‘That is my fear.’ He became sombre. ‘The Queen’s Head is changing. I said so to Martin. It is not the place I have so enjoyed working in. Friends have drifted away. Rose is hidden from me. Master Marwood has grown bitter. And now,’ he said with a nod towards the makeshift stage, ‘I hear that we are to lose Westfield’s Men as well.’
‘Not through choice.’
‘I will miss you, Nicholas.’
‘We will be sorry to leave.’
‘Is there no hope that you will stay?’
‘None.’
Leonard’s head dropped to his chest and he emitted a long sigh of resignation. Nicholas was about to move away when a stray thought nudged him.
‘Where does he work now?’
‘Who?’ said Leonard.
‘Your friend, Martin?’
‘At the Brown Bear in Eastcheap. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ said Nicholas pensively.
Given the circumstances in which it took place, the performance of Black Antonio that afternoon was a small miracle. It was taut and dramatic, full of fire and deep meaning, and it kept the audience completely ensnared for the two and half hours of its duration. Since it was expressly dedicated to Sylvester Pryde, everyone in the company wanted to make an important personal contribution and it was left to Lawrence Firethorn, in the title role, to bring them all together into a unified whole. Such was their commitment that nobody would have guessed that it was a demoralised company in mourning for a dear friend.
Barnaby Gill was outstanding. In a play as dark and relentless as Black Antonio, the comic scenes took on an extra significance and Gill made the most of each one of them. He was as spry as ever during his jigs and his clownish antics brought welcome relief to an audience in the grip of high tension. When the company left the stage at the end of the play, Firethorn paid him the rare compliment of embracing him and showering him with congratulations.
‘You were magnificent, Barnaby!’
‘I always am, Lawrence,’ said Gill tartly. ‘But you have only just noticed me.’
‘Sylvester would have delighted in your performance.’
‘He appreciated true art.’
‘So did our audience.’
Elation soon gave way to dejection again as the company remembered how Sylvester Pryde had been killed. They tumbled off to the taproom to celebrate the performance and to drown their sorrows. Drink was taken too quickly and a maudlin note soon dominated. Westfield’s Men began to exchange fond stories about their murdered colleague and to speculate on the identity of his killer.
Gill stayed with his colleagues until the majority of them were too drunk even to notice if he was there. When Owen Elias fell asleep beside him, he slipped surreptitiously away from the table and made for the door. Only Nicholas Bracewell saw him go. Once outside, Gill made sure that he was not followed, then set off. It was a long walk but his brisk stride ate up the distance and he reached his destination when there was still enough light for him to see the tavern clearly.
As he looked up at the building and heard the sounds of revelry from within, he wondered if it was wise to keep this particular tryst. He hesitated at the threshold until self-interest got the better of loyalty. When he entered the taproom, he saw Henry Quine sitting alone at a table. Quine beckoned Gill over.
‘Hello, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘I hoped that you would come.’ He gestured for Gill to sit beside him. ‘There is someone who is very anxious to meet you.’
A tall figure came out of the shadows.
‘Welcome to Shoreditch!’ said Giles Randolph.
He gave a quiet smile of triumph.
Chapter Eight
When he reached the site with his little band of helpers, Nicholas Bracewell was pleased to see that work had continued throughout the day. Overcoming the shock of finding a murder victim underneath their timbers, Thomas Bradd and his men had cleared the site, burnt most of the debris and begun to dig the foundations. The builder was delighted to have fresh labour at his disposal and he set them to work at once. They included Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, George Dart, the puniest but most willing of them, and Owen Elias, who did not think his position as a sharer with the company absolved him from hard work and who handled his spade with muscular assurance.
Nicholas watched them with a mixture of pride and affection. He had intended to put his own considerable strength at Bradd’s service but another priority now existed. Their benefactor had to be traced, informed of Sylvester Pryde’s death and persuaded to leave the loan intact. It was an onerous assignment, made all the more difficult by the veil of secrecy which was drawn across the whole transaction. He was not quite sure where to begin. Waving a farewell to his friends, he walked swiftly back in the direction of London Bridge, considering all the possibilities and wondering why Pryde had gone to such lengths to shield his own privacy.
He was halfway across the bridge when he was met by an extraordinary sight. Mounted on a horse, and having the greatest trouble in controlling the animal, was Leonard, sweating profusely and trying to find a way through the milling crowd and trundling carts which blocked the narrow thoroughfare between the shops and stalls. A poor rider, he looked profoundly embarrassed to be in the saddle of such a fine horse, feeling unworthy of the status it conferred on him. When he saw Nicholas, his face lit up with relief and he tugged at the reins before dismounting clumsily.
It was only when Nicholas reached him that he realised that his friend was not alone. Leonard’s bulk had masked a second rider, a dignified man in a livery which seemed vaguely familiar. Nicholas also saw that the spirited animal which Leonard had been unable to master was Lawrence Firethorn’s stallion. His friend ran the back of his hand across his forehead then gabbled his message.
‘This gentleman came in search of you,’ he explained with a gesture towards the other rider. ‘He says that it is a matter of the greatest urgency. Master Firethorn knew where you had gone and loaned me his horse so that we could get to you fast.’ He thrust the reins at Nicholas. ‘You are to take him now to speed your own travel.’
‘Where must I go?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Follow me,’ said the other rider.
‘Who are you, sir?’
‘The steward of a household where a mutual friend of ours was known. Your presence is requested there immediately. I am not empowered to say any more.’
Nicholas had heard enough. When a steward was sent to deliver a message which could easily have been entrusted to a mere servant, then a matter of some importance was involved. The reference to a mutual friend was conclusive. Leonard was too obtuse to understand it but Nicholas knew at once to whom it pertained. It was his first piece of good fortune. Instead of having to follow a tortuous trail to their benefactor, he sensed that he might get to meet their guardian angel by a more direct route.
‘Shall we go?’ said the steward curtly.
‘Lead on.’
Nicholas mounted the horse, thanked Leonard, then followed his guide over the bridge. His companion rode in silence and shrugged off every question that was put to him. Nicholas soon abandoned his interrogation. He was grateful for the loan of the horse and controlled it without effort as they headed up Gracechurch Street before turning left into Eastcheap. His guide towed him at a brisk trot along Watling Street, past the daunting grandeur of St Paul’s Cathedral and on out through Ludgate. Fleet Street allowed them to break into a gentle canter and they were soon passing Temple Bar.
Stretching along the Strand was a row of some of the finest houses in London, stately mansions belonging to peers, bishops and men of wealth, coveted properties which gave their owners great kudos and an uninterrupted view of the Thames. Glad to be free of the city’s stench, Nicholas inhaled fresh air into his lungs. The steward raised an arm to warn him that they would soon be leaving the road. Nicholas rode beside him down a wide track towards their destination.