The Queen's Head

Stephen Judd examined the dormer with care. Those other beams were quite secure earlier on,' he said. Someone must have loosened them. They would never have come down otherwise.'

'Who would do such a thing?' wondered Tallis.

'I don't know,' said Yeo uneasily. 'But if Dick had been underneath it when it all came down, he might never have appeared in a play again.'

The three apprentices were completely unnerved.

They stood amid the rubble and tried to puzzle it out. A small accident which they engineered had been turned into something far more dangerous by an unknown hand.

Evidently, someone knew of their plan.

*

Susan Fowler went to London as a frightened young wife in search of a husband and returned to St Albans as a desolate widow with her life in ruins. The passage of time did not seem to make her loss any easier to bear. It was like a huge bruise which had not yet fully come out and which yielded new areas of ache and blemish each day.

Her mother provided a wealth of sympathy, her elder sister sat with her for hours and kind neighbours were always attentive to her plight, but none of it managed to assuage her pain. Not even the parish priest could bring her comfort. Susan kept being reminded of the day that he had married her to Will Fowler.

Grief inevitably followed her to the bedroom and worked most potently by night. It was a continuous ordeal.

'Good morning, father.'

'Heavens, girl! Are you up at this hour?'

'I could not sleep.'

'Go back to your bed, Susan. You need the rest.'

'There is no rest for me, father.'

'Think of the baby, girl.'

She had risen early after another night of torture and come downstairs in the little cottage that she shared with her parents and her sister. Her father was a wheelwright and had to be up early himself. A wagon had overturned in a banked field the previous day and one of its wheels was shattered beyond repair. The wheelwright had promised to make it his first task of the day because the wagon was needed urgently for harvesting.

After a hurried breakfast of bread and milk, he made another vain attempt to send his daughter back to bed. Susan shook her head and adjusted her position in the old wooden chair. The baby was more of a presence now and she often felt it move.

Her father crossed the undulating paving stones to the door and pulled back the thick, iron bolt. He glanced back at Susan and offered her a look of encouragement that went unseen. He could delay no longer. The wagon was waiting for him outside his workshop.

When he opened the door, however, something barred his way and he all but tripped over it.

'What's this!' he exclaimed.

Susan looked up with only the mildest curiosity.

'Bless my soul!'

He regarded the object with a countryman's suspicion. It might be a gift from the devil or the work of some benign force. It was some time before he overcame his superstitions enough to pick the object up and bring it into the cottage. He set it down on the table in front of his daughter.

It was a crib. Small, plain and carved out of solid oak, it rocked gently to and fro on its curved base. Susan Fowler stared at it blankly for a few moments then a tiny smile came.

'It's a present for the baby,' she said.

(*)Chapter Eight

Nicholas Bracewell confronted him first thing the next morning.

'You must be mistaken,' said Creech bluntly.

'No, Ben.'

'I did not go to The Curtain yesterday.'

'But I saw you with my own eyes.'

'You saw someone who looked like me.'

'Stop lying.'

'I'm not lying,' maintained the actor hotly. 'I was nowhere near Shoreditch yesterday afternoon.'

'Then where were you?'

Creech withdrew into a defiant silence. His mouth was dosed tight and his jaw was set. Nicholas pressed him further.

'You were supposed to be here, Ben.'

'Nobody told me that,' argued the other.

'I told you myself--in front of witnesses, too--so you can't pretend that that never happened either. The tiremen were expecting you and you failed to turn up.'

'I...couldn't get here yesterday.'

'I know--you were at The Curtain instead.'

'No!' denied Creech. 'I was...' He glowered at Nicholas then gabbled his story. 'I was at the Lamb and Flag. I only went in for one drink at noon but I met some old friends. We started talking and had some more ale. The time just flew past. Before I knew what was happening, I fell asleep in my seat.'

'I don't believe a word of it,' said Nicholas firmly.

'That is your privilege, sir!'

'We'll have to fine you for this, Ben.'

'Do so,' challenged the hired man.

'One shilling.'

Creech's defiance turned to shock. One shilling was a steep fine to a person whose weekly wage was only seven times that amount. He had many debts and could not afford to lose such a sum. Nicholas read his thoughts but felt no regret.

'You've brought this upon yourself,' he stressed. 'When will you learn? I've covered for you in the past, Ben, but it has to stop. You simply must be more responsible. There are dozens of players to be had for hire. If this goes on, one of them may be taking over your place.'

'It's not up to you, Nicholas,' muttered Creech.

'Would you rather discuss it with Master Firethorn?'

'No,' he said after a pause.

'He would have kicked you out months ago.'

'I earn my money!'

'Yes, when you're here,' agreed Nicholas. 'Not when you're lying in a drunken stupor somewhere or sneaking off to The Curtain.'

'That was not me!'

'I'm not blind, Ben.'

'Stop calling me a liar!'

Creech bunched his fists and he breathed heavily through his nose. Discretion slowly got the better of him. The book holder might seem quiet but he would not be intimidated. If the occasion demanded it, Nicholas Bracewell could fight as well as the next man and his physique was daunting. Nothing would be served by throwing a punch.

'One shilling, Ben.'

'As you wish.'

'And no more of your nonsense, sir.'

Benjamin Creech risked one more glare then he withdrew to the other side of the tiring-house. The talk had sobered him in every sense. Samuel Ruff had watched the exchange from the other side of the room and he now came across to the book holder.

'What was all that about, Nick?'

'The usual.'

'Too much ale?'

'And too little honesty, Samuel. I saw the fellow at The Curtain yesterday in broad daylight--yet he denies it!'

'He may have good cause.'

'In what way?'

'Where did you see him, Nick?'

'Talking with a couple of the hired men..'

'There's your answer. He does not wish to admit it.'

'Admit what?'

'I never thought to mention this because I assumed that you knew. Obviously you do not.' Ruff looked across at the man. 'Ben Creech was with Banbury's Men for a time.'

'Is this true?' asked Nicholas in astonishment.

'Oh, yes. I was there with him.'

*

While the future of one hired man was being discussed in the tiring-house, the future of another was under dire threat in an upstairs room. No rehearsal period of Westfield's Men was complete without a fit of pique from Barnaby Gill and he was supplying one of his best. Edmund Hoode bore it with equanimity but Lawrence Firethorn was becoming progressively more irritated, facing the room madly, the anguished sharer worked up a real froth.

'He is not fit to belong to Lord Westfield's Men!'

'Why not?' asked Hoode.

'Because I say so, sir!'

'We need more than that, Barnaby.'

'The man has the wrong attitude.'

'I disagree,' said Hoode. 'Samuel Ruff is probably the only hired man we have with the right attitude. He takes his work seriously and fits in well with the company.'

'Not with me, Edmund.'

'He's an experienced actor.'

'London is full of experienced players.'

'Not all of them are as reliable as Ruff.'

'He must leave us.'

'On what pretext?'

'I do not like the man!'

'He will be relieved to hear that,' said Firethorn with a wicked chuckle. 'Come, Barnaby, this is too small a matter to waste any more breath on.'

'I want him dismissed,' said Gill, holding firm.

'This is a mere whim.'

'I mean it, Lawrence. He has crossed me and he must suffer.'

'Why not challenge him to a duel?' suggested Hoode.

Gill cut short their mirth by lifting a chair and banging it down hard on the floor. His nostrils were flaring now and his eyes were rolling like those of a mare caught in a stable fire.

'I would remind you of just how much this company owes to me,' he began. 'In the face of constant temptation, I have remained faithful to Lord Westfield's Men. Others have approached me with lucrative offers many times but I always refused them, believing--in error, it now seems--that I was needed and appreciated here.'

'We have heard this speech before,' said Firethorn petulantly, and it does not grow more palatable.'

'I am serious, Lawrence! He has to go.'

'Why? Because he mastered you in a bout with foils?'

'Because he unsettles me.'

'We all do that to you, Barnaby,' joked Hoode. 'Are we to be put out as well?'

'Do not mock, sir. This is in earnest.'

Then let me be in earnest as well,' decided Firethorn, putting It is hands on his hips as he confronted the smaller man. 'We both know what lies behind all this. Young Dicky Honeydew.'

'Have care, Lawrence.'

I do--for the boy.' He wagged a warning finger. 'I am not one to pry into a man's private affairs. Live and let live, say I. But there is one rule that must always hold in this company, Barnaby, and you know it as well as I do. You understand me?'

'Yes.'

'Not with the apprentices.'

'This has nothing to do with the matter, Lawrence.'

'I have said my piece, sir.'

'And I must support it,' said Hoode. 'As for Samuel Ruff, you are out on your own. Everyone else is happy with the fellow. We have fared much worse with our hired men.'

Barnaby Gill was profoundly offended. He walked slowly to the door, opened it, drew himself up to his full height, and put every ounce of disdain into his tone.

'I will contend no further!'

'Then what have you been doing all this while?' asked Firethorn 'You have argued for argument's sake.'

'The choice is simple, gentlemen,' said Gill.

'Choice?'

'Either he goes--or I do!'

He slammed the door behind him with dramatic force.

*

George Dart was much given to reflections upon the misery of his lot. As the youngest and smallest of the stagekeepers, he was always saddled with the most menial jobs, and everyone in the company had authority over him. One of the tasks he hated most was being sent out with a sheaf of playbills to put up around the City. It was exhausting work. He would be chased by dogs, jeered at by-children, jostled by pedestrians, harangued by tradesmen, frowned on by Puritans, menaced by thieves, solicited by punks and generally made to feel that he was at the mercy of others.

His latest errand introduced him to a new indignity. With the playbills of Gloriana Triumphant fresh from the printers, he set off on a tortuous route through Cheapside, using every post and fence he could find along the way as a place of advertisement. With the market sprawled all around him, he had to push almost every inch of the way and his size was a real disadvantage. Hours of persistence, however, finally paid off as he posted up his last playbill outside the Maid and Magpie.

George Dart slowly began to retrace his short steps, wondering, as he did so, if anyone led such a pitiable existence as he did. They were always sending him somewhere. He was continually on the move, shuttling between this place and that, for ever heading towards or away from somewhere, never settling, never being allowed to dwell at the centre of action. He was one of nature intercessaries. Every arrival was a departure, every halt was merely to pick up instructions for the next journey. He was nothing but a carrier pigeon, doomed to fly in perpetuity.

His reverie was rudely checked and he turned a corner and walked along a street where he had put up a number or his playbills. Most of them had gone and those that remained had been defaced, He shuddered at the prospect of having to report the outrage. They would send him out again with fresh bills to endure fresh torments.

When he looked around the crowded street, he saw dozens of suspects. Any one of them could have ruined his work. As he studied a playbill that had been scribbled upon, he decided that it was the work of a drunken ruffian who wanted a morning's sport.

George Dart wept copiously. Watching him from a shop doorway on the opposite side of the street was a young man with a complacent smile. It was Roger Bartholomew.

*

The apprentices were still mystified. They had no idea who could have loosened the other beams in the attic chamber, nor could they understand the motive that lay behind it all. Was it some malign joke? Had the intention been to cripple Richard Honeydew permanently? Or were they themselves the target? Could someone have tried to implicate them in a much more serious business than the one they devised? If the apprentice had been badly injured--even killed--suspicion would naturally have fallen on them.

As it was, the luck which had saved Richard worked to their advantage as well. Margery Firethorn railed at them but they were able to swear, with the light of truth in their eyes, that they had not been responsible for loosening the beams around the dormer. Martin Yeo, John Tallis and Stephen Judd were off the hook but one fact remained. Richard Honeydew would still play Gloriana.

Shedding their fears about the person who had exploited their first plan, they set about concocting another. This one was foolproof. It would be put into operation the next day and the venue was the yard at The Queen's Head.

Here's a fine chestnut,' admired Yeo, leaning over the stable door. 'Come and see, Dick.'

'Yes,' agreed Richard, looking at the horse. He is a fine animal. See how his coat shines!'

'Would you like to ride him?' asked Tallis.

'I'd love to, John, but I am no horseman. Who owns him?'

'We have no notion,' said Tallis with an artful glance at Yeo. 'He must have arrived last night.'

