‘Daisies are low, dishonest flowers.’
Barnaby Gill banged the table with irritation. His fondness for Cupid’s Folly was well founded. A rustic comedy with a farcical impetus, it was the one play in the company’s repertoire which gave him a central role that allowed him to dominate throughout. As a result, it was staged whenever they needed to mollify the little actor or to dissuade him for implementing his regular threat to walk out on Westfield’s Men. No such exigency obtained here.
‘I favour Marriage and Mischief,’ said Hoode.
‘Then you should have wed Margery,’ added Firethorn. ‘It is an interesting suggestion, Edmund, to be sure, but the play begins to show its age.’
‘I stand by Cupid’s Folly,’ said Gill.
‘And I by Marriage and Mischief,’ said Hoode.
‘That is why we need a happy compromise.’ Firethorn gave a ripe chuckle which showed that the decision had already been made. ‘We will favour the nuptials with some sage advice. Let us play The Wise Widow of Dunstable.’
It was a compromise indeed and his fellow sharers came to see much virtue in it. Edmund Hoode, fearing that he might be commissioned to write a new play for the occasion, was ready to settle for a seasoned comedy by another hand, especially as it offered him a telling cameo as the ghost of the widow’s departed husband. Barnaby Gill, robbed of the opportunity to star in his favourite play, warmed quickly to the idea of a piece which gave him a prominent role and allowed him to execute no less than four of his famous comic jigs. Inevitably, it was Lawrence Firethorn who would shine in the leading part of Lord Merrymouth but there was light enough for others. The Wise Woman of Dunstable satisfied all needs.
They discussed their plans in more detail then the meeting broke up. Barnaby Gill was first to leave. When Edmund Hoode tried to follow him out, he was detained by the actor-manager. The glowing countenance of Lawrence Firethorn said it all and the other braced himself.
‘I may have work for you, Edmund.’
‘Spare me, sir, I pray you.’
‘But I am in love, man.’
‘I have long admired your beautiful wife.’
‘It is not Margery I speak of!’ hissed Firethorn. ‘Another arrow has been fired into my heart.’
‘Pluck it out in the name of marital bliss.’
‘Come, come, Edmund. We are men of the world, I hope. Our passions are too fiery to be sated by a single woman. Each of us must spread his love joyously among the sex.’
Hoode sighed. ‘Could I but find her, I would be faithful to one dear mistress.’
‘Then help me secure mine by way of rehearsal.’
‘I will not write verses for you, Lawrence.’
‘They would be for her, man. For a divinity.’
‘Offer up prayers instead.’
‘I come to you in the name of friendship, Edmund. Do not let me down in my hour of need. Stand by to help, that is all I ask. Nothing is required from you now.’
‘Why cannot you do your wooing alone?’
‘And throw away the best chance that I have? Your poems are love potions in themselves, Edmund. No woman can resist your honeyed phrases and your sweet sadness.’
Hoode gave a hollow laugh. In recent months, several women had been proof against the most affecting verse that his pen could produce. It would be ironic if his poetic talent helped to ensnare a new victim for the capacious bed of Lawrence Firethorn.
‘Who is the doomed lady?’ he asked.
‘That is the beauty of it, man. Nick Bracewell found out her name for me and it has increased my raptures.’
‘How can this be?’
Firethorn shook his head. ‘I may not tell you until after my prize is secured. But this I will say, Edmund. The lady in question is not only the most splendid creature in London. She will present me with the sternest challenge that I have ever faced. Your assistance will be the difference betwixt success and failure.’
‘Or betwixt failure and disaster.’
‘I like your spirit,’ said Firethorn, slapping his mournful companion between the shoulder blades. ‘We are yoke-fellows in this business. Mark my words, sir, we will bed this angel between us.’
‘Abandon this folly now, Lawrence.’
‘It is my mission in life.’
‘Draw back while you still have time.’
‘Too late, man. Plans have already been set in motion.’
Nicholas Bracewell set out early next morning with his mind still racing. A night in the arms of Anne Hendrik had lifted his spirits but failed to obliterate his abiding anxieties. The first of these concerned the dead body which he had dragged out of the murky waters on the previous night. As he was rowed back across the Thames in the sunlight, he felt once more the touch of the dead man’s hand and saw again the mutilated corpse bobbing about before him. The body had been young, firm and well muscled, sent to its grave before its time with the most grotesque injuries. Nicholas was filled with horror and racked by a sense of waste. The life of some nameless man had been viciously cut short by unknown hands that had worked with malign purpose. Evidently, someone had hated the victim — but who had loved him? Who had borne him and cared for him? What family depended on him? What friends would mourn his absence? Why had he been hacked so cruelly out of existence and sent anonymously to meet his Maker? Over and over again, Nicholas asked himself the question that contained all the others — who was he?
One mystery led him on to another. What had really happened to Hans Kippel? He had been given a very incomplete account by Anne Hendrik because she herself did not know the full facts. Something very unpleasant had befallen the apprentice and Nicholas resolved to find out what it was as soon as he was able. He had always liked the boy — despite his lapses — and taken an almost fatherly interest in him. Again, he was upset by Anne’s patent agitation and wanted to do all he could to help. It was as important to find Hans Kippel’s assailant as it was to identify the body from the Thames.
The boat reached the wharf and he paid the waterman before stepping ashore and making his way towards Gracechurch Street. With his feet on dry land again and his place of work in prospect, he turned to another grim subject. A violent death and a hounded youth had occupied his thoughts this far and those same images still lurked as he considered the walking misery that was Alexander Marwood. The threat of expulsion was indeed real. It was the reputation of Westfield’s Men which could meet a violent death if the company was deprived of its home. Sharers and hired men alike would become hounded youths who were driven way from the Queen’s Head. Nicholas took a realistic view of possible consequences and shuddered.
Without their base, the company would find it very difficult to survive, certainly in its present form. It might limp along in some attenuated shape for a short while by appearing intermittently at a variety of venues but this could only ever be a temporary expedient. Other companies would move in quickly to pick the bones clean. Outstanding talents such as Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode would soon be employed elsewhere but lesser mortals would stay out in the cold. Nicholas was confident that he himself would find work somewhere in the theatre but his concern was for his fellows, for the hired men who made up the bulk of the company and who clung to it with the desperate loyalty of those who have tasted the bitterness of neglect. To be thrust once more into unemployment would be a fatal blow to some of them and they might never work again.
Nicholas caught sight of the inn sign outside the Queen’s Head and he sighed. Elizabeth Tudor looked as regal and defiant as ever but she might harbour tragedy for some of her subjects. Those least able to defend themselves would be cast adrift in a hostile city. The book holder thought of Thomas Skillen, the old stagekeeper, of Hugh Wegges, the tiremen, of Peter Digby and his consort of musicians. He thought of all the other poor souls to whom Westfield’s Men gave a shred of dignity and a semblance of security. One in particular haunted Nicholas.