The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Three

Lawrence Firethorn rode slowly home to Shoreditch in an uncharacteristically jaded mood. Performances in front of an adoring public usually increased his normal ebullience and turned him into a gushing fountain of affability and good will. He would then conduct a post mortem on the play with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode, striving always to improve and refine each offering so that it would be even better the next time around. Firethorn also took care to seek the opinion of Nicholas Bracewell which was invariably sound, objective, honest and completely free from the tiresome prejudices of the fellow sharers. Business done, the actor-manager could turn to pleasure. Applause still rang in his ears to keep him happy and exhilarated. Firethorn would therefore take the edge off his excitement by dining in style with friends or pursuing his latest dalliance with a female admirer. Life was seductively rich and bountiful.

Tonight, however, it seemed poor and niggardly. As he let his horse trot homeward, Firethorn heaved a sigh of deep desolation. Marriage and Mischief had been as well received as ever but its leading man had not been allowed to enjoy the occasion. Shaken by the apparent desertion of Sebastian Carrick, he was in two minds about the latter’s untried deputy, hoping that Owen Elias would somehow come through unscathed and yet fearing that the Welshman might steal some of his personal thunder. The post mortem had been deadly. In place of the customary praise and self-congratulation, he had to endure the bitter mockery of Barnaby Gill who kept asking Firethorn why he had nominated as their new sharer a man who had committed the ultimate sin against the company. Edmund Hoode rubbed salt into professional wounds by suggesting that Owen Elias should retain his new role in the play and that it should be enlarged to give his talents more scope.

There was no evening feast to soften the impact of all these blows, no indulgence from Lord Westfield himself, no fair lady waiting for him at an appointed place. Firethorn was despondent. When he reached home, there would be the torments of a scolding wife to greet him. He had to steel himself before crossing his own hearth.

‘Welcome home, my prince!’

‘Margery …’

‘Your honour was but lately on my tongue.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’

‘Then come from tongue to lips.’

The kiss was as enjoyable as it was unexpected. Margery Firethorn enfolded her husband in her arms, plucked him to her capacious bosom and kissed away a day’s absence. His spirits were rekindled at once.

‘What means this salutation?’ he said when he had enough breath back to get the question out. ‘What does it betoken, my angel?’

‘Is your memory so short, sir?’

‘Jog it a little, Margery.’

‘Cambridge.’

‘A pretty town. I played Pompey the Great there once.’

‘Does it hold no other meaning for you?’

‘Why yes,’ he said with a roguish smile that was suppressed instantly as wifely suspicion stirred. Firethorn continued quickly. ‘Cambridge is dear to me because of your dear sister. Mistress Agnes Jarrold. The very copy of your portrait, yet neither so comely nor so enchanting.’

‘I travel to Cambridge in the morning.’

‘Your husband had not forgot,’ he lied. ‘Why else would I have returned so early to your warm greeting?’

‘Come on in and take your ease, sir,’ she said as she conducted him to a chair. ‘I have wine ready for you and supper stays in the kitchen. Tell me your news before I stop your mouth with more kisses. How did Westfield’s Men fare?’

‘Do not ask, sweet wife. Do not ask.’

‘Why so?’

Margery Firethorn was the only woman who could have survived domestic life with the wayward genius she had married. Handsome, well proportioned and outspoken, she had a bellicose charm which could still ensnare him. A proud housewife and a caring mother, she was also — even after all these years — his true love and that fact impressed itself upon him now. Instead of bustling about the place in her usual working attire, Margery was wearing her best dress and her most appealing expression. Whenever they were to part for a while, the couple always took a fond farewell of each other the night before. Firethorn was the more regular traveller but it was his wife’s turn to ride off now. Her younger sister, Agnes, married to a Cambridge bookseller, was due to have a baby in the near future. Since she had lost her two previous children within hours of their birth, she had requested Margery’s help and support during the third ordeal. It was an entreaty that could not be denied.

