‘I’ll take on the office of telling him,’ volunteered Nicholas.
‘Ask him if he can aid us in some way.’
‘Not with money, I suspect. His debts mount with each year.’
‘You are behind the times, Nick. Our esteemed patron has had good fortune at last. His elder brother died earlier this year.’
‘I knew that.’
‘What you did not know is that he left him half his estate. Lord Westfield is transfigured. He has finally paid off his creditors.’
‘Cheering news,’ said Nicholas, ‘yet I look for no munificence from him. Unlike poor Will Dunmow, he is not given to charity. And talking of our erstwhile friend,’ he added considerately, ‘we must send word to his family of his unfortunate end. Though we had only the briefest acquaintance with him, it behoves us to act on his behalf. The landlord will certainly not do so.’
‘He’ll be too busy cooling his bum in a pail of water.’
‘Owen Elias spent the longest time with Master Dunmow. He’ll know where the young man lodged in London and what friends he may have in the city.’
‘It’s right to mourn for the dead but we must also have care for the living. Unless we can find somewhere else to play, the company will go into hibernation. A few of us will not fare too badly,’ said Firethorn, ‘because we have other irons in the fire, but most of the lads will suffer grievously. An actor without a stage is like a man without a woman, lacking in the one thing that allows him to prove his true worth.’ His gaze travelled around the yard. ‘Yesterday, we gave them The Italian Tragedy. This morning, we behold a real tragedy. Westfield’s Men have gone up in smoke.’
Nicholas was soulful. ‘That fate befell Will Dunmow,’ he noted. ‘We live to perform another day. For that, we owe a prayer of thanks.’
‘You are right, Nick.’ He doffed his hat and began to unbutton his doublet. ‘And I believe that we do have a duty to clear some of this rubbish away.’
Nicholas slipped off his cap and his buff jerkin. ‘I’ve sent George Dart to fetch the others,’ he said. ‘This is work for many hands. When he sees us helping here, the landlord’s heart may soften towards us.’ Firethorn gave a snort of derision. ‘And there will be compensation of a sort for you, Lawrence.’
‘Not from that death’s-head.’
‘I was thinking of your wife. Margery will be delighted to see more of her husband in the next few months.’
‘That’s a mixed blessing,’ said Firethorn, recalling his wife’s violent temper. ‘But not in your case, Nick. Your domestic life is less troubled than mine. If the company goes to sleep throughout the autumn, you will see a great deal of Anne. That must content you.’
‘Unhappily, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Anne is planning another visit to Amsterdam.’
Located in Broad Street, the Dutch Church had once been part of an Augustinian monastery. After the dissolution, it had been granted to royal favourites of Henry VII, who had promptly shown their religious inclinations by using it as a stable. When his young son, Edward, succeeded to the throne, he gave the nave and aisles of the church to Protestant refugees, most of whom were Dutch or German, but they were not allowed to enjoy the gift for long. At the start of Queen Mary’s reign, that devout Roman Catholic gave the foreign congregation less than a month to leave and she shunned them thereafter. The accession of Queen Elizabeth saw the immediate restitution of a building that resumed its title of the Dutch Church, and acted as a central point for immigrant worshippers.
Anne Hendrik knew the place well and had attended many services there with her husband. A young Englishwoman with a quick brain, she had soon mastered Jacob Hendrik’s native language and learnt a great deal of German from him as well. A happy marriage was then cut short by the untimely death of the Dutchman, and his wife inherited the hat-making business that he had set up in Bankside. Showing a flair and acumen that she did not know she possessed, she managed the enterprise with considerable success. The reputation it achieved was not all Anne’s doing. Much of the credit had to go to Preben van Loew, her senior employee, a man whose talent and versatility brought in a stream of commissions.
It was the sober Dutchman who accompanied her on the long walk to church that morning. In a dangerous city, Anne was grateful for an escort, even one as taciturn as the emaciated old man.
‘It’s kind of you to come with me, Preben,’ she said.
‘I like to pay my respects as well.’
‘You were a good friend to Jacob.’
‘We grew up together,’ he said.
‘And fled to England together as well. It must have been a shock to you when he chose to marry someone like me.’
‘You were a good wife.’
‘I like to think so,’ said Anne with a nostalgic smile, ‘but you did not know that beforehand. You must have had serious doubts about me at first.’
The Dutchman was tactful. ‘I cannot remember.’
‘A wise answer.’
Side by side, they continued along the busy thoroughfare of Broad Street. They were making one of their regular journeys to the churchyard to visit the grave of Jacob Hendrik. It was always a sad occasion but there was some solace for Anne. Having paid her respects to her late husband, she would have an opportunity to call on the man who had replaced him in her life, Nicholas Bracewell, a dear friend who had begun as a lodger before finding himself her lover as well. Gracechurch Street was within easy walking distance of the Dutch Church. Ignorant of the tragedy that had befallen the Queen’s Head, Anne proposed to stop there in order to watch a little of the day’s rehearsal.
As she bore down on the church, however, her mind was filled with fond memories of Jacob Hendrik, a hard-working man who had been forced to settle south of the river because the trades guilds resolved to keep as many foreign rivals as they could out of the city. On arrival in England, her future husband had met with resentment and suspicion. When they reached their destination, Anne was suddenly reminded of what he had had to endure.
‘Not another one!’ said Preben van Loew with disgust.
‘Tear it down,’ she urged.
‘I wish to read it first.’
‘It’s the work of a twisted mind, Preben.’
‘A man should always know his enemy.’
The printed message was attached to the wall of the churchyard and it had a stark clarity. Both of them read the opening lines.
You strangers that inhabit in this land,
Note this same writing, do it understand;
Conceive it well for safeguard of your lives,
Your goods, your children and your dearest wives.
‘They still hate us,’ said the old man, shaking his head. ‘I have been here all these years and I am still a despised stranger.’
‘Not in my eyes.’
‘You are the exception.’
‘No, Preben,’ she said stoutly. ‘London is full of good, decent, tolerant citizens who would be repelled by this libel. Unfortunately, the city also harbours cruel and vicious men who envy the success that foreign tradesmen have.’
‘They are many in number.’
‘I do not believe that.’
‘They are,’ he said, rolling his eyes in despair. ‘Have you forgotten how easily the apprentices were incited to riot against us? We are despised and always will be.’
‘When I see such vile accusations, it makes me ashamed to call myself English. At times like this,’ said Anne, glancing into the churchyard, ‘I feel proud that I have strong Dutch connections. I feel sympathy for all who sought refuge here. You and Jacob had so much to bear when you left your own country.’
He shrugged. ‘It was no more than we expected.’
Wanting to turn away, she felt impelled to read more of the angry verse and saw a scathing attack on the government for allowing strangers to enter the realm.