The Malevolent Comedy

Chapter Ten

Nicholas Bracewell reacted instinctively. He had been taken completely by surprise but the blow had been partially softened by his cap, so that he was hurt rather than stunned. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled over and reached for his dagger, ready to defend himself against his assailant. But there were two of them, brawny figures, both armed with cudgels, intent on beating him senseless. Nicholas needed help.

‘Leonard!’ he yelled. ‘Ho, there!’

‘Close his mouth!’ snarled one man.

They tried to belabour him but Nicholas was no harmless victim. Rolling rapidly from side to side, he used one arm to ward off the cudgels and the other hand to wield his dagger. As a blow glanced off his shoulder, he stabbed hard with his blade and opened up a deep wound in a wrist. Shrieking with pain, one of the men dropped his cudgel. The other continued to flail away with his weapon, bruising Nicholas’s arm and knocking the dagger from his grasp. He aimed a vicious strike at the book holder’s eyes but Nicholas jerked back his head just in time. Grazing his temple with searing pain, the cudgel drew blood.

When he tried to kick the fallen man, however, his attacker lost his advantage. Seizing his foot, Nicholas twisted the ankle hard then pulled. His adversary came tumbling down on top of him. Nicholas grappled with him and managed to roll over on top of him, only to feel a hard stamp in the back from the other man. Bent on revenge, and with blood dripping from his injured wrist, he lashed out with his foot at Nicholas. At the same time, the man beneath the book holder tried to bite him on the face. Rage gave Nicholas an upsurge of strength. Subduing the man on the ground with a fierce relay of punches, he rolled over, leapt to his feet and faced the other attacker. He saw a dagger in his hand. Leonard was at last lumbering up the street towards him but would not get there in time to save his friend.

Nicholas used the only weapon available. He lifted the satchel quickly from around his neck. Before the man could lunge at him with the dagger, Nicholas swung the satchel by its strap with as much force as he could, catching the other across the cheek and making him reel.

‘I’m coming, Nick,’ shouted Leonard. ‘Leave him to me.’

But the attackers had had enough. Seeing that the odds had turned against them, they opted for retreat. The man with the wounded wrist helped his dazed companion to his feet and the two of them limped off into the darkness. Panting heavily, Leonard finally reached his friend.

‘You called at an awkward time,’ he said, apologetically.

‘I managed on my own, Leonard.’

‘Let’s go after them.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, breathing hard and rubbing his bruised arm. ‘I’m in no condition to give chase. They’ll be well away by now.’

‘Did they get your purse?’

‘They were not after money.’

‘Then why attack you?’

‘They were here to give me a beating. We were stalked.’

‘I heard nobody behind us.’

‘They knew their trade. As soon as I was alone, they struck.’

Blood was trickling down the side of his face from the cut on his temple. Nicholas pulled out the handkerchief that had been dropped in the churchyard and used it to stem the flow. With his other hand, he rubbed the back of his head gingerly.

‘Are you hurt, Nick?’

‘I’ve lost some blood and gained some painful bruises in return, but nothing is broken.’ He retrieved his dagger and slipped it back in its sheath. ‘I was lucky. I survived.’

‘Why did they pick on you?’

‘Because that’s what they were paid to do.’

Leonard was aghast. ‘Someone hired them?’

‘I think so, Leonard.’

‘To kill you?’

‘To give me a beating I’d remember. That’s why they used cudgels. When I stabbed one of them in the wrist, he lost his temper and pulled his dagger on me. He meant to use it.’

‘I should have been here to help you.’

‘They’d not have shown their hand with you here, Leonard.’

‘I’ll not leave your side again, Nick.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Who set these bullies on to you?’

‘I mean to find out,’ said Nicholas, slinging the satchel around his neck again. ‘This is what saved me,’ he went on, patting the leather. ‘After bringing so much misery, The Malevolent Comedy has finally done us some good. I told you that it was worth its weight in gold.’

Owen Elias and Edmund Hoode fared no better in their search. After futile visits to a whole variety of inns, they ended up halfway down Cheapside. By mutual agreement, they decided to abandon the hunt for the night. Elias was full of remorse.

‘This has been like a penance to me, Edmund,’ he said.

‘A penance?’

‘Yes. We’ve been to over thirty alehouses and I’ve not been able to take a drink in any of them. I’m like a sultan in a harem, who looks upon his array of gorgeous wives but is unable to touch any of them.’

‘Searching for Dick Honeydew has kept both of us sober.’

‘If we could get him back safe, I’d not drink for a month.’

‘I may remind you of that,’ said Hoode with a weary smile. ‘I hope that Nick and Leonard have had more success. If not, we’ll search again in the morning.’

‘I’ll go back to the Queen’s Head. I said I’d meet Nick there.’

‘Then I’ll off to my lodging.’

‘One moment,’ said Elias, detaining him with a hand. ‘You’ve not told me who sent that letter yet. I know that you’ve been dying to read it all night, but held off doing so.’

‘That was my penance.’

‘It must be from a lady, then.’

‘I’m indebted to you for that, Owen. Until you brought her into my life, I did not know that such a paragon existed.’ He clapped Elias on the shoulder. ‘Farewell — and a thousand thanks.’

They parted company and Hoode hurried back to his lodging. It was too dark to read the letter in the street and, in any case, he felt that it deserved the utmost privacy. Hoode was convinced that it was a response to his sonnet and would therefore offer encouragement. Had his declaration been rejected, he would have been met by a stony silence yet he been favoured with an instant reply. Ursula had spoken. It was more than he had dared to expect.

When he got back to his room, he lit the candle on the table and sat down to read his letter, first inhaling the bewitching aroma that the paper gave off. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the missive and studied the contents, written in a neat, modest, feminine hand that, to him, symbolised the character of the young lady who had sent it. The message was short and unsigned but it was enough to make him let out a cry of joy. Hoode was not only thanked for the gift of his sonnet, he was invited to meet its recipient. Time and place were specified. His heart began to pound. He had never dreamt that Ursula would be so bold and so ready to meet him alone. Her letter was a poem in its own right. He kissed the paper softly then read the words again. Hoode almost swooned.

A tryst had been arranged.

‘God’s mercy!’ exclaimed Lawrence Firethorn. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I met with trouble.’

‘Serious trouble, by the look of you.’

‘They came off worse than me, Lawrence.’

‘They?’ said Owen Elias

‘There were two of them,’ explained Nicholas Bracewell. ‘Both armed with cudgels. They surprised me in the dark.’

‘Then where was Leonard? He kept you company. Two against two puts the matter beyond doubt. You and Leonard could see off half a dozen ruffians between you.’

‘Leonard was busy elsewhere.’

Nicholas had got back to the Queen’s Head to find both his friends awaiting him. They were alarmed to see the extent of his injuries. By the light of the candles, they saw the bruised face, the swollen lips and the dried blood on his temple. His buff jerkin had been badly scuffed in the course of the fight and his hose torn. Both sets of knuckles were raw. Nicholas gave them a shortened account of what had befallen him, not wishing to let his problems deflect them from the fate of the missing boy.

Firethorn’s sympathies, however, were with his book holder.

‘These are grim tidings, Nick. You might have been killed.’

‘I think their orders were to break a few bones.’

‘And they’d have done so if you’d not fought back,’ said Firethorn. ‘And where was Leonard all this while — pissing against a wall!’

Nicholas was tolerant. ‘The call of nature had to be answered.’

‘My concern is with the wants of Westfield’s Men.’

‘So are mine,’ said Elias, bitterly. ‘We’ve lost Dick Honeydew. We could not bear to lose you as well, Nick.’

‘I’ll make sure that it never happens,’ said Nicholas.

He was disappointed that Elias had returned empty-handed, but he resolved to widen the hunt on the following day. After helping in the early stages of the search, Firethorn had turned his mind to the question of what the company could stage in place of The Malevolent Comedy. An audience needed entertainment and, whatever straits the troupe was in, the actor-manager would never consider turning spectators away. After going through the available costumes and scenery in their store-room at the inn, he had reached a decision.

‘We play Cupid’s Folly tomorrow,’ he announced.

‘Why not Black Antonio again?’ asked Elias. ‘I have a leading role in that. In Cupid’s Folly, all eyes will be on Barnaby.’

