Nicholas quickly shifted the argument to other ground.
‘King Gondar will need his funeral speech,’ he said.
‘So?’
‘Owen Elias must be wooed back.’
‘Never! The villain has been exiled.’
‘He will go elsewhere for employment, sir.’
‘Let the rogue!’
‘Even if he joins Banbury’s Men?’
‘The best place for him,’ said Firethorn scornfully. ‘A snake will be at home in a nest of vipers. Of one thing you may be certain, Nick.’ He drew himself up to his full height and spat the words out with venom. ‘Owen Elias will never again share a stage with Lawrence Firethorn!’
Giles Randolph sank once more into a vat of boiling oil at The Curtain and sent the audience into a frenzy of applause. The Spanish Jew had been given a spurious topicality by the turn of events and the resident playwright with Banbury’s Men had exploited the coincidence by adding some new scenes and speeches to the piece. Not only did the play excoriate all moneylenders and all Jews, it more clearly identified its central character with Dr Roderigo Lopez and implied a link between his knowledge of poisons and the continuing sickness of the Queen. Giles Randolph was as brilliant as ever but he now excited more hatred than amusement. The play had taken on a distinctly sinister and biting edge.
Humour was by no means expunged from The Spanish Jew. In the role of the Governor — chief adversary and scourge of the villain — Owen Elias managed to combine authority with comic daring. His authority flowed naturally from his stage presence but the humour arose from another source. Seasoned playgoers recognised his impersonation at once. Instead of giving a straight reading of the part, the Welshman mimicked the way that Lawrence Firethorn would have addressed it and the result was uncannily accurate. In appearance, voice and gesture, he was Firethorn to the last detail and the force of his mockery was irresistible. The packed audience at The Curtain was reduced to uncontrollable laughter. As his rival was turned into a figure of fun, Giles Randolph prospered accordingly. Everyone leaving the theatre thought him to be the greatest actor alive.
Lawrence Firethorn was mistaken. Owen Elias had shared a stage with him, after all.
Three more faultless performances in three carefully chosen inn yards had elevated the status of Cornelius Gant and Nimbus. They offered quality entertainment that appealed to a wide spectrum of people and word continued to spread. To give his horse a well-earned rest, Gant decided to explore some of the alternative diversions in the city and he was drawn ineluctably across the river and into Paris Garden. Stairs gave access from the Thames to this notorious place of amusement which abounded in trees, bushes, fishponds and illicit assignations. Cornelius Gant joined the crowd which converged on the wooden amphitheatre. Over a thousand spectators were crammed into the circular gamehouse for an afternoon’s sport. Having paid his twopence, Gant secured a prime place in the lower gallery. He missed nothing.
The audience was in a boisterous mood before the entertainment began but it became much more vocal when the first bear was led in. The animal’s legs were fastened to a stout post by thick chains, enabling it to move no more than a few yards in each direction. When the bearward stepped out of the arena, howling mastiffs were released to bait the hapless creature. They moved in swiftly to snap at its legs or lunge at its body or jump for its throat. Sharp teeth sank into thick fur and blood flowed freely. With the crowd yelling them on, the dogs increased the ferocity of their attack and the bear incurred deep wounds as it tried to fight them off. Its brute strength eventually began to tell. Flashing claws opened one dog up, snapping teeth tore the head off another and a third was crushed to death in a hug. As the carcasses were tossed to the ground, fresh mastiffs came in to take their place and renew the assault.
Cornelius Gant was appalled. Cruel and uncaring in many ways, he had a love of dumb animals that was deeply offended by what was happening. Almost as bad as the bestiality in the ring was the baying satisfaction of the multitude. It was all a far cry from the harmless antics of a well-trained horse and a considerate master.
When the first bear was white with lather and dripping with gore, it was taken out by the bearward. Whining dogs were dragged out on leashes to tick their wounds and rue any tactical errors. The new bear that was brought in had been blinded by its owner to provide another kind of sport for the bawling spectators. Chained to the post, the animal was faced by a semicircle of six men who were each armed with a long whip. On a given command, they began to beat the bear unmercifully, splitting open its flesh with patent relish as they piled torment on torment. All that it could do by way of defence was to lurch out at its hidden attackers and make the post shudder with its rattling chains. Cornelius Gant was even more horrified at this spectacle but he gained some consolatory pleasure when one of the men slipped, rolled in close to the bear and had his face ripped away with one savage cuff from the huge claws.
The popularity of the hideous entertainment could not be denied and it was not aimed at the vulgar taste of the lower sort. People from all classes of society were present and Gant saw shrieking ladies on the arms of their gallants as well as powdered punks being fondled by their clients. If he was shocked by the treatment of the bears, he was even more revolted by what followed. As a last sop to the bloodlust of the crowd, a pony was chased into the ring with a monkey tied to its back. The pony scurried around in a circle of pain as its rider bit, gouged and pulled at its mane but the monkey was the least of its problems. More dogs poured in to bite at the slender legs as they went faster and faster around the arena. Laughter and jeers sent the pony into an even deeper panic as it ran madly towards a vicious fate.
It was still vainly trying to shake off its pursuers as Cornelius Gant stalked out of the building in disgust.
Lord Westfield always took a keen interest in the fortunes of his theatre company but events in the royal household made that interest even more intense. Having watched a rousing performance of Hector of Troy at the Queen’s Head that afternoon, he repaired to his private room with a small entourage to partake of refreshment and to discuss plans for the future with the leading sharers. The noble gentleman might be vain and sybaritic but he was shrewd enough to discern the hand that worked so hard and so efficiently in the cause of Westfield’s Men. As a result, Nicholas Bracewell was invited to join the gathering and he hovered on its fringes. Lawrence Firethorn, restored to his best form by a message of love, lapped up the compliments and flirted gently with the two young ladies in the room. Barnaby Gill preened himself in a corner and Edmund Hoode lurked silently. There was a deal of idle chatter but Lord Westfield was the only person who was saying anything of value.
‘This illness of Her Majesty is inopportune,’ he said.
‘For whom?’ asked Firethorn.
‘Why, for Her Majesty, of course,’ risked Gill with a wicked grin that was instantly replaced by a mask of deep loyalty. ‘I respect our dear Queen as much as any man in the kingdom and I pray daily for her quick recovery.’
‘That may or may not come,’ said Westfield. ‘And we have to take the latter possibility into account. A change of monarch will mean a change of attitude towards the theatre. I would not want my company to be jeopardised.’
‘Indeed, no,’ agreed Firethorn with alarm.
‘What may we usefully do?’ said Gill.
‘We carry your name with honour,’ added Hoode.
Lord Westfield nodded. ‘I hope that you will continue to do so, Edmund, but dangers lie ahead. It needs cautious diplomacy on my part and some wise decisions on yours.’