Hans Kippel loved every moment of it. Seated on an empty firkin in the middle of the yard, he was the lone spectator of a comedy that made him laugh so loud and so much for two whole hours that he kept falling off his perch. The pace of the action bewildered him but that did not dull his appreciation of the play itself or of the many splendid performances. Without quite knowing why, he was happy for the first time in a week. The only things that puzzled him were the absence of Richard Honeydew and the other boy apprentices, and the sudden appearance of four beautiful young women on the stage. When the most affecting of these creatures — a demure maid in a high-waisted dress of pink taffeta — spoke to him, Hans Kippel felt his cheeks burn with modesty.
‘Did you like the entertainment?’ she said.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Be honest with me, Hans.’
‘I liked it exceedingly, good mistress.’
‘And did you recognise us all?’
‘Well …’
The visitor’s confusion was total. Richard Honeydew cut through it by taking off his auburn wig to reveal the telltale mop of fair hair. Hans Kippel jumped up with a shock that quickly turned to amusement as he realised how completely he had been fooled by the excellence of the playing. The four apprentices had been so convincing in their female roles that he had never suspected for a moment that they might be anything but young ladies themselves. As he looked at his new friend now, then saw the lantern-jawed John Tallis ease off the shoulders of his dress to expose a padded bust, he beat out a tattoo of joy on the firkin. This was the funniest thing of all and it put some of the old zest back into the Dutch boy.
Nicholas Bracewell watched with approval from the back of the stage. The decision to bring Hans Kippel to the Queen’s Head had been a sound one. It had not only guaranteed his safety, it gave a lift to his spirits that nothing else had been able to do. The antics of Love and Fortune might be able to unlock the demons that were chained up in his mind.
Demons of another kind prompted Lawrence Firethorn.
‘Nick, dear heart!’ he sighed.
‘I am here, sir.’
‘Have you spoken with that creeping insect yet?’
‘Master Marwood will not be moved.’
‘Then shall he feel the end of my sword up his mean-spirited arse. That will move him, I vow!’
‘We must do nothing rash,’ said Nicholas.
‘He’ll not disown us without a fight.’
‘Let me use subtler weapons.’
‘They have no power to kill.’
‘Yet might they preserve our place here, master.’
‘Can you be certain of that, Nick?’
The book holder shook his head and replied honestly.
‘No, sir. The portents are bad.’
Alderman Rowland Ashway surveyed the inn yard through the window of an upstairs room. With the fidgeting landlord at his shoulder, he pronounced the death sentence.
‘I want them out of here at once,’ he said.
‘Their contract still has weeks to run, sir.’
The alderman was peremptory. ‘My attorneys will find a way out of that. Good lawyers will sniff out a loophole in any document. When you have signed the Queen’s Head over to me, we’ll have Westfield’s Men out on the street before they draw breath to protest.’
‘Hold fast,’ said Alexander Marwood. ‘Do they not deserve a fair warning?’
‘Notice of eviction is all that they will get.’
‘I have scruples.’
‘There is no such thing in business affairs.’
Ashway’s easy brutality made the landlord pause to consider his own position. If the alderman dealt with his enemies so callously, how would he handle Marwood himself if the two of them ever fell out? Cunning lawyers who could revoke a legal contract with Westfield’s Men could do as much with any document of sale. Security of tenure might turn out to rest on the whim of Rowland Ashway.
‘I need more time to think this over,’ said Marwood.
‘You have had weeks already, sir.’
‘Fresh doubts arise.’
‘Smother them at birth.’
‘I must make safe our future.’
‘That is my major concern here,’ said the other with adipose affability. ‘The Queen’s Head is nothing without the name of Marwood and I would not dream of buying one without the other. Your family have a proud heritage, sir. It is my sincerest wish to preserve and honour that.’
‘I must peruse the contract with my own attorney.’
‘So shall you, Master Marwood.’
‘And my wife still has her quibbles.’
‘I thought my two hundred pounds took care of them.’
‘It helped,’ said the landlord with a laugh like a death rattle. ‘It helped to soften her inclinations.’
‘Work on her earnestly.’
‘It has been my life’s endeavour.’
Ashway pulled away from the window and walked back into the room. Watching the end of the rehearsal had only deepened his hatred of Westfield’s Men. Their very existence was a reminder of the privilege and title from which he was excluded by birth. To oust them would be to promote worth in place of idleness. Theatre was nothing but a distraction from the working world of the city.
He fixed an eye on the squirming publican.
‘You have given me your word, Master Marwood.’
‘It is my bond, sir.’
‘I expected no less.’
‘We have always dealt honestly with each other.’
‘And both of us have prospered,’ noted Ashway. ‘Bear that in mind in case your wife has further doubts. I will have the contract sent to you forthwith.’
‘Give me time to study it at my leisure.’
‘Keep me waiting and my interest will wane.’
‘All will be well, I am sure.’
‘Good,’ said the alderman going back to the window to gaze down. ‘I’ll take possession of the Queen’s Head and throw Westfield’s Men back into the gutter where they belong, vile rabble that they are! Let their illustrious patron give them all begging bowls!’ Something aroused his curiosity. ‘Come here to me.’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘That man below there.’
‘Which one?’
‘The sturdy fellow with the boy.’
‘I see him.’
‘Who is he?’
Alexander Marwood watched the tall, muscular figure take his scrawny young companion across the yard to the stage and hoist him up with one fluent movement of his strong arms. The landlord knew him as the one member of the company whom he could respect and trust.
‘Well, sir,’ said Ashway. ‘Who is he?’
‘The book holder.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
Expectation put colour in her cheeks and rekindled the spark in her eyes. The day was rich with promise and she let it show in her face, her voice and her movements even though she collected some glances of disapproval from the household steward. Matilda Stanford had been stirred by the touch of true love and nothing could subdue her. The staid Simon Pendleton might expect her to share in the family sorrow over the murder of Michael Delahaye but she did not put on a false show of mourning for his benefit. All her thoughts were fixed on the afternoon ahead. Love and Fortune was more than just another performance by Westfield’s Men. If she had the courage to respond to the message of the sonnet, it was a tryst with her beloved.
‘Shall we be safe, mistress?’
‘Stay close to me, Prudence.’
‘I do not know whether to be excited or afraid.’
‘I confess I am a little of each.’