At the climax of his act, Gant shot the horse dead and put a bullet into the heart of everyone there. Nimbus expired with such realism that a hushed silence fell upon the yard, broken only by the sobbing of women and the cry of a terrified child. The horse stayed motionless long enough to gain full pity and instil full pain then it leapt to its feet again and danced a merry jig. Pandemonium ensued from the massive swirl of emotions that took place.
The hat of Cornelius Gant had never been filled so quickly and so generously. He collected five times what he had paid the landlord in rent. Marwood was dumbfounded. The performance had brought thirsty mouths into his yard and nimble servingmen had sold a large quantity of ale to the spectators. Nimbus had been a sound investment. There had been none of the dreadful risks associated with Westfield’s Men. One man and a horse had been a drama in themselves.
Gant stressed the fact with a valedictory message.
‘Thank you, my friends!’ he shouted. ‘You have seen a king at the Queen’s Head today. Nimbus has taken the stage from your famous Lawrence Firethorn. I ask you this — who needs an ass of an actor when you have a horse of wonder!’
Alexander Marwood gave a disenchanted smirk.
Nicholas Bracewell had more than his usual cargo of worries at The Theatre that day. Having arranged the transfer of scenery, costumes and property from the Queen’s Head then supervised a rather fraught rehearsal of Love’s Sacrifice, he had to soothe troubled actors, castigate wayward stagekeepers and check that everything was in readiness for the afternoon performance. A hundred minor decisions had to be taken, then enforced, a thousand voices seemed to be calling his name and imploring his advice. But it was the additional anxieties which pressed most heavily upon the book holder.
Chief among these was Lawrence Firethorn who ordered the change of play to accommodate his romantic hopes. The significance of the event made him tense and capricious. He swung crazily between extremes of behaviour and Westfield’s Men suffered as much from his rampant affability as from his fierce and undiscriminating rage. Nicholas worked at full stretch to stop arguments, prevent bloodshed and limit the damage to company morale. Beatrice Capaldi was exerting an influence upon the actor-manager that was highly dangerous and it had to be countered in some way. The book holder tried hard to understand why that influence was linked to this particular play.
Love’s Sacrifice was a triumph underscored by much unhappiness. Behind the cheers it brought at The Rose and at the Queen’s Head were some unpleasant facts. The play soured relations within the company. It led to the eviction of Owen Elias and, in turn, to his defection to Banbury’s Men. It was now a duet between a lovesick actor and a mystery woman. It had also become the opening salvo in a propaganda battle that was being waged by their patron. Most unsettling of all to Nicholas, it contained a role that had been especially written for Sebastian Carrick. It was an association that haunted the book holder. Every time he worked on the play, he saw the dead body of his friend on the slab at the morgue. Every time he heard the controversial funeral speech, it was a requiem for his lost colleague.
‘Nicholas! Nicholas!’
‘Yes, Master Gill?’
‘Rescue us from certain catastrophe.’
‘What is the matter, sir?’
‘Why, Lawrence,’ said Barnaby Gill in terror. ‘He is smiling at us. He is prowling the tiring-house like some grisly Priapus and grinning. That hideous smile will undo us all. That amorous grin will fright us into imbecility!’
As the performance neared, tempers became more frayed. Gill was the first of many who needed a soft word and a reassuring compliment. Edmund Hoode’s concern was for the integrity of his text.
‘It is no longer my play, Nick!’ he complained.
‘Nothing can dim its quality.’
‘Lines have been cut, scenes moved, characters altered and songs inserted, all to please this creature who has ensnared Lawrence. He has made me write loving couplets which he can throw to her like bouquets of roses.’ Hoode folded his arms in annoyance. ‘I’ll not change another word of Love’s Sacrifice. There have been sacrifices enough.’
‘The drama will still shine through, Edmund.’
‘But it will not be mine!’
‘Your talent improves everything you touch.’
‘I would dearly like to improve Lawrence with a touch from a club had not this fatal lady already dashed out his brains.’ He grasped his friend’s arm. ‘Who is she? What is her purpose here? We must find out more about her!’
Nicholas had reached that conclusion some time ago.
‘We will,’ he said.
Anne Hendrik was given a double duty that afternoon. She was to accompany Marion Carrick to the performance in Shoreditch and she was to take up a seat that enabled her to keep a certain member of the audience under surveillance. Nicholas Bracewell had been accurate in his prediction. The dark and enigmatic Beatrice Capaldi swept into her favoured position in the middle of the lower gallery and stirred up a flurry of male interest. Anne had already selected a place at the same level but directly above the stage. She was thus able to look back around the circle of benches to make her own valuation of the lady.
Beatrice Capaldi was indeed striking and her beauty owed far more to nature than to any cosmetic aids. She held herself like a foreign princess, treating all the admiring glances and fulsome compliments that she gathered with autocratic contempt. As Anne Hendrik studied her, an ignoble thought flashed into her mind but she repudiated it with blushing speed and moved on to appraise the resplendent attire. As on the previous occasions, Beatrice Capaldi was there to see and be seen. She wore a dress of white silk that was bordered with tiny pearls and half covered by a mantle of black silk shot with silver threads. Both sleeves and skirt were explosions of black and white but it was the hat which was the real focus of interest.
Marriage to Jacob Hendrik had taught Anne a great deal about hatmaking and running her husband’s business had widened that education considerably. She worked exclusively in the Dutch style to produce small hoods of lawn that were worn with an under-cap. Beatrice Capaldi, by contrast, opted for a hat in the Spanish fashion, tall-crowned but brimless and decorated with jewellery around the lower part. Its most startling ornamentation was a high-standing ostrich feather that was fastened in position with more precious stones. Anne Hendrik set a price on the hat and realised that it cost more than her entire wardrobe. What thrilled her was that she noticed idiosyncratic features which threw a name straight back at her.
She knew who had made the hat.
‘I have never been to a playhouse before,’ confessed Marion Carrick. ‘It is so colourful and exciting.’
‘You are brave to venture here at such a time.’
‘I hope it is not unseemly, mistress.’
‘Your brother would surely approve.’
The girl nodded. ‘I mourn his death and it has made me want to know more about his profession. Master Bracewell, who has been so helpful, tells me that Sebastian was to play in Love’s Sacrifice. Curiosity makes me want to see the role that he sadly abandoned.’ She smiled. ‘Master Bracewell also spoke most warmly of you.’
It was Anne’s turn to smile. ‘I am pleased.’
‘He is a good man but he has taken on such a hazardous task on behalf of my family. I fear for his safety.’