Cornelius Gant was a wiry man of middle height, shrunk by age and battered by experience. His apparel was that of a discharged soldier but his piggy eyes and distorted features suggested less honourable employment. Only when he grinned did he look even remotely personable. In gratitude for his handsome performance, however, the crowd ignored his defects of nature and showered him with congratulation. The whole inn buzzed with excited comment. Gant was glad that they had stopped at Coventry. Its welcoming hostelries had given him rich pickings for three days but it was now time to take his horse and its wondrous feats on the next stage of their journey to the capital. It was there in London, in the finest city in Europe, that true fame and fortune lay and nothing less would suffice his vaulting ambition.
Well-wishers sent them off with ringing cheers.
‘Nimbus is the greatest horse alive!’
‘And even greater when he is dead!’
‘It is the most amazing sight that ever I saw.’
‘No heart can resist them.’
‘They will spread merriment wherever they go.’
‘That animal is a gift from God.’
It was left to the waddling publican of the Shepherd and Shepherdess to sum up the feelings of his customers. Gant and Nimbus had not only astounded the onlookers, they had been good for business. Wiping podgy hands on his beer-stained apron, the publican beamed gratefully after the departing guests and gave a knowing chuckle.
‘They will conquer London within a week!’
Lawrence Firethorn was in excellent spirits as he sat back in his chair and savoured the last of the Canary wine in his goblet. Flushed with success after another performance in the title role of Vincentio’s Revenge, he was celebrating his triumph in a private room at the Queen’s Head with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. All three of them were sharers with the company, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for Westfield’s Men and who were thus entitled to a portion of any income. Apprentices were given their keep and a valuable training, hired men — like Sebastian Carrick and Owen Elias — earned a weekly wage but it was the sharers who were the real beneficiaries. Not only did they get their slice of any profits, they also had first claim on the leading parts in any play. Their status was paramount. In the eyes of the law and the regulatory agencies, they were the company and other members of the troupe were merely their employees. Westfield’s Men had ten sharers but its operational decisions were invariably taken by its three senior figures. Lawrence Firethorn dominated that trio.
‘I was in good voice this afternoon,’ he boasted.
‘Too good a voice,’ said Gill testily. ‘You roared the lines like a wounded lion. Speak the speeches as they are written, Lawrence. Do not deafen your fellows with ranting.’
‘The audience worshipped my Vincentio.’
‘So might the rest of London for they must all have heard it. Why must you bellow so much? Even your silence is beset by too much noise.’
‘Tragedy calls for sound!’
‘Your sound was certainly tragic, sir.’
Firethorn bristled. ‘At least I did not whisper my words like an old man muttering into his beard.’
‘I conveyed meaning with every subtle gesture.’
‘It is as well you did not rely on your voice, Barnaby. You sounded like a male varlet plying his foul trade in the stews of Southwark!’
‘I’ll brook no more of this!’ exclaimed Gill, using a quivering fist to pound the table around which they sat. ‘I demand an abject apology.’
‘Demand what you wish. You will get nothing.’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Edmund Hoode wearily as he interrupted yet another of the all-too-frequent arguments between the two men. ‘Both of you gave of your best in Vincentio’s Revenge. I could not fault either performance. Each was soft enough, each was loud enough. Enough of this vain disputation. We have business in hand.’
Gill stood on his dignity. ‘I have been insulted.’
‘And so you will be again, sir,’ said Firethorn. ‘You invite ridicule. If you will hiss like a serpent on stage, we will find you a place in the menagerie at the Tower.’
‘They will lock you in the neighbouring cage for they surely have need of a trumpeting elephant!’
‘Desist, sirs!’ said Hoode, throwing himself between them once again to prevent the elephant from trampling on the serpent and to stop the serpent from wriggling its way up the elephant’s trunk to spit its venom into the brain. ‘This will not serve our cause at all.’
He poured more wine for both of them then gave them even more liberal doses of flattery. They slowly allowed themselves to be soothed and to forget their latest verbal duel. Lawrence Firethorn was the acknowledged leader of the company, a striking man in every way, hugely talented and hugely ambitious, blessed with genius but cursed with the vanity of his profession. Alert, handsome and muscular, he dressed like a gallant in the latest fashion. Barnaby Gill was shorter, older and less well favoured. The established clown, he had an uncanny ability to reduce any audience to hysterical laughter with his comic songs, gestures, dances and facial expressions. Offstage, he was lurking melancholic with a weakness for the society of pretty boys that had made the gibe about a male varlet particularly painful. He chose his apparel with great care but erred on the side of ostentation. Firethorn and Gill might wrestle incessantly in private but they worked in perfect harmony on stage.
One of Edmund Hoode’s primary duties was to sustain that harmony by writing parts in which each man could display his undoubted brilliance. As an actor-playwright, he was required to produce a regular stream of new plays for Westfield’s Men as well as to polish and adapt his earlier work for revival. Unlike the others, Hoode was not ensnared by pride or obsessed with the need to impress. Tall, slim and clean-shaven, he was a gentler soul, a dreamer and a romantic. His pale, round, wide-eyed moon of a face had been shaped to hang in the sky of unrequited love and he had no taste for the strident confrontations beloved by his companions.
Lawrence Firethorn addressed the issue before them.
‘Gentlemen, we seek another sharer,’ he said solemnly. ‘Old Cuthbert is to retire and he must be replaced.’
‘I do not agree,’ said Gill.
‘Wisdom never commended itself to you.’
‘If we lose one of our number, we have a larger slice of the receipts. Old Cuthbert served the company well but he serves it better still by letting us divide up his share.’
‘Put need before greed, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘Ten is a good, round number and we will hold fast to it. So, sirs. Who is to be brought into the fold?’
Hoode was unequivocal. ‘If it were left to me, I would choose Nick Bracewell without a qualm. He is the rock on which Westfield’s Men build their entertainments. Take but him away and we would all be sucked into the quagmire.’
‘Master Bracewell is a mere book holder,’ said Gill petulantly. ‘We must not even consider bestowing such an honour upon him.’
‘If worth held any sway, the honour is his already.’
‘Indeed, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick is pure gold and nobody loves him more or values him higher than I. But he is not, alas, our new sharer. We must look elsewhere.’
‘Outside the company?’ said Gill.
‘Inside,’ said Hoode. ‘It rewards loyalty.’
Firethorn nodded. ‘We promote from within. It breeds goodwill and ensures us a known friend. I think there are but two men in the company whom we should weigh in the balance here. Sebastian Carrick and Owen Elias.’