Firethorn was keen for his wife to stand by the bedside of his sister-in-law and quick to appreciate the advantages to himself. The most immediate ones now became clear. He was given a cordial welcome, a cheering stoup of wine, a delicious supper and a sympathetic ear. As soon as he retailed the miseries of his day, they were soothed by her attentive concern and lost all power to hurt him. Relieved of his worries, he was taken upstairs to his bedchamber and reminded just how voluptuous Margery could be when not encumbered by children or chores. It was like their marriage night all over again. Pounding the mattress with their shared ecstasy, they endorsed their union in the most strenuous way and were quite unaware of the vicarious pleasure they gave to the servants and apprentices who were listening through the floor of the room above. Theirs was a love that truly enclosed the whole household.

As they lay panting in each other’s arms, Margery spoke fondly of their marriage and its undying bliss. Firethorn was doubly delighted, savouring the wonder of what he had just experienced while looking forward to blessings of like nature in other bedchambers. His wife was going to Cambridge for a couple of weeks. He would be free from all restraint. This thought was uppermost in his mind when he mounted her for a second time and let out a whoop of joy that woke up half of Shoreditch. Marriage blended with mischief.

It was late when he finally tracked them down in the upper reaches of Clerkenwell. They were plodding along together like two old oxen pulling a heavy cart that taxed their combined strength. Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather were typical watchmen, public-spirited individuals who did an unpopular job to the best of their mean abilities. Attired in long, dark robes that were belted at the waist, they had large caps shaped like helmets. Josiah Taplow carried a staff and a lantern while William Merryweather bore a bell along with his lantern and halberd. Their weapons were more for show than use. Like most watchmen, they were more adept at warning people of their presence than of apprehending any malefactors. Indeed, it would be difficult to find officers who would be less use in a fracas than Josiah Taplow, a retired plasterer and William Merryweather, an unemployed poulterer. Worthy and well intentioned they might be but they had little practical effect on the crime-infested area that they were doomed to patrol like lost souls in the outer darkness. It was unlovely work.

Nicholas Bracewell stepped out to accost them.

‘Hold, sirs!’ he said politely.

‘We are watchmen both,’ said Taplow defensively. ‘Stand off a little further. We are armed.’

‘I intend you no injury,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was the coroner himself who sent me in search of you. Master Taplow and Master Merryweather, is it not?’

The two men exchanged a bovine glance of bewilderment then held up their lanterns to illumine the newcomer’s face. Josiah Taplow was a wrinkled old man with a hook nose and a tufted beard. William Merryweather was bigger, sturdier but altogether more somnolent. He used a series of nudges to communicate with his colleague and left all the talking to him. Taplow took stock of the book holder.

‘Who are you, good sir?’ he asked.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘What business have you with us?’

‘You found a dead body but yesternight, I believe.’

‘That we did.’

‘The gentleman was my friend.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Master Bracewell,’ said Taplow with a wheezing note of apology, ‘for that gentleman did not die as a gentleman rightly should.’

‘I have seen him and know the worst.’

‘Words could not describe the horror of it, sir. We have seen many foul sights in this occupation but none so foul as this. Is it not so, William?’

Merryweather grunted and nudged his corroboration.

‘Where did you find him?’ said Nicholas.

‘On the corner of Turnmill Street and Cow Cross.’

‘Could you take me to the place?’

‘It is a tidy walk from here.’

‘I think I can keep pace.’

Reassured that Nicholas posed no threat to them, they ambled along the murky lane with the book holder in tow. It took them fifteen minutes to reach Cow Cross and another five to decide on the spot where the corpse had lain. There was a lot of chuntering from Taplow and nudging from Merryweather before agreement was reached. When they held their lanterns low, Nicholas could see the blood of Sebastian Carrick still staining the ground. The sight touched off his vengeful feelings once more and he had to master them before he spoke again.