They had come into the yard when the stage had been taken down to make way for a coach and a couple of wagons. The horses had been stabled. Knowing Richard's fondness for the animals Yeo and Tallis had invited him over to inspect them all, casually stopping at the last of the loose boxes to inspect the chestnut stallion. It was a mettlesome beast some seventeen hands high, and Yeo had watched it trot into the yard the previous afternoon. He had also overheard the instructions which the rider had given to the ostler.

A second trap had been set. Stationed in the window of the rehearsal room was Stephen Judd. He waved a hand to confirm that both Nicholas Bracewell and Samuel Ruff were fully occupied. Richard was now shorn of his guardians.

'He looks hungry,' noted Yeo.

'I've an apple he can have,' decided Tallis, pulling it out from his pocket. 'Here, Dick. You give it to him.'

'Not me, Stephen.'

'He won't bite you, lad,' said Yeo. 'Hold it on the palm of your hand like this.' He demonstrated with the apple. 'Go on.'

'I'm afraid to, Martin.'

'Horses love apples. Feed him.'

They cajoled the boy together until he eventually agreed. Opening the stable door, Yeo went in a yard or so with Richard. The chestnut was at the rear of the box, tethered to an empty manger and presenting its side to them.

Richard held the apple on the flat of his hand and approached with hesitant steps. The chestnut shifted its feet slightly and the straw rustled. Richard did not see Yeo move back through the door before closing it. He was now alone in the loose box with the towering animal.

'Give it to him, Dick,' urged Yeo.

'Hold it under his nose,' added Tallis.

'Hurry up, lad.'

As Richard slowly extended his hand, the horse suddenly reared his head, showed the whites of his eyes, laid his ears back, then swung sideways with a loud neigh. His gleaming flank caught the boy hard enough to send him somersaulting into the straw. When he animal bucked wildly and lashed out with his powerful hind quarters, Richard was only inches away from the flashing hooves.

Martin Yeo was disappointed but Stephen Judd was having second thoughts about it all. Keen as he was for his friend to succeed to the part of Gloriana, he did not want Richard to be kicked to death by a horse.

'Hey!' yelled an ostler as he came running.

'Dick tried to give him an apple,' said Yeo.

Throwing open the stable door, the ostler grabbed Richard and dragged him to safety. Then he lifted the boy up and shook him soundly.

'What did you do that for, you fool!' he shouted. 'That horse will only let his master feed him. Do you want to be killed?'

Richard Honeydew turned crimson and fainted.

*

Lady Rosamund Varley expected the impossible and she was never satisfied until she got it. When she had given her dressmaker his orders, the man protested that he needed more time than he was allotted but she had been firm with him. If he wished to retain her custom, he had to obey her instructions. The impossible was once more accomplished, and the dressmaker arrived on time with his assistant at Varley House. She was duly delighted with their work but she had learned never to over-praise her minions. Instead, she found fault.

'I ordered three-inch ribbons.'

'Four, Lady Varley,' he corrected deferentially. 'But we can shorten them, of course.'

'I wanted a lawn ruff.'

'Cambric, Lady Varley. But we can change that.'

'The gown is cut too full.'

'My needlewomen are standing by, Lady Varley.' The dressmaker was a tall, almost debonair man who made himself look much smaller and meaner by his compulsion to bend and bow. His unctuous manner was further supplemented by a nervous washing of his hands. He absorbed all her criticisms and promised that the mistakes would be rectified.

'I will try it on first,' she announced.

'When it falls short of your wishes, Lady Varley.'

'Wait here.'

She retired to her bedchamber with two of her women, who first undressed her then helped their mistress into her new attire Over her linen chemise, they put on a whalebone corset and a farthingale, which was fastened round the waist to hold the gown out in a becoming semi-circle at the back. Over this came several petticoats, worn beneath a striking bodice of royal blue velvet with gold figure-work. A gown of the same material, slightly darker for contrast, had hanging sleeves of cambric.

In the fashion of the day, Lady Rosamund's hair was curled, frizzed and lightened to a golden-red. It was piled high above the forehead and swept away from the sides of her face. A stiff lace cartwheel ruff framed and set off her pale-skinned loveliness. Jewellery, perfume, a hat, gloves and shoes were added to complete a picture of devastating beauty. Everything fitted perfectly.

Full-length mirrors allowed her to view herself from all angles. She called for a few adjustments to be made, then she was content. As she paraded around the room, the former owner of the house popped back into her mind.

'Not even a bishop would be safe from me in this!'

Sweeping back downstairs, she let the dressmaker and his assistant cluck their praises at her then she clapped her hands to dismiss them.

'Leave your account.'

'Yes, Lady Varley.'

'My husband will pay you when he has a mind to.'

Alone again, she headed for the nearest mirror. The dress was a sartorial triumph. She could not wait to put it on display at The Curtain for the benefit of Lawrence Firethorn.

*

Edmund Hoode stood at the window of the rehearsal room and gazed moodily out at the inn yard. The effort of writing the new play had left him with the usual exhaustion and depression nudged at him. Gloriana Triumphant was an excellent piece of drama but it was also designed as a vehicle in which Lawrence Firethorn could both extend his reputation and further his love life. All that Hoode was left with was some effusive thanks and a small but telling role in the fourth act.

In such moods as this, he always felt used. His talent had been manipulated for the use of others. The best sonnet that he had written for years had been appropriated by someone else and it pained him. He spoke the lines softly to himself, and wished that the poem could instigate a romance for him. It dawned on him that he had not been in love for months. He missed the sweet sorrow of it. His soul was withering.

For Edmund Hoode, the thrill of the chase was everything. He was a true idealist who liked nothing better than to commit himself wholeheartedly to a woman and to draw his pleasure from the simple act of being in love. Lawrence Firethorn was very different. To a seasoned voluptuary like him, conquest was all and his standards were high. Hoode was ready to compromise. He would take someone far less grand than Lady Rosamund Varley. In his present despondency, he would take almost anyone.

Even as he brooded, something came into his field of vision that made him start. It was the landlord's daughter, tripping lightly across the inn yard with her dark hair streaming behind her. Hoode had noticed her several times before and always with pleasure. No more than twenty, she was happily free from the slightest resemblance to her father and her buxom openness was very refreshing.

As he watched her now, he discerned qualities that had eluded him before. She was lithe, graceful, vivacious. She was less like a landlord's daughter than a princess brought up by a woodcutter. Hoode gasped with joy as he realized something else about her.

Her name was Rose Marwood.

He began to recite his sonnet over again.

*

Nicholas Bracewell's earlier visit to The Curtain had been well-spent and he had devised some clever ideas for the staging of Gloriana Triumphant. He was anxious to have the chance to put them to the test. The luxury of a full day's rehearsal at the theatre gave him all the opportunity he needed. Some of his notions had to be scrapped, but the majority--including those for the climactic sea battle--were ingeniously workable. It enabled him to relax Given the mastery of its technical problems, the play could now take flight. He was confident that there would be no shuffling of feet in the pit this time.

Though acutely busy throughout the day, he tried to keep an eye on Richard Honeydew. The incident with the horse had rocked him and he was convinced that it had been set up by the other apprentices. They had been in disgrace ever since and no further attacks had been made on Richard. With the supportive vigilance of Samuel Ruff and Margery Firethorn, Nicholas felt he could keep the boy from harm.

'Let us try the end of the battle scene!' ordered Firethorn.

'Positions!' called Nicholas.

'We will not fire our cannon,' decided the actor. 'We will keep our powder dry.'

'And the sail, master?'

'Oh, we must have that.'

Where Banbury's Men had simply used a thick pole to suggest a mast, the other company had constructed a much more elaborate property with a full sail that could be raised and lowered. It was set into a circular wooden base which was self-standing. As the wind picked up, however, the sail began to billow.

'Hold it, Ben!' directed Nicholas.

'Aye.'

'Stand beside him just in case, Gregory.'

'Yes, Master Bracewell,' said a strapping journeyman.

Edmund Hoode's stagecraft was superior to that of the author of God Speed the Fleet. Where the earlier play had spent itself in the naval engagement, Gloriana Triumphant ended with a scene on the deck of the flagship which brought together all the main characters in the drama. The Queen of Albion herself came on board and, with a spontaneous gesture of gratitude, she borrowed a sword to knight her magnificent sea dog.

Everyone took up their positions then Nicholas cued the musicians. Peter Digby led his men in a stately march as the royal personage came on to the vessel. With back erect and voice expressive, Richard Honeydew delivered his longest speech of the play, trying to ignore the flapping havoc that the wind was now causing to his costume. Firethorn went down on one knee to accept his knighthood then kissed the hand of his monarch and went into his own monologue.

He was not destined to reach the end of it. A sudden gust or wind hit the sail and wrenched it out of Benjamin Creech's grasp. Before Gregory could grab it, the whole mast keeled over across the middle of the stage.

'Look out!'

'Help!'

'Jump, Dick!'

The Queen of Albion had only a split second to take the advice that Samuel Ruff bawled out. As the mast lunged down at him, Nicholas leapt instinctively off the stage altogether. There was a tremendous crash as the timber hit the deck but at least it had nor hit anyone. The cast were in a state of shock but nobody seemed to be hurt.

'Aouw!'

'Are you hurt, Dick?'

'I think so.'

'Stay there!' advised Nicholas.

He bounded across the stage and leaped down beside the prone figure of the young apprentice. Richard was in pain. Landing awkwardly after his own jump, he had twisted his ankle so badly that he could put no weight on it. When Nicholas examined the injury, the joint was already beginning to swell.

The miracle was that the boy had eluded the falling mast. If he had been hampered by his costume, he would never have got out of the way in time and the extravagant finery of the Queen of Albion would now be lying crushed beneath the heavy timber. As it was, Richard had leaped from the deck of the flagship for good. Me would never be able to perform next day.

It was ironic. The other three boys had tried to disable him railed. Chance contrived what design could not. A gust of wind had just recast the part of Gloriana.

Nicholas Bracewell lifted the boy up in his arms and turned back to the stage. Looking down at them was Benjamin Creech, who had been holding the mast when it fell. The hired man was impassive but his eyes were slits of pleasure.

Chapter Nine

Rejection had wrought deep changes in Master Roger Bartholomew. He felt defiled. When he saw his play about Richard the Lionheart performed at The Queen's Head, he thought that he had finished with the theatre for ever but his Muse had other ideas. Directed back to the playhouse, he had now suffered such comprehensive rejection that it turned his brain. He discovered a vengeful streak in himself that he had never even suspected before. They had hurt him: he wanted to strike back.

Lord Westfield's Men became the target for his obsessive hatred. Other companies had turned him down but Lawrence Firethorn had done far worse than that. He had ruined one play by the young poet then reviled another. To make matters worse, he was playing the leading role in a new drama on exactly the same subject as An Enemy Routed. In his feverish state, Bartholomew wondered if his play had been plundered to fill out the other. It would not be the first time that an author's work had been pillaged.

As he stood outside The Curtain, he could hear the voices booming away inside during the rehearsal. He could not make out the words or identify the speakers, but he knew one thing. Gloriana Triumphant had dispossessed him. He reached out to snatch another playbill from its post. If talent and justice meant anything in the theatre, it was his play that should be advertised all over London, and his words that should now be ringing out behind the high walls of the playhouse.

Bartholomew stood above all things for the primacy of the word, for the natural ascendancy of the poet. Firethorn and his company worked to other rules. They promoted the actor as the central figure in the theatre. A play to them was just a fine garment that they could wear once or twice for effect before discarding. An Enemy Routed had been discarded before it was even worn. No consideration at all had been shown for its author's feelings.

Lord Westfield's Men deserved to be punished for their arrogance. He elected himself to administer that punishment. All that he had to decide was its exact nature.

*

Adversity was a rope that bound them more tightly together. In the face of their setbacks, Westfield's Men responded with speedy resolution. The injured apprentice was taken home and his deputy, Martin Yeo, started to rehearse at once. Even as he was working out on stage, the tiremen were altering Gloriana's costume to fit him and redressing the red wig that he was to wear. Yeo had already learned the role in readiness and so the eleventh hour substitution was less of a problem than it might have been, but there were still movements to master, entrances and exits to memorize, due note to be taken of the performances of those around the Queen so that he could play off them.