‘This is no time to put yourself first, Owen. For my own part, I’d sooner play the tragedy but I feel that we should substitute a comedy for a comedy. All that we lack is a maypole.’

‘That’s easily made,’ said Nicholas. ‘You’ve chosen well, Lawrence. It’s not only a rustic caper for a hot afternoon, it’s a play we’ve done so often that it needs no rehearsal. George Dart can hold the book and I’ll be free to carry on the search.’

‘That was my reasoning.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ve spoken to the printer, George will collect the playbills first thing in the morning. Those anxious to see The Malevolent Comedy will be displeased but at least we have something to set before them.’

‘And at least we know the real name of the author,’ said Elias. ‘We cannot say that of Saul Hibbert or Paul Hatfield or whatever he chooses to call himself today.’

‘His name no longer matters,’ said Firethorn, harshly. ‘His play has done for us. We’ll never perform it again.’

‘Then he’ll want it back,’ said Nicholas, ‘to take elsewhere.’

‘It’s our property now, Nick. We have a contract.’

‘No, you only have a contract with Saul Hibbert and he, it appears, did not write the play. Paul Hatfield is the author. The contract is void. On the other hand,’ he said with a grin of satisfaction, ‘it was signed in the presence of a lawyer so the playwright committed a crime. We were the victims of wilful deception. That entitles us to keep the play.’

‘Possession is everything in law,’ said Firethorn, ‘and it will stay in our possession to stop anyone else from gaining profit from it. There is no way that the author can get his hands on it.’

A thought struck Nicholas. ‘Yes, there is,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Elias.

‘Those men were not simply there to give me a beating tonight.’

‘Why else?’

‘They were after our copy of the play.’

Saul Hibbert, as he still preferred to be known, had enjoyed his meal at the Green Man, all the more so since John Vavasor had paid for it. What worried Hibbert, however, was that neither Vavasor nor Cyrus Hame were as lavish in their praise of him as they had been earlier, and, whenever he raised the subject of Banbury’s Men, his companions hinted at possible doubts. When they ended the supper with a glass of brandy, Hibbert probed for reassurance.

‘What exactly did you tell Master Randolph about me?’

‘Everything good, nothing bad,’ said Hame, blithely.

‘You told him every last detail of my play?’

‘Of course. But Giles is more interested in the next one you write.’

‘That’s the one Banbury’s Men would like,’ said Vavasor. ‘You do have a second play ready, do you not?’

‘I will do,’ replied Hibbert. ‘Very soon.’

‘I hope so. Giles is not a patient man.’

‘How many other playwrights can he call upon?’

‘He does not need to call on any,’ said Hame. ‘They come to him in droves. John and I are fortunate in that few of his supplicants write tragedy. Most favour comedy so you have many rivals, Saul.’

Hibbert was hurt. ‘You said that my play was far above all else.’

‘In some senses, it is.’

‘In what sense is it not?’

‘Well,’ said Vavasor, lighting a clay pipe from the candle, ‘to begin with, it lacks a natural part for Giles Randolph. There’s no doubt that he could play Lord Loveless — Cyrus and I discussed that very point — but it would not make best use of his talents. Change the name of your heroine and you might have something to tempt him.’

‘Change the name?’

‘Yes, Saul. If a Master Malevole created all the mischief, instead of a woman, he would be untouchable in the role. Dark, brooding, sinister characters are what Giles relishes.’

‘Do you have such a character in your next play?’ said Hame.

‘Not at the moment,’ admitted Hibbert.

‘Oh dear!’

‘But that can soon be remedied.’

‘It must be. Giles is to his company what Firethorn is to Westfield’s Men. Both must shine in a leading role or a play has no appeal.’

‘You gave me the impression that Banbury’s Men would buy anything and everything I wrote.’

‘Subject to certain conditions.’

‘You mentioned no conditions, Cyrus.’

Hame beamed at him. ‘They must have slipped my mind.’

‘All that we were empowered to do,’ said Vavasor, taking over, ‘was to sound you out. To see if you were ready to shake the dust of the Queen’s Head from your feet.’

‘I’m more than ready!’ growled Hibbert.

‘Break with them and we can talk further.’

‘I’ve already done so and I need employment.’

‘Can you so soon have used up so much good will?’ taunted Hame. ‘That does not bode well. Actors need to be flattered to keep them in the right humour. John and I take it in turns to stroke Giles’s feathers.’

‘Well, I’ll not do so,’ said Hibbert with a flash of anger.

‘Then bid farewell to your hopes.’

‘Since when have certainties become hopes? When we first talked, you said that I was assured of a cordial welcome.’

‘And so you are — if your next play pleases.’

‘The same holds for us,’ said Vavasor, exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke. ‘Everything rests on the quality of our work. Lamberto gave us our moment at the pinnacle. We can only hope that Pompey the Great does likewise. First, however, it must win over Giles Randolph.’

‘If it fails,’ added Hame, ‘then John and I must take it elsewhere.’

‘How can it fail if it has the same attributes as Lamberto?’

‘How can any play of yours fail if it has the virtues that were seen in such abundance in The Malevolent Comedy? Do not wear such a gloomy face, Saul,’ he went on, reaching out to pat Hibbert gently on the shoulder. ‘You are among friends. We share your ambitions. We want you to join us at the Curtain.’

‘Meanwhile,’ said Vavasor, ‘you are building your reputation at the Queen’s Head. As long as your play draws in large audiences, you will always be sought after.’

‘Success breeds success.’

‘Cyrus has summed up the life of a playwright in three words. Success is everything and you’ve achieved it. Tomorrow, I daresay, the name of Saul Hibbert will fill that inn yard again.’

Hibbert was decidedly unsettled. He took a long sip of brandy. Hame traded a glance with Vavasor. The two men were patently enjoying their guest’s obvious discomfort.

‘What did John say to upset you so much?’ asked Hame, casually. ‘There’s no reason why your work will not delight an audience again tomorrow, is there?’

At least, he was in the warm now. Rescued from the stable, Richard Honeydew had been carried into a building, up some stairs and along a passageway. The room into which he was taken had a large cupboard in the corner and the boy was thrust into it with a series of dire warnings. The woman had then taken over, untying his legs so that he had some freedom of movement and giving him a pillow for his head. The cupboard door was then locked. Honeydew felt warmer, safer and more comfortable but he was still a prisoner.

He tried hard to hear what was being said in the bedchamber, hoping that it might give him some clue as to the identity and purpose of his captors. But their conversation was too short and muted. He had seen enough of the young woman to be able to recognise her again but the man had been careful to hide his face from the boy. All that Honeydew had caught was a glimpse of fair hair and beard, and of a blue doublet.

The man had not stayed long in the room. After telling the woman to watch their prisoner with care, he let himself out. The woman fell silent for a long while but Honeydew sensed that she was still the other side of the cupboard door. Had he been left alone, escape was at last a possibility. The boy could have kicked his way out of the cupboard, hauled himself up to his feet then tried to break the lock on the door of the bedchamber by hurling himself at the timber. Even if he had failed, he would have made enough noise to summon help.

As it was, he could do nothing but lie there in the dark and listen to the floorboards creaking whenever the woman moved. Honeydew kept shifting his position to ease the pain. The ache in his back and arms was constant. The gag was hurting his mouth. He was also very hungry. Instead of being given his usual healthy supper by Margery Firethorn, he was deprived of food and water. It was another source of pain.

Yet there were compensations. He did not fear for his life so much now. The fact that they had taken him indoors suggested that they would look after him, albeit still as their prisoner. Honeydew was not so much a murder victim as a hostage. He was being held so that his captors could get what they wanted, and that was to stop a play from being performed again. The boy could only guess at their reasons for doing so.

When the cupboard was suddenly unlocked and thrown open, he blinked in the candlelight. The young woman was holding a piece of bread and a cup of water. Her expression was still stern but there was a faint hint of softness in her voice.

‘Are you more comfortable here?’ He nodded. ‘I’m going to take the gag away again but be warned. Call out and I’ll tie it back again. Then you’ll spend the whole night in the stable.’ His eyes widened in horror and he shook his head. ‘Make sure that you behave yourself, Mistress Malevole, and say nothing at all.’

