‘Not yet.’
‘Have you seen it then?’
‘It is being drawn up.’
‘And will that content you?’
Nicholas fixed him with a searching gaze that made him shift uneasily on his stool. Owen Elias emptied his pot of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘My life is here now, Nick,’ he said.
‘Can you be sure of that?’
‘Master Randolph admires my work greatly.’
‘How did he come to know its quality?’
‘He watched me in Love’s Sacrifice at The Rose.’
‘Giles Randolph?’
‘He was struck by my performance.’
‘But what brought him there in the first place?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Why does he study Westfield’s Men when he has a company of his own? He was at The Rose, you say?’
‘Searching for talent.’
‘And his eye lighted on you?’
‘My similarity to Master Firethorn impressed him.’
Nicholas was mystified. He was also worried on his friend’s behalf. He was angry at the way Owen Elias had used his skills against his old company but that did not stop him from fearing for the latter. The Welshman’s lust for glory on stage was being cleverly exploited by Giles Randolph who was offering an irresistible inducement to a hired man. If Elias became a sharer, his livelihood was guaranteed but the very talents that were being used against Westfield’s Men at the moment would in time threaten Randolph himself. The performance at The Rose kept rustling away at the back of Nicholas’s mind. Owen Elias might have been the incidental beneficiary of Giles Randolph’s visit but the latter did not come there specifically to see him. There had to be another reason to take him down to Southwark that afternoon.
‘I must go, Nick,’ said Elias, uncomfortably.
‘But I’ve not asked you to do me a favour yet.’
‘What is it?’
‘Pay off an old debt.’
‘Debt?’
‘To Sebastian Carrick. Yes, I know,’ added Nicholas as the other was about to protest. ‘He owed you money. But you owe Sebastian this. You owe him Banbury’s Men.’
‘How so?’
‘Because you gained by his death. Sebastian was to have played in Love’s Sacrifice while you were scrabbling about in the smaller parts.’ Nicholas was blunt. ‘Master Randolph would not have marked your excellence as a Second Servant. He would not have been struck by your King’s Messenger. You took Sebastian’s role to gain all this. You owe him your role in The Spanish Jew and your hope of a contract!’
The Welshman breathed heavily through his nose and searched the table for an answer to the charge. It was a full minute before he raised his head again.
‘You are right, Nick. I am in Sebastian’s debt.’
‘Pay it off.’
‘How?’
‘Help me to catch his murderer.’
Interest quickened. ‘You know who it is?’
‘I know where to find him.’
‘Where?’
‘Will you help? It will take two of us.’
‘I’ll help,’ said Elias soulfully. ‘But for Sebastian, I would still be toiling in minor roles at the Queen’s Head. If that is the favour, I’ll do it gladly.’
‘Thank you, Owen. I’ll advise you when I need you.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’ Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder then got up to leave. He glanced across at the other actors in the troupe then appraised his old friend again. Owen Elias worked with Banbury’s Men but he did not seem like one of them and his arrogance was bound to have ruffled his new colleagues. There would be natural resentment from those who had served the company for a long time at the Welshman’s promotion over their heads. It did not augur well for him.
The question was jabbed straight at the actor.
‘On what condition would you return to us, Owen?’
‘To Westfield’s Men?’
‘Name your price.’
‘It is far too high, Nick.’
‘I have a strong nerve.’
‘Then I demand two things. A full apology.’
‘You ask a lot of Master Firethorn.’
‘And a contract that makes me a sharer.’
Nicholas thought it over then gritted his teeth.
‘You will have both,’ he said.
Nimbus began his conquest of London at a steady trot, moved up into a canter then went full gallop through the hearts and minds of its citizens. He and his astute master chose their venues with care, increasing the size of their audience each time and widening the scope of their performance. All classes watched and wondered. Every spectator rushed off to broadcast the news of this latest prodigy. Nimbus did not have to search for an arena any longer. Cornelius Gant was besieged by eager innkeepers and urgent landlords, offering handsome rewards in return for a performance at their respective hostelries. A city which revelled in the baiting of bears and bulls now talked about a sensational horse. No blood was spilt, no pain visited upon the animal, no cruelty practised, yet the partners bewitched their public in a most profound way.
Gant used each occasion to advertise future delights.
‘Thank you, kind friends!’ he called. ‘This evening, you may see us at the Black Bell in Candlewick Street. Tomorrow morning, you will find us at the Crossed Keys in Gayspur Lane and in the same afternoon, at The Gun in Cordwainer Street.’ His face collapsed into a grin. ‘Look for us soon at The Unicorn in Hosier Alley. Nimbus is as rare a creature as any unicorn, I warrant.’
Fresh applause broke out from the spectators at the Red Lion. Delighted with what they had seen, they wanted more and began to yell out hopes and expectations. Gant shouted out his boast above the tumult.
‘Nimbus will dance across London Bridge and swim across the Thames at its widest point. He will do something that no horse has ever done before.’ Gant stoked up the furnace of excitement. ‘He will fly to the very top of St Paul’s!’
News of the feat met with tumultuous approbation.
‘When will Nimbus do it?’ they cried.
‘Let us ask,’ said Gant.
He looked across at the horse and gave a signal. Nimbus shook his head slowly as if deep in contemplation then he came across to whinny in his master’s ear. Gant waited for the laughter to subside then passed on the decision.
‘Saturday!’
Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather began their rounds in Clerkenwell with the usual amalgam of duty and resignation. Shocked to discover that they had been impersonated, they now saw it as a happy accident which yielded direct benefit. It was they who were given credit for saving the life of the man who had been so grievously assaulted in Cock Lane and they who now gained a lurking respect from the denizens of the area. Men who might before have sneered at their passing now held their tongues and shrunk back. The two aged watchmen liked their brief status as heroes. They strolled along Turnmill Street with an air of authority they had never possessed before. It was gratifying to be taken seriously at last and they were particularly pleased with their impact on a man who loitered opposite the Pickt-hatch. As soon as he saw the officers of the law approach, he shot out of a doorway and tore off down the street. Taplow and Merryweather smiled.
They were so caught up in their minor triumph that they did not hear the cry of mingled pleasure and pain that came from a bedchamber above their heads. The Pickt-hatch was already open for business. Frances was putting her personal seal on the back of another exhausted customer.
Her delicate hands caressed his shoulders then drew small circles up and down his spine. As his kisses became deeper and his movements more frantic, she locked her fingers into his hair to pull him even closer. His body arched and thrust, his blood raced, his senses tingled. In the silken comfort of a four-poster, their separate madness became one long mutual ecstasy. At the very peak of their cascading joy, he rose up to let her sink her teeth into his chest and to bite hard with animal hunger. He winced, he laughed, he sighed, he collapsed with utter satisfaction.