Nicholas Bracewell, meanwhile, had taken steps to stabilize the mast and sail. When it was set up now, a series of ropes led down from its top to different parts of the stage and tied off on hooks or cleats. The mast was so solid that it was possible for someone to climb it. Ever the opportunist, Firethorn cast the smallest of the journeymen as a ship boy and told him to shin up the mast. It would be a good effect in performance.

A bewildering variety of chores kept George Dart on the move throughout the play. At Nicholas's suggestion, he was given another job as well. Because they could not guarantee that a wind would blow the next afternoon, Dart was handed a long piece of rope that was attached to the heart of the sail. Concealed on the balcony above the stage, he was to tug violently on cue to give the impression that the ship was being blown along by a gale. It was the first time in his young career that he had ever taken on the role of the west wind.

Even Barnaby Gill pitched in to help with the emergency. He suspended his ultimatum about Samuel Ruff until after the performance, and did what he could to keep up everyone's spirits. Against all the odds, the play began to come together. Frantic rewriting by Edmund Hoode eliminated the part that Martin Yeo had played before and smoothed out one or two other lumps. Morale was high at the end of an interminable rehearsal.

'Well, Nick. What do you think?'

'I think we'll get through.'

'We'll do more than that, dear heart. Dicky may have gone but there are still many other sublime performances. I wager that we'll hold them in the palm of our hands.'

'It never does to tempt fate,' warned Nicholas.

They were standing together on the now almost empty stage at The Curtain, reviewing the day and its vicissitudes. Firethorn suddenly declaimed his first speech, aiming it at the galleries and raking up various positions to do so. Nicholas soon realized what he was doing. The actor was trying to work out precisely where Lady Rosamund Varley would be sitting.

'We'll show 'em, Nick.'

'Who, master?'

'Giles Randolph and his ilk.'

'Ah.'

'You saw the fellow here last. How did he fare?'

'Indifferently. It was a poor play.'

'A poor play with a poor player. I will act him off the stage, sir!'

'You are without compare,' said Nicholas tactfully.

'Tomorrow is an important day for us,' continued the other. 'We must prove ourselves once and for all. Our dear patron will rely on us to increase his lustre. We must use this new play to stake our claim to the highest honour--an invitation to play at court.'

'It's long overdue.'

Firethorn made a deep bow to acknowledge nonexistent applause that reverberated in his ears. He was already at court, performing before the Queen and her entourage, receiving royal favour, achieving yet another success in the auditorium of his mind. Nicholas saw that his ambition had another side to it than mere glory. Performance at court would be in front of a small, exclusive, private audience that would include Lady Rosamund Varley. She ruled on the throne of his heart at the moment.

'I would be in Elysium,' confided Firethorn.

'It will come.'

'Let us ensure it, Nick.'

When everything had been cleared away and locked up ready for the morrow, they all departed. There was sadness for Richard Honeydew that he had been robbed of his first taste of stardom but the performance had to continue and everyone had bent themselves to that end. Company rivalry was paramount. Banbury's Men had done themselves less than credit at The Curtain. Lawrence Firethorn and his fellows could dazzle by comparison.

*

It was a long, lonely walk back to Bishopsgate and Nicholas still had more than a mile to go when he entered the City. But he was too preoccupied to notice the extent of his journey or the stiff breeze that swept through the dark night. Will Fowler still haunted him as did the actor's young widow. Two battered prostitutes, one of whom had been subsequently murdered, also had a strong claim on his sympathy. He feared for Samuel Ruff whose place with the company was now in jeopardy. He worried for Richard Honeydew. There was even a vestigial concern for Roger Bartholomew, who had been ousted from the theatre almost before he had got into it. The book holder puzzled over the ruined playbills that George Dart had reported with such trepidation. They had enemies enough without that.

What kept pushing itself to the forefront of his mind, however, was the surly face of Benjamin Creech. Why had the man denied being at The Curtain and concealed his old association with Banbury's Men? What had been the real cause of his fight with Will Fowler? Had the injury to Richard Honeydew really been an accident? Did Nicholas truly see a glint of relish in Creech's eyes or had he imagined it?

Speculation and recrimination carried him all the way back to Bankside. He was almost home when the trouble came. Turning into a side-street, he suddenly had the feeling that he was being followed. His years at sea had helped him to develop a sixth sense for self-preservation and his hand stole quickly to his dagger. He listened for a footfall behind him but heard none. When he spun around, there was nobody there. He continued on his way, ready to dismiss it as a trick of his imagination, when a tall, hulking figure stepped out of an alley ahead of him to block his way. The man was some fifteen yards away and seen only in hazy outline through the gloom, but Nicholas knew at once who he was. They had met before at the Hope and Anchor when a friend had been murdered. There had been more evidence of his handiwork at The Cardinal's Hat.

Pulling out his dagger, Nicholas bunched himself to charge but he did not get far. Before he had moved a yard or so, something hard and solid struck him on the back of the head and sent him down into a black whirlpool of pain. The last thing he remembered was the sound of footsteps running away over the cobblestones. The rest was cold void.

*

Lawrence Firethorn was at his best in a crisis. The threat of resignation by Barnaby Gill and the sudden loss of Richard Honeydew had imposed pressures which he had surmounted with bravery. Pulling the company together in its hour of need, he fired them with the possibilities of the morrow and infected them with his unassailable self-confidence. The play would be another afternoon of glory for him and it would be followed--in time--by a whole night of magic. Gloriana Triumphant and fourteen lines of poetry would win him the favours of Lady Rosamund Varley.

After all the setbacks of the day, therefore, he returned home with a light step to receive a kiss of welcome from his crusting wife. But the kiss did not come and the trust seemed to have gone. Frost had settled on Margery's ample brow.

'What ails you, my love?' he asked blithely.

'I've been talking with Dicky.'

'Poor lad! Where is he?'

'He has gone to bed to rest that swollen ankle.'

'It was a dreadful accident,' said Firethorn. 'We must thank God that no serious injury resulted.'

'There is a more serious injury,' she added grimly.

'What's that you say, my sweet?'

'Sit down, Lawrence.'

'Why?'

'Sit down!'

The force of her request could not be denied and he sank into a chair. Margery Firethorn stood directly in front of him so that there was no possibility of escape. Her anger was banked down but ready to blaze up at any moment.

'The boy is heart-broken,' she began.

'Who would not be? It is his first leading role--and such a role at that! All his hard work has gone for nothing.'

'He talked about you, Lawrence.'

'Did he?'

'He told me how wonderful it was to play opposite such a superb actor as you.' She waited as he gave a dismissive laugh. 'The boy worships you.'

'Every apprentice should choose a good model.'

'Oh, I am sure that you are an excellent model, sir,' she said crisply. 'As an actor, that is. As a husband, of course, you have your faults and it is not so wonderful to play opposite them.'

'Margery...' he soothed.

'Spare me your ruses, Lawrence.'

'What ruse?'

I spent hours listening to Dick Honeydew,' she said. 'That accident at the playhouse cost him dear. It cost me dear as well.

'You, my angel?'

He lost a role in a play but I have lost far more.'

'I do not understand you, sweeting.'

'Then let me speak more plain, sir,' she asserted with a crackle menace. 'Dicky told me everything. He talked of his speeches and dances and magnificent costumes. He also mentioned the jewellery he was to have worn as Gloriana--including a beautiful Pendant which had nothing at all wrong with its catch...'

Lawrence Firethorn had been caught out. The mast which had fallen on the stage of The Curtain now landed squarely on him. Margery had learned the unkind truth. Far from being a gift that was bought specifically for her, the pendant was a theatrical prop that had been used to mollify her. Reconciliation was now only a distant memory in their marriage. Instead of coming home to a loving wife, he was staring into the eyes of Medusa.

Margery guessed at once what lay behind the subterfuge Reining in her fury, she spoke with an elaborate sweetness.

'What is her name, Lawrence?'

*

'Hold still now,' said Anne Hendrik. 'Let me bathe it properly'

'I'm fine now. Tie the bandage.'

'This wound needs a surgeon.'

'I have no time to stay.'

'Let me send for one, Nick.'

'The pain is easing now,' he lied.

They were at the house in Bankside and Nicholas Bracewell was sitting on a chair while his landlady dressed the gash on the back of his head. As soon as he had recovered consciousness in the street, he had dragged himself up from the ground and staggered on as far as his front door. His hat was sodden with blood, his mind blurred and his whole body was one pounding ache.

When the servant answered his knock on the door, she let out a scream of fright at the condition he was in. Anne Hendrik had rushed out and the two women had carried Nicholas to a chair. Left alone with him, Anne now tended his wound with the utmost care and sympathy. She was almost overwhelmed by apprehension.

'You believe it was the same man?' she asked.

'I know it was.'

'It was dark, Nick. How can you be certain?'

'I would recognize him anywhere. It was Redbeard.'

'A murderous villain, lying in wait for you!' she said with trembling anxiety. 'It does not bear thinking about!'

'I survived, Anne,' he reminded her.

'Only by the grace of God! You are lucky to be alive!'

'They were not after me,' decided Nicholas, trying to make sense of what had happened. 'I would be lying dead in that street now if they had wanted to kill me. No, they were after something else.'

'Your purse?'

'They left that, Anne. What they stole was my satchel.'

'With your prompt book in it?' she gasped.

'Yes. That is what they wanted--Gloriana Triumphant.'

Anne Hendrik saw the implications at once and she blenched. The one complete copy of the play had now disappeared and there was no way that Nicholas could control the performance without it.

'This is terrible!' she exclaimed. 'You will have to cancel the play tomorrow.'

'That is their intention, Anne.'

'But why?'

'I can only guess,' he said. 'Malice, spite, envy, revenge...There are many possible reasons. We work in a jealous profession.'

'Who would do such a thing?'

'I will not rest until I have found out,' he pledged. 'One thing is clear. Redbeard has an accomplice. I could not understand how he could have gained entry to The Cardinal's Hat without being recognized. The answer must be that he did not go back there after that poor creature. It was the other man who slit Alice's throat.'

'To prevent her helping you?'

'I believe so. Redbeard knows that I am after him.'

Anne Hendrik gave a little shiver and finished tying the bandage around his head. The blood had discoloured his fair hair and there was an ugly bruise on his temple from his fall on to the cobbles. Tears of love and compassion trickled down her cheeks. She grabbed at his arm as he stood up.

'You are in no condition to go out again, Nick.'

'I have no choice.'

'Let me come with you,' she volunteered.

No, Anne. I can manage alone. Besides, it will be a long night. Do hot expect me back until morning.'

'Where will you be?' she said, following him to the door.

'Writing a play.'

*

Edmund Hoode had an author's gift for happy invention. Desperate to fall in love again, he had settled on Rose Marwood and he persuaded himself that she was the most divine member of her sex. Her deficiencies were quickly remedied by his burgeoning imagination and she emerged as the girl of his dreams--a magical compound of beauty, wit, charm and understanding. Without realizing it, Rose Marwood had tripped across the innyard and been transformed. Hoode made no allowance for the fact that he had hardly spoken to her. He was in love and romance knows no reason.

An hour of reflection upon her virtues confirmed him in his plan to send her the sonnet. Having written it out again in a fail-hand, he appended the phrase 'Every Happiness', picking out the 'E' and the 'H' with such flourishes of his pen that he felt sure she would identify the initials of her swain.

Further indulgence was cut short by a banging on the door Nicholas Bracewell was soon invited in to explain his head wound and tell his story. Panic all but throttled Hoode when he heard that his play had been stolen. It was like losing a child.

'What can we do, Nicholas?' he wailed.

'Start again.'

'From what? You had the only complete copy.'

'We will patch it together somehow,' promised the other. 'I have roused George Dart and sent him to fetch what sides he can get from the players. I have been back to The Curtain and retrieved my copy of the Plot. Then there is your knowledge of writing the play and my memory of rehearsing it. If we put all that together, we should be part of the way towards making another prompt book.'