She removed his gag and fed him some bread. He chewed it gratefully. Another mouthful followed then he was allowed to sip the water. The meal was over in minutes and she wiped the crumbs from his lips before replacing the gag more gently than before. Honeydew was touched by what he perceived as her kindness. She looked at him for a long time as if weighing something in her mind. At length, she blurted out her statement.

‘Nobody was meant to die onstage like that boy,’ she said with regret. ‘It was a mistake.’

The door was promptly closed. Honeydew was in the dark again.

Alexander Marwood needed no persuasion to yield up the spare key. He was so affronted by his guest’s behaviour that he had thought of searching the bedchamber himself for money to pay the outstanding bills. In the event, it was Nicholas Bracewell who let himself into the room belonging to the man he knew as Saul Hibbert. He took no chances. In case the playwright returned to the inn, Nicholas had stationed Owen Elias near the gate. A warning whistle from the Welshman would give the book holder ample time to get clear.

Nicholas worked quickly. Entering with a lighted candle, he scoured the room in one sweep, noting how many suits Hibbert owned and how many empty bottles of wine stood beside the bed. On the table lay a few pages of a new play but it was clear, from the number of lines that were crossed out then changed, that the author was struggling to make any progress with it. The play was called A Woman Killed with Tenderness. It was another comedy.

A leather bag then caught Nicholas’s attention. When he undid the strap, he found that it was filled with letters, documents and bills that seemed to relate to a number of different towns. The playwright had been ubiquitous. In addition to Norwich and Oxford, he had spent time in Lincoln, Nottingham, Chester, Lichfield, Worcester, Bristol and even in Nicholas’s hometown of Barnstaple in Devon. The most valuable item in the collection, however, was a letter written in Hibbert’s own looping hand. Nicholas was astonished at what he read:

Sweet wife,

As ever there was any good will or friendship

between me and thee, see this bearer (my host)

satisfied of his debt, I owe him twenty pound, and

but for him I had perished in the streets. Forget and

forgive my wrongs done unto thee, and Almighty

God have mercy on my soul. Farewell till we meet

in heaven, for on earth thou shalt never see me

more. This 2nd of September, 1595.

Written by thy dying husband

Saul Hibbert

Nicholas put everything back in the leather bag and strapped it up again. He went around the room once more, making sure that everything was exactly where he had found it. The letter answered many questions about its author but it posed even more. It set Nicholas’s mind racing. He stepped outside the door and locked it behind him. When he turned to leave, he almost walked into Alexander Marwood. The landlord thrust his face close enough for Nicholas to smell his foul breath.

‘Did you find any money?’ asked the landlord.

‘No,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Well, when you do, it’s mine.’

Saul Hibbert was disturbed. Though he had eaten well and drunk deeply, he had not enjoyed the supper with his friends as much as he had anticipated. Their manner towards him had subtly changed and he could not understand why. While John Vavasor had been as bland and generous as before, he was not as encouraging to the new playwright as he had been. And, while Cyrus Hame was his usual jocund self, there were moments when he seemed to be teasing Hibbert. It was as if the two men knew something that their guest did not. Since they were not prepared to share it with him, Hibbert was bound to conclude that it was something to his disadvantage.

His position had become precarious. Estranged from one company, he simply had to find a home for his talent or his hopes of earning renown as a playwright in London would vanish. His two earlier plays had enjoyed only a few performances each with minor theatre companies, whose limited resources and lack of repute doomed them to an incessant tour of the country. Now that he had finally reached the capital, Hibbert had to find a way to stay there. The Malevolent Comedy was not the passport he had assumed it would be. Its undoubted quality was not enough to commend it. Repeated attempts to keep it off the stage had left Westfield’s Men in uproar against the play, and no other London company would touch it.

At the same time, it was the only clear evidence of his genius, of the spark of magic that set him apart from the general run of authors. It had to be repossessed. If all else failed, it could be offered to one of the companies that toured the provinces and at least bring in some much-needed funds for Hibbert. Though the play was contracted to Westfield’s Men, he would have no compunction about letting it be performed elsewhere, far away from London and from the beady eyes of Lawrence Firethorn and his lawyer.

Hope of being taken up by Banbury’s Men had weakened slightly but had not been relinquished. All that Hibbert had to do was to complete A Woman Killed with Tenderness and offer it to Giles Randoph. Work on the play had been extremely slow because its author had been too preoccupied with enjoying the trappings of success. As he strolled back to the Queen’s Head, he vowed that he would return to the play in earnest on the following day. In prospect, it was an ever better comedy than one that had introduced his name to the city. All that he had to do was to convert the ideas that buzzed in his brain into words on a page.

It was dark when he turned into Gracechurch Street then a blaze of light appeared on the opposite side of the road as two watchmen came towards him with lanterns. They plodded on past Hibbert and the light soon faded away. Immersed in thought, he hurried on until he could see candles burning in the windows of the Queen’s Head. A hooded figure stepped out of the shadows and thrust something into his hands.

‘This is what you wanted, sir,’ said a gruff voice.

‘Excellent!’ replied Hibbert, knowing that he had the prompt book of his play even though he could not see it properly in the dark. ‘Did you beat him well?’

‘Very well. He’ll not wake until morning.’

‘Here’s payment for you.’

Opening his purse, Hibbert thrust some coins into the man’s hand, only to be grabbed by the shoulders and dragged swiftly into the inn yard. The hooded figure was Owen Elias, disguising his voice to sound like one of the ruffians who had attacked the book holder. Nicholas himself was waiting in the yard, hands on his hips.

‘Send more men next time,’ he suggested, ‘for those two gave me nothing more than gentle exercise.’

‘I have no notion of what you mean,’ gabbled Hibbert.

‘You’ve been discovered,’ said Elias, giving him a shove. ‘You set men onto Nicholas to steal his satchel and give him a sound hiding.’

‘No, no, why should I do that?’

‘We heard you loud and clear,’ said Nicholas. ‘When you took the play from Owen, you made a full confession. Let me have the book back.’

‘It’s mine,’ insisted Hibbert, hugging it to him. ‘I need it.’

‘What you need is a spell in prison to contemplate your crimes. You are a liar, a villain and a fraud,’ Nicholas told him. ‘You signed a legal contract with a name that was not your own. You’ve lived like a lord here without any intention of paying your bills. Ever since you joined us, you’ve been a menace to the company. And worst of all, Master Hatfield,’ said Nicholas, closing on him, ‘you paid to have me cudgelled by two ruffians. One of them pulled a dagger on me and meant to use it.’

‘Then I’ll finish what he started,’ said Hibbert, tossing the play into Nicholas’s face and drawing his sword. ‘You’ve been a thorn in my side since we met, Nicholas, and it’s time I plucked it out.’

‘Not while I’m here,’ said Elias, drawing his own weapon.

Nicholas was adamant. ‘This is my quarrel, Owen,’ he said, putting the play on the ground. ‘Lend me your sword and I’ll give this rogue satisfaction.’

‘I’ll not be satisfied until I kill you,’ said Hibbert, removing his hat and flicking it away. ‘Come on, sir.’

‘Leave some meat on him for me to carve,’ asked Elias, handing his rapier to Nicholas. ‘I’ve my own grudge against this knave.’ Hibbert thrust wildly at him and the Welshman had to jump back quickly out of range. ‘God’s blood!’ he protested. ‘Can you not even fight like a man?’

‘Let’s find out,’ said Nicholas, circling his opponent.

‘I’m ready for you,’ goaded Hibbert.

‘How ready?’

‘I’ll show you.’

Hibbert thrust hard but Nicholas parried with ease. A second thrust and six fierce slashes of the blade were also harmlessly deflected. Hibbert came at him again. Light on his feet and well balanced, he was no mean swordsman. When he launched another ferocious attack, his rapier flashed murderously in the air but each stroke was deftly parried. Nicholas was happy to give ground, testing him out, lulling the man into false confidence, even giving a grunt of pain as if he had been wounded.

But the winner was never in doubt. Nicholas had studied the finer points of swordsmanship. He was stronger, faster and more nimble. He had had far more experience with a weapon in his hand than Hibbert. When he had taken everything that his opponent could throw at him, he retaliated with a dazzling series of cuts and thrusts that forced Hibbert backwards until he was up against a wall. Nicholas feinted, moved swiftly to the side, thrust again and twisted his wrist. Hibbert cried out as blood gushed from his hand. His sword went spinning in the air.

