‘One day we’ll play before the Queen,’ he said proudly. ‘You’ll not fill buckets for Her Majesty. But when we take London by storm, we’ll be able to piss gold!’
Two more days of cancelled public appearances confirmed many suspicions and inflamed much debate. Queen Elizabeth was seriously ill. None of her physicians was ready to admit this openly but none could be found to deny it absolutely. Their silence was disturbing. Equally revealing was the brusque attitude of Burghley, the Lord Treasurer, a wise old statesman whose long partnership with his sovereign had been largely responsible for the stability of her government. A man of great judgement and with a rare ability to master the complex issues of the day, Lord Burghley was a person whose high sense of duty was tinged with real affection for his Queen. She, in turn, relied upon his acumen and his sagacity. It was no wonder that she called him ‘my Spirit’ for his counsel informed nearly all that she said or did. When this paragon remained tight-lipped, therefore, trouble was very definitely in the wind. When a supreme politician like Burghley was for once bereft of words, then he sensed the death of his own career as well. Now over seventy, racked by gout, he was on the verge of extinction.
The woman at the centre of the crisis did nothing to dispel it. Locked in her private apartments and enclosed by a wall of secrecy, she dwindled towards a death that seemed more inevitable with each new day. The passing of any monarch was a cause for national mourning but the imminent demise of Queen Elizabeth would be a tragedy of far greater moment. Her rule had produced one of the finest and most fruitful periods in her country’s history, at once overshadowing what came before and giving promise to what lay ahead. When she went, a potent symbol of England’s glory would fade away. Nobody could replace her but the need to have a successor in readiness now became even more pressing.
The Earl of Banbury sought elucidation on the matter.
‘How do we stand, sir?’ he said.
‘In good order. Negotiations have been started and they have already brought in good results.’
‘Do we have firm promises?’
‘Firm promises from stout fellows. Powerful names are supporting our cause. Others will follow in their wake.’
‘Then money has been well spent.’
‘Favours of all kinds have been used to effect.’
Banbury was ruthless. ‘We must stop at nothing here.’
‘Nor shall we,’ said his companion grimly.
They were standing in the dining room at Croxley Hall. Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, was playing host to his inner circle of friends. First to arrive was the Earl of Banbury who was eager to know what progress their schemes had made. Some of the most influential members of the court had declared their support and he nodded with satisfaction as their names were listed. Others gave tacit approval to the machinations without committing themselves to the risk of direct involvement. It was the Earl of Chichester’s last campaign and he was determined to be on the winning side. They had chosen the next sovereign and now faced the far more daunting task of securing the succession.
‘Have letters been exchanged?’ asked Banbury eagerly.
‘You will see them all, sir.’
‘The strength of our loyalty is fully understood?’
‘Do not fear,’ said the old soldier, tossing his silver mane. ‘We will receive ample recompense from the throne.’
‘You must speak in person to the heir.’
‘I depart from London tomorrow.’
‘Nothing should be left to chance, Roger.’
‘That is why I will take you on the long journey.’
‘My help is yours to call upon.’
‘There is another reason why you must ride with me.’
‘Well?’
‘Your presence has been requested.’
The Earl of Banbury gave a smile of self-congratulation that graduated into a full-blown chuckle. Next day, on the vital embassy north, he would not simply be there to lend his weight to the Master of Ordnance. He would be answering a direct summons by the new monarch. It was a sign.
A restorative night in the arms of Anne Hendrik helped to sustain him throughout a long day. Nicholas Bracewell had no time to rest in the service of Westfield’s Men. His work began early with the erection of the stage in the yard at the Queen’s Head. The rehearsal of Black Antonio occupied him for most of the morning and it left him with a fund of problems to solve before the performance that afternoon. A letter then arrived for him by messenger and he took time off to unseal it. As he did so, a small silver object fell out and only the speed of his hand saved it from landing on the ground. It was a tiny picture of Sebastian Carrick in a silver frame and it touched off some more painful memories for him. The miniature was the work of a mediocre artist but it offered an acceptable likeness of its subject and caught something of his suave vitality. Nicholas saw that the letter was from Marion Carrick who put practical help before a cloying bereavement. Hoping that the miniature might be of assistance to him, she enjoined the book holder to take especial care of something which was even more precious to her now that her brother was dead. He accepted the charge willingly and was grateful to her.
Lawrence Firethorn now became his major anxiety. After his triumph at The Rose, the actor had at least managed to learn the name of his new beloved — Beatrice Capaldi — and he had been repeating it to himself ever since in a variety of sweet tones. Unfortunately, her name was all that George Dart had been able to glean, except for the fact that she was a lady of some distinction with a coach in attendance. As was his wont in such matters, Firethorn brought Nicholas into action, urging him to mark and track the mystery figure on her next appearance in the audience. But that appearance had not as yet been made. Though Firethorn selected two plays which showed him off to best advantage — The Loyal Subject and Pompey the Great — she did not watch either and he was left in ruins. Black Antonio was a third offering aimed directly at her and he was confident that she would this time be drawn to view his genius. But the play waxed for two whole hours without eliciting one minute of interest from the Mistress Beatrice Capaldi.
Lawrence Firethorn was plunged into desolation.
‘Where is she, Nick?’ he implored.
‘I wish I knew, sir.’
‘Why must she punish me in this way?’
‘Haply, she is detained elsewhere.’
‘How much longer must I suffer?’
‘Put her out of your mind,’ said the book holder.
A gargantuan sigh. ‘But she fills it so completely. I am half the man I was when she is not here.’
It was true. Roles in which Firethorn customarily shone had been played with little more than competence. Three times in a row he had disappointed a following which had come to expect Olympian standards from him. Nicholas was distinctly alarmed. The roving lust of Lawrence Firethorn always had an invigorating effect on his performances but this latest fancy was having a destructive impact. A hideous truth had to be faced. Firethorn was in love. Westfield’s Men were bearing the brunt of this phenomenon.
‘I want my Beatrice!’ wailed the actor.
‘We have no means of reaching her, sir.’
‘Help me, Nick. Track this temptress down.’
‘She may already have quit London.’
‘Perish the thought!’ cried Firethorn in anguish. ‘If that be so then I am shipwrecked. There must be a way to bring her back to me. There has to be a key to unlock her ice-cold heart so that it will admit me. Be my saviour yet again, Nick. Where is that way? What is that key?’
‘Play Love’s Sacrifice once more.’
It was a random suggestion but it transformed Firethorn in a flash. His body stiffened, his chest swelled, his face coloured, his eyes sparkled, his hope was a tidal wave that washed all before it. The drama which had brought him and Beatrice Capaldi together would be the agency of their reunion. Though it was not due to be staged again for over a week, he would change the agreed programme in order to put Love’s Sacrifice on as soon as possible. Nicholas proffered the advice in all innocence. He was not to know how much potential damage he had just done to Westfield’s Men.