'It will take us all night, Nicholas!'

'Would you rather cancel the performance?'

The thought of it was enough to make Hoode tremble. He needed only a few seconds to come to his decision. Fourteen lines to Rose Marwood were put aside in favour of a few thousand for the audience at The Curtain.

As soon as the scrivener arrived, they got to work as fast as was compatible with accuracy. The copious detail of the Plot which Nicholas had prepared was an enormous help and it stimulated Hoode's memory at once.

Lawrence Firethorn was the next to appear, fulminating against the Earl of Banbury's Men whom he had already identified as the villains. His towering rage, however, was tinged with relief Appalling as the theft of the prompt book was, it had rescued him from interrogation by Margery.

Since his own part was the leading one, the copy which he brought gave the scrivener ample material to work on. Most or the gaps were filled in when the panting George Dart came on the scene with the individual sides from some of the players. While the stagekeeper got his breath back, Nicholas sifted through them and put them in order. One particular copy was missing.

'Did you call on Creech?' asked Nicholas.

'He was not at his lodging, Master Bracewell,' said Dart.

'The nearest tavern is his lodging!' sighed Firethorn.

'I tried there as well, sir.'

'Thank you, George,' said Nicholas.

'Can I go now?'

'Yes,' ordered Firethorn. 'Find Creech. There is one scene involving him and two mariners that we do not seem to have here. Root him out from his drinking hole, George.'

'Must I, sir?' moaned Dart.

'Indeed, you must!'

'But I've been running about for hours.'

'Run some more, sir. This is the theatre!'

Cowed into submission, George Dart went off into the night in search of the hired man. Hoode, Firethorn and Nicholas carried on reassembling the play while the scrivener's quill fluttered busily. Shortly before midnight, the first stoup of wine was served. They would need plenty more to get them through their arduous task.

Dawn was plucking at the windows by the time that a fair copy was ready. Matthew Upton, the scrivener, was groaning with exhaustion and his writing arm lay limp across his lap. Nicholas now took over. Using his Plot and calling on his phenomenal memory for detail, he annotated the prompt book so that he had every call, cue, entrance, exit and hand property listed in the appropriate place. Seven hours of frantic labour had restored their text to them but it had taxed their strength.

'I need some sleep,' said Hoode with a yawn.

It's too late for that,' decided Firethorn. 'We should have breakfast together instead then make an early start for The Curtain.' He turned to Nicholas. 'We will stay beside you as bodyguards every step of the way, dear fellow.'

You will not need to, Master Firethorn. I will be much more wary now. They took me unawares in Bankside.'

Banbury's Men!' said Firethorn. 'I know it.'

Would they stoop to this?' doubted Hoode.

If they employ Randolph, they'll stoop to anything!'

'They certainly timed their strike well,' admitted Nicholas

'On the eve of a performance,' noted Hoode. 'It would have crippled any other company.'

'But not Westfield's Men,' said Firethorn proudly. 'We have done famously this night, gentlemen--and that includes you, Master Lipton. We have stared defeat in the face and frightened it away. Nick, here, acted with great presence of mind in raising the alarm so quickly. I'm eternally grateful.'

'So am I,' echoed Hoode.

'It was the least I could do,' replied Nicholas with embarrass-ment. 'I felt so responsible for the theft of the prompt book that I had to do something.'

'You must not blame yourself,' said Firethorn kindly.

'My job was to safeguard that book.'

'When two ruffians set upon a man without warning, he is entitled to feel outrage and not guilt.' He stood up and made a sweeping gesture. 'It's monstrous! Piracy is something we have come to accept in our profession but this is a crime of a very different order. It's a treachery against the whole spirit of the theatre. Banbury's Men must pay!'

'If they did it,' said Nicholas sceptically.

'Of that there is no question, sir! Who else has so much to gain from our humiliation? Giles Randolph and that pack of knaves he calls an acting company! They are definitely behind it.'

'Will you tax them about it, Lawrence?' asked Hoode.

'Oh, no. We must make our enquiries by stealth first.'

'And my play?'

'We simply carry on as if nothing had happened, Edmund. We show these varlets that it will take more than violence and theft to stop Westfield's Men. We are adamantine proof!'

There was a pathetic knocking on the door. Nicholas went to open it and George Dart crept in, collapsing from fatigue but bearing what he had been sent to fetch. He held it up to Firethorn and waited for a word of congratulation that never came.

'You're late, sir,' complained the other.

'I'm sorry, Master Firethorn.'

'Where have you been?'

'Running, sir. To and fro.'

'Did you find Creech?'

'Just after midnight,' said the stagekeeper with a yawn.

'Then what has kept you?'

'He would not wake up, master. As soon as he did, we went back to his lodging and he gave me what I needed.' He wanted me sort of recognition for his efforts. 'Have I done well, sir?'

'No,' said Firethorn.

'Very well, George,' corrected Nicholas.

'I'll say aye to that,' supported Hoode.

George Dart smiled for the first time in a week. He handed the sheets to Firethorn then closed his eyes tightly.

'Good night, sirs!'

Nicholas caught him as he slumped forward.

*

Shoreditch was as busy as ever next morning and the crowds were restive in the hot sun. By midday, people began to converge on The Curtain for the afternoon's entertainment. One of the first to arrive was a short, intense, studious young man in dark attire and hat. He paid a penny to gain entry to the playhouse then a further twopence for the privilege of a cushioned seat in the front row of the second gallery. It was the ideal spot for his purposes.

As he stared down at the empty stage, he was at once excited and repelled. His work belonged there but it had been viciously flung aside by an uncaring profession. The time had come for him to make his protest and he would do so in the most dramatic fashion that he could devise.

Roger Bartholomew wanted his revenge.

(*)Chapter Ten

The atmosphere backstage at The Curtain was as tense as a lutestring. Keyed up already by the occasion, the company was one large collection of taut nerves when it heard the full story of the missing prompt book. The idea of a direct and vicious attack upon Lord Westfield's Men was deeply unsettling and speculation was rife as to whom the perpetrators could be. It did not put them in the best frame of mind to tackle their new play.

Superstition weighed heavily with many people and Barnaby Gill voiced the fears of a substantial number.

'What will be next, I wonder?'

'How say you?' asked Hoode, already reduced to a shambling wreck by the events of the night.

'Disasters come in threes, Edmund.'

'Do they?'

'We had Dick Honeydew's accident. Then the theft of the book.' His voice explored a lower octave. 'Now--what is to be the third catastrophe?'

'Your performance!' said Samuel Ruff under his breath and set up a few sniggers around him.

In seeking to dispel the tension, Lawrence Firethorn merely increased it. Summoning the whole company together in the tiring' house, he gave them a short speech about the need to fight back at their enemies by raising the level of their performance. His exhortations united them all in a common purpose but disseminated an unease that was strangely akin to stagefright. Only the more experienced actors were immune from it.

'Samuel...'

'Yes, lad?'

'I feel sick.'

'Take some deep breaths, Martin.'

'This dress is suffocating me.'

'Drink some water.'

'I'll never be able to stand still on stage.'

'Of course, you will,' assured the hired man. 'The moment you step out there, all your worries will disappear. It's the same before a battle when everyone--no matter how brave--feels afraid and unready. As soon as things start, they get carried away by the thrill and the emotion of it all. Theatre is a form of battle, Martin. You'll fight well, I know.'

The very fact that Martin Yeo could turn to Samuel Ruff showed the extent of the boy's discomfort. Three full years with the company had given him a confidence that sometimes spilled over into arrogance, but he was now bereft of all that. With long faces and dry throats all around him, Yeo had sought out a man whom he had always disliked before. Ruffs composure set him apart from most of the others and the boy drew strength from it. He was even ready to confide a secret.

'Do you know something, Samuel?'

'What?'

'I never thought I'd say this but.

'You wish Dick was here to play Gloriana.' Yes! How did you guess?'

'It was not difficult, lad,' said Ruff with mild amusement. 'Shall ' tell you something now?'

'What?'

If Dick were in that costume, he'd be wishing that you were taking on the role instead.'

Nicholas Bracewell was grateful for someone like Ruff to act as a calming influence. Cold panic showed in most eyes and Edmund Hoode was a prime victim. After his sterling work throughout the night, he was now in danger of losing his nerve completely. Doubts about his play became uncertainties about himself and widened into questions about the whole validity of the playhouse. Here was creative suffering of a kind that nobody else could understand. Hoode therefore stalked the perimeter of the tiring-house on his own, finding more and more phantoms to assail him.

It was Nicholas himself who was the main antidote to the general hysteria. With his head still swathed in bandages, he exerted his usual cool control in a way that instilled peace. As long as the book holder was there, the company had a solid framework in which to operate. It heartened them. Nicholas went out of his way to pass a remark or two with those most in need of moral support. As people swirled to and fro in the tiring-house, he was there with friendly comments.

'The music was excellent yesterday, Peter.'

'Thank you.'

'It could not be improved upon...Thomas...'

'Yes, master?'

'We'll need to rely on you heavily today.'

'Oh, dear,' muttered the old stagekeeper.

'Your experience will be a rock.'

'I hope so.'

'Hugh...'

'Aye?' called the tireman, fluffing out petticoats for John Tallis.

'Those costume changes will need to be quick.'

'We can manage.'

'Especially Gloriana in the last act.'

'Two of us will be standing by.'

'George...'

'Here, master,' said Dart through a spectacular yawn.

'You were a Trojan last night.'

'Did Trojans run their legs off as well, then?'

'Try not to fall asleep too often.'

'How am I supposed to stay awake, Master Bracewell?'

'Gregory...'

'Not here!'

'Where is he?'

'Where do you think?'

'Again?'

The general laughter eased the tension. Everybody knew where the jangled Gregory was and it was his fourth visit. Like every other part of the playhouse, the privy made a significant contribution to the performance.

Nicholas fought off his fatigue and looked around the company.

Nerve ends were still raw, mouths were still dry and faces were still lack-lustre, but he sensed that the worst was past. They were professionals. The ordeal of the wait would evanesce into the excitement of the performance, and nobody would let himself down. Lord Westfield's Men would survive with honour. He actually began to look forward to it all.

Resplendent in his Italian doublet and Spanish cape, Lawrence Firethorn sidled over to whisper in his ear.

'Should I do it again, Nick?'

'What?'

'Speak to the troops.'

'Oh, no.'

'Have I done enough to lift them already?'

'More than enough,' said Nicholas tactfully.

'Good, good.'

'Lead by example now.'

It was, as ever, sound advice and Firethorn would take it. He walked away and went through his first speech in a hissed gabble. His book holder had just prevented him from causing even further disarray. The fragile calm which had now descended on the tiring-house would be preserved.

*

Sunshine gilded the tall, cylindrical structure of the playhouse and turned the arena itself into a chequered arrangement of light and shadow. The warmth of the sun produced more sweat and smell among the penny stinkards in the pit, and promoted the sale of beer, wine and water. By the same token, it caused mild discomfort in the galleries among the over-dressed gallants and the corseted ladies. There was no breeze to alleviate the heat.

George Dart would be needed as the west wind.

It was a glittering occasion. In noise, bustle, eagerness, vulgarity, style, colour, character and high fashion, it even outdid God Speed the Fleet. On a glorious afternoon in an English summer, The Curtain was truly a microcosm of the capital. All classes were accounted for, all tastes included. Courtiers displayed themselves above while criminals concealed themselves below. The middling sort were there in profusion. Accents varied, timbres differed. Wit repartee, banter and foul abuse were in play. High intelligence and bovine illiteracy shared the same space. The wooden circumference enclosed a veritable city.

Lord Westfield was there to enjoy the reflected glory of his company and to toss down patronizing smiles and waves to the actors. Dark, stocky and of medium height, he wore a doublet that accentuated his paunch and a hat that prevented anyone behind him from seeing the stage. There was a wilful extravagance about Westfield that showed itself in the excesses of his apparel and the size of his entourage. A cup of wine seemed always in his hand, a smile upon his lips. He was a middle-aged sybarite with all the defects that that implied, but his love of the theatre was genuine and his knowledge of its workings was close.

