‘Nicholas is well able to look after himself.’
Further conversation was cut short by a blast on a trumpet and the running up of a flag that would flutter above the playhouse for the next two hours. Music sounded and the Prologue came out to garner the first small harvest of applause. Love’s Sacrifice was in motion and Marion Carrick was instantly hypnotised. Anne Hendrik was absorbed as well but that did not prevent her from throwing regular glances in the direction of Beatrice Capaldi. Touched by what her lodger had said about her, she would now be able to reward him handsomely.
Nicholas would be delighted to hear about the hat.
At that moment in time, he was more concerned with the ever-changing series of doublets, cloaks, helmets, dresses, gowns and boots for which the play called. There was scenery to be taken on and offstage as well as countless props to be used and discarded. The commotion behind the scenes was every bit as dramatic as the action which was unfolding before the audience. Nicholas Bracewell coped with his usual imperturbability. He had no qualms about the drama itself. Edmund Hoode might fulminate but Love’s Sacrifice was not ruined in any way by the changes forced upon him. The play was sharper than it had been at The Rose and more assured than at the Queen’s Head. Weak moments in the construction were completely obscured by the driving force of a superb leading actor.
Lawrence Firethorn out-distanced all superlatives. King Gondar reigned supreme. To the burning passion and the wonderful audacity of the earlier performances, he now added a note of supplication that was utterly moving. A peremptory monarch dared to show his vulnerability and it made the character infinitely more appealing. A wholly committed audience who sighed his sighs with him had no idea that his portrayal was aimed at a single spectator or that the faint smile she gave him in the middle of Act Five was worth more than a sustained round of applause to him.
With Queen Elsin in his arms, he slowly expired. Minor emendation by Edmund Hoode enabled the king to utter the operative line directly at the lower gallery.
Our tale of woe will yield this sage advice.
True love requires a true sacrifice.
The final speech was spoken by Hoode himself, swaying with emotion over the stricken lovers and using a reedy tenor voice to declaim his verse. Its cadences lulled the audience, its sentiments delighted Lord Westfield and its soaring beauty finally found a way to the heart of Beatrice Capaldi. The prostrate Firethorn did not need to see her hand brush away the little tear. He sensed it immediately. At the third attempt, King Gondar had won her over.
No corpse went off to a royal grave in higher spirits.
The Earl of Banbury was equally pleased with his afternoon at a playhouse in Shoreditch. Seated beside Roger Godolphin at The Curtain, he saw The Spanish Jew whip the spectators up into a paroxysm of hatred that was then softened by some wicked comedy. Lopez was denounced and Lawrence Firethorn was maligned but nobody paused to question the justice of it all. Giles Randolph assassinated the former physician while Owen Elias derided his former employer. The topicality of the piece was greater than ever now and new material had been worked in to extol the virtues of rule by a queen. If Elizabeth was on the point of death, it was expedient to smooth the path of her chosen successor. Banbury’s Men were skilful practitioners. While entertaining the citizenry of London, they also contrived to blacken the reputation of a foreign doctor, besmirch the name of an outstanding actor and offer a telling political argument.
As the spectators poured out of the theatre in animated discussion, they knew they had had a very special experience. The Spanish Jew was much more than a good play. It was a tract for the times and a symbol of the undoubted supremacy of Banbury’s Men. In the dynastic struggle between rival claimants, Giles Randolph had finally emerged victorious. He was the uncrowned king of London theatre.
Unaware of his enforced abdication, Lawrence Firethorn went boldly into a private room at The Theatre for what he knew would be one of the critical encounters of his life. She was waiting for him. The invitation which Nicholas Bracewell had borne to her immediately after the performance had elicited the response for which Firethorn had prayed. He and Beatrice Capaldi at last stood face to face. The beauty which had mesmerised him from a distance was quite intoxicating at close quarters and his senses reeled. He recovered to give her a deep and respectful bow. It was only then that he noticed that they were not alone. A female companion waited quietly in a corner with her face hidden discreetly behind a fan. Her presence did not inhibit Firethorn. As the gloved hand of Beatrice Capaldi was extended towards him, he took it between gentle fingers to place the softest of kisses upon it. Beaming with gratitude, he bowed again.
‘You do me the greatest honour!’ he said.
‘The honour is mine, sir,’ she replied in a voice which had the most tantalising hint of an Italian accent. ‘It was a privilege to watch your performance this afternoon.’
‘It was wholly dedicated to you.’
‘That is a compliment I will cherish.’
‘Dear lady,’ said Firethorn, dispensing with the formal niceties. ‘Will you dine with me today?’
‘Unhappily, I may not, sir.’
‘Tomorrow, then? Or the next day after that?’
‘It is not appropriate,’ she said demurely.
He was crestfallen. ‘May I never entertain you?’
Beatrice Capaldi gave a signal to her companion and the latter moved across to open the door. Her mistress glided over until she was framed in the daylight beyond.
‘I would see you again, Master Firethorn,’ she said with studied affection. ‘Let us meet on Saturday.’
‘Name but the time and place.’
‘I have a barge that will take us down the river to Chelsea. We may spend the whole afternoon together.’
‘My cup of joy spills over …’
‘Word will be sent of the precise arrangements.’
‘I’ll not sleep till it arrives.’ He was about to give his third bow when hard fact intruded. ‘One moment here. On Saturday next, I am contracted to play with Westfield’s Men.’
‘I had hoped you would prefer to dally with me, sir.’
‘Of course, of course …’
‘Then there is no more to be said.’
‘But I cannot let my company down in this way.’
‘Would you rather betray me, sir?’
‘No, dear lady. My loyalty is adamantine proof.’
‘It seems not,’ she observed tartly. ‘You may strut upon a stage any day of any week. My barge is not for general hire, I assure you. Let me test this devotion of which you speak. If it be sincere, float on the Thames with me this coming Saturday.’
‘It would be a voyage to paradise!’
‘Not if you prefer the demands of your calling.’
Firethorn was in pain. ‘Westfield’s Men rely on me …’
‘I had thought to do the same, sir.’
‘My presence would be sorely missed.’
‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’
Beatrice Capaldi looked deep into his eyes to reinforce her meaning. With a gracious smile that took all resistance from him, she then turned on her heel and went out swiftly. Her companion followed and pulled the door shut. Lawrence Firethorn remained immobile for several minutes. He was overwhelmed by the interview. Beatrice Capaldi was the most remarkable woman he had ever met and his pursuit of her made all else in his life irrelevant. The air was still charged with her fragrance and he inhaled it with sensual nostrils. A leisurely journey to Chelsea in a private barge was a promise of earthly bliss. Westfield’s Men vanished from his concerns as he called silently after the departed goddess.
‘I am yours, my love …’
Marion Carrick was in a quandary. The conflicting emotions which she had brought to The Theatre that afternoon had been stirred up even more by a compelling drama and she now found herself in a state of complete ambivalence. Respect for a dead brother obliged her to remain at home with a grief that could only be relieved by daily visits to church but the urge to find out more about Sebastian was too strong. Love’s Sacrifice made her weep, laugh, sigh, fear and tremble with sheer excitement. Her first visit to a playhouse taught her a great deal about her brother but even more about herself.