‘My fellows?’
‘One of them will know.’
‘Know what, you map of woe?’ growled Firethorn.
‘The cause why I behave thus.’
‘Behave how you wish,’ said the other tartly, ‘it will not shift us from here. The law is the law. We have a contract.’
‘I will burn it to cinders.’
‘You signed it. In front of witnesses.’
‘I repent that now.’
‘Too late. The contract protects us.’
‘Contracts can be dissolved. And this one has been.’
‘On the whim of a lunatic?’
‘One moment,’ said Nicholas, quickly interrupting before Firethorn’s anger exceeded his control. ‘Let me ask this of Master Marwood. Have you discussed this with your lawyer?’
‘My lawyer?’ grunted the landlord.
‘Do you act on the advice of Ezekiel Stonnard?’
‘He would support me to the hilt!’
‘That is not quite true,’ said Stonnard, who had been hovering within earshot and who now trotted forward to join in the debate. ‘I would need to know all the facts before I made a considered judgement. What I have gleaned so far has left me in a state of some confusion.’
‘The law is on our side!’ asserted Firethorn.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Stonnard with a polite snigger. ‘Do not try to do our work for us, Master Firethorn, or you will be the loser, sir. Leave the law unto trained lawyers.’
‘We have a contract. You witnessed it.’
‘Indeed, I did. It is a legal document.’
‘Then it cannot be revoked by this twitching idiot.’
‘Not unless its terms have been broken.’
‘They have!’ moaned Marwood. ‘Cruelly broken.’
‘In what way?’ yelled Firethorn.
Nicholas moved in again. ‘That is something which Master Marwood would prefer to discuss with his lawyer, I think,’ he said tactfully. ‘Let us withdraw so that he may do so. When Master Stonnard is in possession of all the facts, I am sure that he will communicate them to us.’
‘Rest assured that I will,’ said Stonnard.
‘I want them off my premises!’ howled Marwood.
‘We hold our ground!’ retorted Firethorn.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Nicholas, guessing at the cause of this sudden turn in their fortunes. ‘Perhaps we should quit the Queen’s Head for a while and take our celebrations elsewhere. There are inns enough nearby and the taproom is too full to admit of any real comfort. Let us withdraw,’ he said, taking Firethorn by the arm. ‘Not in any spirit of retreat but as a favour to Master Marwood so that we do not offend him any more than we obviously have.’
‘This is sage advice,’ said Stonnard.
Marwood disagreed, crying out for them to be forcibly ejected, and Firethorn’s response was even more vehement but Nicholas’s guidance was followed. The lawyer placated the landlord and the actor allowed himself to be taken back into the inn by the book holder. Lunging forward, Marwood grabbed Stonnard by both hands.
‘Help me!’ he pleaded.
‘I will do all that I may, sir.’
‘Find a means to expel Westfield’s Men hence.’
‘That will not be easy, I fear.’
‘They must go. At whatever costs.’
‘Ah,’ said Stonnard, smirking at the mention of money. ‘While we are on the subject of cost, allow me to present you with my bill for services already rendered today.’ Detaching himself from Marwood, he handed him a scroll. ‘Now, sir. This is clearly a matter of weight and deserves close attention. Let us find a more private place to talk.’ Sensing that a large fee might be in the offing, he rubbed his palms together. ‘I long to hear what has prompted this change of heart.’
‘Sybil,’ murmured the other.
‘What is that you say?’
‘My wife, sir. She and I have been betrayed.’
‘How?’
‘Utterly.’
Lord Westfield was perturbed. Though no words were spoken directly to him, and though he overheard nothing which might occasion alarm, he saw the knowing glances, the subtle signals and the telltale nudges which passed between his enemies at Court. Something was afoot and he was deliberately excluded from it. The look which the Earl of Banbury shot him across the Presence Chamber was confirmation enough. A single mocking eyebrow, raised for no more than a few seconds by his deadliest rival, sent quiet tremors through Lord Westfield. Evidently, the earl and his cronies had devised some cunning plan. One thing was clear: Lord Westfield would be its victim rather than its beneficiary.
Visits to the Palace of Whitehall were usually events to relish. Surrounded by his own friends, he preened himself shamelessly, exchanged brittle gossip, paid fulsome compliments to the court ladies in their bright plumage, received, in turn, praise for his theatre company from all objective observers, rubbed shoulders with men of influence and was generally given such a sense of his own importance that he could sneer openly at his detractors. From time to time, he was even favoured with a few words from Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. It was an idle but wholly satisfying existence. Lord Westfield luxuriated in it.
Today, however, it was very different. Almost none of his intimate friends were at Court and persons of consequence seemed strangely uninterested in conversing with him. When her Grace made her accustomed flamboyant entrance and swept across to the throne, seizing attention with sovereign assurance, Lord Westfield felt oddly out of place, a foreigner making his first bemused appearance in London, an outsider, a newcomer, an exile. It was a paradox. In the place where he was most at home, he was now an unwanted intruder. It made him furtive.
There was no opportunity to get within five yards of the Queen. Ringed by her favourites, she flirted gaily and indulged in badinage until the Portuguese ambassador was admitted to the Chamber with his train and a less sportive note was introduced. Pleasantries passed between the two countries but Lord Westfield did not even try to listen to them. His gaze was fixed on the hated Earl of Banbury, an unrepentant old sybarite with a goatee beard and such costly apparel that it stood out even in such a glorious wardrobe as the English Court. What was his rival up to this time? It was a question which tormented Lord Westfield for hours.
Only when the Queen departed could he begin to seek an answer to his question. As they streamed out of the Presence Chamber in chattering groups, Lord Westfield tried first to engage the Master of the Revels in conversation but the latter excused himself rather brusquely and strode off. Even more disturbed than before, Lord Westfield now fell in beside Sir Patrick Skelton, a short, stocky man in his forties with the distinctive strut of a seasoned courtier. Skelton had such an affable manner that no rebuff could be feared from him and, though he was a deeply political animal, he also had a rare capacity for honesty in a world where dissembling was the more common currency. When the moment served, Lord Westfield took him by the elbow and guided him into a quiet corner.
‘A word, Sir Patrick,’ he said.
‘As many as you like, my lord,’ came the obliging reply.
‘Her Majesty was in fine fettle today.’
‘When is she not? Even the sprightliest of us is put to shame by her vivacity.’ He gave a benign smile. ‘But that is not what you drew me aside to talk about, my lord, is it?’
‘No, Sir Patrick.’
There was a long pause as Lord Westfield searched for the right words to broach an awkward topic. Skelton tried to help him out of his difficulty.
‘You wish to ask me about affairs of state,’ he prompted.
‘Yes.’
‘Then do not be diffident. It does not become you and it sits ill with your reputation for plain speaking.’
Lord Westfield cleared his throat. ‘You are trusted and respected,’ he began, ‘as a man of complete integrity. Though you hear every whisper that flies around inside these ancient walls, you are careful to separate idle speculation from hard fact. You never spread wild rumours or pass on any of the scurrilous tales which daily reach your ears.’