‘Would that we had a gentleman to protect us!’
‘We shall have. Be patient.’
Prudence Ling was far more than just a maidservant. Small, dark and spry, she was an attractive young woman with lively conversation and plenty of bounce. Most important of all, she was utterly trustworthy. Prudence had been in service with Matilda for some years now and their friendship had reached the point where they could exchange any confidences. The maidservant had no time for moral judgement. If her mistress wished to deceive her husband while he was away, then Prudence was ready to help with all her considerable guile. It was she who had procured the hooded cloaks that the two of them now wore and it was she who had led the way out through the garden gate so that their exit was unobserved by the steward of Stanford Place. Hiding their faces behind masks, they joined the crowd that was converging on the Queen’s Head.
‘I have but one fear, mistress.’
‘Be still, child.’
‘What if they mistake us for ladies of pleasure?’
‘Think on goodness and ignore them.’
The two women paid their entrance fee and went up to the middle gallery to claim seats on the front bench. They were wedged in between a couple of leering gallants but their masks gave them concealment and the badinage soon died. Other ladies with more available charms were taking their places nearby to watch the entertainment and to ply their trade at the same time. Prudence sneaked a sideways look at them and giggled her amusement.
The wind had freshened now and the sky was overcast. A full and fractious audience needed a vigorous comedy to warm them up and that is what they were given. Inspired by the speech that Lawrence Firethorn delivered just before they began, Westfield’s Men played Love and Fortune with a verve and commitment that was lacking from their previous offering. In place of tepid tragedy was a joyous comedy of romantic misunderstanding. Riotous laughter soon filled the makeshift auditorium and hearts were moved by the shifts and sufferings within the drama.
Matilda Stanford was entranced from the moment when Lawrence Firethorn stepped out in a magnificent costume of red and gold velvet to deliver the Prologue in tones of ringing sincerity. Her mask fell from her hand to reveal her in her true beauty and the actor spotted her immediately. Though heard by all, his words were clearly directed at her and she let herself be caressed by the language of pure love. Firethorn continued to woo her throughout in such a way that she was impervious to the presence of other spectators and believed herself to be the sole witness of a command performance. Love and Fortune was bursting at the seams with fun and frolic but her attention never wandered from Lawrence Firethorn. She did not notice the lovelorn swain with his clean-shaven naivety who was also dedicating his performance to her. Nor did she consider for a second that it was he who had written the new Prologue as well as the additional lines which were included for her benefit alone.
Suddenly, it was all over. Matilda was caught up in a torrent of applause that went on for several minutes as Firethorn led his company out onto the stage. His eyes sent further messages of desire to her but she could not fathom their meaning. When the cast vanished behind the curtain and the crowd began to leave, she was plunged into despair. During the play itself, Lawrence Firethorn had been so close to her in spirit that she felt she could reach out to touch him but now he was miles away. Had she taken all those risks to such little purpose? Did her blossoming romance amount simply to this? Was there nothing more?
‘A word with you, mistress!’
‘Away, sir!’ said Matilda.
‘But I bring you a letter.’
‘Do not trouble me further.’
‘It is from Master Firethorn.’
Breathless and battered, George Dart had struggled through the press to get to her with his missive. She snatched it from him and rewarded him with a coin that turned his elfin misery into beaming delight. Matilda opened the letter and read its contents with rising elation. It was an invitation to join Lawrence Firethorn in a private room and share a cup of Canary wine. She accepted on impulse and waved George Dart on so that she and her maidservant might follow. During the journey along the gallery, she showed the letter to Prudence. The maidservant was at once intrigued and concerned.
‘Is this wise, mistress?’
‘There is only one way to find out, Prudence.’
‘What of danger?’
‘I embrace it willingly.’
‘He is certainly the handsomest of men.’
‘Master Firethorn is a god whom I would worship.’
Their guide took them through a maze of corridors until he reached a stout oak door. He paused to knock with timid knuckles. His master’s roar came from within. George Dart opened the door for the two ladies to enter then he closed it behind them as Lawrence Firethorn bent low to plant a first delicate kiss on the hand of Matilda Stanford. Having done his office, the stagekeeper was now superfluous and could return to the multifarious tasks that still awaited him below. He made for the stairs but his way was blocked by a looming figure with staring eyes and gaping jaw. Edmund Hoode was aghast.
‘Who were those ladies?’ he demanded.
‘Guests of Master Firethorn, sir.’
‘But that was her! And she is mine!’
‘I was sent to bid them here. That is all I know.’
‘This is torture indeed!’
‘You look ill, sir. Shall I send for help?’
Hoode grabbed him. ‘Who was she?’
‘Which one, master?’
‘There is only one, George. That beauteous creature with the luminous skin. That angel from the gallery.’ He shook his colleague hard. ‘What is her name, man?’
‘Matilda Stanford, sir.’
‘Matilda, Matilda …’ Hoode played with the name and smiled fondly. ‘Yes, yes, it becomes her. Sweet Matilda. O, Matilda mine. Edmund and Matilda. Matilda and Edmund. How well they flow together!’ Titters of amusement came from within the room to darken his face. ‘Lawrence and Matilda. There’s discord and damnation for you!’
‘May I go now, Master Hoode?’ whimpered Dart.
‘What’s that?’
‘You are hurting me, sir.’
The poet released his quarry and let him scuttle away down the stairs. His own pain now preoccupied him. The cruel irony of it all lanced his very soul. Hoode’s own verses had been used to deliver up his mistress into the steamy embrace of Lawrence Firethorn. Deprived of the chance to write to her himself, he had been doing so unwittingly on another’s behalf. It was insupportable and the horror of it made him sway and moan. When he put his ear to the door, he heard flattery and laughter and the betrayal of his greatest hopes. Inside the room, mutual desire was flowering into something more purposive.
Edmund Hoode had murder in his heart.
Chapter Eight
During the performance of Love and Fortune, Hans Kippel sat in a corner of the tiring-house and wondered at everything he saw. Actors came and went, changing their costumes, characters and sex with baffling speed. Scenic devices were carried on and off. Stage and hand props were in constant use. Everyone was involved in a hectic event that gained momentum all the time and it was left to the book holder to impose order and sanity on the proceedings. From the stage itself came heightened language and comic songs that were interspersed with waves of laughter and oceans of applause. Swordplay, music and dance added to the magic of it all. In its own way, it was even more thrilling than watching the whole play in rehearsal. Tucked away in the tiring-house, Hans Kippel was part of a strange, new, mad, marvellous world that set fire to his imagination. He believed he was in heaven.
‘I am sorry to leave you alone so long, Hans.’
‘Do not vex yourself about me, Master Bracewell.’