Nicholas rested the point of his blade against Hibbert’s throat.

‘Now, then,’ he said, ‘let’s have some honest answers.’

‘Run him through, Nick,’ urged Elias. ‘I’ll swear you killed him in self-defence for that’s the truth. He drew first when you had no weapon.’

‘No, no,’ begged Hibbert. ‘Spare my life — please!’

‘He’d not have spared yours, Nick.’

‘Peace, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Leave this to me.’ He flicked his sword so that the point drew blood from Hibbert’s throat. The playwright emitted a gasp of fear. ‘A young woman lured Dick Honeydew away in that churchyard. Who was she?’

‘In truth, I do not know,’ replied Hibbert.

‘Give me her name.’

‘I would, if I knew what it was.’

‘You know it only too well,’ said Nicholas, remembering the letter he had seen, ‘for you lived with her at one time. I think that she has learnt of your ruse. The woman is your wife.’

Hibbert gave a shudder and pulled himself back against the wall in a vain attempt to escape the pressure of the sword point. There was terror in his eyes and sweat dribbled freely down his face. All his hopes had been vanquished. He was caught.

‘Admit it,’ said Nicholas. ‘Is she your wife?’

‘Probably,’ confessed Hibbert, ‘but I cannot say which one.’

Richard Honeydew was mystified. From the various sounds he could hear from below and in the adjoining rooms, he was being held in a busy inn but he could not tell in which part of the city it might be. What puzzled him was that the woman who had fed him seemed to be alone. Since carrying him upstairs, the man had departed and stayed away all evening. The boy had heard a bolt being pushed home after his departure. When he picked up clear sounds that the woman was going to bed, he wondered why the man had not returned. The candle was blown out in the room and the tiny filter of light that came through the crack in the cupboard door was extinguished.

Stiff and aching, Honeydew was nevertheless relieved. The man posed the real threat. With him out of the way, the boy felt safer. He was also rescued from any embarrassment. Living in a crowded house in Shoreditch meant that privacy was almost impossible. Lawrence Firethorn was a lusty husband and Margery a vigorous wife. The noises that came from their bedchamber made the other apprentices snigger. They even put theirs ears to the floorboards to hear more clearly. Honeydew never joined them. Not really understanding what was going on in the marital bed, he did his best not to listen.

It was different now. He was less than six feet from a bed and could hear it report every movement that the woman made. Had the man shared it with her, Honeydew could not have blocked out the sounds of any love making that might have ensued. It would have distressed him. He did not wish to lose his innocence yet. In playing the part of Mistress Malevole, he had already been forced to grow up a little, finding sinister qualities in his voice and his manner that had never been there before. It had frightened him. He was still a boy with a boy’s unclouded naivete.

Honeydew remembered the evening when The Malevolent Comedy had had to be created anew and dictated to the scrivener. Nicholas Bracewell had felt certain that some of its characters were based on real people whom the author wished to ridicule. Mistress Malevole was one of them, a beautiful but devious woman who achieved her ends by all manner of trickery. Honeydew was hit by a sudden realisation. He might have met her. The woman who was keeping him prisoner had called him by the name of his character in the play, and there had been a sneer in her voice. When he looked at her, he was staring into a mirror. His captor was the real Mistress Malevole. He wanted to scream.

Lawrence Firethorn opened his mouth to let out a laugh of disbelief.

‘Can this be so, Nick?’ he asked.

‘Owen was there at the time.’

‘Saul Hibbert is a bigamist?’

‘He admitted to three wives at least,’ said Nicholas, ‘and there may be more. It explains why he kept on the move. He would meet, woo and marry an unsuspecting bride, claim that he was sick and travel to another town on the pretence of seeing a physician there. After a lapse of time, he’d write a letter to say that he was dying and ask for money to repay his debts.’

‘Who collected the money?’

‘An accomplice who delivered the letter. He’d be paid a small amount for his work and the remainder would go to Master Hibbert — or Hatfield, as he was known in most cases. Our designing author preyed on women for a living. He boasted to me that he once earned eighty pounds in a year by such a deceitful means.’

‘It was so with his play,’ noted Firethorn, ‘for what was that but a raid on gullible ladies who had once trusted him? He even gave us the full names of Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor. Which one of them has learnt the truth about their husband and come after him?’

It was early and Firethorn had entered the city as soon as the gate had been opened. He and Nicholas met at the Queen’s Head where the book holder had spent the night. In the light of day, the facial wounds that Nicholas had picked up during the scuffle looked even worse. The bruises were purple, the scar on his temple more livid and his lower lip almost twice its normal size. But there was no hint of self-pity. He was still exhilarated by the way that Saul Hibbert had been unmasked.

‘Let me get my hands on the wretch!’ said Firethorn, vengefully.

‘You’ll have to wait, Lawrence.’

‘Why — where is he?’

‘Lying in prison,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We had him arrested and taken before a magistrate. Owen and I bore witness to his crimes and he made a full confession. I also took the letter with me as evidence.’

‘What letter?’

‘The one he wrote to all his discarded wives or mistresses. I found the latest one when I searched his room yesterday. Depending on their circumstances, he asked the women for various amounts to clear his supposed debts. They paid up in the mistaken belief that their beloved was truly dying.’

‘His letters served a double purpose, then.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It brought him money by cruel deception and ensured that none of the ladies came looking for him because they thought him dead. Until, that is, he wrote The Malevolent Comedy.’

‘Did one of his “wives” catch wind of it?’

‘Apparently so, though he can only hazard a guess at which one.’

‘The rogue!’ cried Firethorn. ‘To use poor women so! When they discover that the lying knave is still alive, they’ll come rushing to London with a pair of shears apiece.’

‘They’ll have to wait until the law has finished with him, Lawrence. He’s charged with bigamy, deception, setting those ruffians onto me, and other crimes besides. When he married his last wife before a priest in Norwich, he did so falsely under the name of Saul Hibbert. That’s fraudulence in the eyes of God. By rights,’ said Nicholas, ‘he should spend many years behind bars for all this.’

‘That gives me some satisfaction but it does not bring Dick Honeydew back to us. He’s still in the hands of those who kidnapped him.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘At least, I hope he is and that he’s treated well.’

‘They seized him to stop The Malevolent Comedy from being staged again. When they see we are performing something else today, they may release him. That’s my prayer,’ said Nicholas. ‘My fear is that they’ll hold him to ensure we do not present the play tomorrow or any other day.’

‘Westfield’s Men will never perform it again.’

‘We know that, Lawrence — but they do not.’

‘And they do not realise its author is now in prison.’

‘Did they but know, that might content them. But I want more than to have Dick safely back with us again,’ said Nicholas, resolutely. ‘The two who took him from that churchyard must pay dearly for his kidnap, and for the murder of Hal Bridger.’

‘Do not forget the theft of the prompt book, Nick.’

‘Nor the release of that dog.’

‘I’ll forgive that piece of mischief,’ said Firethorn with a chuckle. ‘It added to the jollity to the scene and had Barnaby bitten on the bum. I took some pleasure from that.’ He became serious. ‘Murder and kidnap, however, deserve the hangman’s rope.’

‘That’s what they’ll get when I catch up with them.’

‘Do you think they’re still in London?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘They’ll stay to see that they accomplished what they sought. We must continue the search. Dick Honeydew is still in the city somewhere.’

They moved him not long after dawn. Still entombed in his cupboard, Richard Honeydew heard the woman get out of bed and begin to dress. He had slept fitfully and ached more than ever. There was a knock on the door and the woman unbolted it to admit the man. Honeydew heard a brief snatch of conversation.

‘Has he been any trouble?’ asked the man.

‘No.’

‘I’ll take him out of here.’

‘He’s had no breakfast yet,’ said the woman.

‘Give it to him in the stable.’

‘Is it safe to move him?’

‘Yes, but I’ll need your help.’

Honeydew tried to place the voices. Having toured the country often with Westfield’s Men, he had encountered many local accents and even learnt to mimic some of them. The woman’s voice had less trace of its region and he had been unable to identify it with confidence. The man’s voice, however, had a more distinctive ring to it. Honeydew was certain that he had heard the accent during a visit to Lincoln and the surrounding countryside.