Sitting diametrically opposite him in another of the lords' rooms was the Earl of Banbury, there to mock and denigrate rather than to be entertained. He picked fussily at his goatee beard and passed disparaging remarks about the players. His own company were going through a comparatively lean patch and envy was never far away. Catching Westfield's eye across the playhouse, he gave a dismissive wave with his fingers and turned away, thus missing the expressive scowl on the other's face.

Lady Rosamund Varley made a startling entrance. As soon as she settled in her seat, necks craned and eyes popped. She was a rich blend of blues and whites and yellows, and there was no dress to match her. Happily conscious of the attention she was getting, she bestowed a radiant smile on the world.

Roger Bartholomew remained stonily silent amid the gathering tumult. Everything he saw fed his hate, everything he heard served to swell his rage. Instead of being a celebrated poet with the acclaim he deserved, he was an unsung nonentity with cruel wounds he did not merit. Something darker than envy, and deeper than vengeance, had wormed its way into his brain. It caused a persistent throb in his veined forehead.

Exiled from the stage that he coveted, he would make his bin for attention. They would all take note of him this time. His plan had the riveting simplicity of its own desperation. It was a searing drama in one unforgettable line. The throbbing in his head got worse. Bartholomew would soon cure it.

Applause greeted the arrival of the trumpeter and the hoisting of the flag. This was no routine performance. Gossip had been at work. Danger lay at the heart of the enterprise. Lord Westfield's men had been dogged by fate. A hired man was murdered, a young apprentice was injured, a book holder was attacked, and valuable property was stolen. It all added to the sublime feeling of dread, the possibility that something extraordinary was about to happen.

When the Prologue had introduced the play, Gloriana Triumphant took a grip on the audience that it never relinquished, Its secret lay in its relevance. Everyone could find themselves and their lives in it. The ancient domain of Albion was such an accurate portrait of the England they knew that some of the lines and conceits made them start. Edmund Hoode had found a rare blend. His play had soaring purpose with a common touch.

Nicholas Bracewell's hand was much in evidence, and not just in the smooth stage management of the afternoon. He had been involved in the creation of the play and had supplied Hoode with endless details about the navy, its ships, its language, its traditions. Again, Nicholas had suggested a number of scenes which involved ordinary English seamen and the privations they suffered. It not only gave Hoode an opportunity for low comedy, it threw the world of admirals and captains into sharp relief.

One of the Armada myths of the day was that scarcely a hundred English lives were lost in the engagement. Though technically true, it did not take account of the immediate consequences of the battle. Despite widespread illness from rough seas and stale beer, the England seamen had served bravely. Then their water ran out and they were forced to drink their own urine. Typhus began to kill them like flies and some ships lacked enough men to weigh anchor.

Gloriana Triumphant did not dwell on all this but it was not ignored. A fuller, rounder, more honest picture of life at sea began to emerge. Samuel Ruff and Benjamin Creech were ideal seamen, tough, comic, long-suffering and endlessly loyal. The standees in the pit connected with the men at once.

But the real hero of the play and the afternoon was Lawrence Firethorn in a part that enabled him to use all his wolvish energy and all his technical tricks. He was by turns rough, romantic, outspoken, tongue-tied, base and noble. His wooing of the Queen was a mixture of subtle comedy and surging passion, and it was at this point that his performance was directed up at Lady Rosamund Varley. It was quite hypnotic.

Lady Rosamund was enthralled and Lord Westfield was enraptured. Even the Earl of Banbury was reduced to impotent silence. Roger Bartholomew was captivated in another way. The sight of Firethorn at once sharpened his urge to act and delayed the moment. It was as if Bartholomew wanted to build up maximum fury before he moved. His chance came in the fifth act

Nicholas Bracewell had spent a long time devising the sea battle and it had a whole battery of complex effects. Agile stagekeepers were kept running around to provide various effects and George Dart was the western wind on a blustery day. Firethorn stood on the poop deck and yelled his orders. Ruff, Creech and the other seamen sweated on the gun deck below. The mast was secured by the ropes. The cannons were positioned on both sides of the vessel.

Through the open trap door in the middle of the stage could be heard the swishing of water. As the battle intensified, water was thrown up on stage to splash and soak and run. One of the seamen, apparently hit by a cannon ball, was knocked through the trap door and into the sea. It was a simple device but it pleased the audience and worked well.

Action became more frenetic as the play moved towards its climax. Firethorn shouted and bellowed to fine effect as his vessel came under intense bombardment. At the pull of a rope, half the rigging on the mast came adrift and fell to the stage. Explosions, fireworks, drums, cymbals, gongs and trumpets were used to augment the sound and din the ears. Metal trays of fire were slid onstage to suggest areas of the deck that had been hit. Buckets of water filled from the trap door were thrown over the flames to douse them.

Firethorn now gave the command and the cannon went off, not one as in the earlier play, but four in ascending order of volume. Even this effect was topped. As the booming echoed and reverberated around the playhouse, the figure of a small man in black climbed on to the balcony of the second gallery and launched himself off with a wild cry of despair.

Misjudging his leap, he landed in the folds of the sail, which broke his fall before hurtling him to the stage with sufficient force to knock him unconscious. It was a breathtaking moment and the audience had never seen anything like it. Neither had Lawrence Firethorn but he coped with the situation magnificently. Everyone believed it was part of the play and he did not break faith with them. With two extempore lines, he ordered his men to gather up the body of the Spanish dog and throw it overboard. Roger Bartholomew was lowered unceremoniously through the trap door.

In trying to ruin the play and achieve immortality by his public act of suicide, the tormented poet had enhanced the drama and simply given himself a worse headache.

Martin Yeo came on to knight her faithful sea dog then the piece ended to sustained applause and cheering. The whole company had been superb and overcome all their problems.

Nobody noticed that Bartholomew missed his bow.

*

Lady Rosamund Varley waited with friends in a private room and marvelled afresh at the remarkable stunt they had seen. Gloriana Triumphant was well-named. It had consigned God Speed the Fleet to a watery grave. Edmund Hoode's play would rule the waves.

Refreshments were served while the chat continued, then Lord Westfield brought in Lawrence Firethorn. He began with an elegant bow to Lady Rosamund and her radiant smile shone for him alone. Though he was introduced to the others in the room, he hardly heard their names. Only one person existed for him.

She extended a gloved hand for him to kiss.

'You were superb, Master Firethorn,' she congratulated.

'I was inspired by your presence, Lady Varley.'

'You know how to flatter, sir.'

'Truth needs no embellishment.'

Her brittle laugh rang out then she moved in closer.

'What is your next play to be?' she asked.

'Whatever you wish, Lady Varley.'

'Me, sir?'

'We have a large repertory. How would you care to see me?'

'As Hector.'

Their eyes were conversing freely and they talked with a pleasing directness. Firethorn was entranced by her coquettish manner and she was fascinated by his boldness.

'When would you have me play, Lady Varley?'

'As soon as it may suit you, sir.'

'The performance will be dedicated to you.'

'I would regard that as a signal honour, Master Firethorn '

'Shall I send word when a date has been set?'

'I will be mortified if you do not.'

'Then it will be soon, that I can promise you.'

'Good,' she said evenly. 'I'll hold you to that, sir.'

'And I will hold you, Lady Varley.'

The assignation was made. In a crowded room, and at the first time of meeting, they had agreed to a tryst. He was quite transported. The afternoon had blessed him. It is not given to many men to defeat the Spanish Armada and conquer Lady Rosamund Varley within the space of a few hours.

*

Benjamin Creech left the playhouse with some of his fellows but he soon left them to head off on his own. Like the rest of the company, he had enjoyed the exhilaration of performance and it had left him with the same feeling of release. In his case, however, that feeling was tempered by something else. A man with divided loyalties finds it difficult to rejoice.

Nobody knew the taverns of London as intimately and as comprehensively as he did, so he had no difficulty in finding the one to which he had been summoned. A stroll along Eastcheap, a left turn, then a right, and he was there. At the sign of the Beetle and Wedge. Feeling his thirst deepen, he went in through the door and ducked beneath the low beam.

'Hello, Ben. Thank you for coming.'

'Aye.'

'Let me buy you a drink, old fellow. Wine or beer?'

'Beer.'

'You haven't changed, I see. Come and sit down.'

'Aye.'

Creech lowered himself into a chair opposite his host and looked up into the dark, satanic features. When the drinks were served, they raised their cups and clinked them together.

'To the future!' said his companion.

'That's as maybe, sir.'

'You are in a position to help us a great deal, Ben.'

'Aye.'

'We are grateful.'

Creech watched him carefully and waited for him to make the first move. They had known each other for some years now. The man was clever, persuasive and resourceful with a dark streak in his nature that commended him to Creech. It gave the two of them something in common.

He liked Giles Randolph.

*

Anne Hendrik was dining at home with her lodger and hearing about the extraordinary events at The Curtain that afternoon. She put her cutlery aside in astonishment when she heard about the dive that Roger Bartholomew had made from the second gallery.

'Was he badly hurt?' she said with concern.

'The surgeon recovered him,' explained Nicholas. 'He was taken back to his lodging to rest.'

'Why on earth did he do such a thing?'

'As a means of revenge against the company.'

'Because you rejected his play?'

'Master Bartholomew could not live with the disappointment. It preyed on his mind until his wits turned. The theatre can drive people to extremes at times, Anne.'

'I know that,' she said meaningfully.

'He was greatly vexed that his suicide jump failed,' Nicholas went on. 'Nothing he has done in a theatre has succeeded.'

'Poor fellow!' He has been sorely tried.'

'Yes, Anne. But he did solve one mystery for us.'

'Mystery?'

'Those playbills that George Dart put up for us.'

'Master Bartholomew tore them down?' she said in amazement.

'Desperate men are pushed into desperate actions.'

Anne sighed and picked up her cutlery again. Then her eye went back to the bloodstained bandage around Nicholas's head.

Her worries converged upon him once more. How is your own wound, Nick?' she said.

'My head is still attached to my body,' he joked lightly

'Did you ask the surgeon to examine it?'

'Do not distress yourself about it, Anne. I am in good health now.' He raised a finger to touch the bandage. 'I wear this simply to excite your sympathy.'

'What of that man with the red beard?'

His manner changed at once and he became much more earnest

'I have even more cause to find the rogue now,' he said with his jaw tightening. 'Redbeard and his accomplice have a lot to answer for and I mean to bring them to account.'

'But how?' she asked. 'In a city of over a hundred thousand people two men can easily stay hidden. How will you seek them out, Nick?'

'I may not have to do that,' he suggested.

'What do you mean?'

'Instead of going after them, I can wait till they come to me. For they will surely strike again.'

'Oh, Nick!' she sighed, fearing for him once more.

'I am not their intended victim,' he assured her. 'They had their chance to dispose of me last night and they did not take it. No, Anne, they are working to some complex plan.'

'I do not follow you.'

'It all started with the death of Will Fowler.'

'But that was an accident,' she argued. 'He lost his temper and was drawn into a quarrel. It was a random brawl.'

'That is what I thought,' he admitted, 'but I have grave doubts now. I believe that Will was deliberately murdered and that everything else which has happened--including the theft of our prompt book--is linked together.'

'What are you saying, Nick?'

'The real target is Lord Westfield's Men,' he said with conviction. 'Someone is trying to destroy the company.'

(*)Chapter Eleven

Having found a rose in full bloom, Edmund Hoode lost his heart to her completely. He loved her ardently with a reckless disregard of her unsuitability for this honour. Rose Marwood was a goddess in an apron to him. Her blithe presence in his life gave it new hope and purpose. The agonies surrounding the performance of his play had left him even more in need of the heady consolations of romance, and he was driven by one desire. She must be his.

Alexander Marwood was a serious hindrance to his wishes. The landlord's vigorous melancholy drew much of its strength from his fears for his daughter. Obsessed with the notion that Rose would be debauched at any moment, he rarely let her out of his sight. One of the penalties of giving hospitality to a dramatic-company at The Queen's Head was that every female on the premises was put at risk. To the harrowed landlord, all actors were promiscuous lechers without a moral scruple between them and the fact that two of his serving-wenches were with child confirmed this view.

