‘I know it well,’ said Pugsley with a nostalgic smirk. ‘I was one myself, Aubrey, and felt that stirring of the blood on every high day and holiday. The pranks that we lads got up to!’ He corrected himself at once. ‘But it is a tradition much mocked and abused of late. Harmless pleasure can so easily turn to an affray — and I will not permit that in my city.’
‘Take steps to ward it off then.’
‘You have my word that it shall be done.’ His beady eyes lit up. ‘I take my cue from Geoffrey Boleyn.’
‘He was a brave Mayor indeed, sir.’
‘In 1458, the King in his wisdom ordered a council of reconciliation in St Paul’s between the rival nobility. During the month it took them to arrive, Mayor Boleyn patrolled the streets by day in full armour and he kept three thousand armed men ready by night.’ Pugsley’s chest expanded. ‘I would ride out at the head of my constables if you think that it is needful.’
‘There are other precautions we may take,’ said Kenyon tactfully. ‘Your bravery does you credit but you do not have to expose yourself to danger.’
‘What are these precautions, Aubrey?’
‘Appoint sufficient men to keep watch on the city.’
‘It shall be done.’
‘Look to the selling of ale that it should not be given to those too young to hold it like a gentleman. Discourage large crowds from gathering. Arrest known troublemakers early in the day before they can work up the apprentices.’ Aubrey Kenyon reserved his deepest contempt for another area of social life. ‘Subdue what entertainment we can, especially the theatres.’
‘Theatres?’
‘That is where corruption breeds,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘If it were left to me, I would close down every playhouse in London.’
Abel Strudwick was ruthless in pursuit of the new career that he now felt awaited him. He was rowing away from a Bankside wharf with two passengers in the stern of his boat when he saw Nicholas Bracewell and Hans Kippel in search of transport. The waterman lost all interest in his current fare and swung the prow of the boat around to head back towards the wharf. His passengers complained bitterly but they were no match for Strudwick. His combination of brawn and bellicosity had them scampering out of the boat and he welcomed Nicholas and the boy instead. All three were soon threading their way through the flotilla of craft that was afloat that day. The waterman was impatient.
‘Have you acquainted Master Firethorn with my ambitions?’ he asked with hirsute eagerness.
‘I mean to speak to him today,’ said Nicholas.
‘Tell him of my quality.’
‘It will not go unremarked, Abel.’
‘I would strut upon the scaffold with him.’
‘That may not be so easy a wish to fulfil.’
‘But I have the trick of it,’ said the other. ‘Let me come out onto the stage before the play begins to woo the audience with my sweet music.’
Nicholas gave a non-committal nod. Hans Kippel, at first alarmed by Strudwick’s grinning ugliness, now took an interest in him.
‘Are you a musician, sir?’ he said.
‘Yes, lad. Would you hear me play?’
‘What is your instrument?’
‘Lie back in the boat and you shall hear it.’
Before Nicholas could stop him, the poet recited a long narrative about his visit to the Queen’s Head and its extraordinary effect on his life. The verse had the same rocking-horse rhythm as usual and it was imprisoned hopelessly in its rhyme scheme. A pun of resounding awfulness brought the saga to a grinding conclusion.
Nicholas manufactured a smile of approval but Hans Kippel was truly impressed. The boy was amazed to hear such fine words coming from such a foul source and he clapped his hands. Abel Strudwick beamed as if he had been given an ovation by a huge audience and he sealed an instant friendship with the Dutch apprentice. The fact was not lost on Nicholas who saw its value at once. He had only brought the boy with him in order to ensure his safety. If Hans Kippel was in danger of attack, he had to be watched over carefully at all times. Taking him away from Southwark had the extra advantage of shifting any threat away from Anne Hendrik. As it was, Nicholas had given Preben van Loew and the other workmen stern orders to be vigilant on her behalf but he did not feel she was now at risk. Unknown to himself, the boy was the target. Friendship with Abel Strudwick meant that there was another safe refuge in the event of an emergency.
They landed, paid their fare and took their leave. The boatman’s tuneless music had served another turn. So mesmerised was Hans Kippel that he did not look once towards the Bridge which held such terrors for him. He was in an inquisitive mood and they picked their way through the busy market in Gracechurch Street.
‘What is the name of the play, Master Bracewell?’
‘Love and Fortune.’
‘And shall I be able to watch it?’
‘Only during the rehearsal, Hans.’
‘I have never been to a theatre before,’ said the boy. ‘Preben van Loew was not happy that I should come to this one today. I was brought up strictly in Amsterdam and such things are frowned upon. Will it cause me harm?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘Old Preben believes that it will.’
‘Do not pay too much heed to him.’
Nicholas smiled fondly as he remembered an occasion when the Protestant rectitude of the Dutch hatmaker was put to the test by Westfield’s Men. Preben van Loew had been asked to escort Anne Hendrik to a performance of the controversial piece, The Merry Devils, and he had been embarrassed to find just how much he enjoyed it. The book holder was confident that Hans Kippel would get equal pleasure out of the present offering. With a paternal arm around the boy’s shoulders, he guided him in through the main entrance of the Queen’s Head.
The apprentice was an incongruous figure amid the flamboyance of the actors and he came in for some good-natured ribbing. George Dart warmed to him at once because he recognised a kindred spirit in the waiflike youth with his pale face and his wide-eyed wonder. Nicholas introduced his companion to everyone then left him with Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the four apprentices, a bright, alert, soft-skinned boy with a mop of fair hair and a friendly grin. While the book holder was busy setting the rehearsal up, the little actor took the visitor under his wing. Inevitably, there was especial interest shown from one quarter.
‘Welcome to our humble show, Master Kippel.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Barnaby Gill, at your service.’ He gave a mock bow and appraised the newcomer. ‘Is not that jerkin a trifle warm for you in this weather?’
‘There is a cold breeze blowing, sir.’
‘That will not hurt you. Come, let me help you off with it. I promise you will feel more comfortable.’
Hans Kippel did not get the chance to find out. Before the actor could even touch the boy, Nicholas came over to interpose himself between them. Having rescued the lad from an attempt on his young life, he was not going to let him fall into the dubious clutches of Barnaby Gill. One glance from the book holder made the actor back off at once. Neither Hans Kippel nor Richard Honeydew fully understood what had happened in that moment. Their innocence remained intact.
The voice of authority boomed out across the yard.
‘Gentlemen, we tarry!’ yelled Firethorn.
‘All is ready, sir,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then let us show our mettle.’
With no more ado, the rehearsal began. Love and Fortune was a romantic comedy about the dangers of committing the heart too soon and too completely. It featured three sets of lovers and its use of mistaken identity was both deft and effective. Westfield’s Men put real spirit into it and the play romped along at speed. Lawrence Firethorn crackled hilariously in the leading role, ably supported by Edmund Hoode as a lovelorn gallant and by Barnaby Gill as an ageing cuckold. The small but demanding part of Lorenzo was played with Celtic ebullience by Owen Elias who tackled the speeches as if he were auditioning for much greater theatrical honours. After their patent failure with Black Antonio, the company was determined to vindicate its reputation in the most positive manner. The rehearsal had edge.