The door of the cupboard was flung open and a cloak tossed over the boy. Too afraid to struggle, he was lifted up and carried across the room. Then the woman opened the door and checked that nobody was about. Honeydew was taken quickly along the passageway and down the backstairs. He was soon lying in the evil-smelling stable with his feet tied once more. When he removed the cloak, the man had made sure that the boy did not see his face. Richard Honeydew quailed. He was at the mercy of a malevolent woman and a murderer from Lincoln. It was clear that they intended to keep their prisoner.

The search was resumed as soon as the actors had gathered. With more men at his disposal, Nicholas Bracewell was able to send some of them further afield, calling at likely hostelries and asking if a fair-headed man and a young woman were staying there while visiting London from the country. Nicholas himself went off with Leonard. Edmund Hoode was once again deputed to continue the hunt with Owen Elias. They returned to the point in Cheapside where they had abandoned their earlier search. The Welshman was bristling with curiosity.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Did you read your letter?’

‘A hundred times, Owen.’

‘Did she declare her love?’

‘More than that,’ said Hoode, suffused with joy. ‘We are to meet.’

‘A tryst?’

‘Today at noon.’

Elias laughed. ‘Well done, Edmund,’ he said, slapping him on the back. ‘You have wooed with more speed this time. In the past, you’ve waited months before you took a single step towards a lady.’

‘Ursula is different.’

‘Ursula? Are you sure it is she?’

‘I sent her a sonnet in praise of her beauty.’

‘Then you see things that I do not,’ said Elias, ‘for the woman is too homely for me. I’d not find one letter of the alphabet to dedicate to her beauty. If you found fourteen lines, then you have strange eyesight.’

‘I looked into her soul, Owen.’

‘Enjoy her body as well. Meet her, court her, board her.’

‘There’s no thought of that,’ said Hoode, indignantly. ‘This is no lustful conquest. I love Ursula and will treat her with the respect that she deserves.’

‘Pursue this how you will, Edmund. Swear abstinence, if you wish. I’ll not gainsay it,’ said Elias. ‘When I brought the sisters to you, I thought that the younger was more likely to arouse your affections. She’d be my choice, I know. Bernice Opie is a diamond of her sex that any man with red blood in his veins would yearn to possess.’

‘I prefer opals. They sparkle less but have more depth to them.’

‘Each man to his own desire. Whichever sister you pick, I hope that this new love will flourish.’

‘It will, I feel it. Ursula and I were meant to be together. A tryst at noon!’ cried Hoode, laughing. ‘My heart sings at the very thought of it, Owen. And I know that Ursula will be looking forward to it with the same wild delight.’

‘You must not even think of going,’ said Ursula Opie with disapproval.

‘But the meeting has been arranged.’

‘Stay away from it. Convey your message by your absence.’

‘No,’ said Bernice, ‘I gave Edmund my word.’

‘You had no right to do so. A young lady of your upbringing should never see a man in private. It’s against all propriety, all decorum. Imagine what Father would say, if he knew.’

‘Father and Mother will be out of the city today, Ursula. That’s why I thought it safe to see Edmund. I’ll take Betsy with me,’ she went on. ‘I’m not so shameless as to go abroad on my own.’

‘If you take Betsy, you turn a servant girl into an accomplice. She will suffer as a result,’ warned Ursula. ‘When Father hears of this deception, he’ll dismiss Betsy on the spot.’

‘There’s no reason why he should hear.’

‘I’ll tell him.’

‘Ursula!’

‘I have a duty to look after you, Bernice, to save you from those random urges that always seem to afflict you.’

‘This is no random urge. We love each other.’

‘On so short an acquaintance?’

‘The attraction between us was immediate,’ said Bernice. ‘Truly, I think that you are jealous of me. That’s why you wish to spoil this tryst with Edmund. You are full of envy because no man would ever write a poem to you.’

‘I hope that no man will. I’d find it mawkish.’

‘Does that mean you must ruin my happiness?’

‘No,’ said Ursula, trying to be reasonable. ‘I love you as a sister and want to protect you. You run too fast, Bernice. If it is true that Master Hoode would court you, then let him do so by more honest means. A secret meeting behind your parents’ back is too immoral.’

‘It was my suggestion and not Edmund’s.’

‘Either way, it must not take place.’

‘You’ll not stop me,’ said Bernice, temper flaring.

‘Then you’ll have to suffer the consequences.’

‘Gladly. An hour alone with Edmund, and I’ll suffer any strictures from Father. I’m loved and admired, Ursula. I inspire poetry from the most wonderful poet in London.’ Bernice folded her arms in defiance. ‘I must go to him. It’s my destiny.’

It was much easier in daylight. Being able to see an inn more clearly enabled them to decide whether or not it would be suitable for two visitors from the country with a taste for comfortable accommodation. Nicholas Bracewell and Leonard were able to move more quickly and go into more hostelries. The longer they searched, the further away they were taken from the Queen’s Head. Nicholas became aware of the time.

‘Let’s turn back,’ he said, reluctantly.

‘Perhaps the others have had more fortune.’

‘I hope so, Leonard. It may be that these people have friends in the city and stay at their house. If that’s the case, we’ll never find them.’

‘Will they harm Dick Honeydew?’ asked Leonard.

‘I think not. There is no need.’

‘There was no need to poison Hal Bridger.’

‘That was done to bring a performance to an end,’ said Nicholas. ‘As long as they hold Dick, they know the play will not be staged. His role is too long and difficult for any of the other apprentices to learn in a day. Besides, we would not risk another performance or it might bring down their wrath on Dick Honeydew.’

‘They’ll have to endure my wrath when we catch up with them.’

‘And mine, Leonard.’

They walked on and turned into Gracechurch Street, picking their way through the morning crowds. Nicholas was a big man but he seemed almost short beside the massive Leonard. He could see why he had not been ambushed in his friend’s company the previous night. Leonard’s sheer bulk would frighten most people away. But it also made him ponderous. While Nicholas strode, the other man sauntered. They were thirty yards from the Queen’s Head when Leonard came to a halt and pointed a finger.

‘That’s him, Nick!’ he said. ‘I believe that’s him!’

‘Are you sure, Leonard?’

‘I’m almost sure.’

Nicholas looked at the man ahead of them. He was tall, lean and wore the kind of decorous apparel that made him stand out from the market traders and their customers. Fair-haired and with a beard, he had the unmistakable air of a gentleman. When the man went into the Queen’s Head, it was conclusive proof to Leonard. He wanted to charge in after him.

‘No,’ said Nicholas, holding him back, ‘let’s move with care. If it is the man, and he sees you rushing at him, he’ll take to his heels at once. Let me go after him because he knows you by sight. If a mistake has been made, there’s no harm done. If, however, he is the villain we seek,’ said Nicholas, ‘I’ll drag him out. Guard the back door of the taproom in case he breaks away from me.’

‘As you wish,’ said Leonard, ‘but I’d like to lay hands on him.’

‘We all would.’

Obeying his instructions, Leonard went and stood by the back door. Nicholas, meanwhile, entered through the front. The taproom was busy, filled with spectators coming to the play that afternoon. The fair-haired man had found a table in the corner. He looked round to beckon a servingman. Nicholas closed in on him.

‘Might I have a word with you, sir?’ he asked, politely.

‘Do I have any choice in the matter?’

‘No.’

‘Then speak on, my friend,’ said the man with a bland smile, ‘for I can see that nothing will stop you.’

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘I know that. You are the book holder for Westfield’s Men and have been a mainstay of theirs for years. What would you have with me?’

‘First,’ said Nicholas, ‘I’d like to know where you hail from. Those vowels of yours were not nurtured here in London. They have a country sound to them.’

‘I was born and brought up near Lincoln. Is that a crime?’

‘It might be. Could I ask your business in coming here?’

‘What else but to see a play?’ returned the man, easily. ‘And I hope to catch sight of Saul Hibbert, for I know he stays here.’

‘You also know why his comedy has been cancelled today.’

‘Do I?’

‘You are playing games with me, sir,’ said Nicholas, annoyed by the man’s arch tone. ‘Let’s step outside and talk more freely there.’

‘I mean to dine here first.’

‘I think you’ll come with me.’

