They turned around to take a last look at the building. Even from that distance and even in its incomplete state, it was a superb piece of architecture. Its scope was quite stunning and its boldness of line echoed the temperament of its creator. Bess of Hardwick was well into her sixties. This latest obsession would surely occupy her remaining years to the full.
The Earl of Chichester gave a throaty laugh.
‘We are the true architects here,’ he boasted.
‘Are we?’
‘Bess only builds a house.’
‘What do we create, Roger?’
‘A kingdom!’
Lawrence Firethorn could not believe his drink-blurred eyes. As he held the letter close to the candle, he read the words a dozen times to be sure of their meaning and confident of their authorship. He was downing another goblet of Canary wine with Barnaby Gill when the messenger sought him out in the taproom at the Queen’s Head. Fumbling fingers broke the seal and six words effected his metamorphosis.
‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’
It was a message from Beatrice Capaldi and its import made him laugh with joy before banging the table impulsively with his fist. Barnaby Gill grabbed his own goblet as it danced its way across the vibrating timber.
‘Hold steady!’ he yelled.
‘She has spoken, Barnaby!’
‘Then close her mouth at once.’
‘Beatrice wants me! Beatrice needs me!’
‘Play this mad scene somewhere else, sir.’
‘Look!’ said Firethorn, thrusting the letter at him. ‘What else can these words mean? She invites me!’
Gill gave the paper a disdainful glance before issuing one of his contemptuous snorts. ‘This woman is like all others of her kind, Lawrence,’ he said. ‘She is the highway to damnation.’
‘No, Barnaby. She is the road to Elysium.’
‘Turn back while there is still time, man.’
‘See what she asks for — true sacrifice?’
‘You have already sacrificed your wits and your wilting codpiece to her! Do not sacrifice your company as well.’
‘Beatrice calls to me!’
‘Listen to your friends instead.’
‘A true sacrifice! Do you not understand?’
‘Only too well, sir!’
Firethorn read the letter again to extract its command. The true sacrifice was the play which had twice brought his Beatrice to him. She was now ordering a third performance as King Gondar. That was the way to win her heart. Beatrice had only refused to dine with him in order to whet his appetite. When she was given further proof of his love, he believed, she would submit herself to his wildest demands. Firethorn waved the letter above his head like the captured flag of a beaten enemy. His decision was immediate.
‘We must alter our plans for The Theatre.’
‘No!’ Gill was horrified.
‘Love’s Sacrifice must be staged again.’
‘Not in Shoreditch!’ protested the other. ‘Our agreed choice is Cupid’s Folly.’
‘It will be replaced.’
‘This is cruelty, Lawrence!’
‘Beatrice has spoken.’
‘Think with your brain and not with your pizzle!’
‘We play Love’s Sacrifice.’
Gill stamped a petulant foot. ‘Cupid’s Folly!’
‘A ragged piece that we can well neglect.’
‘I was promised!’
‘Beatrice must not be denied.’
The rank injustice of it all made Gill shake with fury. It was not often that they performed at The Theatre and it was even rarer for his favourite play to be presented there. Cupid’s Folly was a rumbustious comedy which allowed Gill a starring role as Rigormortis and set him above all other stage clowns. To have the play cancelled was bad enough: to see it callously replaced by a drama in which Firethorn took all the plaudits was a professional wound that would fester in perpetuity. Gill’s bitter hatred of the female sex was exacerbated but his complaints went unheard.
‘Would you rob me of my Cupid’s Folly?’ he cried.
‘I simply ask you to give it up for me, Barnaby.’
‘No, no, no!’
Firethorn slipped an avuncular arm around him.
‘True love requires a true sacrifice …’
Owen Elias still had vestigal doubts about his move to another company. Banbury’s Men gave him an important supporting role in a new play that was staged at The Curtain before an appreciative audience but the experience did not wipe away all his reservations. Employment was a boon for which he was deeply grateful even though he did not yet know how it had come about. Giles Randolph enlightened him.
‘Tomorrow, we play The Spanish Jew.’
‘It is much talked about, Master Randolph.’
‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘and it will cause even more conversation now. This sickness of Her Majesty has put the name of Dr Lopez on every tongue. I have but to appear on stage in his guise and they love to revile me.’
‘What part will I take?’ said Elias.
‘The Governor of the city.’ He handed the Welshman a sheaf of papers. ‘Here are the sides for you to study.’
‘It feels like a weighty role.’
‘It is indeed, Owen.’
‘How must I play it?’
‘There you come to the heart of the matter.’
Giles Randolph could hardly contain his mirth as he whispered his instructions. Puzzled at first, Owen Elias soon came to see the virtues in what was being suggested to him. The Spanish Jew would give him more than a challenging role. It would help him to settle an old score.
The two men were soon helpless with laughter.
The long years spent in the exclusive company of actors had rubbed off on Nicholas Bracewell. A book holder had to cope with all manner of emergency and there had been a number of occasions when he had made impromptu appearances on stage himself in minor roles. He enjoyed these brief excursions enough to feel confident of his ability to deceive. If not a true actor, he had learnt how to look, speak and move on a stage. These skills now had a practical application.
‘Will you buy me a drink, sir?’
‘Order what you wish.’
‘Then I’ll begin with a kiss.’
‘As many as you like.’
Nicholas had returned to the Pickt-hatch in Clerkenwell that night. Dressed like a gallant, hair and beard trimmed by a barber, he was able to gain entry without being recognised. Peg, who had entertained him on his first visit, now thought she was blandishing an entirely different client. He bought wine for them both and used a slurred voice to hide his distinctive West Country burr. By hunching his shoulders, he altered the whole shape of his body. Bess Bidgood had been fooled by the disguise and Peg was equally taken in.
‘Will you climb the stairs with me, sir?’ she said.
‘Soon, mistress. Very soon.’
‘Will you let me please you?’
‘In every way that you choose.’
Peg giggled. ‘I’ll not disappoint you, sir.’
Nicholas exchanged mild banter with her while keeping the room under careful observation. It was full of raucous noise as other gallants sported with other courtesans. There was drinking, gambling, singing and frank groping. Couples would occasionally totter off upstairs but they would soon be replaced by returning pairs. There was a limit to how long Nicholas could maintain his surveillance. His purse was not large enough to sustain endless purchase of wine and he would not be able to keep Peg at bay indefinitely. He was fast approaching the moment when he would have to feign vomiting in order to escape from the premises when he was given additional proof that he was in the right place.
There was a thunderous clatter as a young gallant came tumbling down the stairs. It brought a jeer from his fellows but no sympathy. Nicholas crossed to help the drunken youth up and found him relatively unharmed. Carrying his doublet over his arm, the gallant was wearing a white shirt above his hose. Even in the gloom, Nicholas could see the streaks of blood down the back of the shirt and his curiosity quickened at once.