‘You are not well enough to go back to work,’ Anne said.
‘I am fully recovered now,’ he told her.
‘Your face belies it, Preben. That stone was thrown hard.’
He gave a pale smile. ‘You do not need to remind me.’
‘If you feel the slightest discomfort, you have my permission to leave at once. Do not tax yourself. Every commission we have has been finished ahead of time. You are under no compulsion.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And when you do want the dressing changed, come to me.’
‘I will,’ he said.
But she knew that he was unlikely to do so. He had such a strong sense of independence that he hated to rely on anyone else, especially a woman. Preben van Loew was an odd character. When he had been struck on the head, he was less concerned with the searing agony than with the embarrassment he felt at having been attacked in Anne’s presence. Having set out that morning as her protector, it was he who now needed protection. It was an affront to his pride.
‘Do not tell them about this in Amsterdam,’ he requested.
‘But they will all ask after you, Preben.’
‘Tell them that I am well.’
‘But you are not,’ she said.
‘I want them to hear only good news about me. If they know about the attack, my family and friends will only worry about me.’
‘And so they should.’
‘Spare them the anguish,’ he said. ‘Tell them the truth — that I live a happy life among people I admire, and do a job that I have always loved. I want no fuss to be made of me, Anne.’
Anne became reflective. ‘You sound like Jacob,’ she recalled. ‘During his last illness, when he lacked the strength even to get out of bed on his own, he kept telling me not to cosset him. He hated to put me to the slightest trouble. I was his wife yet he would still not let me pamper him. Can you understand why?’
‘Very easily.’
‘Then you and he are two of a kind.’ She thought about the narrow, dedicated, industrious, almost secret existence that he led and she changed her mind. ‘Well, perhaps not. As for your injury …’
‘These things happen. We just have to accept that.’
‘Well, I’ll not accept it,’ she said with spirit, ‘and neither will Nick. You saw how angry he was when we told him about it.’
‘But there was no need to do so, Anne. It’s far better to remain silent. All that I had was a bang on the head. Think of the problems that Nicholas is facing after that fire,’ he said. ‘You should not have bothered him with this scratch that I picked up.’
‘It was much more than a scratch, Preben.’
‘It will heal in time.’
‘Someone deserves to be punished.’
‘We do not know who he was.’
‘Nick will find out.’
‘How can he?’ asked the old man. ‘He was not even there.’
‘Perhaps not, but he cares for you, Preben. That’s why he took such an interest in the case.’
‘I’d rather he forget it altogether.’
‘Then you do not know Nick Bracewell,’ she said proudly. ‘If his friends are hurt, he’s not one to stand idly by. You may choose to forget the outrage but he will not. Sooner or later, Nick will make someone pay for it. You will be avenged.’
After toiling away for most of the morning with the others, Nicholas Bracewell left the Queen’s Head to call on their patron. Lord Westfield liked to be kept informed about his troupe and this latest news would brook no delay. Having cleaned himself up as best he could, therefore, Nicholas made his way to the grand house he had often visited in the past. In times of crisis for Westfield’s Men — and they seemed to come around with increasing regularity — the book holder always acted as an intercessory between the company and its epicurean patron. He had far more tact than Lawrence Firethorn and none of the actor’s booming self-importance. As a result of Nicholas’s long association with the company, Lord Westfield appreciated the book holder’s true worth. It made him the ideal messenger.
The servant who admitted him to the house was not impressed with his appearance but, as soon as he gave the name of the visitor to his master, he was told to bring him into the parlour at once. Nicholas was accordingly ushered into the room and found Lord Westfield, sitting in a chair, scrutinising a miniature that he held in his palm. It was moments before the patron looked up at him.
‘Nicholas,’ he said with unfeigned cordiality. ‘It is good to see you again, my friend.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘What brings you to my house this time?’
‘Sad tidings.’
‘Oh?’
‘There has been a fire at the Queen’s Head.’
‘A serious one?’
‘Serious enough,’ said Nicholas.
He gave Lord Westfield a detailed account of what had happened, speculating on the probable cause of the blaze and emphasising the dire consequences for the company. To Nicholas’s consternation, their patron was only half-listening and he appeared to be less interested in the fate of the troupe that bore his name than he was in the portrait at which he kept glancing. When he had finished his tale, the visitor had to wait a full minute before Lord Westfield even deigned to glance up at him.
‘Is that all, Nicholas?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Sad tidings, indeed.’
‘We have been wiped completely from the stage.’
‘And you believe this man started the fire?’
‘It is only a conjecture,’ admitted Nicholas.
‘Then it could just as easily have been arson.’
‘Oh, no, my lord.’
‘But we have jealous rivals,’ Lord Westfield reminded him. ‘They have often tried to bring us down before. Someone employed by Banbury’s Men could have burnt us out of our home.’
‘There is no suggestion of that.’
‘But it is a possibility.’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they would not have lit the fire in that part of the inn,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘Had someone wanted to inflict real damage on us, they would have started the blaze on the other side of the building so that the rooms where we keep our wardrobe, our scenery and our properties would have been destroyed. Without all that, we would be unable to stage a play anywhere.’
‘A fair point,’ conceded the other.
‘The seat of the fire was in Will Dunmow’s bedchamber. That much is certain. It was started by accident.’
‘Accident or design, Banbury’s Men will applaud the result.’
‘There is nothing we can do to stop them,’ said Nicholas. ‘They and our other rivals will gloat over our misfortune. That is why I came to you, Lord Westfield.’
‘Go on.’
‘We are hoping that you may lighten our burden.’
‘In what way?’
‘It may be possible for us to play at the Rose on rare occasions but that will hardly keep our name before the public. You have many friends, my lord. In the past, you have been kind enough to commend us to them and we have been invited to play in their homes.’
‘True.’
‘May we prevail upon you to do so again, please?’
Lord Westfield gazed down at the miniature again and went off into a trance. Nicholas tried to catch his attention by clearing his throat noisily but the other man did not even hear him. He was far too preoccupied. The book holder grew steadily more annoyed. He had just brought terrible news about Westfield’s Men yet all that their patron could do was to ignore him. At length, Lord Westfield did raise his eyes, blinking when he realised that he had company.
‘Did you want something, Nicholas?’ he said.
‘Yes, my lord. I begged a favour of you.’
‘Ah, yes. You wanted to be recommended to my friends.’
‘We would be most obliged,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘Actors like Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill will always be in demand for private performances, and Owen Elias can sing sweetly enough to make a living at it. But for most of the company, that fire is the road to penury and suffering. If you could find us work from those in your circle, you would lessen that suffering. May we count on you to do that, my lord?’