‘Take your hands off,’ said the other, resisting as Nicholas lifted him from his seat. ‘Is this the kind of hospitality you offer to your audience?’

Nicholas released him. ‘We’ll leave by the back door,’ he said.

‘I’d rather go on my own,’ decided the man.

Without warning, he pushed Nicholas away and bolted for the back door, buffeting a few shoulders on the way. Nicholas went after him. When the man flung open the door, he ran straight into Leonard who enfolded him in a bear hug. Nicholas came out to join them.

‘Let me go, you oaf,’ cried the man, ‘or I’ll have the law on you.’

‘Have no fear,’ said Nicholas, ‘officers will be called.’

‘Get this man off me!’

‘First, tell us your name.’

‘It is Cyrus Hame and I’m a playwright with Banbury’s Men. I’d certainly not work for your company if this is how I’d be treated.’

‘Cyrus Hame?’ said Nicholas. ‘The co-author of Lamberto?’

‘The very same.’

‘Let go of him, Leonard.’

Leonard released him and looked at his face properly for the first time. Seen from a distance, there had been a strong resemblance to the man who had once questioned him in the yard. On closer inspection, doubts began to crowd in. Leonard’s face fell.

‘It’s not him, Nick,’ he said.

Edmund Hoode got there early so that there was no chance of missing her. The designated spot was close to St Paul’s Cathedral. Before he reached it, however, he saw that she was already there, impelled by the same impatience that he felt. The servant girl beside her was sent away as he approached, retreating several yards to allow them privacy. Hoode’s excitement robbed him of his voice. Ursula spoke first.

‘You may be surprised to see me here, Master Hoode,’ she said.

‘The surprise is equalled only by the delight.’

‘Delight?’

‘It’s a kind of ecstasy,’ he said.

‘I came to tell you that this is improper,’ she said, briskly. ‘It was foolish of Bernice to give you such an invitation but wrong of you to send her that poem in the first place. She is young and headstrong. When she wrote to you, Bernice did not know what she was doing.’

Hoode was despondent. ‘Bernice?’ he said.

‘I came here ahead of her in the hope that I could speak to you first. Please, Master Hoode, I take you for a gentleman with high principles. I do not believe that you would lead a young lady astray.’

‘No, no. I would not dream of it.’

‘Then tell that to my sister.’

‘Gladly.’

‘And be kind to her as you do so,’ said Ursula. ‘I knew that I could count on your understanding.’

‘You can count on anything I have,’ he murmured.

‘It is better to hurt her now than cause her deeper pain later on.’

‘You show consideration to your sister,’ said Hoode, realising that his sonnet had fallen into the wrong hands. ‘I’ll do the same I promise you. I can see now that I behaved impetuously and I regret it.’

‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.’

He was tentative. ‘Bernice told you of the poem, then?’

‘She even showed it to me. It was well written, Master Hoode,’ she said, ‘but I would expect that of you. I admired its form while frowning at its sentiments. Had such a sonnet been sent to me, I would have blushed to receive it. It had a maudlin note.’

‘I see.’

‘Bernice was deeply affected. She has conceived a fondness for you that she mistakes for something else. I felt it my duty to save her from any humiliation that might come.’

‘That’s very honourable of you.’

‘I’m glad that we are in agreement, sir.’ She offered her hand and he shook it. At her touch, Hoode felt a thrill throughout his whole body. ‘Thank you.’

‘It was good of you to come here.’

‘It was the only thing I could think of doing.’

‘You behaved like a dutiful sister.’

‘I’ll steal away before Bernice comes. Be gentle with her.’

‘Rely on me,’ he said.

‘I will.’

When she turned away, he blew a kiss at her departing back. Hoode’s dejection slowly lifted. His fulsome sonnet might have hit the wrong target but it had allowed him two precious minutes alone with the woman he loved. It had also given him an insight into her essential goodness and moral rectitude. Ursula Opie was not a woman to be swept into his arms by a mere sonnet. She was a goddess who had to be worshipped from afar, a wondrous icon, an ethereal being that was all the more inspiring for being so unattainable. Her rejection of him only served to intensify his devotion.

Meanwhile, there was another sister on her way. Bernice Opie came tripping along with a servant at her heels. When she caught sight of him, a broad smile lit her face. Ursula had asked him to be kind and gentle. It was an easy request to satisfy. Nothing would have persuaded him to send a poem of any sort to Bernice Opie. It had to be explained away as a foolish romantic gesture on his part. Hoode cleared his throat and began to rehearse his excuses.

Cupid’s Folly drew a substantial audience that afternoon but it had nothing like the size or excitement of the crowds that had come to see the play it had replaced. It was one of the company’s staple comedies, a sturdy and reliable war-horse on which they could trot happily for a couple of hours. With the inimitable Barnaby Gill in the main role, it filled the yard with laughter yet again. George Dart was promoted to hold the book, leaving Nicholas Bracewell free to watch the audience from the same upper room he had used before. He thought it unlikely that one or both of the kidnappers would be there, but he wanted to make sure.

Having met Cyrus Hame, he at least had a clearer idea of what the man he was after looked like. Nicholas had no qualms about the rough welcome that Hame had been given. He and John Vavasor were known to have done their best to lure Saul Hibbert away from Westfield’s Men and deprive them of what had seemed to be a dazzling new talent. Hame and Hibbert had been birds of a feather, proud peacocks that liked to strut and show off their finery. The disgraced playwright would have little use for his wardrobe in prison.

Though he scanned the faces in the galleries, Nicholas could see none that looked as if it might belong to the man he sought. All that the kidnappers would want to know was that The Malevolent Comedy had given way to another play, and they could learn that from the playbills that had been posted up to advertise the event. When the play was over, he waited until the applause died down, and the yard began to empty, before making his way downstairs. The landlord intercepted him.

‘I knew that he was a villain,’ he said, wagging a finger. ‘We owe you thanks for finding him out.’

‘I’m glad that he had enough money in his purse to settle his bill.’

‘And he’s in prison now, you say?’

‘Condemned for his many crimes,’ said Nicholas.

‘I hear that bigamy was one of them.’

‘It was. Under two different names, he had at least three wives.’

‘I do not know whether to be shocked or to feel sorry for him,’ said Marwood, smacking his cheek to stop it twitching so alarmingly. ‘One wife is more than enough for me. Two would break my back. Three would be something akin to purgatory.’

‘The Queen’s Head will be quieter without Saul Hibbert.’

‘I’ll say “Amen” to that.’

Nicholas broke away and went into the yard. Most of the spectators had left and the scenery was already being taken from the stage. Leonard waved and hurried across to his friend.

‘Nicholas, Nicholas!’ he called. ‘I’ve seen her again.’

‘Who?’

‘The young lady who asked about the book holder.’

‘Are you certain it was her?’

‘Yes,’ said Leonard. ‘I’d swear to it.’

‘You were certain about that gentleman this morning and he turned out to be Cyrus Hame. Let’s not have another mistake,’ said Nicholas, warily. ‘You have to be absolutely sure, Leonard.’

‘I am. She spoke to me again.’

‘When?’

‘Not two minutes ago. I came looking for you at once.’

‘Had the lady been at the play?’

‘No,’ replied Leonard, ‘she came to ask why The Malevolent Comedy had been replaced. I told her that it was out of favour with you.’

‘Good. What else did you say?’

‘That its author was in prison and likely to stay there a long time. She seemed pleased. She thanked me for my help then walked away.’

‘You should have followed her!’ said Nicholas.

‘Not with these slow legs of mine. Besides, she knows me by sight and would have been warned of my pursuit.’

‘In other words, she got away.’

‘I’m not such a dullard as that, Nicholas.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I sent George Dart after her,’ said Leonard, proudly. ‘He’s small enough to keep out of sight and young enough to run all the way back here to tell us where she went.’

Nicholas was thrilled. ‘Excellent work,’ he said, taking him by the shoulders. ‘Saddle a horse for me at once. I want it ready for when George returns. And find Lawrence’s horse as well. He’ll want to come with me to set Dick free.’

Richard Honeydew had resigned himself to spending a whole day in the stink and discomfort of the disused stable. The woman had given him breakfast and another meal at noon. To his profound embarrassment, she had released his bonds so that he could relieve himself in the corner, any hope of escape removed by the fact that the man stood outside the door with a drawn sword. During the afternoon, the boy had been left alone, suffering from cramp and twisting his body into all kinds of shapes in order to ease it.

