Banbury underlined the significance of Saturday.
‘You must play The Spanish Jew,’ he ordered.
‘Playbills have already gone out to that effect.’
‘Introduce some more material to favour us.’
‘The company poet is working on that now.’
‘And let that clever rogue cut Firethorn to ribbons once more,’ said the earl. ‘What is his name?’
‘Owen Elias.’
‘An asset to Banbury’s Men.’
‘That is why I chose him, my lord.’
‘How did you tempt him into our ranks?’
‘By a promise that he would become a sharer.’
‘And will he, Giles?’
The actor shook his head. ‘Never, my lord.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘When he has done what we need, he’ll be discarded.’
‘But he is an arresting player.’
‘We have talent enough in the company,’ said Randolph airily, ‘and we have no room for this upstart Welshman. He is a quarrelsome fellow. Admit him to the rank of sharer and he will argue all day long about the roles he wishes to play.’ He became supercilious. ‘Owen Elias is without true quality. Only the finest talents are worthy of a place among Banbury’s Men. We use him, we lose him. That is his station.’
The patron plucked at his goatee beard.
‘Just another hired man, eh?’
‘Yes, my lord. And hired men come and go.’
Unaware that his hold on fame was of such short lease, Owen Elias went home to his lodging in the confident belief that he would soon become a sharer with his troupe. Sharers were stockholders in the company and, as such, were expected to make a financial investment in it but this aspect had been waived in his case — Giles Randolph told him — because they were very keen to ensure his services. Elias was so carried away with his sudden eminence that he did not hear the mutinous grumblings of the other sharers who had paid an average of fifty pounds for their position. There was no way that the Welshman could raise that amount. His weekly wage with Westfield’s Men had been seven shillings.
Life with the new company had its definite drawbacks but he was ready to overlook them in exchange for the promised promotion and security. Once he had worked his way into Banbury’s Men, he assured himself, the problems would disappear and he would be able to offer the world vivid proof of his outstanding talents. As he clambered up the stairs to his room, he began to declaim his first speech. When he flopped down onto the stool, he quoted whole segments of dialogue. While he lay on his back and studied the beams above his head, he went through an entire leading part from a play. Owen Elias was a conscientious actor who wasted no opportunity to practise his craft. His voice was still bouncing off the walls as fatigue finally caught up with him. A rhyming couplet died uncompleted.
He dozed quietly off, then woke with a start only minutes later. Realisation brought him fully awake. Nothing that he had recited with such affection had come from the repertoire of his new company. It had all been from his time with Westfield’s Men. The work of Edmund Hoode had seeped into his mind so completely that he could produce it by the yard with word-perfect accuracy. The Spanish Jew was the piece in which he made his name but it did not provide the leading role which he had acted so fervently in his room. It was the role of King Gondar which had tripped readily off his tongue. Owen Elias was quoting Love’s Sacrifice.
He felt pangs of self-doubt and slept fitfully.
Only a matter of pressing importance would make Nicholas Bracewell call on him at that hour of the night and so Lord Westfield had him admitted at once. Excusing himself from the dinner table, he left his guests and hurried into the small room at the rear of the house which he used as his study. Nicholas was waiting respectfully.
‘Well, sir?’ said the patron.
‘I have information about the Earl of Chichester.’
‘What has the old warrior been up to now?’
‘Borrowing money.’
‘Nothing amiss there. I raise loans myself.’
‘Not from this source, my lord.’
Nicholas recounted what he heard at the Tower and it was received in rapt silence. Lord Westfield did not need to have the implications pointed out to him. He knew that he was being given an excellent opportunity to discredit a lifelong enemy, to hamper Chichester’s claimant to the throne, to render an immense public service by exposing fraud at the Ordnance and — most appealing of all — to frustrate the ambitions of the Earl of Banbury. Everything turned on one issue.
‘How certain can we be of the Clerk’s guilt?’
‘I accept Master Carrick’s judgement,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then so will I,’ decided the other. ‘Lawyers are damnable fellows for using words that they may hide behind. If Carrick is making a formal allegation, he has reasons in plenty. What we now have to do is to find the evidence to flush this Harry Fellowes out.’
‘I have been thinking about that, my lord.’
‘You have a plan?’
‘It requires some help from you.’
Nicholas outlined his idea and saw his listener’s face tighten into a hard ball of concentration. Lord Westfield seemed to disapprove at first but his features gradually slipped into an admiring smile. By the time the book holder finished, his host was rocking with laughter.
‘By all, that’s wonderful, Nick!’
‘It may serve.’
‘Put the plan into action forthwith.’
‘I shall, my lord.’
‘Once again, you show your sterling worth to Westfield’s Men. I hope that Lawrence appreciates your true value.’
‘He has to be reminded of it from time to time.’
‘Tell him that I will attend on Saturday.’
‘Saturday?’
‘Love’s Sacrifice at the Queen’s Head.’
‘But we play Cupid’s Folly.’
Lord Westfield gaped. ‘What?’
‘Master Firethorn is indisposed that afternoon.’
‘Am I hearing this aright?’ said the other in tones of disbelief. ‘Banbury’s Men assault us. Giles Randolph makes his bid to thrust Lawrence aside. Love’s Sacrifice is vital to counter the effect of The Spanish Jew and our leading actor tells us he is indisposed!’ Lord Westfield almost frothed at the mouth. ‘This could well be the most telling Saturday in the history of the company. We need to be at full strength and performing the most appropriate piece. Let Lawrence Firethorn know that I request — nay, demand — that he appears in the work of my choice.’
‘I will convey that message to him.’
‘With all due force.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Acquaint him with the name of his patron.’
Lord Westfield showed Nicholas to the door himself and rid himself of one last exasperated question.
‘What, in God’s name, could be more important to Lawrence than leading his company?’
The barge skimmed its way up the Thames to the beat of a dozen oars. Lawrence Firethorn lay beneath the canopy on a bank of cushions, his head pillowed by the exquisite breasts of Beatrice Capaldi, his hair and beard stroked in time to the rhythm of the oarsmen. It was pure joy. He had nothing to do but listen to the slap of the water against the side of the vessel and savour the tender ministrations of his beloved. They had set a course to paradise and were sailing towards a glorious consummation.
Lawrence Firethorn awoke from his dream to find himself in a bed that now seemed impossibly empty without Beatrice Capaldi beside him. He was at home in Shoreditch, staining the marital couch with adulterous thoughts for which he felt no shred of shame. When his wife was with him, he was never deterred from letting his eye rove at will. With Margery safely out of the way in Cambridge, he was a free spirit who could do whatever he liked with whomsoever he chose. An actor who won new hearts every time he stepped onstage, he was surrounded by countless possibilities and he planned to while away Margery’s absence by working steadily through them but Beatrice Capaldi changed all that. His dark lady banished all others from his mind. Since their tryst had been agreed, he had no desire at all to touch another woman. Firethorn was faithful in his infidelity. A creature who had given him no more than a single line on a sheet of paper had enslaved him to the notion of romantic extravagance.