‘Mine will not,’ said Firethorn, seizing the initiative once more and striding across the room to confront him. ‘You have no choice but to travel with us, Edmund. Loyalty demands it. Friendship compels it. Legal process enforces it.’
‘I am deaf to all entreaty.’
‘Hell and damnation! You are a sharer!’
‘Then I will share in the joys of London.’
‘You are contracted to serve us.’
‘I do that best by resting from the company.’
‘You have no choice, man!’
‘My decision is final.’
‘This wrings my heart,’ said Gill, striking a pose.
‘It rots my innards!’ howled Firethorn. ‘No more evasion. We are sworn fellows in a sacred brotherhood. Deny us and you deny God himself. Look me in the face, Edmund.’ His voice took on an eerie stillness. ‘Now hear me plain. Cease this nonsense and pledge yourself to this tour. Or never call me friend again.’
The warning had the power of a blow and Hoode recoiled from it. His eyes moistened, his cheeks coloured and his Adam’s apple grew restless. His resolve had finally cracked and he was visibly squirming in pain as he wrestled with his dilemma. Westfield’s Men were his family. To foresake them now would be an act of malign cruelty, but as contrition began to flood through him and make his lower lip tremble, an even louder prompting filled his ears. Edmund Hoode could simply not leave London. With a supreme effort of will, he mastered all his misgivings then made a swift but dignified exit. The ultimate plea had failed.
Torn between rage and sadness, Firethorn gesticulated impotently, shocked that the most reliable member of his company should dare to reject him. Hoode’s behaviour was quite baffling until Barnaby Gill snorted with contempt and provided the explanation.
‘This is woman’s work, Lawrence,’ he sneered.
‘Edmund? Never!’
‘The fool is in love.’
‘He is always in love, Barnaby. Suffering is the badge of his existence. There is no surer way to wallow in anguish than to scatter the seed of your affections on stony ground, and he does that every time. Edmund Hoode is a martyr to unrequited love. When he dies, they will make him the patron saint of pining hearts.’
‘He is not pining now.’
‘How say you?’
‘Some woman has at last returned his love and bewitched his legs. They will not stir from London lest he lose her. Our amorous poet is being led by the pizzle.’
‘Can this be so?’
‘Have you seen him so happy before? It is unnatural!’
Firethorn was astonished. ‘What simpleton of her sex would choose Edmund as her swain? He would sooner stroke her body with his verses than lay lascivious hands upon her. I will not believe it. Westfield’s Men are in dire need of him. Who is stupid enough to put the charms of a woman before the fate of his fellows?’
‘You are, Lawrence, to name but one.’
‘What!’
‘Have you so soon forgotten Beatrice Capaldi?’
‘Hold your serpent’s tongue!’
‘Then there was Mistress Par-’
‘Enough!’ roared Firethorn, glancing around with apprehension in case his wife should hear them from the kitchen. ‘I am not on trial here. It is Edmund Hoode who stands accused of corruption.’
‘He caught the disease from you,’ said Gill with a vindictive leer. ‘The infection is called the Itching Codpiece. It is compounded of naked folly and throbbing inflammation.’
‘Your own codpiece has itched enough when it caught the scent of a male varlet,’ retorted Firethorn vehemently. ‘At least — thanks be to heaven! — Edmund does not suffer from your contagion. He would never sell his soul for pouting lips and a pair of boyish buttocks.’
‘Enough! I’ll not endure this!’
Barnaby Gill stamped his foot so hard this time that it jarred his body and made his teeth rattle. He and Firethorn knew how to rub salt in each other’s wounds then add vinegar for full measure. They smarted together for a long time before common sense finally deprived them of their weapons and imposed a truce. Another brawl between them would not bring their errant poet back into the fold. Joint action had to be taken and swiftly. They shook hands on it.
‘We must find out who this woman is, Barnaby.’
‘Then pluck him from between her lusty thighs.’
Firethorn grinned. ‘That will be my office …’
Nicholas Bracewell removed another garment from its hook and folded it carefully before placing it in the basket. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, a conscientious soul with responsibility for making, altering and taking care of the costumes worn by the company, identified each one as it was packed away by the book holder, and he ticked it off on the list before him.
‘Item, one scarlet cloak faced with green velvet and silver lace,’ he intoned. ‘Item, one woman’s gown of cloth of gold. Item, one black velvet pea with gold lace and blue satin sleeves. Item, Charlemagne’s cloak with fur. Item, a hermit’s grey gown. Item, one white satin doublet. Item, one pair of embroidered paned hose scaled with black taffeta …’
Nicholas was about to fold the next garment when he noticed the scorch marks and set it aside. The antic coat had been used during The Devil’s Ride Through London and was one of many casualties. All the costumes worn by actors who fought the blaze were damaged, and many of those hanging in the tire-house had perished when the flames penetrated to that area. What fire had not destroyed, smoke had blackened. The foul smell still lingered in the material. It was the day after the tragedy and Nicholas had slipped unseen into the Queen’s Head with Hugh Wegges to salvage what they could from the tiring-house and add it to the larger stock of costumes, which was kept in a private room at the inn. It was important to make a proper inventory before the whole collection was moved to safer lodgings in the attic of Firethorn’s house. The list that the tireman would present to his employer would help to determine the plays that could be performed on tour.
‘The Devil will ride no more,’ said Wegges feelingly. ‘Not unless the whole cast goes naked for penance. The costumes are ruined, and I’ve no time to make new ones.’ A resigned note sounded. ‘Master Firethorn will not have room for me when the company moves on. I am like that antic coat you hold there — burnt out of my occupation.’
‘We shall return to London ere long,’ said Nicholas.
‘When we have no theatre?’
‘Our landlord may relent.’
‘And it may rain sovereigns!’ came the sarcastic reply. ‘Those of us set aside may never work with a company again.’
‘Take heart, Hugh. Bear up.’
But Nicholas did not feel as optimistic as he sounded. In order to tour, Westfield’s Men would have to reduce the size of the party to its bare essentials. The sharers would go along with the apprentices, but many of the hired men would be discarded. A tireman and his assistant were luxuries that could not be afforded when the troupe took to the road. Nicholas would be given the unhappy job of telling several actors, musicians and other members of the company that their services were no longer required. For men like Thomas Skillen, stagekeeper with Westfield’s Men since its creation, the parting could be final because he might conceivably have died before they returned. The defects of age, which debarred him from the multiple rigours of a long tour, were only kept at bay by the daily exercise of his functions behind the scenes. Without chores to do and underlings to berate, the venerable figure would soon go into decline.