The lawyer grew serious. ‘Your work has been a great solace to me in my cell. It held back the horrors of my life and defeated time most wonderfully. It put a glow of hope into some very dark nights.’
‘No praise could be higher than that. Thank you, sir.’
‘Most of all, I liked your line from Virgil.’
‘You recognised the theft?’
‘It was no theft,’ said Carrick. ‘You borrowed and paid back with interest.’ The moneylender laughed. ‘Virgil spoke aloud on your final page. Trahit sua quemque voluptas.’
‘Everyone is dragged down by his favourite pleasure.’
‘It was the theme of all your verses.’
‘There is such deep truth in it.’
Andrew Carrick sighed. ‘Trahit sua quemque voluptas …’
It was an accurate summary of his son’s life. Sebastian Carrick was bursting with a talent that was marred by his excesses. In a Clerkenwell brothel, his favourite pleasure had dragged him down for good. The sad father tried to shake his head clear of such thoughts and turn a moment of close companionship to material advantage. His admiration of the verses was not feigned but the Ovidian strain did not blind him to the true character of the poet. Harry Fellowes might be a scholar but he was also a shrewd criminal who used his privileged position in the Ordnance Office to deceive and defraud. The hand which had turned such elegant Latin lines could embezzle with equal skill.
Andrew Carrick returned the calf-bound book to him.
‘Your work must seem dull after this,’ he said.
Fellowes was defensive. ‘It has its own appeal.’
‘There is not much scope for poetry in your ledgers.’
‘They have a kind of rhythm at times.’
‘I am sure that you keep them scrupulously exact.’
‘My figures always tally,’ said the other smugly. ‘You could search through every book and not find a discrepancy.’
‘I would welcome the chance to try.’
‘The exercise would bore you, Master Carrick.’
‘Anything is a relief from the tedium of my cell.’
Harry Fellowes looked at him carefully then glanced down at the slim volume in his hand. Gratified by the lawyer’s warm response to his work, he was keen to express his thanks in a more tangible way. If he showed his friend how he laboured at his desk, he could inflate his own self-esteem even more. Andrew Carrick posed no problem. He was simply an unfortunate casualty of a marriage that aroused royal ire.
‘Come with me,’ invited Fellowes.
They left Ancient Rome and made their way towards a territory of numbers and receipts. Harry Fellowes was no bending author now. He was a keen mathematician who liked order and precision, moving large quantities of money around in the course of his occupation. Once launched on a boastful description of his work, he could not be stopped. The Clerk of Ordnance who was paid a mere £64 per annum claimed that he saved Her Majesty £2,000 a year.
‘How?’ asked Carrick.
‘By taking the returns of such munitions as return from the seas unspent, which formerly were concealed and converted to private use.’
‘You are a prudent steward, Master Fellowes.’
‘Nothing escapes me, sir.’
Carrick encouraged him to talk on and Harry Fellowes did not pause throughout the entire visit. As he flicked through his account books, he became even more complacent and he lapped up the appreciative comments of his guest. Though he was a man of wide abilities, there was no doubting where his real interest lay. Money was the favourite pleasure of Harry Fellowes. It was inevitable that Virgil should again drift into Carrick’s mind.
‘Trahit sua quemque voluptas …’
Lawrence Firethorn’s powers of recovery were remarkable. When the rehearsal ended that morning, he had been as angry as a wounded bear and clawed everyone who came within reach. When the performance began that afternoon, he was Hector of Troy to the life, leading his company in the tragedy of that name as if all was joy and harmony. The row with Nicholas Bracewell was forgotten, the deep divisions were ignored. Firethorn attacked his role with a verve that was his hallmark. Beatrice Capaldi was not in the audience at the Queen’s Head but he played Hector as if she were, throwing each line to the middle of the lower gallery and strutting about with even more than his usual arrogance. His superb portrait filled the stage with drama and did much to vindicate a reputation that was seriously under attack. He more than earned the ovation which he gained. None of the spectators would have guessed that the brilliant actor whom they had just seen at his peak was ready to forsake his art and his fellows for an afternoon with a woman. Firethorn himself reaffirmed his decision. Fitting his fingers to his lips, he threw invisible kisses to the invisible Beatrice Capaldi and whispered his promise over the applause.
‘True love requires true sacrifice …’
Offstage, he reverted to his former irascibility and those who tried to speak to him suffered accordingly. Barnaby Gill was cursed, Edmund Hoode reviled, Peter Digby abused, Hugh Wegges punched and the unlucky George Dart almost trampled to death. When Alexander Marwood made the mistake of praising the exploits of Cornelius Gant and Nimbus once again, Firethorn lifted him up by his shoulders and deposited him in a horse trough.
Nicholas Bracewell had to soothe many a troubled brow before his work was done for that day. Gill and Hoode were particularly agitated by the threatened betrayal. Though the comedian was looking forward to Cupid’s Folly on Saturday afternoon, he did not dare to fly in the face of their patron’s wishes. The playwright, too, wanted Love’s Sacrifice reinstated, if for different reasons. Nicholas told them that the decision had been taken right out of their hands by Lord Westfield who would accept no other work. It was Hoode’s latest play that would be advertised for performance.
‘Love’s Sacrifice?’ said Gill. ‘Without Lawrence?’
‘King Gondar will be there,’ assured Nicholas.
Hoode was pessimistic. ‘He has refused to appear.’
‘Much can happen before Saturday.’
‘Yes, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘We may lose our Queen, our company and our profession. Much may indeed happen.’
Nicholas said no more. When he left the inn, he turned left into Gracechurch Street and kept walking briskly until Bishopsgate loomed up ahead. Leaving the city through one of its great portals, he maintained a steady pace all the way to Shoreditch. The crowds had dispersed from The Curtain and The Theatre but the hostelries were still full of roistering gallants. Nicholas stopped at the sign of The Elephant and found a more pensive Owen Elias brooding alone on a bench outside the establishment. They exchanged greetings.
‘What ails you?’ said Nicholas.
Elias was evasive. ‘It is no matter.’
‘Did you play at The Curtain this afternoon?’
‘The Tragical History of King John.’
‘What role did you take?’
‘A small one,’ muttered the other. ‘I died at the end of Act One. It was like being back with Westfield’s Men.’
‘There will be no more small parts for you there.’
‘I will never go back to the Queen’s Head.’
‘You have signed the contract, then?’
‘No. Not exactly …’
‘When will Giles Randolph make you a sharer?’
‘On Saturday, he says.’
‘He says.’
‘Why should he go back on his word?’
‘Why are you so sad?’
Nicholas had touched a raw spot and his friend almost jumped up from the bench. Owen Elias had raised the question of his contract half an hour earlier in the taproom and he had been given the usual reassurances by Giles Randolph but somehow they lacked conviction this time. Whether it was guilt over his old company or disillusionment with his new one, he did not know, but the Welshman suddenly felt the ground shudder slightly beneath his feet. Banbury’s Men had given him a hero’s welcome but he sensed that it would not last indefinitely. He was also well placed to see that his new colleagues did not have the strength in depth of Westfield’s Men. Giles Randolph liked good actors around him but they were not allowed to compete with him. Lawrence Firethorn, by contrast, employed the finest talents he could muster because he knew that he could hold his own against them. Indeed, the more competition he was given, the higher the pitch of his own performance.