‘At what hour did you find him?’ he said.

‘Not long after midnight,’ recalled Taplow.

‘How was he lying?’

‘Dead, sir. Stone dead.’

‘On his front? On his back? Curled up on his side?’

‘On his back,’ said Taplow. ‘As if knocked down by a single blow that split his poor brains in two.’

‘Which way was he facing?’

‘Up toward Heaven, sir.’

‘I talk of his feet, Master Taplow.’

‘They pointed toward Turnmill Street.’ The watchman had a tentative stab at detection. ‘We believe he was about to enter that sinful place when he was cut down.’

Nicholas doubted this judgement. Sebastian Carrick was a denizen of dark areas and knew how to protect himself. He would not easily have fallen to a frontal attack. It was more likely that he had been trailed by his killer who spun him round in order to strike the fateful blow. That meant that Carrick was leaving Turnmill Street rather than entering it. Somewhere in the festering warren lay the clue to his barbaric demise.

‘Was anyone else nearby?’ asked Nicholas.

‘None save me and William, sir.’

‘What did you do?’

‘All that we could, master. We fetched a cart and took the body to the coroner. It was a dolorous journey.’

‘You did well, sirs, and I thank you both.’

‘We did our duty.’

‘Indeed. Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘You know it all, Master Bracewell. Bleak as it is.’

Nicholas was about to take his leave when he noticed the vigorous nudging from William Merryweather. The elbow drummed out a message on his colleague’s ribs and Josiah Taplow remembered a significant detail.

‘He was not the first, sir,’ he said.

‘First?’

‘With that wound upon his head. We found another poor wretch with just such a gash as that.’

‘Who was the fellow?’ said Nicholas.

‘A discharged sailor bent upon pleasure.’

‘When was this earlier murder?’

‘Some four or five weeks past.’

‘And where did you find him?’

‘Not far from this very spot sir. Hercules Yard.’

‘With a like wound from a like weapon?’

‘Yes, Master Bracewell.’ Taplow responded to another flurry of nudges. ‘And one thing more besides. He had the same marks upon him.’

‘Marks?’

‘Ten long scratches right down his back. The gentleman and the sailor together. A most peculiar sight, sir. They were like the stripes on a wild animal.’

William Merryweather leant in close to make his one contribution to the discussion.

‘Aye, Josiah,’ he said righteously, ‘and it was a wild animal who put them on those two bodies.’

It was his first visit to the Pickt-hatch and he found it quite overwhelming. Too callow to take on someone like Frances and too drunk to do himself justice with any of the other whores, he was relentlessly urged on by his friends until he gave in. The couple were sent off upstairs with a rousing cheer that gave the young man a momentary boldness. He put an arm around her but it was out of desperation rather than affection and Frances practically carried him along the passageway to her room. Helping him inside, she closed the door and propped him up against it, standing back to appraise him with hands on her hips. He was no more than sixteen and barely able to stand on his long, spindly legs. Frances had taken dozens like him to her lair and she had never needed more than five minutes to bring their ardour to sticky fruition.

In this case, she doubted whether his arousal would last even that long and so it proved. Pulling down the top of her dress to expose small but shapely breasts, she lay back on the mattress and lifted her skirt invitingly. She gave him an open-mouthed grin that allowed her tongue to stick out provocatively between her teeth. A gorgeous serpent was enticing with her fangs. He needed no more encouragement Gathering his strength, he stared at her through blurred eyes then made a beery lunge. As he hit the mattress beside her, she turned him over and gave him a kiss that drained every last ounce of energy out of him and left him snoring noisily. Frances wasted scant time on him. She emptied his purse, grabbed him by the feet and dragged him out into the passageway. Leaving him in his stupor, she adjusted her dress and tidied her hair before going back downstairs in search of the next client. It was a profitable night in Turnmill Street.

