Margery Firethorn was at her most forceful. ‘Where is my husband?’ she said.
Lawrence Firethorn waited until the buzzing crowd began to disperse then he drifted slowly towards the river. Nimbus hung over him like a black cloud. It rankled. He was both hurt and jealous. Firethorn had worked at his craft for many long years to achieve a standard of excellence that nobody could match; yet it was not his name that was the touchstone of the citizenry. Cornelius Gant and his black stallion had pushed the actor aside. In the space of five minutes atop St Paul’s Cathedral, they had dazzled an audience which was ten times the size of any that Firethorn had attracted. It was deeply insulting. The actor offered a dramatic experience that captivated for two hours then stayed in the memory for ever. Nimbus was palmed off on an unsuspecting public by means of a clever conjuring trick and he would be forgotten when the next sensation diverted the commonalty.
Firethorn knew the secret of the flying horse. Nimbus was taken up to the top of the cathedral by means of the circular staircase then brought into view in a flurry of flapping wings. The real skill lay not in getting the animal up there to create the optical illusion but in bringing it down again. Horses could be trained to climb stairs but their gait and their co-ordination forbade any descent. To bring Nimbus down spiralling stone steps was a phenomenon in itself. Firethorn decided that the animal was either carried in some way or that it had been taught to walk backwards.
The wings also puzzled him. They looked very familiar. They were black now instead of being white but he felt certain he had seen them before. The dreadful thought formed in his mind that they had been hired from Westfield’s Men and that his own company had actually aided the spectacular flight of Nimbus. His sense of betrayal was acute. Lawrence Firethorn heard the ripple of water and realised he was now standing beside the Thames. The wharf was in front of him and the barge was moored to it. Four oarsmen and a young lutenist lingered. Beatrice Capaldi was there.
Yet even as his desire was rekindled, it fell short of its former glow. The antics on the roof of St Paul’s had done something which he would never have believed possible. They had focused his mind on the dignity of his profession. Nimbus had dispossessed Beatrice Capaldi. His beloved was waiting for him and the busy river lay before them but he no longer lusted after her company. Doubts crowded in. Guilt resurfaced. He was in an agony of indecision. Part of him wanted to run to the barge to embrace her while another part wished that he was at the Queen’s Head to rub out the vision of a performing animal with his own brand of magic.
After all his suffering, he had to learn the truth. He strode towards the barge and caught her perfume on the air. The brief enchantment of Beatrice Capaldi returned to be shattered for ever.
‘Lawrence!’
He froze where he stood and turned around. The coach which came thundering towards the wharf bore the Westfield coat of arms. Margery Firethorn was leaning through the window to hail him. As the horses were reined in and the vehicle came to a squealing halt, Nicholas Bracewell opened the door and assisted Margery out. The contrite husband rushed to his wife’s arms and lifted her up to kiss her. As they circled in ecstatic reunion, he glanced over her shoulder at the barge where Giles Randolph and Beatrice Capaldi had come into view. A violent argument was ending and Randolph stalked off. He and his courtesan had parted and his priority was now to get back to The Curtain in time to perform The Spanish Jew. At one stroke, Beatrice Capaldi lost two brilliant actors. Lawrence Firethorn felt infatuation leave him like a discarded cloak. He was free again, he was happy, he was married. After tossing Beatrice a look of disdain, he kissed his wife with ready passion.
Nicholas Bracewell took charge. They had to get to the Queen’s Head at once. Firethorn’s horse was tied to the back of the coach, then it set off at reckless speed with its three passengers. Margery Firethorn knew that only another woman could have led her spouse astray but this was no time to chastise him. Love’s Sacrifice required some sacrifice on her part. After giving him the good news from Cambridge, she contented herself with nestling beside him and listening to his conversation with Nicholas.
‘You rehearsed this morning?’ said the surprised actor.
‘The play is expected.’
‘You would have staged it without me?’
‘Lord Westfield would not be denied,’ said Nicholas. ‘We found another King Gondar to carry the piece.’
‘Another?’
‘Owen Elias.’
‘WHAT!’
Firethorn’s explosion was contained by some scolding words from his wife who had been told enough of what had happened to side with Nicholas in the matter. Quelled into silence, Firethorn heard how Owen Elias had helped to catch the murderer of Sebastian Carrick and to ensnare the devious Clerk of Ordnance. Lord Westfield’s admiration of the Welshman knew no bounds and he was adamant that Owen Elias be welcomed back into his company. When Firethorn learnt that the actor had left Banbury’s Men in turmoil, he was partially mollified but his pride was still affronted.
‘Owen tries to supplant me,’ he complained. ‘He either mocks me at The Curtain or strives to take my place at the Queen’s Head. He wants to rule as King Gondar.’
‘Not if we arrive in time,’ said Nicholas.
Panic assisted performance. The uncertainty which lasted until minutes before the play was due to start keyed up the actors. When Lawrence Firethorn burst into the tiring-house in full stride, they broke into applause and tears. Owen Elias quickly handed over the robes of King Gondar and there was a moment of tension when he handed Firethorn the crown but Love’s Sacrifice outlawed all personal differences. Westfield’s Men went out onto the stage with the arrogant confidence of a conquering army. Firethorn led his troupe magnificently and made this fourth performance of the work the best yet. Nor was he deprived of inspiration from the middle of the lower gallery. Margery Firethorn had elbowed herself into a place there and he acted for her. Unlike the calculating Beatrice Capaldi, his wife would not keep him at arm’s length that night. Their reconciliation would be shot through with high emotion and it was only when he lay there sated that she would ask about a barge on the Thames.
King Gondar was back where he truly belonged.
It was only after Firethorn’s triumph had been cheered to the echo that Nicholas Bracewell dared to tell him what was due to follow. The whole tiring-house shook.
‘I am to be followed by a horse!’ he bellowed. ‘King Gondar is to hand over his throne to Nimbus!’
It was Owen Elias who stepped in to calm him and to suggest a solution. Westfield’s Men were all appalled that the grasping landlord was using their work as a prologue to a dancing animal and they wanted retribution. Nicholas was annoyed that the white wings he had loaned to Cornelius Gant had been painted black without permission so he had further reason to seek recompense. The book holder had discussed the matter with Owen Elias and the latter fashioned a plan.
‘The horse is clever,’ said Elias, ‘but only when he is controlled by his master. I saw these two hold an audience at The Elephant in Shoreditch with their tricks. Gant is like a puppeteer. Every move is dictated by him.’
‘How does this help us?’ growled Firethorn.
‘Nimbus obeys because his eye never leaves Gant.’
‘So?’
‘What would happen if it did?’
Owen Elias whispered to his employer and Firethorn underwent a transformation. An angry face smiled, a broad grin followed and helpless laughter shook the tiring-house.