‘No,’ said the other flatly.
Nicholas was taken aback. ‘No?’
‘I would not even consider it, Nicholas.’
‘As you wish, my lord — though I find your decision surprising.’
‘It was made for me,’ said Lord Westfield, getting up from his chair and coming across to him. He held out the miniature. ‘Look at this, please.’ Nicholas hesitated. ‘Go on — take it.’
The book holder did as he was told. He studied the portrait and wondered why it held such fascination for the other. Lord Westfield watched him carefully.
‘Well?’ he prompted.
‘It is well painted, my lord. The limner knows his trade.’
‘Forget the artist. Consider only his subject.’
‘The lady is very beautiful,’ observed Nicholas.
‘Is that all you have to say about her?’
‘What else is there to say except that she is young, well-favoured and of high birth? She has great poise and charm, my lord. Who the lady is, I do not know, but I think that she might well hail from a Scandinavian court.’
Lord Westfield was pleased. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘This is not an English face,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I’ll wager that you will not find any of the ladies at court with their hair worn like this. The limner has painted a foreigner.’
‘You are very perceptive.’
‘I do have an advantage, my lord.’
‘Advantage?’
‘Yes,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘There have been occasions when I’ve worshipped at the Dutch Church in Broad Street. It does not only serve the needs of those from the Low Countries. Other nations are also represented — Germans, Swedes, Norwegians — and you learn to pick out the differences between them.’
‘And what does this tell you?’ said the other, taking the portrait back so that he could feast his eyes on it once more. ‘This dear lady is the reason that I will not let my company spend their talents in the draughty halls of my friends. Where does she come from, Nicholas?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Answer the question — it’s important to me.’
‘Then I return to my first guess,’ said Nicholas, still mystified. ‘What you hold in your hand is a Scandinavian aristocrat. If you force me to name a country, I will do so.’
‘Then name it.’
‘Denmark.’
Lord Westfield shook with laughter. Slapping his visitor on the back by way of congratulation, he thrust the portrait in front of Nicholas’s gaze once more.
‘You have hit the mark,’ he said jubilantly. ‘This is no English beauty. She transcends anything that we could produce here. You are looking at a veritable saint. Her name is Sigbrit Olsen — a princess of Denmark!’
Chapter Three
Though they worked extremely hard to clear the debris from the inn yard, they neither expected nor received any thanks from Alexander Marwood. Westfield’s Men knew the landlord too well to look for any sign of gratitude from him, still less for any reward. Pessimistic by nature, Marwood was plunged into despair, seeing the end of the world foreshadowed in the destruction wrought by the fire. Instead of planning to rebuild his inn, he was mentally composing his will. The taproom of the Queen’s Head was virtually unscathed but the troupe did not even consider retiring there at the end of their exhausting labours. Marwood still blamed the troupe for the disaster and neither he, nor his flint-hearted wife, Sybil, would serve them. The actors therefore walked up Gracechurch Street to the Black Horse, a smaller and less comfortable tavern but one where they were at least guaranteed a warm welcome.
Seated at a table, three of the leading members of the company picked away desultorily at their food and discussed their prospects. They looked bleak. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode were not the only sharers but it was they who customarily made all the major decisions affecting Westfield’s Men. Hoode, playwright and actor, felt that, in this case, the decision had been made for them.
‘We must disband until next year,’ he said gloomily.
‘That would be fatal, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘We must stick together at all costs or the company will lose heart. Who knows? There may be room for us at The Rose from time to time, and we may even have the opportunity to perform at court in due course.’
‘Neither outcome is likely,’ said Gill with a dismissive flick of his hand. ‘The Rose already has its resident company and we will hardly be invited to play at court if we disappear from sight. We have to be seen on stage in order to catch the eye.’
‘Barnaby is right,’ agreed Hoode. ‘To all intents and purposes, Westfield’s Men have ceased to exist.’
‘No,’ said Firethorn, banging the table.
‘We have nowhere to perform, Lawrence.’
‘There may be another inn ready to help us out.’
‘We’ve never managed to find one before. The Queen’s Head is our home. When people hear the name, they think of us.’
‘And so they should,’ said Firethorn, thrusting out his jaw. ‘I’ve given some of my finest performances on the boards there. And you have helped me to do so, Edmund. Your plays have inspired me to reach the very peak of my art.’
‘What about me?’ asked Gill peevishly.
‘You frolic down in the foothills.’
‘I surpass you in everything I do, Lawrence.’
‘You surpass me in pulling faces, dancing jigs and singing bawdy songs, that much I grant you. As a tragedian, however, I cannot be matched in the whole of Christendom.’
‘Your modesty becomes you,’ said Gill waspishly.
‘Where would the company be without me?’
‘Better off in every way.’
‘It could certainly spare your meagre talents, Barnaby.’
‘Stop this argument,’ said Hoode, taking his usual role as the peacemaker. ‘You two never agree but you fall to quarrelling. The truth is that all of us — whatever our talents — have been put out of work by this fire.’ He chewed the last of his meal meditatively. ‘What does Nick say?’
‘What does it matter?’ countered Gill sharply. ‘You seem to forget that Nicholas is merely a hired man with no real standing in the company. It is we who decide policy, not the book holder.’
‘Nevertheless, his advice is always sound.’
‘Not in this case,’ said Firethorn with a sigh. ‘Nick thought that we should take to the road and hawk our plays around England.’
‘I’ll not turn peddler for anyone,’ said Gill defiantly.
‘You’ve done so before.’
‘Only under duress — and only in spring or summer.’
‘Strolling players are on tour throughout the year,’ noted Hoode. ‘They take no account of bad weather.’
Gill was insulted. ‘We are not strolling players, Edmund,’ he said huffily. ‘We are members of a licensed company. We have a patron and wear his livery. That sets us worlds apart from the ragamuffins who call themselves strolling players.’
‘For once, I agree with Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have high standards and we must never fall below them. As for touring, it’s the wrong time of the year to walk at the cart’s arse.’
‘I dispute that,’ said Hoode. ‘If we have no audience in London, we must go in search of one. We can brave a little rain for the sake of keeping our art in good repair.’
‘I refuse to stir an inch from London,’ declared Gill with finality.
‘Then we’ll have to go without you.’
‘I’ll not allow it.’
‘I side with Barnaby on this,’ said Firethorn. ‘In another month, it will not only be rain that will harass us. Frost, fog and freezing cold will hold us up. Roads will be like swamps. Rivers will be swollen. Icy winds will get into our very bones.’
‘Stop it, Lawrence,’ ordered Gill. ‘My teeth chatter already.’
He pushed away the remnants of his dinner and reached for his wine. His companions fell silent. The despondent atmosphere that hung over the table pervaded the whole taproom. Actors sagged in their seats or conversed in muted voices. There was none of the happy banter that normally invigorated them. For the sharers — those with a financial stake in the company and who therefore enjoyed a share of its profits — the future was cheerless. For the hired men — jobbing actors employed for individual plays — it was far worse. Being out of work was a form of death sentence for them. With no wages to sustain them, and with a harsh winter ahead, many would fall by the wayside.