London and were staying in Buckingham with his sister-in-law. Sleeping alone was only marginally less painful than sharing a bed with a cold, indifferent partner, but he missed Sybil’s commanding presence in the taproom, where she could quell unruly behaviour with her glare and ensure that nobody consumed ale without paying for it. Rose’s departure caused him greater sorrow because she was the one person in his life who brought him a spectre of pleasure and whose uncritical love stayed him throughout the recurring miseries of his lot.
He was in the cellar when he heard the commotion above and it sent him scurrying up the stone steps. The taproom was only half-full, but the atmosphere was taut. In the far corner, six or seven men were engaged in a violent argument which just stopped short of blows. They were actors from Westfield’s Men and there was an element of performance in their rowdiness but that did not lessen its potential danger. Such an outburst would never have happened when Sybil Marwood was in control. Lacking her authority, her husband looked around for the one man who could restore calm among his fellows.
Marwood saw him on the other side of the room. Nicholas Bracewell had his back to him, but the broad shoulders and the long fair hair were unmistakable. The landlord trotted over.
‘Stop them, Master Bracewell!’ he bleated, tapping the other man on the arm. ‘Stop them before this turns into a brawl.’
‘They would not listen to me, my friend.’
‘It is your duty to prevent an affray.’
‘I do that best by staying clear of it, sir.’
The burly figure turned to face him and Marwood realised that it was not Nicholas Bracewell at all. It was Adrian Smallwood, a younger man but with the same sturdy frame and the same weathered face. Smallwood’s vanity led him to trim his beard while Nicholas allowed his own more liberty, and the book-holder’s warm smile was not dimmed by two missing teeth, as was the case with his colleague. Seen together, the two men would never be taken for each other. When apart, however, the resemblance seemed somehow closer.
Their voices separated them completely. Nicholas had the soft burr of the West Country while Smallwood’s deeper tone had a distinctively northern ring to it.
‘Stand aside, sir,’ he advised Marwood. ‘These are only threats they exchange and not punches.’
‘I’ll not have fighting in my taproom.’
‘Then tell them as much. It is not my office.’
‘They are your fellows.’
‘They were, sir, but no longer. Our occupation is lost. Hired men such as we were the first to go. That is what this quarrel is about. The company is to sail to the Continent to play before foreigners. Only a few of us will go with them. The rest will be left behind. Each man here thinks that he should be taken on the tour. Attesting their own worth, they feel they must malign that of their rivals.’
‘Why do you not join them in their dispute?’
‘Because I already know my fate,’ said Smallwood with a philosophical smile. ‘There is no hope that I will travel with the company. I am a newcomer. Some of them-Ralph Groves there, for instance-have been in the employ of Westfield’s Men for years. They have a much better claim than me and I would dare not to gainsay it.’
Smallwood was now almost shouting to make himself heard above the hubbub. The argument was taking on a new and more reckless note. When the first punch was thrown, others came immediately and the whole group was drawn into the brawl. Marwood emitted a cry of alarm and jumped out of the way of the flailing arms. Adrian Smallwood stood his ground and watched with growing distaste. When one of the combatants fell heavily against him, anger stirred. He could remain apart from it all no longer. Hands which could coax sweet music out of a lute were now put to coarser usage.
With a single punch, Smallwood felled the man who had cannoned into him. Grabbing two of the others by the scruff of their necks, he banged their heads together so hard that they dropped to the floor in a daze. A fourth man was detached from the mêlée and flung ten yards away. Smallwood snatched up a bench and held it menacingly over the heads of the three actors who were still grappling.
‘Stop this!’ he ordered, ‘or I’ll crack open your skulls.’
The men froze in horror. Normally placid, Smallwood was a fearsome sight when roused. As they cowered beneath the bench, they knew that his threat was a serious one. It was at that precise moment that Nicholas Bracewell came into the taproom. He looked around the scene of carnage with frank disgust. When he saw that Adrian Smallwood was involved, he was gravely disappointed.
‘What is going on here?’ he demanded.
Shamefaced actors turned away in embarrassment and nursed their wounds. Smallwood lowered the bench to the ground. Nicholas turned apologetically to the landlord.
‘They’ll pay for any damage that has been caused,’ he promised. ‘And they’ll pay a larger amount in other ways. Westfield’s Men will not have brawling in its ranks.’ He looked at Smallwood. ‘It grieves me to see that you are part of this, Adrian.’
‘But he was not,’ Marwood piped up. ‘He refused to be drawn into the quarrel that led to the fight. When you walked in just now, he had just stopped the affray.’
‘Is this true?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I did what I could,’ said Smallwood.
‘He saved my taproom from any real damage,’ said Marwood. ‘Do not blame him for this. He is another Nicholas Bracewell. Had you been here, this would never have happened. I was lucky to have such a man here in your stead.’
Nicholas looked around the seven actors who had been embroiled in the fight. All were the worse for wear, and a couple slunk out under his stern gaze. When Nicholas studied the tableau with more care, it yielded up a clearer meaning.
His faith restored, he turned back to Adrian Smallwood.
‘Can you be ready to sail in a day?’ he asked.
The broad grin on Smallwood’s face was an answer in itself.
***
Anne Hendrik went into the workshop to take leave of her employees. They were deeply sorry that she was off on such a sad errand, and the fact that she was visiting their native country made her departure even more poignant for them. After separate farewells to all four, she was conducted outside by Preben van Loew. He pressed a letter into her hand.
‘Deliver this to Frans Hendrik,’ he said quietly.
‘I will, Preben.’
‘Let us hope he is still alive to read it.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘We can but pray.’
‘Give my warmest regards to Jan and to the rest of the family. They will remember old Preben.’
‘With affection.’
‘They are always in my thoughts.’
‘I will tell them that.’ Anne became brisk. ‘As to my house while I am away-’