‘Well,’ said Firethorn. ‘Good tidings or bad?’
‘Good, for the most part,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We have a licence to play at the Guildhall in two days and there is a possibility that we may be able to give a second performance there.’
‘This is cheering news.’
‘Let me finish. Our fee, alas, is only thirteen shillings and fourpence.’
‘So little for such magnificent fare?’
‘It’s the same amount that Conway’s Men received.’
‘That’s even more insulting,’ said Firethorn testily. ‘Our fame surely entitles us to more than that undisciplined rabble.’
‘We’ve played for less in the past,’ Hoode reminded him.
‘Played for less and deserved much more.’
‘The fee has been accepted,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we could make more by a second performance. Even if we pay for the hire of the Guildhall, there should be a profit in the venture.’
‘What of the letter to our patron?’ said Gill. ‘When Lord Westfield reaches the town, we can look to a third performance with the largest audience yet.’
Nicholas gave a nod. ‘Fortune favours us. I told the mayor that I needed to send word to our patron and he offered his help. His own courier travels to London with a string of correspondence so our letter will be in his saddlebag as well.’
Firethorn was content. ‘Three performances in all. That augurs well.’
‘Provided that we choose the best plays, Lawrence,’ said Gill with an arrogant gesture of the hand. ‘One must surely be The Foolish Friar so that I can conquer yet another audience.’
‘Learn to conquer your outrageous pride instead.’
‘Who else could dominate the stage from a wheelbarrow?’
‘You did not even dominate the wheelbarrow itself, Barnaby.’
The two men started to argue about which plays should be performed, each nominating those in which he felt he would have the commanding role. Nicholas caught Hoode’s eye and a silent pact was made. Excusing themselves from the debate, they went out to inhale the fresh air of a fine evening.
‘Which plays would you suggest, Nick?’ asked Hoode.
‘Our choice is limited by that avalanche, Edmund. Some of our scenery was destroyed and several of our properties damaged. I do not have the time or the means to repair them all. However,’ he continued with a wry smile, ‘one thing that did survive was the executioner’s block so we can still offer The Loyal Subject.’
‘That would be on my list as well. Put it forward.’
‘Let’s wait until this latest skirmish between Lawrence and Barnaby is over. Until then, neither of them will listen to what we have to say.’
They decided to go for a walk and their steps took them in the direction of the harbour. It was no accident. The son of a West Country merchant, Nicholas had gone to sea at an early age and developed an abiding love for it. He could not stay in a port like Dover without wanting to see what ships were moored there. Hoode was happy to bear him company, enjoying the stroll and the chance to be free of the others for a while. The smell of the sea soon invaded their nostrils. When they got close to the first of the ships, Nicholas stopped so that he could appraise it at his leisure.
‘Do you miss being a sailor?’ said Hoode.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Have you never wanted to go back to sea?’
‘In the past,’ admitted Nicholas wistfully, ‘the temptation was very strong. Then I met Anne.’
‘Ah, yes. Anne would be a firm anchor for any man.’
‘Westfield’s Men also help to keep me ashore.’
‘Even when we expose you to peril?’
‘There’s no peril greater than a tempest at sea, Edmund.’
‘Then I’ll keep two feet firmly on dry land.’
As they sauntered along the line of ships, Nicholas pointed out their salient features. The vessel around which a crowd had formed now started to let its passengers aboard. They carried their baggage up the gangplank and had their passports checked before they stepped on deck. The two friends paused to watch them, wondering where all those people were going and what was taking them there. Nicholas was still speculating on the ship’s destination when he caught sight of someone out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see a sailor walking briskly past. A slim, sinewy man of middle height, he wore clothing that had been patched too often and a cap that was pulled down over his forehead. Yet there was something about his gait that was arresting. Putting the man’s age around thirty, Nicholas started to make some calculations. Hoode became aware of his interest in the sailor.
‘Do you know the fellow, Nick?’
‘I begin to think that I do.’
‘Go after him, if you must.’
But it was already too late. Before Nicholas could even move, the man was swallowed up in the crowd. Nicholas went off to search for him but it was a futile exercise. The man had vanished from sight. Hoode caught up with the book holder.
‘Who is he?’
‘A friend,’ said Nicholas. ‘An old and dear friend.’
Lawrence Firethorn did not believe in wasting time. Since the Guildhall had been put at their disposal for rehearsal, he assembled his company there shortly after breakfast and worked them hard. Three comedies had been performed on tour so far. To introduce variety, and to give Firethorn the role of a tragic hero, A Loyal Subject was chosen as the play to set before their first audience in Dover. With its clown, Malvino, confined to a wheelbarrow, radical changes had to be made so that Gill could still offer some comic relief in an otherwise serious and, on occasion, solemn play. Songs replaced dances and the fluent pen of Edmund Hoode created new soliloquies for Gill. Owen Elias was once more engaged as the man who pushed the wheelbarrow around the stage.
Though showing the signs of age, the Guildhall was ideal for their purposes with a balcony that could be used by the musicians, and where some of the more intimate scenes could be played. The stage was erected beneath the balcony, thereby making use of two doors in the back wall as exits. Light was more than adequate and the indoor venue rescued them from the dependence on the weather that made performances at the Queen’s Head such a risky proposition. The long, low, rectangular hall was also kind to their voices. By midday, Westfield’s Men had shrugged off most of their fear and dejection. They had good accommodation, an excellent arena in which to perform and the possibility of staging three different plays in the town. They felt wanted.
Nicholas Bracewell was as industrious as ever. Before the others had even risen for breakfast, he was up to repair some of the scenery that was needed in the play. Holding the book throughout the morning, he also suggested many of the changes and devised a series of new effects. As always, he was put in charge of rehearsing the stage fights, drawing on skills he had learnt while sailing with Drake many years earlier. Yet even at his busiest, Nicholas was still troubled by the memory of the man he had glimpsed at the harbour. If it had been the person he thought it might be, then his friend had fallen on hard times. He looked tired and shabby. Nicholas could not dismiss the image from his mind. When the rest of the company went off to the Lion early that afternoon, therefore, he decided to forego a meal in favour of a return to the harbour.
It was as busy as ever. A ship had arrived from France and passengers were disembarking in a stream. Another vessel was being loaded with cargo, a third was about to set sail. Fishermen brought in the morning catch, surrounded by gulls whose cries added to the general tumult. Nicholas felt at home. Inhaling the salty tang, he picked his way along and searched the faces in the crowd. But there was no sign of the sailor he had seen the previous evening. Even when he peeped into the taverns by the harbour, Nicholas could not find him. Eventually, he gave up, deciding that he had either been mistaken as to the man’s identity or that his friend had already sailed on the tide. He strolled down a quay and watched another fishing boat coming into the bay.