‘You speak of dangers,’ said Firethorn.
His patron turned to the book holder to cue him in.
‘Tell them, Nicholas. You will know.’
‘But a little, my lord,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘If Her Majesty dies, there will be a disputed succession and many are now rushing forward to take part in that dispute. Each party has its own claimant from whom they expect due return on their devotion. The Earl of Banbury, for instance …’
‘That old fool!’ muttered Firethorn.
‘… has formed an alliance with the Earl of Chichester to advance the cause of Arabella Stuart. Should that lady ever sit on the throne, our rivals are like to be known henceforth as the Queen’s Men.’
The suggestion rocked the three sharers so hard that they all protested and gesticulated in unison. Their patron waved them into a troubled silence.
‘You see, gentlemen?’ he said. ‘Your book holder is more well informed than his masters. He can foresee consequences to this business. That is why I have formed my own alliance. Our chosen successor is King James of Scotland and our party is led by Sir Robert Cecil.’
His listeners were duly impressed. Sir Robert Cecil was Lord Burghley’s son and, despite his physical shortcomings, a most intelligent and able politician. With such a man at the helm, Lord Westfield’s party was indeed well served. At the same time, everyone recognised that the outcome of a disputed succession was highly uncertain. It was Nicholas Bracewell who remembered their patron’s earlier comment.
‘You mentioned wise decisions, my lord …’
‘I did,’ said the other. ‘Every move that you make must promote the company. Every play that you choose must endorse our party. Westfield’s Men must outshine all other troupes and cast those jackals of Banbury’s into outer darkness.’
‘It shall be done!’ announced Firethorn.
‘Where is our next performance, Lawrence?’
‘The Theatre in Shoreditch.’
‘An excellent venue for our purposes.’
‘Then let us stage Cupid’s Folly,’ urged Gill. ‘My Rigormortis will outshine the sun itself.’
Westfield shook his head. ‘No, Barnaby. The play is less than suitable for the gravity of the occasion.’
‘Most certainly, my lord,’ said Firethorn. ‘That is why we have selected Love’s Sacrifice.’
‘It lends itself to our device. Edmund …’
‘My lord?’
‘Look to your text, man. See if you cannot add a speech or two in praise of Queen Elsin. Glorify her reign. Fawn and flatter at will. Let every soul in that theatre know that you speak of our own beloved sovereign.’
‘I’ll do it instantly, my lord.’
‘Lawrence?’
‘My lord?’
‘That funeral oration …’
‘It will be cut entirely.’
‘I’ll not hear of it,’ snapped his patron. ‘It gives us our best opportunity to voice our plans. King Gondar dies. The end of one reign is the start of another. Work subtly here, my fellows. Let that closing speech feed off the sorrow of a nation but make it advertise our intent.’
Firethorn grunted. ‘It shall be done, my lord.’
‘You have such a fine actor to speak the lines.’
‘Owen Elias has left us,’ said Nicholas softly.
‘Yes,’ said Gill, seizing the opportunity to discomfit his colleague. ‘Lawrence expelled him in spite of my earnest entreaties. I fought hard to retain the services of so talented a player.’ He gave a little sigh. ‘The rumour is that Owen Elias has joined Banbury’s Men.’
‘Can this be true?’ demanded the apoplectic Westfield. ‘Answer me, Lawrence! Tell me it is not so!’
‘Well, my lord …’
‘Can you be guilty of such idiocy?’
Lawrence Firethorn had to stand there while his patron openly admonished him. It was humiliating. The actor was given such a verbal roasting that he was reminded with horrible force of his absent wife.
Margery Firethorn had come into her own. A long and boring wait now gave way to frantic activity. She had a new baby to nurture, a sister to care for, a brother-in-law to scold and a house to run. The cloistered calm of Cambridge was hit by the whirlwind of her presence. She bustled through its streets, haggled in its markets, scattered its citizens and terrorised any of its students who strayed into her path. A city that was marked by its Puritan restraint now felt the full impact of her devastating maternalism.
Weak but happy, Agnes Jarrold lay in her bed and raised a pale hand in a gesture of gratitude.
‘You have been very kind, Margery,’ she said.
‘I have done what needs to be done.’
‘We could not have managed without you.’
‘The child is healthy. That is my reward.’
‘Jonathan joins with me in giving thanks.’
‘Your bookworm of a spouse can thank me best by keeping out of my way. Men have no place at such times. Fatherhood is no more than a stupid grin on the face of the foolish.’
‘Do not be so scornful,’ said Agnes tolerantly. ‘Your husband was welcome enough in your bedchamber when your own children were born.’
‘He was far more welcome when they were conceived,’ said Margery with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Present a man with a child and he becomes one himself again.’
‘That is true, sister. Jonathan is a boy of three.’
‘I did not think him so old.’
The baby stirred in its crib and Margery leant over to tuck it in. Tears clouded the mother’s eyes as she looked at her tiny son. After losing two children to the grave, she viewed the survival of the third as a very special blessing. Her sister’s help and brisk affection had been decisive.
‘You must miss Lawrence greatly,’ said Agnes.
‘Only when I look at your husband.’
‘Lawrence must pine for you as well.’
‘I do not delude myself on that score.’
‘His life must be hideously empty without you.’
Margery Firethorn mixed wistfulness with resentment.
‘Lawrence has a way of filling empty spaces …’
Beatrice Capaldi reclined in a chair at the head of the table. She and her guests had dined royally off silver plate and tasted only the finest wines. The gentlemen caressed her with compliments while the ladies envied her poise and her mystery. In a small but select gathering, the hostess was supremely dominant. Beatrice Capaldi lived for display and effect. She savoured the power she could exert over others.
There was a tap on the door and a maidservant came in to whisper something in her ear. She excused herself and got up to sail gracefully across the room and out into the hall. The man who was waiting bowed obsequiously then handed her the playbill which he had taken down from a post in Shoreditch. Dismissing him with a flick of her fingers, she studied what he had brought her and saw that it was an advertisement for a performance of Love’s Sacrifice to be given at The Theatre. Beatrice Capaldi smiled. She had won the desired response from Lawrence Firethorn. While the spectators would be visiting a play, she would be going to a tryst. Preparations would need to be thorough.
‘Summon my dressmaker!’ she ordered.
‘Now, mistress?’ said the maidservant.
‘This instant!’
The same playbill gave Giles Randolph a different message.
‘We have him, Owen!’ he said.
‘Do we, sir?’
‘He plays at The Theatre and we at The Curtain.’
‘Shoreditch will host the two best actors in London.’
‘No,’ corrected Randolph. ‘The Curtain will have that honour. We present Giles Randolph and Lawrence Firethorn.’
Owen Elias understood. ‘The Spanish Jew?’
‘What else, man? The play is everywhere in request. We have but to announce it to fill our theatre. The audience will come to hiss Dr Lopez and mock Firethorn. To have your old employer in Shoreditch on the same afternoon completes my joy. While he struggles to hold attention with Love’s Sacrifice, we’ll cut his reputation to shreds.’ He gave his companion a token embrace. ‘Repeat your ridicule of him, sir. Banbury’s Men will be indebted to you for ever.’