Alone in his lodging, shut away from the world, Edmund Hoode sat at his table and worked by the light of a tallow candle. He was a nocturnal creature, a gifted poet whose Muse visited in the silence of the night and kept him from his slumbers. All of his best plays and most of his best sonnets had been written in the hours of darkness when his creative juices were in full flow and he could apply himself without distraction. It was at once gruelling and inspiring. Quill pen, inkhorn and parchment became closely acquainted and formed a willing partnership right up until dawn. It was only when the first rays of light tapped softly at his window that Hoode paused to read and reflect.

As the resident playwright with Westfield’s Men, he was required to provide a number of new plays each year. Love’s Sacrifice was his latest composition, a moving tragedy that was shot through with irony and pathos. It was the tale of a mighty king who bravely extended his empire into unconquered and hitherto unconquerable territory. Though he won a famous battle, however, he lost his heart to the queen of the subject nation and remained in thrall to her. The fiery passion which drew them together burned its remorseless way through all that he held most dear. Crackling flames consumed his wife, his children, his friends, his honour, his reputation, his sanity and his imperial crown. Love then exacted the final sacrifice from him by taking his life.

Though set in Ancient Britain, the play owed much to the story of Antony and Cleopatra but even more to the doomed romance in the author’s own life. He reached the end of Act Five with the mangled bodies of King Gondar and Queen Elsin entwined together in their tomb before the warring parties from their respective countries. Death ennobles them both. As Edmund Hoode stood among the soldiers and gazed down sadly at the tragic scene, he was reminded of the most recent calamity in his severely charred private life. Queen Elsin was his own lost love, forbidden yet irresistible, for ever out of his reach, one more corpse for the overstocked mausoleum of his despair. He used the quill to brush away a tear.

It was in this mood of suffering, with his sensibilities tingling and his faculties heightened, with his pain and his poetry fusing in perfect harmony, that he penned a long valedictory speech to king, queen and every woman he had ever worshipped. Words came easily but beautifully and the result was a minor miracle. Reading the verse quietly to himself, he knew that he had brought Love’s Sacrifice to a most poignant and affecting conclusion. What he did not realise was that a speech of twenty lines would have a significance that went far beyond the boundaries of his play to put the whole company in mortal danger.

‘And has Master Firethorn been informed of this horror?’

‘I will speak to him within the hour.’

‘It is a grievous blow to Westfield’s Men.’

‘Sebastian was well respected and well liked, Anne. We will all feel his loss keenly.’

She gave a shudder. ‘To die in such a fashion!’

‘His murder will be revenged,’ vowed Nicholas.

‘You must first find the murderer.’

‘It will be done.’

‘How?’

‘By patience and persistence.’

She smiled. ‘You have both in large supply.’

‘Sebastian Carrick was a friend of mine.’

‘And of everyone he met,’ she said wistfully. ‘I never encountered a more engaging young man. He was joyful company indeed. Who could have hated him enough to kill him?’

It was early morning and Anne Hendrik was seated in the living room of her house in Southwark. She was a tall, well-groomed woman with easy charm and a natural grace. The English widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she had spurned the many offers of marriage that came her way in order to retain her independence and run her husband’s business in the adjoining premises. Under her shrewd eye, it flourished. Since she had no children with whom to share the house, she elected to take in a lodger. Nicholas Bracewell had lived at the Southwark abode for some time now and his landlady had become a good friend and — when need arose and occasion served — a lover. A secretive man found someone in whom he could confide.

Anne Hendrik saw the practical consequences.

‘This will affect the new play at The Rose,’ she said.

‘Sebastian was to have taken an important role.’

‘To whom will it now fall?’

‘My choice would be Owen Elias.’

‘What of Master Firethorn?’

‘He will resist the idea strongly at first.’

‘Can you win him around?’

‘Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill are of my persuasion. And there is no other actor in the company who could carry the part as well as Owen.’ Nicholas grew serious. ‘We need the best man we have, Anne. Love’s Sacrifice brings us here to Southwark. Much rides upon the event. We must give off our true fragrance at The Rose.’

