Nicholas was puzzled by the intercession from above.
‘Who is your master, Leonard?’
‘Alderman Ashway. I work for his brewery.’
Rowland Ashway arrived importantly at the Queen’s Head early on Monday morning. He brought his lawyer with him who, in turn, brought the contract for the sale of the premises. Alexander Marwood had his own lawyer waiting and the four of them went though the document with painstaking care for a couple of hours. A few doubts were raised, a few objections stated, a few emendations made. When the quibbling was over, both lawyers claimed their fees then withdrew to the other side of the room to leave the others alone. Alderman Ashway loomed over the funereal publican with oily complacence.
‘All is therefore settled, Master Marwood.’
‘I would like my wife to see the contract.’
‘When you have signed it, sir.’
‘She may have anxieties.’
‘Still them in the marriage bed.’
A retrospective wheeze. ‘Times have changed.’
‘Nothing now detains us,’ said the alderman. ‘Our attorneys have pronounced on the document and I have the money waiting for you to collect. Do but scrawl your name and the business is complete.’
‘Must it be done today, sir?’
‘I grow weary of your prevarication.’
‘It shall be signed, it shall be signed,’ gabbled the other. ‘But I must have a moment to reflect. The Queen’s Head was willed to me by my father. I must pray for his guidance and be reconciled with his soul.’
‘Will you then reach out for your pen?’
‘Most assuredly.’
Marwood bowed obsequiously and rubbed his hands together as if he were grating rotten cheese between them. He had bought another small delay but Rowland Ashway was determined that it would be the last.
‘We will return later,’ he announced.
‘You are always welcome here.’
‘To witness the signature.’
‘Well, yes, but …’
‘This is the day of decision, Master Marwood, and I will brook no more evasion. Append your name and your good will to that same document or I will tear it up and leave you to the mercy of Westfield’s Men.’
He sailed out of the room with his lawyer in tow. Alexander Marwood trotted meekly after him and smoothed his acceptance of the ultimatum. When he came out into the yard, however, something stopped the landlord and he became prey to fleeting regret.
The actors were gathering for rehearsal.
Abel Strudwick was a creature of extremes. Once he was committed to a course of action, he went the whole way with no hint of holding back. He had been shocked and wounded by Lawrence Firethorn’s cavalier treatment of him at the Queen’s Head and felt the pangs of the discarded. As one dream crumbled, however, another came into being. In cutting the actor-manager down in a verbal duel, he would not only be gaining his revenge, he would be showing the world his true merit as a performer. When he had made the final thrust into Firethorn’s black heart — he was confident of a swift victory — he intended to bestow the ultimate favour upon the audience by reading some of his poems. This was no mere flyting contest. It was the harbour from which his new career could be launched.
To this end, the visionary waterman had handbills printed to advertise his feat and distributed them freely to his passengers, around the taverns and among his fellows at the wharfside. Abel Strudwick was pitting his skills against a famous thespian. It was an intriguing prospect and it drew scores of people who would not normally have visited a theatrical event. The large audience which had come to watch The Queen of Carthage was thus further enlarged by an influx of rowdy watermen who jockeyed for position near the apron stage. As a prelude to an inspiring tragedy, they were being offered a clash of naked steel.
Somebody was doing his best to spoil their fun.
‘It is not too late to change your mind, Abel.’
‘That would be cowardly!’
‘I talk of a dignified withdrawal.’
‘Talk of what you wish, Master Bracewell,’ said the angry waterman. ‘I have vowed to do battle this day.’
‘Both of you will incur severe injury.’
‘It matters not, sir.’
‘But what if you should lose?’ suggested Nicholas. ‘This would do harm to your reputation.’
‘Defeat is impossible. Rest your tongue.’
They were in the taproom at the Queen’s Head not long before the contest was scheduled to take place. The book holder had made several attempts to talk his friend out of the whole thing but the latter was adamant. He had been slighted and sought recompense in the only way that would satisfy him. By way of preparation, he was sinking pints of Ashway’s Beer to clear his mind for argument.
Nicholas left him alone and slipped off to the tiring-house to make a last appeal to the other half of the dispute. Like the waterman, Lawrence Firethorn had steadfastly refused to listen to reason so far and he could not be diverted from his purpose now. Before he gave his acclaimed performance as Aeneas in the play, he meant to visit destruction upon the hirsute head of Abel Strudwick. The book holder got short shrift.
‘Speak not to me of retreat, Nick.’
‘Think of the good name of the company, sir.’
‘It is to defend that name that I measure swords with this unbarbered ruffian.’
‘You should not descend to a vulgar brawl with him.’
‘There will be no brawl,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘I will disarm the rogue with my first speech and he will stand there helpless while I cut him to shreds.’
‘A little diplomacy might save a lot of pain.’
‘Begone, sir! I’ll not be flouted out of my purpose.’
Nicholas Bracewell had foreseen the impasse and had evolved a contingency plan. It was time to activate it.
Meanwhile, in another part of the inn, another plan of his was being implemented. Margery Firethorn was paying a call on Sybil Marwood. They were in a private room that overlooked the courtyard and their interview was thus punctuated by the throbbing murmur of the crowd. Margery eschewed her usual over-assertive conversational style and opted for a softer and more confiding approach. She had been well primed by the book holder with information that he had gleaned from his chat at the Nine Giants with his old friend from the Counter. The mighty Leonard had unwittingly provided valuable insights into the working methods of Rowland Ashway.
‘I came to express my sympathy, Mistress Marwood.’
‘On what account, pray?’
‘Why, this betrayal that your husband is about.’
‘Betrayal?’
‘He intends to sell the inn to Alderman Ashway.’
‘For a good price, Mistress Firethorn.’
‘What do men know of price?’ said Margery with cold scorn. ‘When they have money in their hand, they cannot conceive its value. Only a woman can set a true price.’
‘That is so,’ conceded the other.
‘Your husband sells the Queen’s Head and gets a fair return for the inn, that is agreed. But, mistress, how much does he get for the home he is also losing? For the good will he has built up here? For the years of sweat and toil that both of you have put into the establishment?’ Margery heaved a sympathetic sigh. ‘This is a place with historic value. It breathes tradition. Did your spouse exact payment for that?’
‘I have not seen the terms of the contract.’
‘No?’ said the other, driving a wedge between husband and wife. ‘That is not considerate. My own dear husband would never dare to sign away our property without my amen to the notion. Master Marwood abuses you. He writes his name on a document and your whole lives are at risk.’
‘Risk?’ The alarm bell was ringing.
‘Surely, your husband has informed you.’
‘What risk, madam? Speak it plain.’
‘Eviction.’
‘From our own home!’
‘It will belong to Alderman Ashway.’
‘The contract will protect us.’
‘How do you know when you have not seen it?’ Margery got up and headed for the door. ‘Thank you for listening to me. I will not take up any more of your time.’