‘Heard what?’
‘We think that he is in love.’
Rose was astonished. ‘Leonard?’
‘It is absurd, I know. A man that size. A man as witless as poor Leonard. But I saw it in his face when he asked me.’
‘Saw what?’
‘That look,’ said Nan.
‘What was it that he asked you?’
‘To pick one for him from the garden.’
‘Pick one?’
‘A flower,’ said Nan, letting her eyebrows soar even higher. ‘Those hands of his are far too big to snap a stem without damaging the flower itself and he was afraid he would be seen in the garden and mocked. But that’s what he asked me to do for him.’
‘To pick him a flower?’
‘A red rose.’
‘A rose,’ gulped the other.
‘Yes! Would you believe it? Leonard!’
Still giggling, she scurried out of the room and left Rose to absorb the shock. She was in great distress. Her cheeks were on fire and her breath was coming in short gasps. She felt as if she were about to choke with despair. The flower beneath her pillow was not a token from her beloved at all. He had failed her. She had drawn false succour from the rose. Leaping up, she backed frantically against the wall and stared in horror at her bed as if it had been defiled.
Marjory Firethorn knew when to leave them alone. She had always been exceptionally fond of Nicholas Bracewell, admiring his personal qualities as much as his invaluable service to her husband’s company. It was a delight to her whenever he visited her home because he was invariably courteous to her and wholly free from the melancholy which plagued Hoode and the tantrums which Barnaby Gill often displayed. She cooked them a delicious meal and all three of them washed it down with a cup of wine. Having cooed over Nicholas’s injuries once more, she then called the servant to clear the table and withdrew with her into the kitchen. Theatre was men’s work.
Lawrence Firethorn had his first question ready.
‘What shall we play at Court, Nick?’
‘First, know what our rivals are offering,’ said Nicholas. ‘For that may determine our own choice. Banbury’s Men will play Richard Crookback.’
Firethorn coloured. ‘What! Will Giles Randolph try to ape me in the role of the hunchback? Such arrogance! I have made the part my own in our play about the same king. Those who saw Lawrence Firethorn as Richard III will laugh in derision at this pretender.’
‘Nevertheless, that is their choice.’
‘And Havelock’s Men?’
‘A Looking Glass for London.’
‘I do not know the play.’
‘How could you?’ said Nicholas. ‘It has not yet been performed. They are saving its novelty for the Court. It is written by Timothy Argus, always their most reliable author.’
‘Alas, yes,’ said Firethorn, wincing slightly. ‘A new play gives them freshness that we others lack. But no matter,’ he continued, flicking their rivals aside. ‘How can those pigmies hope to tower over a giant like me? Whatever they play, they will barely reach my kneecaps.’
Nicholas was more cautious. ‘We must give them some respect,’ he advised. ‘They may have nobody to compare with you but their companies are replete with talent. Expect them to give a good account of themselves or we are lost.’
‘I will sweep them from the boards like dust!’
‘The play we choose must suit our whole company.’
‘Then it must be Hector of Troy!’
‘Too long and wordy for an occasion like this.’
‘Vincentio’s Revenge? I shine equally in that.’
‘It grows stale with overuse, I think.’
‘Then it has to be The Knights of Malta. I will make the palace walls quake when I thunder as Jean de Valette.’
‘It would not be my first suggestion,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘You soar to the heights in all three but none allows the whole company to show its true mettle. Banbury’s Men present a history while Havelock’s Men lean on comedy as their crutch. We should choose a tragedy to show our serious intent. The pity of it is that the best play for our purposes is no longer available to us.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it is called The Insatiate Duke.’
‘I spurn it, Nick!’ yelled Firethorn with a gesture of disgust. ‘We will not play it again until we have taken a knife to it and cut away everything that appertains to Lucius Kindell.’
‘Then you cut away the very soul of it.’
‘So be it. That vile traitor will not live to see me declaiming his verse again. Forget his work. It is past.’
Nicholas was not so ready to condemn Kindell, nor consign him to the company’s history, but he did not defend him. There was no point in infuriating his host when he was manoeuvring him carefully towards a critical decision. After waving a few other titles in front of him, Nicholas came to the play which was his selection but he let Firethorn enthuse about it until the latter believed that he had chosen it himself.
‘The Italian Tragedy! I have hit the mark, Nick!’
‘I think you have.’
‘What better piece to set before a Court than a tragedy of Court intrigue? By Jove, we’ll do it! The play has been off the stage too long. We’ll put it back where it belongs.’
‘With help from Edmund.’
‘But it is not his play.’
‘He is contracted to repair as well as to create,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let him mend a few holes in its apparel and fashion a prologue by way of a new ruff. Edmund’s wit is quicksilver. He will use the prologue to score off our rivals.’
‘Done, sir! The Italian Tragedy it shall be!’
‘A happy inspiration of yours.’
‘When Marjory serves beef, my brain always whirrs.’
There were several other things to discuss, including the financial state of the company, but the main problem had been solved. When Nicholas had guided his host into some more important decisions, he took his leave.
‘Will you walk back to the Queen’s Head?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Having come to Shoreditch, I’ll make a virtue of necessity and visit The Curtain.’
Firethorn goggled. ‘Watch our rivals?’ he howled.
‘It is needful. I want to see the present strength of their company. The more we know about our rivals, the easier it will be to match them.’
‘Match them and mar them!’
‘I go to observe and not to enjoy.’
Firethorn’s anger vanished and he embraced his friend warmly. Marjory came bustling out of the kitchen to collect compliments on her cooking and a farewell kiss. The couple waved him off down Old Street. Shoreditch’s two theatres brought playgoers streaming out of the city and crowds were already gathering for the afternoon’s entertainment. Nicholas made for The Curtain and paid to sit in the gallery. Instead of finding a place on a bench, however, he lurked near the door, confident that he would not be the only member of Westfield’s Men who would appear. The gallery was filling up before his expected guest arrived. Concealing himself behind a post, Nicholas let the man choose his place before he moved across to sit beside him.
‘Well-met, Master Gill!’ he said.
‘Nicholas!’ Barnaby Gill paled. ‘What on earth are you doing here at The Curtain?’
‘I came to see a play.’
‘Why, so did I.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, whispering in his ear. ‘You came to see a company you plan to join. Do not deny it, Master Gill,’ he warned as his companion flared up. ‘You were seen last night in the company of Giles Randolph. Seen and heard. If Master Firethorn knew of that meeting, he would not have been so civil to you at the funeral.’
Gill squirmed. He knew exactly how Firethorn would have reacted which was why his dealings with Banbury’s Men had been conducted in secret. The time to announce that he was leaving the Queen’s Head was when he had already quit the premises and not when he was still within reach of an actor-manager with a vengeful temperament and the strength of a bull. Gill’s exit was suddenly blocked by Nicholas Bracewell.