Edmund Hoode was therefore baulked time and again, whenever he stole upon the girl, her father appeared from nowhere with an errand which sent her running off. On the one occasion that Marwood himself did not prevent a casual meeting between the lover and his lass, it was the girl's mother who intervened. Tall, big-boned and generously plump, she had a hawk-eyed watchfulness that put Hoode to flight in seconds.

His chance eventually came, however, and he was equal to it. From the window of the rehearsal room, he saw his beloved stroll into the yard with her young brother. Hoode had already bribed one of the stagekeepers to assist him and he now signalled the fellow over. George Dart--the most loveless member of the company--had been chosen to bear Cupid's arrow.

'Yes, master?'

'Come with me, George.'

'Where are we going, sir?' asked the other, as he was hustled out and down a flight of stairs. 'Am I to perform that service for you now?'

They reached the yard and Hoode glanced in through the open door of the taproom. Delighted that both Marwood and his wife were busy within, he gave Dart his orders.

'She talks over there with her brother.' He handed over a small scroll. 'Give this to her privily.'

'How, sir? The young fellow will see me.'

'Distract him in some way'

'By what device?'

'Do your office and be quick about it.'

'I will try, sir.'

'You will succeed, George,' warned Hoode ominously. 'That missive is for her eyes only. Away!'

'Yes, master.'

Hoode stepped into the taproom and loitered near the door. Keeping one eye on the girl's parents, he watched the diminutive stagekeeper skip across the yard. George Dart excelled himself. He reached the couple, stepped between them and relayed a message to the boy before guiding him firmly away. Rose Marwood was left alone, wondering how the scroll had got into her hand.

When she studied the seal, a look of pleasant surprise lit up her whole face. Edmund Hoode positively glowed.

"Open it, my love,' he whispered. 'Open it.'

She obeyed his command as if she had heard it, breaking the seal and unrolling the parchment. Her surprise now gave way to bewilderment. With a frown of concentration, she stared at the sonnet for a few moments then turned it upside down to regard it anew from a different angle.

Hoode was aghast. He had expected his fourteen lines to wing their way straight to her heart and make her melt with passion. It had never even crossed his mind that this paragon, this ethereal beauty, this image of perfection could have any flaw. The truth was forced upon him with brutal suddenness. Rose Marwood could not read.

*

It had been going on for several days before a pattern began to emerge. Hugh Wegges noted that a few small items were missing from the tiring-house, Peter Digby was irritated by the disappearance of some sheet music, Thomas Skillen lost his favourite broom and John Tallis could not find his cap. Other instances of petty pilfering went unreported. The next victim was Samuel Ruff.

He and Nicholas Bracewell had enjoyed a drink together after a day's rehearsal at The Queen's Head. They were seated in the taproom and Ruff made to pay the reckoning. When he opened his purse, however, it was empty.

'My money has been stolen!'

'How much was in the purse?' asked Nicholas.

'No more than a few groats but they were honestly earned.'

'And dishonestly taken, it would seem.'

When could it have happened?' said Ruff, as baffled as he was annoyed. 'I've not been in crowds where pickpockets could easily set on me. My whole day has been spent here among my fellows.

Nicholas sighed. 'We have a thief in our midst.'

'Here?'

'You are not the only victim, Sam. I have had complaints all week. Someone has a wandering hand.'

'Hunt the villain down!'

'We will. But do not trouble yourself about the reckoning. I will settle it this time.'

'Only until I am paid,' insisted Ruff. 'I will owe you the money until then, Nick. I always pay my debts.'

'It is such a small amount, Sam. Hardly a debt.'

'I felt nothing,' admitted Ruff, staring in dismay at his empty purse. 'He is a light-fingered rascal, whosoever he is.'

'When did you last take coins out yourself?'

'At noon. To pay for my food and drink.'

'And since then?'

'The purse has been at my waist ever since.' A memory nudged him. 'Except for a few minutes when Hugh Wegges made me try on a new costume. There were a dozen or more of us in the tiring-house'

'Can you recall who they were?'

'No. I had no call to pay heed. Why?'

'One of them is the thief.'

Samuel Ruff was deeply upset by it all. It had been some time since he had earned a regular wage and he had learned to husband his money carefully. The thought that one of his own fellows might have robbed him hurt badly. He plunged into gloom.

'This is an omen,' he decided.

'Of what?'

'The tide is turning against me. It had to come.' A sigh of regret was followed by a helpless shrug. 'I was happy to belong to the company until this.'

'We are happy to have you, Sam.'

'It has meant everything to me, Nick, and I cannot thank you enough for your part in it all.' Embarrassment made him lower his head. 'You met me at...a difficult time...when I was...'

'You do not have to explain,' said Nicholas kindly to spare him any further discomfort. 'I understand.'

Samuel Ruff had been brought back from the dead as an actor. Having resigned himself to leaving the profession, he had been given one last chance to redeem himself and had done so admirably. The tiny spark inside him had been fanned into flame again and he had revelled in the world that he loved. Nicholas had watched it with pleasure. Samuel Ruff had been given back his dignity.

'And now it is all over,' said the actor sadly.

'That is not so, Sam.'

'But Master Gill is adamant. He will not tolerate me.'

'He is only one of the sharers,' Nicholas pointed out. 'The others know your true value, Sam.'

'They would still rather let me go than Master Gill.'

'It may not come to that.'

'Please try to help me!' begged Ruff, clutching at the other's wrist. 'I am desperate to stay with Westfield's Men. No other company would take me now. Please, Nick, use what influence you have on my behalf.'

'I will,' promised Nicholas. 'Take heart.'

'And what of Master Gill?'

'We must study to persuade him.'

'Will he submit, think you?'

'Every man can have his mind changed.'

'I truly hope so!' He released Nicholas's wrist and sat back with a tired smile. 'Such a change in my life! When we two first met in that tavern, I was minded to go home.'

'You did go home, Sam.'

'I did?'

'To the theatre.'

Ruff acknowledged the remark with a nod then his smile became more confidential. He leaned across the table.

'Shall I make confession to you, Nick?'

'Of what?'

'I hate cows. I cannot abide the beasts.'

'We saved you from that,' said Nicholas with a grin.

'Oh, you did so much more, my friend!'

When Marwood had been paid for the ale, they went out together into the yard. Evening was starting to close in on what had been a fine, clear day. They reached the main gate and paused at the archway. Ruffs emotion showed through again.

'I could not bear to lose this, Nick!'

He shook the book holder's hand warmly then strode off through the archway to head towards his lodging. Nicholas cast one more glance around the yard and would have gone out into Gracechurch Street himself if his attention had not been caught by a sign of movement at a window. It was the tiring-house.

Nicholas was troubled. Everyone else from the company had gone home and the room had been locked up to protect the valuable costumes that were stored there. His first instinct was to cross to the window and peer in but that might alert whoever was inside. He decided instead to go back into the taproom to confront Marwood.

'Could I have the key to the tiring-house, please?'

"It has not been returned, Master Bracewell.'

'Then who has it?'

'I have no idea, sir.'

'Give me the key to the adjacent room.'

'What is amiss?' asked the worried landlord.

'Oh, nothing,' said Nicholas casually, trying to make light of it. 'I daresay that Hugh Wegges is working late on a costume.' He took the proferred key. 'Thank you, Master Marwood. I will return it very soon.'

Nicholas hurried off to the tiring-house and tried the door. It was locked. He went around to the door of the adjacent room and let himself quietly in. Crossing the floorboards with a gentle tread, he reached the door that connected with the tiring-house and put his ear to it. Muffled sounds came from within and he thought he heard a costume swish. He had no doubt what was happening. The thief was at work again.

Lifting the latch with painful slowness, he eased the door wide enough open to look into the tiring-house. He was so startled by what he saw that he had to blink. It was the most unexpected discovery of all and he could not at first believe it.

In the corner of the room, Barnaby Gill was kissing a young woman. They were locked in a tender embrace and the actor was behaving with almost knightly courtesy, taking his pleasure softly and with evident respect for his lady. If it had not been so astonishing, the sight would have touched Nicholas.

He opened the door further and it creaked on its hinges. The couple immediately sprang guiltily apart and swung round to face him. He was given another severe jolt. The woman wore the costume and auburn wig that would be used in the next play.

It was Stephen Judd.

The apprentice turned red and Barnaby Gill blustered.

'What business have you here, sir?' he demanded.

'I saw something through the window.'

'It is nothing that need concern you. I was giving the boy some instruction, that is all. We are done now.'

'Yes, Master Gill,' said Nicholas evenly.

'You may leave us,' added the other loftily.

'I will see Stephen safe home first.'

'Get out!'

There was an expressive venom in the command but Nicholas held his ground and met the other's glare. Barnaby Gill gradually backed off as cold reason searched him out. If the book holder reported what he had witnessed, the sharer would be placed in a very awkward predicament. Firethorn and the others wore well aware of Gill's preference for boys but it was mutually understood that he would not pursue or corrupt the apprentices. His brief moment with Stephen Judd could be fatal.

Nicholas stared him out. In those long, silent minutes, a bargain was struck between the two men. In return for saying nothing of what he had seen, Nicholas would keep Samuel Ruff in the company. It was an uneasy compromise but Gill yielded to it.

Stephen Judd was still flushed with guilt, which suggested that this had been the first time that he had succumbed to the actor's blandishments. Nicholas was determined that it would also be the last time. A serious talk with the boy was now due.

'Get changed, Stephen,' he said.

Nervous and confused, the apprentice turned to Gill for guidance. The actor made a vain attempt to take control of the situation and waved a dismissive hand at the book holder.

You need not wait for him, sir,' he said fussily, 'I will take the lad back to his lodging. We bid you adieu.'

'Get changed,' repeated Nicholas quietly.

After a long pause, Gill gave the boy a curt nod and the latter began to remove the costume and wig. Nicholas opened the door fully and stepped to one side. Barnaby Gill took his cue. Without a backward glance, he marched quickly away from the scene of his latest disappointment. Another conquest had been lost.

Sunday morning found Lawrence Firethorn in his accustomed place in the parish church of St Leonard's, Shoreditch, with his wife, children, apprentices and servants. He sang lustily, prayed zealously and stayed awake throughout a long and wayward sermon on a text from the Gospel According to St Mark. To all outward appearances, he was a contented family man at his regular devotions, and nobody in the full pews would have guessed that the matronly woman who stood, sat or knelt beside him was harbouring such murderous thoughts about her husband.

The Spanish Armada had served to strengthen the Protestant church immeasurably and to extend its hold over some of its less devout souls. Fear of invasion sent everyone hurrying to matins and vespers to pray for deliverance, and the English victory was celebrated in every pulpit in the land before a packed and grateful congregation. During that summer and autumn of 1588, churchwardens in town and country alike had far less cause to tax any feckless parishioners with poor attendance. Armada fever and its association with Rome swelled the flocks of even the most undeserving shepherds, and banished any nostalgia for the glories of the old religion.

Lawrence Firethorn had never been lax in attending to his spiritual needs. Old enough to remember the Latin liturgy that was restored during Mary's reign, he had been pleased when Elizabeth's accession brought a return to the Protestant service. He had quickly fallen under the spell of the Book of Common Prayer and the beauty of its language was a gift to an actor of his stature. The colour and ritual of the church had a theatricality which appealed to him and he was always ready to learn something from a priest who brought histrionic skills into the pulpit.

As he went down on his knees once more at the end of the service, his eyes did not close in prayer. They were fixed on the altar and a beatific smile covered his face. Margery Firethorn took a sidelong glance at him and wondered if he had been transfigured, such was the light that shone from him. But her husband was not suffused with the joy of Christian worship. What mesmerized him was the colour of the altar cloth--a royal blue embroidered with gold. It precisely matched the hue of the bodice that Lady Rosamund Varley had worn to The Curtain.

The text of the sermon wafted back into his ears.

'Behold, I send my messenger before thy face...'