‘I will be there to inhale it,’ she promised.

Over a light breakfast of bread and meat, he had told her the full details of Sebastian Carrick’s death. She was frankly appalled. Anne Hendrik was well aware of the multiple burdens under which Westfield’s Men laboured to make their precarious living. This new crisis would only make matters worse. Though she had great sympathy for the company itself, her main object of concern was Nicholas Bracewell. She became fearful.

‘Take care, sir,’ she said anxiously.

‘The murderer must be brought to justice, Anne.’

‘But you will need to search the stews of Turnmill Street to find him. There are many perils there. I would not have you meet the same end as Sebastian himself.’

‘I will show all due caution.’

‘Go armed, Nick. Take friends.’

‘More may be achieved alone.’

‘Add discretion to your valour.’

He grinned fondly. ‘That is why I live in your house.’

‘I’d have you continue here,’ she said softly. ‘For my sake, therefore, tread warily in Clerkenwell.’

‘My search begins elsewhere.’

‘With whom?’

‘A father has the right to know of his son’s death.’

‘Master Andrew Carrick?’

‘I must find a way to reach him.’

The Tower of London was the oldest and most secure building in the city. Founded by William the Conqueror on the site of a Roman fortification, it still dominated with its awesome combination of elegance and strength. It was set between neat gabled houses and lawns sloping down to the glittering havoc of the Thames. The Norman citadel had been constructed of white stone from Caen and its enormously thick walls rose to a height of ninety feet. Successive kings enlarged and reinforced the edifice until it became a huge complex of towers, baileys, domestic buildings and outworks. By the time Elizabeth came to the throne, the Tower had fulfilled its usefulness as a royal residence but her family left vivid mementoes in the crypt of the Chapel Royal of St Peter’s ad Vincula where the vast majority of decayed bodies lacked heads. The obvious headquarters for the Mint, the building also housed the Crown jewels, the royal armoury and the national archives. In addition, it was the most feared prison in England. Above all else, however, the Tower remained what it had always been — the focal point of a burgeoning city that was planned around a main river and encircled by fields, forests, marshes and hills.

Andrew Carrick had admired its imposing exterior for many years until he was invited to sample its accommodation. His view of the Tower of London was more jaundiced now. It had robbed him of his freedom and kept him away from his family and his friends. In its cold and comfortless way, it had shut him out of life itself and forced him into an idleness that was a kind of death to him. Carrick was an able lawyer with eager clients awaiting his services. But the slim, poised, well-dressed man with an incisive mind was now a rather plump and indolent creature with a shabbiness to him that he detested. Imprisonment was irksome. There were, however, compensations.

‘Good morrow, sir.’

‘Good day, Master Carrick.’

‘How does the world find you?’

‘In excellent heart. And you, sir?’

‘I survive, I survive.’

‘Have faith, my friend.’

‘It goes hard with me, Master Fellowes.’

‘We pray for your release.’

‘You are most kind.’ Andrew Carrick made an effort to shake off his melancholy. ‘But what of life beyond these walls? Tell me all the news, sir. It is a week and more since we spoke last and I am starved of intelligence. Who rises? Who has fallen? What are the rumours? Give me some interest. Unlock my mind at least.’

‘I’ll try what keys I may …’

Harry Fellowes offered all the news he could and each morsel was snapped up greedily by the prisoner. Fellowes was a short, round, self-satisfied man whose inclination towards pomposity was held in check by his genuine sympathy for Andrew Carrick. Enemies of state deserved to be incarcerated in the Tower before their execution but the lawyer was no traitor. He was an honest, patriotic, God-fearing Englishman whose offence was slight if illjudged. Because he was so harmless a guest, Carrick was given licence to leave his cell and roam his tower for exercise. On one such walk he had been fortunate enough to meet and befriend Harry Fellowes. It was a relationship that kept the prisoner’s hope alive and sustained him through the long reaches of boredom. The Tower of London was a place of work to Fellowes. As Clerk of Ordnance, he was a regular visitor to the armoury and he always came equipped with a fund of stories about court and city. Carrick was sincerely grateful and his lone friend warmed to him.

