Elias was baffled. ‘What man wants a tragic woman?’
‘I do, if I can put her on a stage. Look to the last piece I wrote. How to Choose a Good Wife failed because it was a pointless comedy in which I had no real interest. With the same theme, Saul Hibbert’s play put mine to shame. It was only when I saw those two sisters side by side that I spied my mistake. I should have spurned Bernice and turned to Ursula.’
‘That’s what you did do, Edmund.’
‘I talk of my play. I should have abjured comedy and fashioned it into a tragedy. When I understood that, I started anew. Instead of lowborn country folk, looking for a wife, I have the King of Naples, falling in love with the daughter of his deadliest enemy. He, too, wants only to choose a good wife but she is kept from him by political intrigue.’
‘What’s the title?’
‘The Queen of Naples.’
‘Does the lady marry him, then?’
‘Therein lies the tragedy,’ said Hoode. ‘She returns his love but will be exiled from her father if she disobeys him. The people of Naples respect their King but will not let him wed the queen of his choice. Does he abdicate and marry her? Does she defy her father? Will there be war as a result between Naples and its enemy?’ He got to his feet. ‘And it was all inspired by meeting Ursula. When you led her into my life, Owen, you created a wonderful tragedy.’
Notwithstanding his personal reservations about Ursula Opie, the Welshman was happy for his friend. Edmund Hoode’s creative spark had been ignited once more. A true actor, Elias had only one concern.
‘What part do I play in The Queen of Naples?’
The reunion with his friends was idyllic for Richard Honeydew but his ordeal had wearied him and he tired quickly. Lawrence Firethorn soon took him home to Shoreditch and Nicholas Bracewell went with them. Margery welcomed them all with cries of delight, reserving her warmest hug and biggest kiss for the apprentice. She fed him, washed him then joined the others in the parlour to listen to Honeydew’s tale. Margery could not believe that any woman could treat a child so cruelly.
‘She did show me some kindness,’ said the boy.
‘Well, I’d show none to her,’ said Margery, roused. ‘Leaving you bound and gagged in a cupboard all night? I’d not inflict that on an animal. What was the name of this ogress?’
‘Celia Hatfield,’ said Nicholas. ‘At least, that was what she was called when she was married. Unknown to her, two other women had already wed the same man. Her maiden name was Malevant. When he met her, she was Celia Malevant.’
‘Malevant to Malevole is but a short journey,’ Firethorn indicated. ‘There was real malevolence in the lady. When we tried to tie her wrists, she cursed and spat like a fishwife.’
‘Only a malign creature would seek such hideous revenge,’ said his wife. ‘She’ll hang beside her brother for what she did.’
Honeydew grimaced. ‘I feel pity for the lady.’
‘After what she did to you?’
‘And what she did to Hal Bridger?’ said Firethorn.
‘She told me that nobody was meant to die,’ recalled Honeydew, ‘and I believe her. She only wanted someone to be taken sick in the middle of the play.’
Nicholas gave a nod. ‘It was her brother, Robert Malevant, who bought the poison and decided on its strength,’ he said. ‘He was always ready to go to extremes. When the letter came from her husband to tell her that he was dying, Celia Hatfield was so distressed that she miscarried and lost her baby. You can imagine how she felt when she later discovered that she had been duped.’
‘She must have wanted to murder her husband,’ said Margery.
‘Her brother commended another course of action. It was he who learnt that Paul Hatfield was still alive and living here in London under another name. While visiting the capital on business, Robert Malevant chanced upon the intelligence. He sent to Lincoln for his sister,’ said Nicholas, ‘and they devised their plot.’
‘To bring our company tumbling down,’ said Firethorn.
‘To ruin the author’s dream. They knew how strong his ambition to be a playwright was. The brother described The Malevolent Comedy to me as the child of its author.’
‘So he and his sister decided to take its life.’
‘An eye for an eye, a child for a child.’
‘But that meant that we suffered instead of Saul Hibbert.’
‘They did what they came to do, Lawrence,’ said Nicholas. ‘They killed his play and made him writhe in pain while they did it. His wife, of course, had another reason for revenge. In portraying her as Mistress Malevole, her husband was revealing the darker aspects of her character. When she saw herself in such an unkind light, she was moved to greater fury. Celia Malevant and her brother are two of a kind.’
‘At least, we’ve seen the last of them now,’ said Margery.
‘And of Saul Hibbert,’ added Firethorn. ‘How would you like to share your husband with two or three other wives, my love?’
‘I do that every time you step out onto a stage, Lawrence. Except that there are more than two or three. There’s not a woman in the audience who does not imagine you as husband, paramour or both at once.’ Firethorn laughed heartily. ‘I bear them no ill will as long as you always come home to me.’
‘And always will, sweet wife.’
There was a knock on the door and Margery went out to see who it was. Honeydew covered a yawn with his hand. Firethorn put a paternal arm around him. They were all surprised when Margery came back into the room with Barnaby Gill.
‘We did not expect you to call, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn.
‘Nor I to come here,’ said Gill, doffing his hat, ‘but I bring you tidings that might cheer you.’
‘To have Dick back with us is all the cheer I need.’
‘This is a delicious rumour from Banbury’s Men. I had it from a friend who works at the Curtain as a gatherer. From time to time, he feeds me such tasty morsels.’
‘Go on.’
‘Giles Randolph commissioned a new play.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, knowledgeably. ‘John Vavasor and Cyrus Hame were to be co-authors. When Lamberto was such a triumph, it was felt that they could repeat it with Pompey the Great.’
‘My play, my character, my property!’ asserted Firethorn.
‘And likely to remain so,’ said Gill. ‘From what I hear, the play has been rejected as being unfit for performance. Giles Randolph thought the tragedy too slow and insipid, so the co-authors are out of favour.’
‘This is heartening news, Barnaby. We owe you thanks.’
‘We’ve lost one playwright but they’ve lost two.’
‘Then we steal the advantage once again,’ said Firethorn, happily.
‘And we’ll hold it,’ said Nicholas with confidence, ‘now that we have Edmund back again. He’s found a new Muse. He’s writing a tragedy that will overshadow anything that Saul Hibbert gave us, and push the memory of Lamberto into oblivion.’
‘What more could we want?’ asked Margery. ‘The villains have been caught, Dick is safely back with us and Westfield’s Men are set to rule the stage again.’
‘I never ceased to rule it,’ boasted Gill.
Firethorn cackled. ‘You did when that dog bit your bum.’
‘That made me laugh as well,’ said Honeydew, giggling.
‘Barnaby deserves praise,’ said Nicholas, trying to appease him. ‘Most actors would have quit the stage in fear. He turned the attack to good account and made it look as if it had been rehearsed.’
‘Thank you, Nicholas,’ said Gill, graciously. ‘I struggled on in pain. A clown can turn anything into clowning if he has the skill. But I’m so relieved to see the back of Saul’s play. It was the strangest comedy I ever saw. I never felt that it really suited us.’