*

Nicholas Bracewell wasted no time in passing on the good news to Samuel Ruff. Though concealing the circumstances in which it had occurred, he told the actor about Barnaby Gill's change of mind. Ruff was so delighted that he gave the book holder a spontaneous hug that crushed the breath out of him. 'This gladdens my heart, Nick!'

'They are happy tidings for us all.'

'You must have a persuasive tongue in your head.'

'I used reason and art. No more.'

'Should I speak with Master Gill on the matter?'

'That would not be wise,' said Nicholas hurriedly. 'Put your past differences behind you, Sam. I am sure that Master Gill will not wish to raise the issue again.'

They had arrived at The Queen's Head to start a morning rehearsal and they were standing outside the tiring-house. Nicholas could not have given his friend a more welcome present than the intelligence that he would remain with Westfield's Men. Ruffs normally serious face was alive with pleasure.

A booming voice interrupted their conversation.

'Nicholas, dear heart!'

'Good morning, master.'

'Good morning, sir,' muttered Ruff, withdrawing a few paces.

Lawrence Firethorn bestowed an amiable grin on the hired man then turned to Nicholas. The latter knew exactly what to expect.

'You wish me to carry a message for you?'

'Without delay, Nick.'

'Could not George Dart do the office?'

'No!' thundered Firethorn. 'I could not insult the recipient of my missive by sending such a mean bearer. This is man's work, Nick, and must not be left to some squirrel-faced youth.'

'But I am needed here,' argued the other.

'Someone else will hold the book in your absence, dear fellow. You are called to a higher duty.'

Firethorn took a letter from beneath his doublet and planted a resounding kiss on it before handing it over.

'See it delivered.'

'Yes, master.'

'Wait for an answer.'

'I will.'

The actor adopted the pose which the vicar of St Leonard's had favoured in the pulpit on the previous day, and he spoke with holy resonance.

'"Behold, I send my messenger before thy face..."'

Breaking into irreverent laughter, he clapped Nicholas on the back and went off into the tiring-house to spread his feeling of joy more liberally among the company.

Samuel Ruff stepped forward with raised eyebrows.

'Am I right in guessing who the lady is?' he said.

'Yes, Sam.'

'Does Master Firethorn know her reputation?'

'It is one of the snares that leads him on.'

'He might be less enthralled by her, if he knew what I do, Nick. Lady Rosamund Varley has been very free with her favors."

'That is no secret.'

'This may be,' suggested Ruff, lowering his voice. 'Is he aware that she was once the mistress of Lord Banbury?'

*

Cheapside was the largest and noisiest of the London markets with scores of country people standing shoulder to shoulder behind their trestle tables, exhibiting their wares in baskets on the ground or holding them up in their hands. Opened early in the morning by the tolling of a bell, the market was a swirling mass of humanity in a cauldron of sound and smell. The best poultry and milk was sold in Leadenhall Street, and those in search offish would go to Fish Street Hill or to the quays of Queenshythe and Billingsgate, but it was Cheapside that offered the widest choice and brought in the greatest crowds.

As he made his way past the endless stalls, Nicholas Bracewell had much to occupy his mind. He was uncomfortable about his role as an intermediary between Lawrence Firethorn and his latest inamorata. Apart from his fondness for the actor's wife, he was never happy when he was brought in to help stage manage Firethorn's private life. A new and disturbing element had now been added. If Lady Rosamund Varley had had such an intimate relationship with Lord Banbury, it was conceivable that she was being used by him as a way of attacking a rival company. By distracting Lawrence Firethorn, she could do a lot of harm to Westfield's Men.

Nicholas walked on towards the Gothic bulk of St Paul's. Even though lightning had deprived it of its tower, the building still dominated the skyline and acted as a magnet for the citizens or London. Houses and shops crowded the precinct walls, and an army of criminals found their richest pickings both inside and outside the cathedral. Absorbed as he was in thought, Nicholas kept a careful watch for nips and foists who might try to take his purse.

By the time he reached Ludgate, he was having deep misgivings about his part in promoting an amour which might damage the whole company. The sight of the Bel Savage Inn nearby stirred Nicholas. It figured prominently in his life because it was there hat he first fell in love with the mystique of the theatre during an exhilarating outdoor performance given by the Queen's Men. On a cold afternoon in April, the Bel Savage had determined his future and directed him to Lord Westfield's Men. With all its glaring faults, he loved the company and was ready to defend it from any threat. As he gazed affectionately at the inn, he came to a decision. He would somehow scupper the new romance. In the interests of the company, Lawrence Firethorn had to be saved from the consequences of his rising lust.

Nicholas hurried out past the City walls and along Fleet Street to The Strand. When he reached the looming opulence of Varley House, he delivered the letter but was told by a maid-in-waiting that her mistress was not at home. He was glad that there was no reply to carry back with him.

As he set off towards the City again, his mind turned once more to his quest. Will Fowler had begged him to pursue the murderer and not a day had passed when Nicholas did not renew his pledge. Redbeard would be found.

He was striding along Fleet Street when an idea brought him to a dead halt. The battered girl at the Hope and Anchor had talked about the raw wounds on her client's back, and Nicholas had wondered if the man had been dragged through the streets at a cart's tail and whipped for some minor offence. He now realized that Redbeard may have gained his scars elsewhere.

Swinging off to the right, he headed at speed in the direction of Bridewell. Built as a royal palace by Henry VIII on the banks of the Fleet River, it was a huge, rambling structure of dark red brick set around three courtyards. Members of the royal family had lived there, visiting dignitaries from abroad had stayed there, and the place had been leased to the French Ambassador for some eight years. Since the time of Edward, however, its inhabitants had been of more common stock.

Bridewell was a hospital and a prison.

Orphans, vagrants, petty offenders and disorderly women now stayed at the former palace and its regimen was strict. When Nicholas reached the building, he was given a vivid demonstration of its methods of discipline. A crowd of vagrants had just arrived at Bridewell and they were being whipped in public by the City beadles. The adults were each given a dozen strokes of the whip while the younger ones received half a dozen. With their backs bare, they whined and howled as the savage punishment was enforced.

Several onlookers had gathered to enjoy the spectacle of human suffering, but Nicholas had to turn away. It gave him no pleasure to see flesh sliced open and blood spurt out. During his time at sea, he had been forced to witness many floggings and the cruelty of it all had always turned his stomach. The short, wiry man standing beside Nicholas did not share his qualms. He roared on the beadles and cheered as each stroke landed.

'They should give a taste of the whip to them as well,' he averred. 'A hundred lashes for each one!'

'Who do you mean, sir?' asked Nicholas.

'Them!' retorted the man. 'The Spanish prisoners. Captives from the Armada. They should be flogged every morning!'

'Why, sir?'

'For speaking such a scurvy tongue!'

The man emitted a harsh cackle before turning back to his sport. He was soon reviling the victims again, exhorting the beadles to strike harder and revelling in each cry of anguish that was beaten from the shredded bodies. Nicholas despised him with all his soul yet he was grateful to him. The man had reminded him that Bridewell was being used to house captured Spaniards and Catholic prisoners.

Without quite knowing why, Nicholas Bracewell felt that he had just made an important discovery.

He walked away with growing excitement.

(*)Chapter Twelve

Firmness of purpose had always been Margery Firethorn's hallmark. When she committed herself to a course of action, she held to it with single-minded determination. Her husband did everything in his power to coax and soften her but his most cunning wiles yielded no fruit. He was treated with such cold disdain, then lashed with such a hot tongue, that his domestic life seemed to consist entirely of fire and ice. Margery would not relent until he confessed the truth to her and there was no way that he could bring himself to do that. Stalemate therefore prevailed at the house in Shoreditch.

'Good morning to you, my angel.'

'Be silent, sir.'

'Leave off these jests, Margery. Let us be friends.' Is that your desire?'

Nothing would please me more, my love.'

Then satisfy my wishes, Lawrence.'

'I prostrate myself before you.'

'Who is she?'

He lapsed into his usual silence and she clambered out of the four-poster to carry her bitterness through a new day. There had been a time when Martin Yeo, John Tallis and Stephen Judd had crept along at night to the bedchamber of their host, and sniggered together in the dark as they heard the rhythmical thump of the mattress within. Such nocturnal bliss was a thing of the past for the couple--and for the apprentices--and Firethorn knew that he would need an armed escort and a pack of dogs if were ever to mount his wife in her present mood. Only the thought of Lady Rosamund Varley sustained him.

Estranged from her husband, Margery dedicated her energies to running the household. She tackled her chores more eagerly, nurtured her children more lovingly, upbraided the servants more often, and kept the apprentices under even closer surveillance.

'How is that ankle now, Dick?'

'I am recovered, mistress.'

'There is no more pain?'

'Not from my foot,' said Richard Honeydew. 'But I still hurt when I think of what I missed at The Curtain.'

'It was an act of God.'

'My accident?'

'A perfect case of divine intervention, I warrant.'

'To what end, mistress?' he asked. 'Was God so displeased with my performance as Gloriana that he prevented it?'

'No, child. He wished to bring something to my attention.' . 'What was it?'

'A trifling piece of jewellery.'

They were in the garden and Margery was gathering up herbs to put into a stone pot. The autumnal sky was overcast with dark clouds weighting down the heavens. Margery took some fennel between her fingers and crushed it to sniff its aroma. She moved on in search of other herbs, speaking over her shoulder as she did so.

'Do you have anything to report to me?'

'About what, mistress?'

'Those three rascals. Have they been up to their tricks?'

'No.'

'Do not be afraid to tell me, Dick. They will not harm you.

'There is nothing to tell.'

It was true. The others now left him alone. Martin Yeo felt he had reaffirmed his position with Gloriana Triumphant, Stephen Judd had withdrawn, and John Tallis, the lantern-jawed juvenile, had neither the wit nor the bravado to act without the support or his comates. They still did not befriend Richard but the persecution had ceased.

'They are jealous of you,' said Margery.

'I have done so little compared with them.'

'You will do so much more in time,' she prophesied. 'That is what they fear. Your talent.' She turned round to face him. 'Do you have ambitions, Dick?'

'Yes, mistress.'

'What are they?'

'To be a good actor.'

'Not a great one?'

'I could never be as great as Master Firethorn,' he said with humility' not noticing the way that her expression froze at the mention of her husband. 'But I can study to be good. My other ambition is to play at court.'

'That opportunity may not be too far away, Dick.'

'Nothing could compare with that!' he announced with joyful sincerity. 'I was cheated out of my chance to play the role of Her Majesty. I could ask for no greater recompense than to act before her. That is ambition enough for anyone!'

His young face glowed with innocent hope.

*

Anne Hendrik was grateful for his company at Southwark Market. Not only was Nicholas able to carry what she bought from the stalls, his muscular presence cleared a path through the crowd and spared her the attentions of many undesirables. She was always happy to be in public with him, and felt that their friendship took on a new meaning when they engaged in simple chores together. Anne examined some fruit with a knowing eye, but her mind was on other matters.

'It is a blessing that the child was safely delivered,' she said. 'I reared that she might miscarry'

'Because of the shock of Will's death?'

'Less tragedies have altered the course of nature.'

'Not in Susan's case, thank God,' he said with a smile.

'No, mother and daughter are both well.'

Nicholas sighed. 'The pity of it is that Will Fowler never lived to see his bonny child.'

A letter had arrived from St Albans the previous day to tell them of the birth of a daughter to Susan Fowler. Since neither she nor her parents could write, the missive had been penned by the parish priest. Nicholas and Anne had been delighted to hear the news but they were puzzled by one item in the letter. Susan Fowler had thanked them for a gift of a crib.

'We sent no crib,' said Anne. 'Why did she think we did?'

'It must have been left for her to find,' he suggested. 'A secret offering with the sender unnamed. We should feel flattered that she thought of us, Anne. Susan must believe us capable of such kindness.'

'If only we had been. I will send another present for the child It has many needs, I am sure, and few enough of us to care.'

She bought some apples, pears and plums and put them in the already overflowing basket that Nicholas was holding. It was time to head back. As they turned their steps towards home, Anne Hendrik tucked herself in beside him and puzzled over something.