‘That is all I have to tell you, sir.’

‘I cannot thank you enough, Master Fellowes.’

‘Does it bring relief to your plight?’

‘It does, sir,’ said Carrick with tattered dignity. ‘It does. Would that I could repay you in some way.’

Harry Fellowes appraised him shrewdly for a long time.

‘Haply, you may,’ he said. ‘Haply, you may.’

Nimbus spent the night in the largest stable and on the deepest bed of straw. As shafts of sunlight penetrated the cracks in the timber to fill the place with endless golden dots, the horse woke, raised itself up and looked around. It yawned a welcome to a new day then got to its feet in a gentle rustle. A flick of the head opened the top half of the stable door, a dextrous mouth pulled back the wooden bolt. Kicking the lower half of the door open, Nimbus went off in search of service and he soon found it. He was back less than a minute later with his teeth clamped on the collar of a terrified ostler who was virtually carried along by the horse. The dishevelled young man was thrown into what he thought was an empty stable. As he stumbled over a pile of blankets, however, he had his second shock of the morning. A human voice roared abusively. The blankets then opened like giant petals to allow a bleary-eyed Cornelius Gant to emerge. He glared at the ostler and broke wind.

‘Fetch our breakfast, boy!’ he ordered.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Hay for Nimbus. Ale and bread for me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do not stand there shivering like that. About it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The ostler moved away then turned to look back in wonderment at Gant. ‘You spent the night here, sir?’

‘Nimbus and I are never parted.’

‘But you kept the whole inn amazed with your tricks. I have handled many horses in my time but none like this of yours. He is without compare. You were showered with coins for your performance and rightly so. Why sleep in a stable when you could afford the finest room at the inn?’

Gant chuckled. ‘The bed was too small, boy.’

‘Too small?’

‘It would not hold me and Nimbus.’

The horse raised its head and gave a manic laugh.

Lawrence Firethorn played the farewell scene with his wife as if it were the climax of a drama. His arms flapped in protest, his lips kissed at random, his tongue poured out a stream of pious nonsense about how he would pine and wilt in her absence. Onlookers were convinced that the couple would be parted for ever instead of simply endure with a mere fortnight’s separation. Margery shifted between romance and reality with practised smoothness, basking in the effusive compliments while at the same time issuing orders about the running of the house. The beautiful damsel torn away from her handsome prince wanted to make sure that her children were properly looked after and her servants kept in line. When it was time for the travellers to depart, Firethorn embraced her once then helped her into the saddle of her horse. Believing there was safety in numbers, she set off on the road to Cambridge with a sizeable company.

Her husband waved his hat after her until she was out of sight then his expression changed completely. A sense of liberation coursed through him and he gave a ripe chuckle. Fame brought him a large following. Lovely ladies threw themselves at his feet all over London. For the first time in years, he would be able to bend down and pick them up at will without having to look over his shoulder. Marriage brought many blessings but none, he now decided, as sweet as the occasional release from its chafing yoke. Pulling on his hat and slapping his thigh with joy, he strode back towards his own horse but his euphoria was short-lived. Nicholas Bracewell came hurrying towards him.

‘Nick, dear heart!’

‘Good day, sir.’

‘What brings you to Shoreditch this early, man?’

‘Heavy news.’

‘I’ll hear none today. I feel as light as a feather.’

‘It concerns Sebastian.’

‘You found the rogue?’

‘Alas, I did.’

‘Bring him to me. I’ll roast the rascal alive!’

‘Sebastian is beyond recall.’

