The play was prophetic. Love’s Sacrifice depicted a king who gave up his family, his kingdom and his reputation for the sake of his love. Firethorn had the chance to make a grand gesture of his own, no less momentous in the world that he inhabited. To spend time with Beatrice and to wallow in love, he was ready to ignore the demands of his wife, his fellow actors and his art. For an afternoon in her arms, he was willing to resign his private kingdom.
Love transformed him out of all recognition. He was kind to his children, considerate to his servants and jocund with the apprentices who also lived under his roof. They had never known such happy tranquillity in him and suspected either a secret potion or the onset of madness. Firethorn’s benign mood took him all the way to the Queen’s Head and informed the morning rehearsal. The sniping of Barnaby Gill could not sour it, nor could the plaintive protests of Edmund Hoode. He seemed impervious to the general misery. It was left to Nicholas Bracewell to shatter his benevolence.
‘I gave my word!’ bellowed Firethorn.
‘Lord Westfield spoke a few words himself, sir.’
‘I’ll not jump to his command.’
‘You are to be reminded that he is our patron.’
‘My word is my bond!’
‘Your place is here with us.’
Nicholas was ready to take the verbal shot with which he was sprayed. He passed on the message from Lord Westfield and urged the actor-manager to reconsider his arrangements for Saturday afternoon. They were alone in the tiring-house but Firethorn’s half of the conversation could be heard a hundred yards away. Inadvertently, Nicholas put even greater volume into the roar by making a faint insinuation.
‘You commit yourself too soon and too hastily, sir.’
‘Do you dare to lecture me!’
‘Learn to know the lady better.’
‘That is why we float on the Thames together.’
‘No, master,’ said Nicholas. ‘Find out more about her before you plunge headlong into this tryst. There may be things about Mistress Capaldi which somewhat alter the character which she presents.’
Firethorn was outraged. ‘What sort of things?’
‘It is not for me to impugn her honour but …’
‘Be silent, Nick! I’ve heard enough of this.’
‘Wait but a week or two and-’
‘SILENCE!’
Nicholas survived the broadside. ‘Lord Westfield will take his seat here on Saturday afternoon.’
‘His noble buttocks may sit where they wish.’
‘He expects to watch Love’s Sacrifice.’
‘Prepare him for disappointment.’
‘He insists on seeing King Gondar.’
‘His Majesty will be on the river.’
As a last resort, the book holder applied full pressure.
‘Fail us on Saturday and you put the company at risk.’
‘What care I for that?’
‘Westfield’s Men are built around you, sir.’
‘My mistress calls and I may not deny her.’
‘Our patron will take it ill.’
‘Then let him!’ said Firethorn defiantly. ‘Westfield’s Men depend on me but I do not depend on them. There is a world elsewhere.’ He crossed to the door and opened it with a dramatic gesture. ‘I go to it on Saturday!’
Notwithstanding her combative nature, Margery Firethorn had a soft heart that was duly touched by the wonder of creation. The sight of a happy mother with a beautiful baby was more than ample reward for all the effort she herself had put in at the house, and she was even coming to see her brother-in-law in a less unfavourable light. Jonathan Jarrold would never be the kind of man with whom she would choose to share a bed — let alone a marriage — but his delight in the office of fatherhood was moving and his commitment total. He was always ready to help and willing to learn. There were times when Margery actually had no need to scold him and she soon caught herself paying him gruff compliments. Whatever his shortcomings, Jonathan Jarrold, bookseller, was the head of a little family. When he cooed fondly over his son and heir, he made his sister-in-law think of her own brood. Happiness in Cambridge made her homesick.
Jonathan’s shop was her only link with the capital.
‘There is much anxiety over the Queen,’ he said.
‘She has the finest physicians about her.’
‘The news is not good. A printer who has just come from London was in my shop this morning. Her Majesty is confined to her apartments and takes no part in the government of her realm. Everyone fears the worst.’
Margery was scornful. ‘They should be on their knees to pray for her recovery. We must not give into fears. We must have faith, Jonathan.’
‘It is difficult in the face of such reports.’
‘Her Majesty is too young to die.’
‘None of us may live for ever.’
‘She is every inch a Queen and every inch a woman. I’ll wager that she defies those rumours yet.’
‘The rumours have firm foundation.’
‘Pah!’ she snorted. ‘Should I trust the word of a pox-ridden printer who seeks to impress his Cambridge friends with this idle chatter? Queen Elizabeth will outlive us all. We need her on the throne of England. God save the Queen!’
But Margery’s certainty was fringed with apprehension. The rumours that came from London were now too numerous to discount and they contained a threat of dire consequences for the whole nation. At a more immediate level, there was a danger to Westfield’s Men. A change of sovereign could bring about a change of attitude towards the theatre. She knew enough of the Earl of Banbury’s love of intrigue to realise that he would seek to exploit the death of the Queen to the advantage of himself and his company. Margery bit her lip. Her husband’s livelihood might well be put in hazard. It gave her even more incentive to return home at speed.
Saturday took on more significance.
Harry Fellowes was an unlikely poet but his Latin verses had a pleasing sound and a cold intelligence. He was very proud of them but distressed by the lack of informed praise for his literary endeavours. There were no Classical scholars among his colleagues and the brutish surroundings of the Tower slowly crushed his creative instincts. He was all the more thrilled, therefore, to befriend someone with true learning and sincere interest. Andrew Carrick not only asked to see the published verses, he read them with care, made notes on their excellence and discussed them at length. The Clerk of Ordnance and the imprisoned lawyer who walked along together were strolling through Ancient Rome.
‘And which poems delighted you most?’ asked Fellowes.
‘Those in the style of Ovid.’
‘He was always my master.’
‘Even when you stand before your congregation?’ said Carrick with a teasing smile. ‘I would not have thought that kind of love had any place in a pulpit.’
‘Yet it belongs in the heart of every true man.’
‘Indeed, indeed.’
‘Each of us has many sides to his character.’
‘You seem to have far more than most, Master Fellowes.’
The poet needed reassurance. ‘And did my verses really give you joy, my friend?’
‘They brought Cicero back to my mind.’
‘Cicero?’
‘Yes,’ said Carrick. ‘If I quote him aright. Haec studentia adulescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant.’
‘Oh, sir, you are too kind!’ Harry Fellowes pounced gratefully on the translation. ‘These studies nurture youth and delight old age.’