‘In Bankside you would be up against Havelock’s Men.’
‘True.’
‘And you told me even now that they had some influence with the Privy Council.’
‘Viscount Havelocks’ uncle is a member of it.’
‘Then your cause is lamed from the start.’
‘No, Anne,’ he reasoned. ‘One man does not make the final decision about which two companies survive. The whole Privy Council will sit in judgement and they will take the advice of the Master of the Revels. Sir Edmund Tilney admires our work greatly but deplores our inn yard. In their own playhouse, Westfield’s Men would shine like a jewel in a proper setting.’
‘You would certainly outshine Havelock’s Men.’
‘That is why we must come here.’
‘How was this idea received?’ she asked.
Nicholas grinned. ‘With utter disbelief at first,’ he admitted. ‘Edmund Hoode thought I had taken leave of my senses. Even Owen Elias was sceptical. Most of the others thought the project hopelessly beyond us until I listed some of the advantages with which we start.’
‘Advantages?’
‘We have a company of able-bodied men, Anne. With Nathan Curtis to teach us, we could all turn carpenter and help to build the structure ourselves. That would save us a great deal of money.’
‘You would still need to find a considerable sum.’
‘Sylvester Pryde came to our rescue there.’
‘Sylvester? He has that kind of wealth?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he is acquainted with many people who have. He swore to us that he could raise the bulk of the money for us. I believe him.’
‘Sylvester is the best advantage of all.’
‘Not quite.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have another good friend on whom we may call.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Anne Hendrik.’
She was startled. ‘Me!’
‘Yes,’ he explained, ‘the labour is vital and the money imperative but something comes before both.’
‘Choosing the site.’
‘That will be your contribution.’
‘But I know nothing about the building of a playhouse.’
‘You know Bankside better than any of us, Anne. Your trade brings you into contact with people all over Southwark. You have an instinct for business and an eye for a bargain. I’d willingly put my trust in you.’
‘I would not know where to start, Nick.’
‘Here and now,’ he said, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘I will tell you what features a site must have and you will be well-prepared to begin your search tomorrow. Speed is of the essence here, Anne. A project like this must quickly gather its own momentum or it is lost.’
‘It is certainly an exciting proposal,’ she said.
‘Exciting and inspiring.’
‘With one huge drawback.’
‘What is that?’
‘You might go to all the trouble and expense of building a playhouse, only to find that the Privy Council closes it down again and sends Westfield’s Men into the wilderness.’
Nicholas sat back in his chair and heaved a sigh.
‘That is a risk we will have to take, Anne.’
A pall seemed to hang over the Queen’s Head next morning. Word of their precarious position had seeped down to the lowest ranks of Westfield’s Men and robbed them of all spirit. George Dart walked around as if in a dream. Nathan Curtis wielded his hammer without purpose as he converted the high-backed chair which had been used in Mirth and Madness into a regal throne. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, wondered if it was worth mending costumes which might never be used again. Peter Digby and his musicians were matching portraits of dejection and Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, a man who had weathered so many threats to his livelihood in his long career in the theatre, felt that he could at last hear the funeral bell.
Alexander Marwood added to the general melancholy, circling the inn yard like a mangy old dog moping over a dead master. His wife glared down on them from a window, a hovering vulture who waited to pick their bones. When they erected their stage, there was a queasy feeling that they might be doing so for the last time. Superstitious by nature, actors saw bad omens on every side. Nicholas Bracewell did what he could to raise their morale but all that he could conjure into being were pale smiles on the faces of corpses.
Edmund Hoode arrived in a state of gibbering terror.
‘It has started, Nick,’ he confided.
‘What has?’
‘The fight to the death with our rivals.’
‘In what way, Edmund?’
‘They have got at Lucius Kindell.’
‘They?’
‘Havelock’s Men,’ said Hoode with disgust. ‘Or, to speak more precisely, that scheming fiend they call Rupert Kitely. He has led poor Lucius astray.’
‘How do you know?’ said Nicholas in mild alarm.
‘They were seen together at the Devil Tavern last night and I doubt that Lucius had the wit to sup with a long spoon. When I called at his lodging this morning, I was told that he had gone to The Rose.’ Hoode looked betrayed. ‘What more proof do we need? They have seduced him away.’
‘Did he expect you to call this morning?’
‘Yes, Nick. It was arranged that he would watch the rehearsal of The Loyal Subject. Lucius has written a couple of speeches he wanted me to include in the play. There is no hope of that now. He has sold his soul to Havelock’s Men.’
‘We are not certain of that, Edmund.’
‘Why else consort with Rupert Kitely?’
‘Do not rush to condemn him,’ warned Nicholas. ‘There may yet be another explanation. Lucius is himself a loyal subject. He acknowledges the debt he owes to Westfield’s Men.’
‘Then what is he doing at The Rose?’
‘We will soon find out.’
‘I nurtured him,’ said Hoode sadly. ‘I taught him all that I knew about my craft. It would have been impossible to find an apprentice playwright more eager to learn and willing to work. And no pupil could have been more grateful to his master than Lucius Kindell.’ His voice hardened into a bark. ‘Until this happened. I have been stabbed in the back.’
‘It is worrying news, certainly.’
‘A tragedy, Nick. And only the beginning.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the other. ‘I said that we had to shore up our defences. Our rivals are predators. They will swoop down and seize whoever they can in their beaks.’
Hoode ran a despairing eye over the rest of the company.
‘Lucius is our first loss,’ he said. ‘Who is next?’
At that moment, Lawrence Firethorn came clattering into the yard on his horse to take control. Sensing at once the mood of despondency, he tried to dispel it by issuing crisp orders to all and sundry. Response was immediate. The assistant stagekeepers built the stage with more urgency, the carpenter hammered with more enthusiasm, the tireman picked up his needle and thread, the musicians began to practise and the hired men who had been standing around in disconsolate groups now made their way swiftly to the tiring-house. Leaping down from the saddle, Firethorn handed the reins of his horse to a waiting ostler and crossed to his friends.
‘Good morrow!’ he said cheerily.
‘I see no goodness in it, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.
‘That is because you spent the night in a cold and lonely bed, Edmund. Had you shared the hours of darkness with a wife as warm as Marjory, you would have been up with the lark and throbbing with energy to greet the new day.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘Marriage has many pains but its pleasures are truly beyond compare.’
Hoode grimaced. ‘How can you talk of pleasure at such a time? Westfield’s Men have no future ahead of them.’
‘We have a far more glorious future ahead.’
‘If we all work together for it,’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘Unity is our strength. Let them all come at us. The company will triumph. Ah, what a sublime difference a night of bliss can make to a man! I retired to bed as the manager of a troupe which might soon become defunct and I awoke as the leader of a happy band of lads who may soon have their own playhouse.’