Firethorn saved the day with commendable speed. Pulling Don García into a second embrace, he spun him around so that Hoode was no longer able to see the lady whose beauty had ensnared him so utterly. With deft fingers, the Grand Master picked his pocket of all his remaining lines and delivered them himself, investing the words with such awe-some authority that the sniggers were soon cowed into silence. Control had been reaffirmed. The Knights of Malta was able to end on a high note and the company left the stage to deafening acclaim.
While the players came out to take their bows, Nicholas peeped through the curtain at the rear of the stage to take his own first look at Lord Westfield’s guest. She had posed a far greater threat to Malta than the whole Turkish army, but it had been no deliberate attack. Any damage had been unwittingly caused. Nicholas could see that and his annoyance at once faded into admiration.
What surprised him most was her youth. The flamboyant Lord Westfield had a predilection for Court beauties, mature ladies who were seasoned in the arts of coquetry and who added a lustre to his entourage. The newcomer did not conform to the archetype in any detail. Nicholas decided that she could be no more than sixteen or seventeen at most. And with her tender years came the bloom of pure innocence.
Sparkling blue eyes were set in a face of delicate loveliness that needed no cosmetics. An inner radiance seemed to shine out of her. She wore a dress in the Spanish fashion with a corseted bodice in dark blue. A heavy, jewelled stomacher-front dipped to a point over her stiff farthingale skirt. A gown of a lighter-blue material fitted the shoulders and waist neatly. It was fastened from the high-standing collar to the hem with large jewelled buttons and loops. The wide lace ruff was a series of white petals around her face. Her fair hair was swept up under her tall-crowned, brimless hat, which had ostrich feathers held in place by precious stones.
Nicholas was viewing a child on the cusp of womanhood. He was impressed with her aristocratic mien but not so overwhelmed by her that he was unable to take a full inventory of her charms. In doing so, he saw things which had eluded the actors. Where they had stolen hungry glances, Nicholas was able to feast his eyes. Applause was long and loud. She was on her feet to contribute to it with ardent clapping. There was an air of astonishment and regret about her, as if she had just discovered something truly remarkable, only to have it snatched away from her when the players made their exit. The gaze which she fixed on the Grand Master was full of frank yearning.
Lawrence Firethorn rushed to place the most flattering interpretation upon it. When he had bowed a dozen times towards her, he waved a farewell and led his troupe from the stage. After berating them for their lapses during the performance, he took Nicholas aside to share in what he felt was another personal triumph.
‘She loves me, Nick! That angel is mine!’
‘Do not bank on that,’ suggested Nicholas discreetly.
‘She stood to honour my performance.’
‘Indeed, she did, and justly so. You and Master Gill were supreme this afternoon and kept the play from falling apart.’
Firethorn gave a haughty snort. ‘That was nothing of Barnaby’s doing! I had to rescue the piece from his depredations as well as from the idiocies of the rest of the company. What was wrong with the fools? I had to carry the entire play on my own shoulders.’
‘And you did so superbly.’
‘Why, then, did she not give me my due reward during the performance itself? I was Jean de Valette to the life, yet she gave her readiest attention to the cavortings of Hilario. Can she really set Barnaby’s stale clowning above my passion and my eloquence?’ He gestured towards the stage. ‘Had she not just shown me that I was the true object of her desire, I tell you, Nick, I would have been deeply wounded. All is forgiven. She has been heaven-sent to me. In the art of wooing, I am still a veritable Grand Master.’
Nicholas let him preen himself for a few minutes before he introduced a note of reservation. He first made sure that nobody else was within earshot.
‘The young lady did not prefer Hilario’s performance,’ he said. ‘It was simply easier for her to understand.’
‘That boring array of dull songs and dreary dances?’
‘The songs were accompanied by comic mime.’
‘What is comic about Barnaby Gill pulling hideous faces and waving his arms around?’
‘Gesture surmounts all language barriers.’
‘Barriers?’
‘Yes,’ explained Nicholas. ‘That was why the young lady did not give your portrayal its due reward. She does not speak English. She liked best what she comprehended most, and that was mime and dance. They need no translation.’
Firethorn gulped. ‘Not speak English? Can this be so?’
‘It would be my guess.’
‘On what basis?’
‘Observation of the lady,’ said the other. ‘Those high cheekbones do not belong to an Englishwoman. And though she dresses in the Spanish fashion, that fair hair has not travelled here from Spain. There is another clear indication, and that is our patron’s attitude towards her. Lord Westfield usually indulges in badinage with his female companions. He treated this one with great respect and spoke no word to her while I watched. The lady is a foreigner.’
‘By Jove, this may be true! Of what country, Nick?’
‘Some part of Germany, perhaps. Austria, more likely.’
‘And of high birth?’
‘Without question.’
Firethorn slapped his thigh. ‘By all, this is wonderful! I have conquered the heart of an Austrian princess! No wonder my jewelled speeches fell on deaf ears. Bring her to me and I’ll talk the universal language of love. I’ll teach her gestures that she will never see from Barnaby and we’ll dance a jig together, she and I, that will last a whole night.’ He punched Nicholas playfully on the shoulder. ‘Fetch her to me, Nick. I’ll meet this princess in a private room. And if she speaks no English, I’ll be a lusty tutor for her lips. Bring her to me presently. I must have her.’
Nicholas accepted the charge reluctantly. With dozens of urgent chores confronting him, the last thing he wanted to do was to act as Firethorn’s messenger. He knew, also, that his journey would be in vain. This was one admirer whom the actor would never possess. She was infinitely beyond his reach. As he set off on his errand, his protective instincts came to the fore. Nicholas was the guardian of Westfield’s Men and he could always recognise a threat to the company. Her mere presence at a performance had inadvertently inflicted harm on them. Further contact with her would bring more serious and lasting injury. Nicholas felt it in his bones. In pursuing his alabaster saint, Lawrence Firethorn was leading his troupe towards certain catastrophe.
***
Alexander Marwood swam against the tide of humanity that was pouring out of the Queen’s Head. It gave the testy landlord no satisfaction to observe that his innyard had been filled with paying customers, many of whom bought ale or food from his servingmen to swell his coffers. Westfield’s Men were troublesome tenants to him. He lived in constant fear that their occupation of his premises would bring the ire of the city authorities down on him, lead to wild affrays, cause damage to his property, and-notwithstanding the eternal vigilance both of himself and his Gorgon wife-result in the seduction of his nubile daughter, Rose, by one of the rampant satyrs who called themselves actors. Marwood’s suffering found no relief in the marriage bed. His wife, Sybil, had long since converted that into an instrument of torture.
Delighted playgoers who streamed out into Gracechurch Street were met by no genial host. What confronted them was the grim little figure of the landlord buffeting his way towards his inn and cursing his fate with even more than his usual relish. A hat concealed the balding pate that was harrowed with anxiety, but the haggard face, with its haunted eyes and its twitching lips, its deathly pallor and its expression of cold terror, was a drama in itself. Manacled to misery, he took a perverse pleasure in rattling his chains.