‘But all that I have done is to collaborate on two plays with Edmund Hoode. He is my mentor.’
‘You could not have chosen better, Lucius. Master Hoode will teach you well until the time comes when you outgrow his tutelage. That time, I suspect, is not too far distant.’
‘You think not?’
‘I hear wondrous reports of The Insatiate Duke.’
‘It was a collaboration.’
‘But who set it in motion?’ asked Kitely. ‘Did you not tell John Ransome that you devised the plot and provided the title? Come, Lucius. No modesty here. Take due credit.’
‘If you say so, Master Kitely.’
‘Rupert,’ said the other softly.
He poured more wine into Kindell’s cup and more flattery into his ear, slowly winning his confidence and breaking down his defences. The inn was slowly filling and the prevailing mood of jollity spilt over into raucous noise. Kindell was too fascinated by his companion to hear any of it. That someone as distinguished as the actor should show such a keen interest in him was an overwhelming compliment. It never occurred to Kindell to wonder what lay behind it.
‘What is your favourite tavern, Lucius?’ said Kitely.
‘The Queen’s Head,’ returned the playwright.
‘What others do you frequent?’
‘None, sir. I have been to the Red Bull and the Dolphin. And we gathered at the Cross Keys Inn yesterday. But I do not know the taverns of London well enough to have many favourites among them.’
‘Have you not heard the famous poem?’
‘Poem?’
‘It will serve as a useful guide to you.’
Rupert Kitely sat upright and began to declaim the lines in a melodious voice, turning banal verse into something that was at once amusing and lyrical.
‘The ladies will dine at the Feathers,
The Globe no captain will scorn:
The huntsmen will go to the Greyhound below,
And some townsmen to the Horn.
The plummer will dine at the Fountain,
The cooks at the Holy Lamb:
The drunkards at noon to the Man in the Moon
and the cuckolds to the Ram.
The rovers will dine at the Lyon,
The watermen at the Old Swan:
The bawds will to the Negro go
And the whores to the Naked Man.
The keepers will to the White Hart
the mariners unto the Ship:
The beggars they must take their way
to the Eg-shell and the Whip.
The Taylors will dine at the Sheers,
The shoo-makers will to the Boot:
The Welshmen will take their way
And dine at the sign of the Goat.’
Kindell burst into laughter and the other broke off.
‘You know a Welshman, I think.’
‘Yes, Rupert. His name is Owen Elias.’
‘By report, a fine actor.’
‘But he also has a goatish disposition,’ said Kindell. ‘The rest of the company jest about it. Whenever a new wench serves at the tavern, Owen is the first to accost her. The man who penned that verse must have had Owen Elias in mind.’
‘Tell me about him,’ coaxed the other.
‘A wonderful man and a good friend.’
‘But what of his talent? Is this goatish Welshman really as gifted as some say? There are even those who call him a second Lawrence Firethorn.’
‘Nobody could aspire to that title,’ said Kindell. ‘There is only one Lawrence Firethorn. He has no peer. But Owen does have rare gifts and would shine in any company.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. Tell me why?’
Lucius Kindell talked at great length about his friends, quite unaware of the fact that he was being expertly pumped by the actor. Wine and wooing conspired to lower his defences. His naivety was subtly exploited. When it was all over and Rupert Kitely had been given a detailed insight into the membership and activities of Westfield’s Men, he rose from his chair and helped Kindell up after him.
‘Come, my friend,’ he said. ‘Let us walk to the river.’
‘The river?’
‘We can take a boat across the Thames.’
‘To what end, sir?’
‘I wish to show you our playhouse, Lucius.’
‘But I have seen The Rose many times.’
‘Only through the eyes of a spectator. Never as a prospective member of Havelock’s Men. Here,’ he said as Kindell tottered, ‘lean on me, Lucius.’
When they came out into the street, the cold air hit Kindell with the force of a slap and he recoiled slightly. His companion supported him and they made their way unsteadily towards the river. The young playwright was still too flattered by Rupert Kitely’s attentions to probe their true meaning. He glanced over his shoulder.
‘There was no mention of the Devil in your poem.’
‘Was there not?’ said Kitely. ‘We can soon amend that.’
‘There is a verse about the tavern?’
‘Yes but I choose to improve it a little.’
‘Improve it?’
‘The weavers will dine at the Shuttle,
The bellmen go straight to the Bell;
The hounds of hell to the Devil repair
With Kitely and Lucius Kindell.’
Their laughter mingled and echoed along the street.
They were all there. The eight sharers were crammed into the parlour of Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch to discuss the latest crisis which had befallen Westfield’s Men. For once in his life, Barnaby Gill did not object to the presence of Nicholas Bracewell, sensing that the hired man might be the one person who could affect their survival. Refreshment had been provided by Firethorn’s wife, Margery, who closed the door on the debate and scattered the apprentices who were trying to eavesdrop outside it. Many important meetings had been held at short notice in her home but Margery knew that none had greater significance than this one. Westfield’s Men were engaged in a battle against extinction.
Lawrence Firethorn stood in the middle of the room as if he were at the centre of the stage at the Queen’s Head. He ran his eye over the visitors.
‘You all know why we are here,’ he said solemnly. ‘The Privy Council is poised to strike us down. We must decide how best to protect ourselves from its blow.’
‘There is no protection,’ moaned Edmund Hoode. ‘How can we resist an edict of the Privy Council? It is the supreme power in the land. We are defeated.’
‘No, Edmund,’ said Owen Elias truculently. ‘Never talk of defeat while there is breath in our bodies to fight.’
‘Against whom?’ said Barnaby Gill. ‘The Privy Council? I side with Edmund here. We are minnows against a giant whale. We will be gobbled up at the first bite.’
‘You might be, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn, ‘but I’ll not. Nor will Westfield’s Men. Should they try to gobble us up, we’ll cause such havoc in their mouth that they will be forced to spit us out again.’
‘How do we do that?’ challenged Gill.
‘That is what we are met to decide.’
‘The decision has already been made for us, Lawrence.’
‘That is not quite true,’ Nicholas Bracewell reminded them. ‘All that we have been given by Lord Westfield is a timely warning. No decree has yet been issued by the Privy Council and our patron has sworn to use what influence he has to prevent that decree from ever seeing the light of day. Whether or not he will succeed, we do not know, but he may at the very least put in an eloquent plea for Westfield’s Men.’
‘The most eloquent plea comes from our audience,’ said Sylvester Pryde, looking around the room. ‘I am new to this company, gentleman, and feel a natural diffidence in speaking out on its behalf but I do have one advantage. Until recently, I was a complete outsider, able to observe and enjoy every theatre company in London before choosing to tie my future to this one. None of your rivals has such a large and faithful following as Westfield’s Men. Popularity must surely be a touchstone here. The Privy Council would not dare to put to death the most loved and respected troupe in London.’