He could hear the traffic in the nearby thoroughfare but remained cruelly isolated from it. Hours seemed to pass. It was late afternoon when he finally heard footsteps, accompanied by the sound of a horse’s hooves. The stable door was open and his captors stepped inside. They were carrying leather bags.

‘Why not leave him here?’ said the woman. ‘That’s the best way.’

‘No, he might be found too soon.’

‘He knows nothing.’

‘He knows your face,’ said the man, ‘and he’s caught a glimpse of mine. It’s safer to take him with us and leave him somewhere miles away from London. By the time he gets back here, we’ll be long gone.’

‘If we take him, he’ll slow us down.’

‘We’ll do as I say,’ he snapped, handing her his cloak. ‘Wrap him in this and I’ll throw him across my horse. Nobody will know that he’s there. Tie it fast,’ he ordered. Dropping his bag, he turned away. ‘I’ll fetch my horse from the blacksmith. He should be ready now.’

‘Hurry back.’

When her companion went off, the woman crossed over to Honeydew and looked down at him. Her voice gave nothing away but there was a tinge of regret in her gaze.

‘You have to come for a ride,’ she said, holding the cloak open. The boy shook his head and pleaded with his eyes. ‘It’s the best way. If we leave you here, you might not be found for days.’

He tried to shrink away from her but it was no use. She threw the cloak over him and wrapped him in a bundle, using more cord to tie the cloak in place. Honeydew heard the muffled sound of a horse’s hooves as it was pulled to a halt nearby. He was to be taken out of the city and abandoned by the roadside. The thought scared him. But it was not the woman’s accomplice whom he heard, coming to take him away. The next thing that reached his ears was the voice of Nicholas Bracewell as he came bursting into the stable.

‘What do you want?’ cried the woman.

‘You dropped this in the churchyard,’ said Nicholas, holding up the bloodstained handkerchief. ‘I’m afraid that it got rather stained.’ He saw the bundle, squirming violently on the ground. ‘Is that you, Dick?’

Nicholas used his dagger to cut the cord and pulled the cloak away. Honeydew did his best to smile but it was impossible with the gag in his mouth. Nicholas tore it away.

‘Did they harm you, Dick?’ he asked.

‘No, no.’ He saw the woman, edging towards the door. ‘Look out or she’ll get away!’

Nicholas put out a leg to trip her up and she went down in an undignified heap on the floor. It was the work of a second to cut through Honeydew’s bonds. While the boy rubbed his aching limbs, Nicholas helped the woman up from the floor. Another horse arrived at speed outside and its rider dismounted. Lawrence Firethorn stepped into the stable and, seeing Honeydew, rushed across to embrace him. He turned on the woman.

‘You kidnapped Dick and killed Hal Bridger,’ he said, angrily.

‘We simply wanted to stop the play,’ she replied.

‘Why?’

‘Because she is Mistress Malevole,’ Honeydew piped up. ‘My role was the counterfeit of her. Saul Hibbert put her on the stage.’

‘He did more than that,’ she said, baring her teeth. ‘He married me under his real name and swore to love me. But as soon as I was quick with child, he left me and went to Norwich. Months later, a letter came from him.’

‘I can guess at its contents,’ said Nicholas. ‘Your husband told you that he was dying and begged you to discharge your debts. How much did he want?’

‘Thirty pounds.’

‘Did you pay?’

‘Like a fool, I did so,’ she admitted. ‘Then I learnt the truth.’

‘How did you track him to London?’

‘Quite by chance.’

‘Where’s your confederate?’

‘I came alone.’

‘She’s lying,’ cried Honeydew. ‘There’s a man with her. He went to fetch his horse from the blacksmith. They were going to take me with them. The man is dangerous. He’ll be back at any moment.’

‘Then he’s all mine,’ said Nicholas, sheathing his dagger. ‘Will you take care of the lady, Lawrence?’

‘Gladly,’ replied Firethorn. ‘Dick.’

‘Yes?’

‘How do you feel now?’

‘All the better for seeing you and Nick.’

‘Pass me a piece of that cord, will you? I think that this Mistress Malevole is one that Lord Loveless must reject. She’s liable to scratch. I’ll bind her wrists before we deliver her up.’

A horse trotted up outside. The woman screamed a warning.

‘Fly, Robert!’ she shrieked. ‘They’ve caught me!’

Nicholas dashed out of the stable to confront the mounted rider, only to face a swishing rapier. As the man hacked madly at him, he moved back out of the way. He ducked as the sword was hurled at him. Wheeling his horse, his attacker then kicked the animal into life and sped off down the nearby street. Nicholas was in the saddle of his own horse at once, using his heels to take him at full gallop in pursuit of the other rider. People were scattered by the headlong race, diving for safety as the two horses clattered past them, protesting loudly and wondering why two men were riding hell for leather in such a busy street.

Heedless of danger, Nicholas pressed on, jabbing his heels hard to get more speed out of his mount. He began to close the gap between the two horses. The man’s only thought was of escape but Nicholas was driven on by sharper demands. He wanted to avenge the death of Hal Bridger, the kidnap of Richard Honeydew, the theft of the prompt book and the accumulated damage that had been inflicted on Westfield’s Men. He wanted blood.

The first horse powered on but the second was steadily gaining on it. When the man looked over his shoulder, he saw that Nicholas was only yards behind. It made him curse and kick his horse even harder but he could not outrun Nicholas. In a matter of moments, the other horse drew level and the man was knocked from the saddle by a flying body. Nicholas was determined to catch him, whatever the cost in cuts and bruises. The two of them fell heavily to the ground, momentarily winded.

Nicholas was the first to recover, getting to his feet and hauling the man upright before punching him in the face then throwing him against the nearest wall. Watched by a crowd of onlookers, the man responded by kicking out with a foot to keep Nicholas at bay while pulling out his dagger. Nicholas wanted him alive. Instead of taking out his own weapon, he spread his arms and waited for the attack. Both men were covered in dust and bleeding from gashes they had picked up during the fall. Nicholas could feel a pain in his shoulder but it did not hold him back.

‘What was Saul Hibbert to you?’ he asked.

‘A cheat and a liar,’ replied the man, breathing hard.

‘Why make us suffer for his faults?’

‘Because his play was like a child to him. In killing that, we could make him suffer in the way that my sister suffered. He murdered her child so we wanted revenge.’

‘Is that why you poisoned an innocent boy?’

‘I’d have done anything to destroy that play of his.’

Pushing himself from the wall, the man lunged at him with the dagger. Nicholas danced out of the way and circled him slowly. Voices in the crowd started to urge them on as people took sides. Nicholas watched the other man’s eyes, seeing the mixture of fear and bravado in them. Another lunge was dodged then he ducked beneath a sweep of the blade. As the man came at him again, Nicholas swayed inches out of reach as the point of the dagger went for his face. His hand shot out, grabbing the man by the wrist and swinging him against the wall with such force that the weapon was dashed from his hand.

It was Nicholas’s turn to attack. After pummelling away with both fists at the body, he gripped him by the neck. The man spat in his face and tried to grapple with him but most of his strength had been drained away. Nicholas forced him back, banging his head repeatedly against the wall until blood ran freely down the stonework. A final uppercut sent his opponent slumping to the ground. Retrieving the fallen dagger, Nicholas dusted himself off. The fight was over.

Westfield’s Men received the news of the release of Richard Honeydew, and of the arrest of his two captors, with complete rapture. They had something to celebrate at last. George Dart was, for once, the hero of the hour, having trailed the woman to the inn where she had stayed with her brother, then brought back the information to the Queen’s Head. They were quick to acknowledge Leonard’s assistance as well. Instead of sweeping dung out of the stables, he was invited into the taproom and plied with ale. Even the landlord felt that it was a deserved reward.

Edmund Hoode stayed long enough to enjoy the festivities, pleased to hear that one of his own plays, A Trick to Catch a Chaste Lady, would return to the stage for the rest of the week. He was on the point of leaving when he noticed that Owen Elias was lifting a tankard to his lips. Crossing to the Welshman, he put a hand over his drink.

‘You swore to stay sober for a month, if Dick was released.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Elias, ‘but I did not say which month.’

