When he finally fought his way to a side-door, he let himself into the inn. Marwood was scuttling along a narrow passageway when he saw a familiar figure coming down a private staircase that led to the lower gallery. The landlord pounced on Nicholas Bracewell and sank skinny fingers into his arm.
‘The end is in sight!’ he moaned.
‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘The spectators have all but dispersed and they have done so in a happy mood. Your servingmen have made you a tidy profit, Master Marwood.’
‘That is small consolation.’
‘A full yard. The numbers ought to please you.’
‘They strike at my heart.’
‘Westfield’s Men continue to bring custom to the Queen’s Head. Can you not find at least a crumb of comfort in that?’
‘No,’ said Marwood, releasing his arm to bring both hands up in a gesture of despair. ‘Because it will not last. My yard may be packed today. Tomorrow or the day after, it may as easily be deserted.’
‘Not while Westfield’s Men offer their plays.’
‘And how much longer will that be?’
‘As long as we keep our reputation in good repair.’
‘The law will not permit it, Master Bracewell.’
‘What law?’
Marwood seized on his cue. ‘While you performed here, I watched another tragedy unfolding. While you rejoiced in the numbers of spectators, I quailed before numbers of a different order. Do you know where I have been, sir?’
‘Tell me,’ encouraged Nicholas.
‘To Clerkenwell. To visit a sick aunt of mine. Word came that she was grievously ill and like to die. I thought that old age had at last caught up with her and went to pay my last respects.’ The memory activated two more nervous twitches on his face. ‘Do you know what I found?’
‘The lady was already dead?’
‘Her house was boarded up.’
Nicholas blenched. ‘Another plague victim?’
‘One of three in the same street,’ wailed Marwood. ‘I ran away on the instant lest I should contract the disease myself. It is closing in on us again. When plague victims reach the required number, the edict will be signed. All theatres, bear-baiting arenas and other places of public assembly will be closed down so that the infection will not spread.’ He snatched off his hat and beat his thigh with it. ‘I will be ruined, Master Bracewell. No plays, no profit. This plague will sever the Queen’s Head like an executioner’s axe.’ He bared his blackened teeth in a fearsome grin. ‘You are looking at a corpse.’
Nicholas was at once alarmed and relieved, dismayed at the news but grateful that he had intercepted Marwood before the landlord could rush into the taproom to blurt out his doom-laden intelligence. Plague was an ever-present menace for the London theatre companies, and it had more than once swept Westfield’s Men from their stage and sent them touring the provinces in search of an audience. Nicholas was only too aware of the latest outbreak, but he did not realise that it was already reaching such proportions. Summer lay ahead and the warmer weather would only exacerbate the problem.
There was genuine cause for concern, but Nicholas would at least be able to pass on the warning to his colleagues in a calm and reasonable way. Alexander Marwood would only scatter panic and despondency among them. They needed to be spared that. The book-holder took the trembling landlord by his bony shoulders.
‘Say nothing of this to my fellows,’ he insisted.
‘But they have a right to know that they will soon be flung into abject poverty.’
‘That is a possibility they live with every day. This profession has enough hazards without your adding another prematurely. Besides, it will not advantage your purse.’
Marwood started. ‘My purse?’
‘Yes,’ continued Nicholas. ‘Charge in there to publish your tidings and you will empty the taproom at once. Is that your intention? To deprive yourself of custom before such a circumstance is forced upon you? Your good lady would not approve of that.’
Seized by a paroxysm of fear, Marwood twisted out of his grasp. Nicholas reinforced his argument.
‘Make hay while the sun shines,’ he urged. ‘Do not wish black clouds upon us before they are ready to come. While our plays are still free of any plague edict, do all you can to entice more people into your yard and your taproom. What you take from them now will serve to see you through leaner times ahead. Exploit the goodwill of your customers. Nurture them.’
Marwood pondered. ‘This is wise counsel,’ he said at length. ‘But my wife must be told the truth.’
‘Save it for the privacy of the bedchamber.’
‘That has already been afflicted with the plague,’ said the landlord under his breath. He spoke aloud. ‘I’ll break the news to my wife but school her to keep it close for the few days that may remain to us. Master Firethorn must also hear this dire intelligence. I’ll to him straight.’
‘That will be my office,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘I am on my way to him even now. Leave Master Firethorn to me and simply convey your message to your good lady.’
The prospect made Marwood emit a mad laugh before he went trotting off down the corridor. Having come from an aged aunt whose house had been boarded up, he was now going to a flinty wife whose heart, mind and body had been shut tight against him for many a long year. His marriage was murder by slow degrees.
Nicholas faced a less daunting interview, but it was one that he was dreading. He now had a double blow to deliver.
***
Lawrence Firethorn paced the room restlessly, ducking under its central oak beam every time he passed it. Having divested himself of his armour and helmet, he had left his sword with George Dart so that the pig’s blood could be washed from its blade. A few minutes before, a mirror had enabled the actor to comb out his beard and adjust his apparel to best effect. He then adjourned to the private room and awaited the visitation of an angel from a foreign land.
A tap on the door made him strike a dramatic pose.
‘Enter!’ he cooed in his most mellifluous tone.
The door opened and he bowed submissively low to greet the newcomer, reaching out to take her hand in order to bestow a kiss upon it. When he found himself staring at the broad fingers of Nicholas Bracewell, he jumped back with such a start that he banged his head on the low beam.
‘Where is she, Nick?’ he howled.
‘I will come to that in a moment,’ said Nicholas, closing the door behind him. ‘First, there’s more important news.’
‘Nothing is more important than her. And me. And us!’
‘I met with the landlord on my way back to you.’
‘That ghoul?’
‘He brings sad tidings.’
‘When did the vile rogue bring anything else?’ snarled Firethorn. ‘Away with that leprous knave! I’ll have none of him. Why talk of a cadaver like Marwood when I wish to hear about my beloved?’
‘There are other cadavers to make us pause.’
‘What say you?’
Nicholas was brisk. ‘Our landlord visited a sick aunt in Clerkenwell and found her dying of the plague. The third victim in her street. In diverse parts of the city, there have been several more. The numbers climb towards an edict.’
‘Close the theatres! That is sacrilege.’
‘It is a sound precautionary measure.’
‘Where is the soundness in throwing us out on the streets to beg? I’ll not be silenced, Nick. I’ll not have my company smothered to death by process of law! Lord Westfield will intercede on our behalf.’
‘Even his intercession will not preserve us.’
‘A plague on this plague!’ roared Firethorn, pounding the oak table with his fist. ‘Has it not already taken sufficient toll of us? It has hounded us out of London before. And I have not forgotten the time when it lay in wait to expel us from Oxford. They actually paid us not to play. It was insulting!’