The choice of St Paul’s for such crude entertainment was natural. As well as being the focal point of worship in the capital, the great church with its cavernous interior, its walks and its busy courtyard, had served as the nexus for spectacular performances of all kinds. Sermons and masses were on offer but so were occasional bouts of wild audacity. Many still talked of the Spaniard who descended headfirst from battlements to ground by means of a taut rope that was stretched between the two points. Those who tried to emulate him fell to their death or to hideous mutilation. Another man committed suicide by tying a rope to a pinnacle before putting the noose around his neck and diving off. There was even an acrobatic cripple who once stole the weathercock of gilt-plated copper. Countless others had given the noble edifice the status of an occasional fairground.
Nimbus had been promised for noon and Cornelius Gant did not renege on that vow. As the great bell boomed out in the clocktower, the eyes of London scanned the Heavens for the latter-day Pegasus but he was nowhere to be seen. Just as they were losing patience, their vigilance was rewarded. Cornelius Gant used a rope in a way that was every bit as ingenious as the lithe Spaniard of yesteryear. It was threaded carefully through the handles of the baskets of birds so that each would be released at a sharp flick. The noonday clock chimed its fill and left its echo hanging in the air. Gant pulled hard on the rope. The lids of twenty baskets sprang open to send up thick clouds of birds who were quickly joined by the rest of the feathered community up on the roof. The suddenness of it all was breathtaking.
Viewed from below, it was indeed a miracle. Hundreds of birds burst out of the tower to fly up to heaven and there behind them, standing on hind legs so that all could see properly, was a black horse with black wings sprouting out of its shoulders. In that extraordinary moment of revelation, it seemed to all who watched that Nimbus had flown to the top of St Paul’s. Cornelius Gant stepped forward to wave his hat and to set off a veritable broadside of cheering. Nobody knew how he had done it but all accepted one thing. Nimbus was the finest horse in creation.
Lawrence Firethorn was angry with himself for having been momentarily carried away by the spectacle. A man whose life revolved around cleverly devised stage effects knew some deft handiwork when he saw it and he tried to work out exactly how it was all done. He was not helped by the rapturous ovation that was being accorded to his new rival for the public’s adoration.
Nimbus.
Beatrice Capaldi arrived in her barge at the wharf well before the appointed time. When the vessel was moored, the four oarsmen went ashore to stretch their legs. Beatrice remained under the rich canopy which covered the raised area in the stern of the boat. Lying back on cushions, she was protected from the prying eyes of the rougher sort who hung about the waterfront. Her lutenist sat on a stool nearby and played soft airs. Beatrice was at her most elegant in a dress of black and red that exactly matched the colours of her latest hat in the Spanish fashion. A silver fan could be used to cool or conceal, a pomander kept the odours of the river away from her nostrils.
The swift approach of a horse made her sit up. She did not expect Lawrence Firethorn to appear quite so early. His impatience was testimony to the fevered love which he bore her. She heard the horse being reigned in then urgent feet ran along the planking on the wharf. Her visitor came aboard without ceremony and she looked up to greet him. But it was not the over-eager Firethorn. It was Giles Randolph.
‘We must speak alone,’ he said pointedly.
‘As you wish.’ She dismissed the lutenist with a flick of her fan then delivered a mild reproach to her visitor. ‘This is most unseemly, sir.’
‘You have deceived me, Beatrice.’
‘That is a lie!’
‘Your promises were mere nothings.’
‘Have a care, Giles.’
‘You entertained a visitor at your house.’
‘I deny it.’
‘You swore to be true to me!’ he accused.
‘And so I have.’
‘I know the day, the time, the man.’ Randolph let his pain show through. ‘Beatrice, how could you consort with that disgusting old lecher?’
‘Of whom do you speak?’
‘Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester.’
The momentary pause and the flicker of her eyelids were enough to condemn her. Giles Randolph began to upbraid her in the strongest terms but was silenced by a blazing retort.
‘It is my house,’ she said proudly, ‘and I entertain whomsoever I wish. You are not my keeper, sir. I may have my pick of any man in London. Why should I deign to favour an actor when I may choose an earl? Giles Randolph is not even an aristocrat in his own profession. Lawrence Firethorn will always outrank him.’ She stabbed home her advantage. ‘If I want the best — and nothing less will suffice — I should give myself to him this very afternoon.’
‘No, Beatrice!’ It was a howl of anguish.
She retreated into silence and let him dribble his apologies all over her. When he had humbled himself completely before her, she probed for details.
‘Who told you of the Earl of Chichester?’
‘Owen Elias.’
She was contemptuous. ‘A hired man!’
‘He quit the company this morning,’ said Randolph sourly, ‘and left The Spanish Jew without its ridicule of Firethorn. His parting shot concerned yourself. I was to ask you why the coach bearing the Godolphin coat of arms was seen outside your house on a certain night.’
‘I hate all Welshmen!’ she asserted.
Randolph found consolation. ‘Owen Elias has cut his own throat. He has left our company and Westfield’s Men have disowned him. Firethorn will never let that ugly Celtic visage anywhere near the Queen’s Head!’
Owen Elias sat in the taproom at the Queen’s Head and took his final instructions from Nicholas Bracewell. The morning rehearsal was uncertain but by no means calamitous. It was just conceivable that Love’s Sacrifice could survive before an audience without Lawrence Firethorn in the leading role. Owen Elias was a more muted King Gondar but he gave a very competent reading of the part. Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode sat at the table to add their counsel. The four men were determined to rescue the company from the wilful absence of its actor-manager. Alexander Marwood interrupted their discussions with an uncharacteristic chuckle.
‘Good day, gentlemen!’ he said warmly. ‘You’ll have spectators enough in my yard today.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Because of the promise I have from Master Gant.’
‘Cornelius Gant?’
‘He and Nimbus are the wonders of London,’ said the twitching landlord. ‘And you helped them, Master Bracewell. You gave Nimbus the wings to fly!’
Marwood gave an excited if garbled account of what had happened at St Paul’s Cathedral. Nimbus and his master were now being hailed on all sides. What thrilled the landlord was the fact that he had engaged the pair to make another appearance at the Queen’s Head. They were to perform briefly on stage after Love’s Sacrifice had run its course. The yard would be packed to the limit with thirsty patrons. It would be one of the most profitable afternoons that the inn had ever known. Alexander Marwood was inebriated at the very thought.
The four men were duly horrified. They did not wish to share their venue with a performing animal. Barnaby Gill stood on his dignity, Edmund Hoode threatened to withdraw his play and Owen Elias refused to have his first attempt at a leading role overshadowed by an actor with four legs. It was the threatened use of their makeshift stage which worried Nicholas because it might not bear the weight of a dancing horse. The argument was over as soon as it began. A figure swept into the taproom and confronted them with a demand that drove every other thought from their mind.