His meditations carried him all the way down to the river and he engaged a waterman to row him across. As they rode on the choppy water in the falling light, Nicholas recalled that Sylvester Pryde had made a similar journey to Bankside on the night of his murder. He could well understand the emotions which had surged through his friend. To be able to effect the survival of his company would have been deeply gratifying but it was the notion of the new playhouse which had fired him. The Angel theatre would not just be a marvel which Pryde had helped to bring into being. For a rootless actor, an outcast from his family, a wandering soul, a man who had finally discovered his true path in life, it was a spiritual home.
The boat landed him a hundred yards downstream of The Angel but Nicholas felt a sudden urge to view the site himself. Little would be visible in the gloom but he knew that it would impart the same thrill of anticipation which Pryde had sought on his fatal visit. Instead of returning to his lodging, therefore, he walked briskly past the tenements which fringed the riverbank. When a gap in the buildings appeared, Nicholas thought for a moment that he saw figures moving about on the site and he came to a cautionary halt. No work could be done without torches and Thomas Bradd had dismissed his men some hours before. Who then could be trespassing?
Though he strained his eyes against the half-dark, Nicholas could no longer see anyone among the timbers and the piles of bricks. He decided that he had either been mistaken or that his arrival had frightened away any intruders. When he moved forward, he still took the precaution of keeping a hand on his dagger but he did not expect to have to use it. The site of the playhouse seemed deserted. Foundations had been dug and one wall had already been started. When he stood in the centre of the plot, Nicholas could envisage the great, many-sided structure rising up all around him until it matched The Rose in the middle distance. It was an inspiring moment but he was not allowed to enjoy it for long.
The sound of footsteps made him turn and he saw a burly figure hurtling towards him. Nicholas lowered his shoulder and struck his assailant so hard in the chest that the man was knocked off his feet. Nicholas pulled out his dagger but a second man struck his arm with a staff and forced him to drop it on the ground. He swung round to face the new adversary. Before Nicholas could even grapple with him, however, he was attacked from behind by a third man. All three now set on him, Nicholas resisted manfully, punching hard and drawing blood, using all his power to shake one of his attackers off and to wind a second with a blow to the stomach. But it was only a temporary respite and they came back at him with renewed ferocity.
Nicholas was outnumbered. As the brawl continued, the staff was used to club him to the ground. He tried to put his hands up to protect his head but his arms were drained of strength. A final blow knocked him unconscious. The men did not delay. Leaving him there, they set about their work with increased speed, kicking down the preliminary wall of the theatre then using ropes to drag and manoeuvre the heavy timbers into a pile in the middle of the site. Hessian soaked in oil was stuffed under the pile along with kindling. The bonfire was lit and the men retreated into the night.
By the time that Nicholas began to recover consciousness, the blaze was well-established. He opened a bleary eye to find that The Angel theatre was now a small inferno.
Giles Randolph was in a mood of unassailable smugness. His performance in the title role of Richard Crookback that afternoon had been hailed, the takings had been excellent, his patron had been indulgent and his favourite mistress had sent word that she was awaiting him. Only one source of pleasure was missing. He raised the topic with Henry Quine when the two of them met at The Elephant Inn in Shoreditch.
‘You have done well, Henry,’ he congratulated.
‘Thank you,’ said Quine.
‘How did you charm Barnaby Gill so cunningly? I do not think that you did it at the Queen’s Head under the very noses of his colleagues.’
‘That would have been too dangerous.’
‘Then how did you reach him? At his lodging?’
‘No, Giles,’ said Quine with a grin. ‘Master Gill is not like us. He takes no pleasure from the society of women. His interests lie elsewhere and he frequents those haunts where he can pursue those interests. I met him at one of those secret gatherings.’
Randolph smiled. ‘Did you turn apprentice and put on woman’s apparel? Were you a practised coquette?’
‘I simply approached him when he was in his cups and off guard. Flattery was my most potent ally. I showered praise on his work and told him what a tragedy it would be if his genius was swept off the London stage.’
‘What was his reply?’
‘The very notion mortified him.’
‘So you whispered the name of Banbury’s Men in his ear.’
‘Yes, Giles,’ said Quine, ‘but that is all I whispered. I gave him plenty of time to think it over before I went to him again. Too much eagerness at first would have aroused his suspicion and frighted him away. Persuasion could not be rushed. Barnaby Gill has been with Westfield’s Men a long time and deep loyalties still exist.’
‘You found a way to defeat them, Henry, and I am most grateful to you for that. Well,’ he said happily, ‘he came. Master Gill’s curiosity was such that he came here and met me. I told him all that he was hoping to hear.’
‘You were masterly, Giles.’
‘It seems that I could take lessons from you.’
‘We won him over together.’
‘Not quite, sir,’ the other reminded him. ‘We brought the horse to water but we have yet to make him drink.’
‘He is ours.’
‘That would be a twin joy, Henry. We would gain the finest clown in London and wound Lawrence Firethorn deeply. All hope would vanish for him. Westfield’s Men would surely perish.’
‘Even with their clown, they would not survive.’
‘Can we be certain?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Quine with a smirk. ‘Absolutely certain.’
‘Our patron asked me recently how far we would go to preserve the company and subdue our rivals.’
‘What was your answer?’
‘All the way.’
‘That is mine, too. When war is declared, we must not be afraid to inflict casualties.’
Laughter at a nearby table made Quine look up. Some of the sharers from Banbury’s Men were celebrating the triumph of Richard Crookback and savouring their forthcoming appearance at Court. Henry Quine felt a surge of ambition. It was only a matter of time before he became a sharer himself and joined the exclusive ranks of his profession. He turned to frame a question to which Randolph already had the answer.
‘When will we have Barnaby Gill in our grasp?’ he asked.
‘That will be soon, Giles.’
‘The day that it happens, I will have a contract drawn up for you, Henry. You will have the same privileges as all the other sharers. You will have your due proportion of the profits.’
‘I yearn for that precious moment.’
‘Nobody has earned it more than you,’ said Randolph. ‘You are accomplished in your art. When you have the opportunity to give full vent to your skills on stage, I will have to look to my own laurels.’
‘No compliment could be higher than that, Giles.’
Henry Quine basked in the approval of his master.
‘This was a fearful assault, Nick. You might have been killed.’
‘No, Anne.’
‘This wound is deep.’