‘I might have known there’d be a trick involved,’ said Hoode as the other quaffed his ale. ‘Drink deep, Owen. I must away.’

‘Another tryst already?’

‘No, Owen. I’m eager to spend more time on my new play.’

‘Would you rather scribble than hold a woman in your arms?’

‘When I write my tragedy,’ said Hoode, ‘I can do both. Ursula was my inspiration. Though I work alone at my lodging, I feel that she stands close beside me as I do so.’

‘I’d not want that long face of hers too close to me,’ said Elias, ‘but I’m happy that she has made you want to write again, Edmund. Only a woman can make you feel the spur that you need.’

‘There was such a difference between the two sisters.’

‘One was lively and gorgeous, the other was ill-favoured.’

‘No,’ explained Hoode. ‘One was childish, the other was mature. One was full of silly laughter, the other was reserved and thoughtful. One sister lived for the moment, the other had a more purposeful existence. In short,’ he went on, ‘Bernice Opie was mere comedy while Ursula had elements of tragedy. That was what drew me to her, Owen.’

Elias was baffled. ‘What man wants a tragic woman?’

‘I do, if I can put her on a stage. Look to the last piece I wrote. How to Choose a Good Wife failed because it was a pointless comedy in which I had no real interest. With the same theme, Saul Hibbert’s play put mine to shame. It was only when I saw those two sisters side by side that I spied my mistake. I should have spurned Bernice and turned to Ursula.’

‘That’s what you did do, Edmund.’

‘I talk of my play. I should have abjured comedy and fashioned it into a tragedy. When I understood that, I started anew. Instead of lowborn country folk, looking for a wife, I have the King of Naples, falling in love with the daughter of his deadliest enemy. He, too, wants only to choose a good wife but she is kept from him by political intrigue.’

‘What’s the title?’

‘The Queen of Naples.’

‘Does the lady marry him, then?’

‘Therein lies the tragedy,’ said Hoode. ‘She returns his love but will be exiled from her father if she disobeys him. The people of Naples respect their King but will not let him wed the queen of his choice. Does he abdicate and marry her? Does she defy her father? Will there be war as a result between Naples and its enemy?’ He got to his feet. ‘And it was all inspired by meeting Ursula. When you led her into my life, Owen, you created a wonderful tragedy.’

Notwithstanding his personal reservations about Ursula Opie, the Welshman was happy for his friend. Edmund Hoode’s creative spark had been ignited once more. A true actor, Elias had only one concern.

‘What part do I play in The Queen of Naples?’

The reunion with his friends was idyllic for Richard Honeydew but his ordeal had wearied him and he tired quickly. Lawrence Firethorn soon took him home to Shoreditch and Nicholas Bracewell went with them. Margery welcomed them all with cries of delight, reserving her warmest hug and biggest kiss for the apprentice. She fed him, washed him then joined the others in the parlour to listen to Honeydew’s tale. Margery could not believe that any woman could treat a child so cruelly.

‘She did show me some kindness,’ said the boy.

‘Well, I’d show none to her,’ said Margery, roused. ‘Leaving you bound and gagged in a cupboard all night? I’d not inflict that on an animal. What was the name of this ogress?’

‘Celia Hatfield,’ said Nicholas. ‘At least, that was what she was called when she was married. Unknown to her, two other women had already wed the same man. Her maiden name was Malevant. When he met her, she was Celia Malevant.’

‘Malevant to Malevole is but a short journey,’ Firethorn indicated. ‘There was real malevolence in the lady. When we tried to tie her wrists, she cursed and spat like a fishwife.’

‘Only a malign creature would seek such hideous revenge,’ said his wife. ‘She’ll hang beside her brother for what she did.’

Honeydew grimaced. ‘I feel pity for the lady.’

‘After what she did to you?’

‘And what she did to Hal Bridger?’ said Firethorn.

‘She told me that nobody was meant to die,’ recalled Honeydew, ‘and I believe her. She only wanted someone to be taken sick in the middle of the play.’

Nicholas gave a nod. ‘It was her brother, Robert Malevant, who bought the poison and decided on its strength,’ he said. ‘He was always ready to go to extremes. When the letter came from her husband to tell her that he was dying, Celia Hatfield was so distressed that she miscarried and lost her baby. You can imagine how she felt when she later discovered that she had been duped.’

‘She must have wanted to murder her husband,’ said Margery.

‘Her brother commended another course of action. It was he who learnt that Paul Hatfield was still alive and living here in London under another name. While visiting the capital on business, Robert Malevant chanced upon the intelligence. He sent to Lincoln for his sister,’ said Nicholas, ‘and they devised their plot.’

‘To bring our company tumbling down,’ said Firethorn.

‘To ruin the author’s dream. They knew how strong his ambition to be a playwright was. The brother described The Malevolent Comedy to me as the child of its author.’

‘So he and his sister decided to take its life.’

‘An eye for an eye, a child for a child.’

‘But that meant that we suffered instead of Saul Hibbert.’

‘They did what they came to do, Lawrence,’ said Nicholas. ‘They killed his play and made him writhe in pain while they did it. His wife, of course, had another reason for revenge. In portraying her as Mistress Malevole, her husband was revealing the darker aspects of her character. When she saw herself in such an unkind light, she was moved to greater fury. Celia Malevant and her brother are two of a kind.’

‘At least, we’ve seen the last of them now,’ said Margery.

‘And of Saul Hibbert,’ added Firethorn. ‘How would you like to share your husband with two or three other wives, my love?’

‘I do that every time you step out onto a stage, Lawrence. Except that there are more than two or three. There’s not a woman in the audience who does not imagine you as husband, paramour or both at once.’ Firethorn laughed heartily. ‘I bear them no ill will as long as you always come home to me.’

‘And always will, sweet wife.’

There was a knock on the door and Margery went out to see who it was. Honeydew covered a yawn with his hand. Firethorn put a paternal arm around him. They were all surprised when Margery came back into the room with Barnaby Gill.

‘We did not expect you to call, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn.

‘Nor I to come here,’ said Gill, doffing his hat, ‘but I bring you tidings that might cheer you.’

‘To have Dick back with us is all the cheer I need.’

‘This is a delicious rumour from Banbury’s Men. I had it from a friend who works at the Curtain as a gatherer. From time to time, he feeds me such tasty morsels.’

‘Go on.’

‘Giles Randolph commissioned a new play.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, knowledgeably. ‘John Vavasor and Cyrus Hame were to be co-authors. When Lamberto was such a triumph, it was felt that they could repeat it with Pompey the Great.’

‘My play, my character, my property!’ asserted Firethorn.

‘And likely to remain so,’ said Gill. ‘From what I hear, the play has been rejected as being unfit for performance. Giles Randolph thought the tragedy too slow and insipid, so the co-authors are out of favour.’

‘This is heartening news, Barnaby. We owe you thanks.’

‘We’ve lost one playwright but they’ve lost two.’

‘Then we steal the advantage once again,’ said Firethorn, happily.

‘And we’ll hold it,’ said Nicholas with confidence, ‘now that we have Edmund back again. He’s found a new Muse. He’s writing a tragedy that will overshadow anything that Saul Hibbert gave us, and push the memory of Lamberto into oblivion.’

‘What more could we want?’ asked Margery. ‘The villains have been caught, Dick is safely back with us and Westfield’s Men are set to rule the stage again.’

‘I never ceased to rule it,’ boasted Gill.

Firethorn cackled. ‘You did when that dog bit your bum.’

‘That made me laugh as well,’ said Honeydew, giggling.

‘Barnaby deserves praise,’ said Nicholas, trying to appease him. ‘Most actors would have quit the stage in fear. He turned the attack to good account and made it look as if it had been rehearsed.’

‘Thank you, Nicholas,’ said Gill, graciously. ‘I struggled on in pain. A clown can turn anything into clowning if he has the skill. But I’m so relieved to see the back of Saul’s play. It was the strangest comedy I ever saw. I never felt that it really suited us.’

‘How right you were.’

‘And you say that Edmund is writing a new play?’

‘A tragedy,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I’ve never known him so excited about his work. He says that it will be his masterpiece.’

‘And what is this new play called?’ asked Gill.

‘Who cares?’ said Firethorn with a grin. ‘It will be truly ours.’