Banbury scratched his head. ‘William Paulet?’
‘The only one. Marquess of Winchester and now dead.’
‘And if Arabella comes to the throne …?’
‘When, sir,’ corrected his friend. ‘When Queen Arabella is crowned, I look for a dukedom.’
As he was speaking, the old man’s eyes never left the messenger who was admitted at the far end of the room, spoke with the steward and was then motioned towards the head of the table. The newcomer bowed and delivered his message in a whisper, confirming it with a letter. The Earl of Chichester broke the seal to read the contents as the banter around the table gradually ceased and everyone turned to watch him. A hefty bribe had finally delivered a result. The letter was from one of the Queen’s own physicians.
The host did not need to call for silence. They were all anxious to hear the latest development and to be given reassurance that they had backed the right side.
‘Word from the Palace, sirs,’ said Chichester. ‘Her Majesty is fighting for her life but sinking fast. If the fever does not break soon, she will die by Saturday.’
Communal sadness, relief and joy in one word.
Saturday!
Though there was no performance that afternoon, Nicholas Bracewell still had a full working day. After the early morning fracas at Lawrence Firethorn’s house, he went back to the Queen’s Head to set his staff in motion. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, was ordered to make new costumes, Nathan Curtis, the master-carpenter, was commissioned to build some new scenic devices, Thomas Skillen, the stagekeeper, was told to buy fresh rushes to spread on the boards, and George Dart was sent off to the printers for some playbills. Nicholas also found time to instruct the apprentices in swordplay, listen to the latest songs written by Peter Digby, calm the still-agitated Barnaby Gill and offer constructive criticism to Edmund Hoode when the playwright outlined the plot of his next play. No visit to the Queen’s Head would be complete without a brush with the cadaverous landlord.
‘Good day, Master Marwood,’ said Nicholas.
‘It has lacked goodness so far, sir.’ He smirked. ‘I may have to invite Nimbus back to my yard.’
‘Nimbus?’
‘Look to your reputation, Master Bracewell.’
‘Why?’
‘There is finer entertainment in town.’
‘Of what nature?’
‘Westfield’s Men have been displaced in my favour.’
‘By Nimbus?’
‘Even so.’
‘Who is he, sir?’
‘A better actor than Master Firethorn.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘A more comical clown than Master Gill.’
‘Can this be possible?’
‘And a more profitable visitor than your company.’
‘What does Nimbus do?’ said Nicholas.
‘Everything, sir.’
‘He is a performer?’
‘Even my wife was entranced.’
It was the highest accolade. Alexander Marwood’s dark melancholy arose very largely out of his marriage to the stone-faced woman of implacable will. Anyone who could coax a response — let alone a smile — out of Sybil Marwood was indeed a remarkable performer. Nicholas was curious.
‘What sort of man is this Nimbus?’
The landlord sniggered. ‘He’s a horse.’
Marwood trickled off and left the book holder to digest the information. A chat with one of the ostlers brought more elucidation. While Westfield’s Men had been performing at The Theatre, their place had been taken at the Queen’s Head by Cornelius Gant and Nimbus. Like his employer, the ostler was full of praise and wonder. Nicholas was glad that his own employer was not there to hear it. Lawrence Firethorn would not endure a comparison with a dancing stallion.
Finishing his stint at the inn, Nicholas rushed off to Cheapside to visit the hatmaker whose name had been given to him by Anne Hendrik. An apprentice was closing up the shop when Nicholas arrived and it did not take long to wheedle the information out of him. Nicholas posed as a glover who had been commissioned by Beatrice Capaldi to make a pair of gloves to match her latest hat. The apprentice duly admitted him to the premises to view the new creation so that he could appraise its colour and material. In the course of their chat, Nicholas relieved him of the lady’s address, then thanked him and slipped away.
Beatrice Capaldi lived in a house near the river at Blackfriars. Though it had a narrow frontage, it was a capacious building with a long garden at the rear as well as a small courtyard with stabling. Evidently, the place was kept in good repair by someone with an appreciable income. As Nicholas walked beside the garden he could hear snatches of a madrigal sung by a boy to the accompaniment of a lute. He fancied that he caught the voice of the lady herself as well but he could not be sure of this and he was soon distracted by the arrival of a visitor. Coaches were more populous in London now but few were of the size and magnificence of this one. It belonged to a person of some eminence and, although he did not see the man who flitted so swiftly into the house, Nicholas did catch a glimpse of the coat of arms on the departing vehicle. He had seen it before but could not remember exactly where. What he could remember was a remark that Anne Hendrik made about the mistress of the house. He listened to the madrigal more carefully.
Early evening took him to The Elephant in Shoreditch. It was the inn which stood closest to The Curtain and was thus frequented by members of the resident company there. Nicholas was conscious that he was venturing in among the enemy but he had no choice. It was the only way to see Owen Elias who was now one of Banbury’s Men.
The Welshman was carousing with his new colleagues.
‘Nick!’ he welcomed. ‘What brings you here?’
‘A favour, Owen.’
‘To ask or to give?’
‘Both.’
‘Call the boy and order more ale!’
‘The treat will be mine.’
‘No,’ said Elias benevolently. ‘On my ground, I pay.’
Nicholas let him buy the drink then detached him to a corner of the taproom. Owen Elias was in an expansive mood after another rousing performance with Banbury’s Men in a testing part. He was still inebriated with his success and Nicholas let him talk about it at length. In a very short time, the actor had established himself at his new home and fallen in love with its novelty. At the same time, there was a whisper of guilt in his manner, a reluctance to look his old friend in the eye that was very untypical. Nicholas said little but heard all with interest.
Owen Elias suddenly became shifty and defensive.
‘Are you sent here by Master Firethorn?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Then why did you come?’
‘On my own account.’
‘You spoke of a favour.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is the best favour that I can offer, Owen. An invitation to return to us.’
‘That’s no favour but a vile threat!’
‘It would be in your best interests.’
‘I have done with Westfield’s Men for ever.’
‘You are needed, Owen.’
‘Then why was I cast out?’
‘Master Firethorn has a temper.’
‘Let him use it on someone else. I’ll none of it!’
‘Do you hate him so much?’
‘I swore revenge on the villain!’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘And you have got that revenge, by all accounts. All of London is talking about your work in The Spanish Jew. You have swinged Master Firethorn soundly. How many more times will you do it?’
‘More times?’
‘When is your revenge complete?’
‘Well …’
‘After one performance, two, three? Or do you intend to blacken another man’s character in perpetuity?’
‘He expelled me, Nick!’
‘Master Randolph may do the same.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘When you have served your purpose, he may turn you out of Banbury’s Men without a flicker of conscience.’
‘He will not,’ said Elias firmly, ‘because I will be a sharer with the company. Engaged by contract.’
‘Have you signed that contract?’