They were standing in the street so Nicholas moved him into the doorway of a shop to gain some privacy. He then told his tale briefly and calmly. Stunned at first, Firethorn shaded quickly into irritation and then into a black rage. He wanted the murderer brought to justice so that he could take revenge on him with his own hands but these feelings did not arise out of any sense of loss at the death of a loved one. What Firethorn could not forgive was the damage which had been done to his company. The killer of Sebastian Carrick would be called to account for the cruel injury he had inflicted on Westfield’s Men.

‘What am I to do, Nick?’ he said with both arms flailing away. ‘This heavy news of yours flattens me to a wafer. I named Sebastian Carrick as our new sharer and the fool gets himself axed to death in a squalid brawl.’

‘That is not what happened,’ said Nicholas firmly.

‘No matter for the details, man. I have to live with the consequences. At one fell stroke, I have lost my sharer, my reputation for good judgement and my hopes of happiness. I have also lost a fine actor who was about to shine in a new play. Who is doing all this to me?’

Nicholas kept a tactful silence while his employer vented his self-pity. They then strolled back together along Bishopsgate Street towards the city walls. Firethorn had been sobered. Instead of cantering in through Bishopsgate itself in search of his first conquest, he was leading his horse somnolently along and wondering how he would face the barbed gibes of Barnaby Gill. When his fury had blown itself out, he turned as ever to Nicholas for counsel. The latter argued that their first priority was to contact Andrew Carrick to inform him of the death of his son. Firethorn agreed at once and undertook to solicit the help of their patron, Lord Westfield, to gain admittance to the Tower. He offered to visit the prisoner with Nicholas but the book holder insisted on going alone. Out of consideration to the bereaved father, he would keep a vain actor away from him and save an already painful situation from becoming an agony.

As they merged with the jostling crowd which pressed in through the gate, an immediate problem exercised Firethorn.

‘What of Love’s Sacrifice?’ he asked.

‘It will have its hour at The Rose.’

‘Sebastian was to have played Benvolio.’

‘Assign the role to someone else.’

‘Edmund has written the part with him in mind.’

‘A good actor will trim the role to suit himself,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we have the ideal substitute in Owen Elias.’

Firethorn was dismissive. ‘He is not competent.’

‘He proved his mettle in Marriage and Mischief.’

‘A harmless romp of no consequence. Love’s Sacrifice is richer material. It is drama in a tragic vein.’

‘Then Owen elects himself. Tragedy is his strength.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

‘Put him to the test, sir.’

‘We will look elsewhere for our Benvolio.’

‘Against the wishes of the author?’ said Nicholas. ‘I have it from Edmund Hoode himself. He told me that Owen would be a wiser choice for Benvolio than Sebastian. Your worthy poet will confirm that opinion and Master Gill will lend his authority to it as well.’

‘Ha!’ snarled Firethorn with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. ‘What do playwrights know of true players? What do mincing comedians know of real men? Edmund and Barnaby may say what they wish. I am proof against their folly.’

‘But I share it, Master Firethorn.’

‘You side with them against me!’ accused the other.

‘I support Owen Elias to the hilt.’

‘Treachery!’

‘No, sir. Fair dealing.’

Firethorn turned an apoplectic stare on him but Nicholas met it without flinching. A silent battle of wills took place. Without his book holder’s support, Firethorn would have enormous difficulty in getting his way against the combined determination of Hoode and Gill. He tried to cow Nicholas with a growl of disapproval but the latter stuck bravely to his guns. Few people dared to obstruct the freewheeling tyranny of Lawrence Firethorn. Fewer still could do so with such audacity and composure.

Nicholas was adamant. ‘Owen Elias is your man.’

The actor-manager put all his anger into another long stare but it lacked the power to frighten or subdue. He was up against the one person in the company whom he could not bully into submission, the one person who was a match for him. He eventually accepted it. Stamping his foot hard on the cobbles, he capitulated in a pained gurgle.

‘So be it.’

The decision would have dire repercussions.