‘Attacked, insulted and abused me. Dismiss him at once.’
‘I’d like to hear his side of the story first.’
Hibbert was incensed. ‘You’d take his word against mine?’
‘Every time,’ said Hoode. ‘And even if he did lay hands upon you, I’m sure that he had a sound reason to do so. Dispense with our book holder? I’d sooner part with Barnaby.’
‘I resent that!’ shouted Gill.
‘We’ll keep both you and Nick,’ said Firethorn, with an appeasing pat on his shoulder. ‘Rest easy on that score, Barnaby.’
‘Do you deny my request, then?’ asked Hibbert.
‘A moment ago, it was a demand.’
‘You’ll not get rid of your book holder?’
‘No,’ said Firethorn. ‘He holds this company together.’
‘You had better search for someone else to serve in that capacity,’ warned Hibbert. ‘If you will not throw him out, then I will do so myself with the blade of my sword. He more or less challenged me to a duel.’ Firethorn put back his head and laughed. ‘What is so comical now?’
‘The thought that you could kill Nick in a duel,’ said Hoode with a chuckle. ‘Make your will before you lift your weapon because your heirs will be sure to inherit. Am I right, Lawrence?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘It’s Nick who instructs us in swordplay on the stage. He has no equal with a rapier. Do not offer him any other weapon either, Saul, for he is a master with every one of them. Nick Bracewell sailed around the world with Drake in younger days. He was trained to fight with sword, dagger and musket. And there’s no better man to have beside you in a brawl. Fight a duel with him and you commit certain suicide. I think you’d best mend this quarrel with Nick.’
‘Never!’ said Hibbert.
‘He’s the most reasonable man alive.’
‘What he did to me was unforgivable.’
‘Yet not without cause, I suspect,’ said Hoode.
‘Nicholas does get above himself at times,’ remarked Gill.
Firethorn grinned. ‘Would you cross swords with him, Barnaby?’
‘Not for a king’s ransom!’
‘There’s your answer, Saul. Make your peace with him.’
Hibbert was fuming. On a day when his play had bewitched a full audience, when it had introduced a striking new talent to the capital, when he expected to be feted by everyone he met, he had instead been thoroughly humiliated. Someone was going to pay for it. Rising abruptly from his seat, he stalked out in a temper.
‘He’s too rash to be the second Edmund Hoode,’ said Hoode with a contented smile. ‘I’d not dare to challenge Nick to a duel even if his sword were made out of paper. Saul Hibbert may be a clever playwright but he’s no judge of a fighting man. One of us needs to speak to Nick about this.’
‘Well, it won’t be me,’ said Gill.
‘I’ll gladly take on the role of peacemaker here.’
‘You may have to wait a while, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick has other business in hand. He’s gone to speak to Hal Bridger’s family.’
Nicholas Bracewell did not have far to walk. The Queen’s Head was situated in Gracechurch Street, only a hundred yards or so from the house near Bishopsgate, where Hal Bridger had been born and brought up. The boy’s father was a leather-seller and the family lived over the shop that he had kept for some thirty years. As he entered the premises, Nicholas inhaled the distinctive smell of tanned leather. Like his son, Terence Bridger was tall and slim but there was a hardness in his face that he had not passed on to his only child. Nicholas was surprised to see how old the man was — close to sixty, if not beyond it.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked Bridger, gruffly.
‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and I belong to Westfield’s Men. I need to speak to you about your son.’
‘I have no son.’
‘Are you not Hal Bridger’s father?’
‘Not any more.’
‘But he always speak of you with such respect.’
‘Then it’s a pity he did not show more of it when he was here.’
‘Your son loved you.’
‘Love is not love if it turns its back on obedience.’
Nicholas could see that his task was going to be even more difficult than anticipated. Terence Bridger’s stern tone and unforgiving manner marked him out as an enemy of the theatre. Nicholas sensed that the leather-seller had distinct leanings towards Puritanism.
‘He made his choice and must live by it,’ said Bridger.
‘I can see that he joined us without your permission.’
‘He defied both me and his employer. I had him apprenticed to a saddler in Cheapside. It was an honest trade, a chance to work with leather that I supplied. But Hal betrayed his calling. Instead of learning his craft, he was forever sneaking off to watch a play at the Queen’s Head, the Curtain or at that other devilish place in Bankside.’
‘The Rose?’
‘Theatre corrupted him. It turned a God-fearing young boy into a shameless heathen that I refuse to acknowledge as my own.’
‘Hal was no heathen,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘He attended church every Sunday, as do most members of the company.’
‘His church was there,’ snapped Bridger, pointing towards the Queen’s Head. ‘He worshipped in that foul pit of iniquity, where painted women consort with evil men to watch disgusting antics upon the stage.’
‘I can see that you’ve never actually attended a performance.’
‘Nothing would make me do so, sir!’
‘Then you condemn out of sheer ignorance.’
‘I do so out of Christian conviction,’ said Bridger, thrusting out his chin. ‘If you are party to the profanity that goes upon a stage, you are not welcome in my shop. Good day to you!’
‘I’ve not delivered my message about your son yet.’
‘He no longer exists. I tell you this, Master Bracewell,’ said the other, eyes glinting, ‘that I’d sooner wish a son of mine in his grave than fall into the clutches of a theatre company.’
‘Then your wish has been granted,’ said Nicholas, softly. ‘That’s what I came to tell you — Hal, I fear, is dead.’
Terence Bridger’s face was impassive. His voice was icily cold.
‘He died the moment that he walked out of here,’ he said.
Owen Elias laughed until the tears trickled down his rubicund cheeks.
‘He intended to fight Nick Bracewell in a duel?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘until we warned him against such lunacy.’
‘Saul Hibbert would not last a minute. I’m no mean swordsman but I wouldn’t chance my arm against Nick. He moves like lightning. Did you tell that to the reckless author?’
‘Saul is too choleric to listen to sound advice.’
‘Speak to him when he’s cooled down, Lawrence, or we’ll be bidding an early farewell to him at his funeral.’
They were still in the taproom at the Queen’s Head, where strong drink had now lifted the prevailing sadness a little. Seeing that Gill and Hoode had left the table, Elias had moved across to join Firethorn for a private talk. The Welshman sipped his ale ruminatively.
‘We’ve not had good fortune with new playwrights, have we?’
‘No, Owen. I thought we’d found a gem in Michael Grammaticus, but he turned out to be passing off his friend’s plays as his own. And since that friend was no longer alive, we could hope for nothing more from his cunning brain. Nor from dear Jonas Applegarth,’ said Firethorn with deep regret. ‘The poor fellow was hanged by the neck in this very building — though how they found a rope strong enough to bear his weight, I’ll never know.’
‘Then there was Lucius Kindell, full of promise, seduced away from us by Havelock’s Men. And was there not one Ralph Willoughby, before my time with the company?’
‘Burnt alive during the performance of The Merry Devils.’
‘Do all our dramatists have a death wish?’
‘One of them does, Owen,’ said Firethorn, seriously, ‘and he’s the man we must discuss. Forget the new and cleave to the old. I’ll do my utmost to keep Saul Hibbert alive to write more plays for us, but my chief concern is for Edmund. He has abdicated his position.’