He was particularly pleased to notice his patron in attendance, giving only a token clap from his position in the upper gallery but evidently delighted with the reception accorded his company. The Earl of Banbury was not a regular playgoer, preferring to lend the company his noble name instead of gracing it with his presence, but The Spanish Contract had enticed him to The Curtain and he could not have chosen a more auspicious time to come. Giles Randolph made sure that the lowest and most obsequious bow was directed at their patron. The Earl’s vanity had to be propitiated.
Having congratulated his actors and reminded them of the time of rehearsal on the morrow, Randolph dismissed them and shed the regal attire of a Spanish king for his own apparel. He was soon climbing the stairs to a private room at the rear of the upper gallery. The Earl of Banbury was alone with a couple of court beauties whom he had brought along as his guests, flirting outrageously with them and ignoring the huge gap which existed between his age and theirs. When Randolph joined them, their giggles turned to sighs of awe as they were introduced to the actor and whimpers of delight followed as he kissed their hands in greeting.
The niceties were soon concluded. A servant was summoned to conduct the ladies to the earl’s waiting carriage while he himself stayed behind to speak with Randolph.
‘You were superlative, Giles,’ said the Earl.
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘My guests were overwhelmed by your performance.’
‘That is very gratifying.’
‘You carried the whole play on your shoulders.’
‘The role was expressly written for me.’
‘That was clear,’ said the Earl. ‘Praise was unstinting. Some dolts choose to argue about who is the finest actor in London — Lawrence Firethorn or Rupert Kitely. Had they been at The Curtain, they would have seen that neither of those actors can hold a candle to you. Giles Randolph is incomparable.’
‘You are too kind, my lord.’
‘Where is the kindness in honesty? I speak but truth.’
‘I endeavour to live up to your high expectations.’
‘You do, Giles.’ The Earl gave a cackle of pleasure and beckoned him closer with a crook of his finger. ‘But I have brought some interesting tidings for you.’
‘I long to hear them.’
‘Mere rumours at this stage but ones with substance.’
‘Tell me more, my lord.’
‘First answer this. Who are our most dangerous rivals?’
‘Westfield’s Men, no question of that.’
‘Not Havelock’s Men?’
‘No, my lord,’ said Randolph firmly. ‘They have a fine actor in Rupert Kitely and a tolerable stock of plays but they offer no serious threat to us. Lawrence Firethorn does. His company has strength in abundance and far too many playwrights first take their new work to Westfield’s Men.’ A supercilious note crept in. ‘Firethorn has a meagre talent which is, alas, mistaken for something of grander proportion but he lacks true character, he is wanting in those qualities which make for greatness.’
‘In short, he is no Giles Randolph.’
‘By his own account, he is far superior.’
‘Lord Westfield never stops boasting about him,’ said the other with a sigh. ‘He worships Lawrence Firethorn.’
‘Then he worships a false god.’
The Earl of Banbury enjoyed the tart comment so much that he gave a brittle laugh and treasured the remark for use against Lord Westfield himself. He plucked at his goatee beard and peered at Randolph through narrowed lids.
‘Do you hate them enough, Giles?’ he wondered.
‘Hate them?’
‘Westfield’s Men.’
‘I utterly despise them, my lord.’
‘What of Lawrence Firethorn?’
‘A contemptible man, not fit to lead a company.’
‘Then you would like to see him humbled, I think?’
‘Humbled and humiliated.’
‘Both may be possible,’ said the other with a snigger. ‘But much depends on you, Giles. It is time to harness your hatred and strike at Westfield’s Men. You have many old scores to settle with them, I know, and many slights to avenge. Now then, sir,’ he hissed. ‘How far would you go?’
‘All the way, my lord.’
‘No holding back?’
‘Not an inch.’
‘And the company would support you?’
‘To a man.’
‘Then hear the news that I bear,’ said the Earl, clapping his palms gleefully together. ‘If my informers are to be believed — and they have never failed me before — fortune has smiled on us at last. It is time to take decisive action but it must be carefully considered beforehand. Once embarked upon, there is no turning back. You understand me?’
‘Very well, my lord.’
‘Good. I knew that I could rely on your loyalty, Giles.’ He licked his lips. ‘Serve me faithfully and Westfield’s Men may not only be humbled and humiliated. They will be destroyed!’
Lord Westfield drank the first glass of wine in a single desperate gulp and filled his cup again from the jug. He was in a private room at the Queen’s Head, so often a place for a discreet assignation before a performance or for joyous celebration after it, but now a cold and cheerless chamber which served to intensify his dejection. He sat at the little table and buried his head in both hands. Lord Westfield was not mourning the untimely demise of Mirth and Madness in front of its audience that afternoon. The performance had scarcely impinged upon his consciousness. Deeper matters agitated him.
He was on his third glass of wine when there was a tap on the door. The servant entered, bowed, then stood aside to admit Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell before bowing once more and withdrawing from the room. The newcomers inclined their heads politely and got a nod of acknowledgement in return. Their patron did not rise from his chair.
‘Your letter summoned me, my lord,’ said Firethorn.
‘It did.’
‘I took the liberty of inviting Nicholas Bracewell along. If this concerns the company, there is nobody more well-versed in its inner workings.’
‘Then he is welcome,’ said their patron. ‘I know what a valuable member of Westfield’s Men he has become.’ He waved a hand. ‘Pray take a seat, gentlemen. This news is too heavy to bear standing up.’
Nicholas and Firethorn lowered themselves onto the bench on the opposite side of the room. Fearing criticism, the actor-manager elected to defend himself before the attack came.
‘A thousand apologies, my lord,’ he said effusively. ‘I know that the company fell far short of their best this afternoon but there are reasons for it. The problem will be addressed and solved, I give you my word. At our performance tomorrow, we will be worthy of your name once again.’
Lord Westfield was baffled. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Mirth and Madness.’
‘I have never heard of it.’
‘Did you not watch it being played today?’
‘I watched something but my mind was far away.’
‘Then you have not come to censure us, my lord?’ said Firethorn with relief. ‘This is heartening.’
‘You may not think so when you have listened to the intelligence I have gathered,’ said the other. ‘Westfield’s Men are in grave danger. There could be a serious threat to the company’s very existence.’
Firethorn blenched. ‘You will surely not withdraw your patronage?’ he pleaded.
‘Never, Lawrence. I take pride in my company.’
‘Then where does this threat come from, my lord?’ asked Nicholas. ‘You said that it could exist. Does that mean there is an element of doubt?’
‘Only a small one, Nicholas.’
‘Who is after us this time?’ said Firethorn pugnaciously. ‘We will beat them off, whoever they may be. We have done it before and we will do it again now.’