'Nick...'

'Yes?'

'If we did not send that gift--then who did?'

It was a problem which exercised them all the way back.

Because they had set out so early, it was still well before eight when they reached the house. Nicholas took the basket inside and helped her to unload it, then he had a frugal breakfast before going out again. His working day would be another long one.

Taking a boat across the river, he alighted on the north bank and struck off towards Gracechurch Street. There was a Performance at The Queen's Head that afternoon and they were clue to rehearse Marriage and Mischief--a seasoned comedy from their repertoire--until noon. Barnaby Gill would take the central role of a jealous husband who is driven into a demonic rage by the apparent infidelity of his wife. Stephen Judd was cast as his spouse.

In view of what he had seen them doing in the tiring-house, Nicholas felt that the drama would have extra piquancy for him. The actor and the apprentice would act out intimacies in public which would be abhorrent in private. The audience who would laugh and mock the old husband's plight would have no inkling of the poignancy that lay behind it.

Nicholas was still meditating on the layered irony of the situation when something claimed his attention with a stunning immediacy. Benjamin Creech was standing in a shop doorway near the inn, deep in conversation with a tall, hulking man.

It was Redbeard.

'Hold the villain!'

The shout burst from his lips as he broke into a run. 'Stop him!'

Alerted by the yells, Redbeard looked up to see Nicholas tearing wards him. He reacted swiftly, spinning on his heel and haring off towards Fenchurch Street in a wild panic. Shoppers were scattered, vendors knocked aside, stalls overturned, and dogs sent howling as the tall figure charged recklessly on through the press.

Nicholas chased him at full pelt, oblivious to the irate cries and loud protests he left in his wake. The whole street was now in an uproar.

Redbeard was moving fast but Nicholas found additional speed to close on him. He got within ten yards of his quarry before he came to grief. Sensing that the pursuit was closing in, Redbeard suddenly stopped to grab a low cart and swung it around into

Nicholas's path. Before he could stop himself, the book holder had gone headfirst over the obstacle and landed on the ground in a huge pool of cracked shells and egg yolk. The owner of the cart immediately grappled with him and demanded compensation for his ruined produce. By the time that Nicholas shook him off, it was too late. Redbeard had vanished in the crowd.

Trudging back to The Queen's Head with disconsolate steps, Nicholas threw apologies right and left to the baying multitude. It was only when he reached the inn that he remembered Benjamin Creech. He straightened up and went quickly in through the main gate. Creech was on the far side of the yard, chatting with one of the journeymen. Nicholas hurried over to him, took him aside and pinned him up against a wall.

'Who was that man?' he demanded.

'Take your hands off me!' growled Creech.

'Who was he?' pressed Nicholas, tightening his grip.

'I have never seen the fellow before.'

'That is an arrant lie, Ben!'

'You wrong me, Master Bracewell.'

'I saw you talking with the man even now.'

'He stopped me in the street and asked directions to Islington.' Creech struggled to escape. 'Leave go of me!'

'You know him!' accused Nicholas, 'He was a stranger to me until this day.'

'Well, he is no stranger to me, Ben. I have seen that cur before He is the man who murdered Will Fowler.'

'Then I wish I had shaken the fellow's hand.'

The smirk on Creech's face made Nicholas explode with anger. He banged the actor hard against the wall then hurled him to the ground. Creech slowly picked himself up. All his resentment and bile came bubbling to the surface now and his lip curled in contempt. Lowering his shoulder, he charged into Nicholas and knocked him back several yards. Creech was a powerful man and he would fight to the finish.

But Nicholas was roused now. The insult to Will Fowler made something snap inside him. He closed with Creech again and the two of them wrestled violently, watched by a small knot of people who came running over. Creech got his adversary in a bear hug but Nicholas was strong enough to break it and send the other reeling backwards. As Creech lunged at him again, he met a flurry of punches that stopped him in his tracks. Shaking his head to clear it, Creech swung wild punches of his own but Nicholas eluded them with ease.

Panting hard, the actor stopped for a moment to gather his strength then he charged in again with fists flying. Nicholas was ready for him. Throwing Creech off balance with a clever feint, he sank a punch into the man's solar plexus which took all his breath away. As his opponent doubled up with pain, Nicholas despatched him with a blow to the chin. Creech slumped to the ground in a heap and a few cheers went up from the spectators.

Nicholas rubbed the raw knuckles on his right hand and gazed down at Creech. The man had deserved his drubbing for his callous remark about Will Fowler but he clearly did not know Redbeard. Annoyed with himself for losing his temper, Nicholas stooped down to help the fallen man up.

'Keep off!' snarled Creech, pushing him away.

Staggering to his feet, the actor wiped some of the blood away from his mouth and shot Nicholas a look of malevolent hatred-Benjamin Creech then lumbered out through the main gate of the yard. Lord Westfield's Men had just lost a member of the company.

*

The performance that afternoon passed in a kind of blur for Nicholas Bracewell. Though he held the book for Marriage and Mischief and discharged his duties with his customary efficiency, his mind was elsewhere. The image of Redbeard stayed before him. He was galled that he had come so close to the man then let him get away.

Creech's absence had caused no major problems because he was only playing two small parts. Samuel Ruff took over one of them and the other was excised altogether. Barnaby Gill kept the audience rocking with mirth at his comic rages and Stephen Judd brought a willing competence to the role of the wife. In the small but telling part of a maidservant, Richard Honeydew showed real flair and his pert banter caused much amusement. Edmund Hoode, as a doddering old man, equipped his character with gout, deafness and a pronounced stutter in order to reap his laughs.

Lawrence Firethorn took the romantic lead. Though not as long a role as Gills, it was equally effective and it glittered through the afternoon. Barnaby Gill held sway over the coarser appetites of the groundlings but it was Firethorn who appealed to the more sensitive palates in the galleries. He made his speeches ring with passion and vibrate with subtle innuendo. When he delivered the Epilogue in rhyming couplets, he addressed each honeyed word to Lady Rosamund Varley, who was gracing the occasion with another of her spectacular dresses. Delighted yet again with his performance, she threw something down to him as he came out to take his bow.

Nicholas was relieved that it was all over and that he had not made any blunders through lack of concentration. He now braced himself for the reproaches that were to come. Because of him, Benjamin Creech stalked out of the company on the day of a Performance. Part of the book holder's job was to prevent violence, not to provoke it. Firethorn would certainly take him to task now that Marriage and Mischief could be put safely back in the playchest again. Fighting in the company was something that the actor would not tolerate. It was possible that Nicholas's own future with Westfield's Men was at risk.

'Ah! There you are, you varlet!'

Lawrence Firethorn came sweeping into the tiring-house like an avenging angel. He made straight for the book holder and lifted him bodily from his stool.

'Come with me, Nick!'

'Why, master?'

'We must have private conference.'

Firethorn dragged him off to the room at the rear, banished its occupants with a peremptory wave, then shut the door firmly behind them. Alone with the book holder, he regarded him seriously from beneath curling eyebrows.

'The day of judgement has arrived, sir,' he began.

'It was my fault,' apologized Nicholas frankly. 'I should not have let Creech put me to choler like that.'

'Creech?'

'His loss may yet be a gain, master. I believe that Creech may have been responsible for all our recent thefts.'

'Forget Creech,' said Firethorn irritably. 'I came to speak on a mightier theme.'

With a sinking sensation, Nicholas understood what he meant.

'Lady Rosamund Varley?'

'She has replied to my entreaty, Nick.' He produced the red rose which she had thrown to him on stage. 'With this.'

'Oh.'

Firethorn sniffed the rose and savoured its fragrance. A huge grin split his face in two like a sliced melon. He slapped his thigh with glee.

'She is mine!' he exclaimed. 'The day of judgement has come and I have not been found wanting. This is the appointed night for our tryst. We will need your assistance, Nick.'

'What must I do?' asked the other, hesitantly.

'Smooth the wrinkled path to love, dear heart!'

'I low, master?'

Firethorn gave him his instructions. He was to repair with all speed to the Bel Savage Inn on Ludgate Hill and hire their best rooms for the night. Supper was to be served at a stipulated hour and there were precise details of the menu. Even the nature of the lighting was specified. When he had finalized all these arrangements, Nicholas was to return to The Queen's Head and convey a message of confirmation to Lady Rosamund Varley, who would still be with Lord Westfield and his entourage in their private room.

'May I ask one question?' said Nicholas.

'Ask away, dear fellow.'

'Why have you chosen the Bel Savage?'

'Because,' replied the other, letting his chest swell with pride, 'it was there that I first gave the world my Hector!'

He bowed extravagantly to imagined applause then left the room with a flourish. Nicholas gave a man smile. At a time when much more urgent concerns pressed upon him, he was being used to promote Firethorn's adultery. He did not forget Lady Varley's old association with Lord Banbury and his earlier decision stood. He would emulate the play which had been staged that afternoon.

Nicholas would cause mischief in a marriage.

*

The injustice of it all gnawed at the very entrails of Edmund Hoode. A sonnet which achieved its desired objective for another man had signally failed for its author. The mellifluous verse which helped to enchant Lady Rosamund Varley had been wasted on Rose Marwood. The landlord's daughter was beyond the reach of poetry.

The poet was devastated but there was worse to come yet. When he changed out of his costume after the performance, he went to the taproom for some refreshment. Alexander Marwood pounced. The landlord's twitch was in full operation.

'A word with you, Master Hoode.'

'What ails you, sir?'

'A most grave matter. There is lechery abroad.'

'Indeed?'

'Read the sinful document for yourself.'

He thrust a small scroll at the other and Hoode found himself staring down at his own sonnet. It had not been handled with kindness. The parchment was creased and covered with crude fingerprints. It was symbolic.

'Well, sir?' demanded Marwood.

'It is...moderately well-written,' said Hoode, pretending to read the lines for the first time. 'How came this into your hands, sir?'

'It was given to my daughter by some scoundrel.'

'Who was he?'

'Rose could not say. It happened so quickly.'.

'Then how may I help you?'

'By finding the author of this vile stuff,' insisted the landlord. 'I tried to speak to Master Firethorn about it but he brushed me off. I turn to you instead. We must root out this fiend.'

'Why, sir?'

'Why, sir? Because my daughter's virtue is in danger as long as this lascivious knave remains in your company. My wife is resolved, Master Hoode. The man must go.'

'Go?'

'We will not lie easy in our beds until he is unmasked. The villain means to ravish our daughter.'

'I see nothing of that in the sonnet.'

'It is between the lines,' hissed Marwood. He controlled his twitch long enough to deliver an ultimatum. 'My wife and I are agreed, sir. Unless he is driven out, we must henceforth close our doors to Westfield's Men.'

'But how do you know he belongs to the company?'

'We know,' said the other darkly.

Edmund Hoode felt his heart constrict. Instead of winning the favours of Rose Marwood, his sonnet had brought the full weight of her parents down upon him. The relationship between landlord and company was always uneasy. His poem had thrown it into jeopardy.

'Rose fetched it to us,' explained Marwood. 'She does not read. No more do I with any great skill, but my wife is educated. She read its bold message clear enough. My wife has a quick mind, sir. You may have noticed.'

'Yes, yes,' agreed Hoode.

'She thinks that scroll might have a clue.'

'Clue?'

'At the bottom there,' said the landlord, jabbing a bony finger at the poem. 'Two letters are picked out, sir. "E" and "H". Might they not be his initials?'

'Oh, I think not,' replied the poet, trying to put him off the scent. 'That is too obvious a device for the fellow. He works in deeper ways.' He stared at the sonnet and invention came to his aid. 'I think I have it, Master Marwood!'

'You know the villain's hand?'

'No, bin I can guess at his name. There is a clue here if we can but unravel it. Read the opening lines.'

'Do it for me, sir. I am no scholar.'

'"Be mine, sweet creature, come unto thy love,

O rarest rose, wilt not upon thy stem..."'

'Lechery in every word!' wailed the landlord.

'You see how the first letter is writ large?' said Hoode, thrusting the scroll under his nose. 'That "B" stands for Ben, I'll wager.'

'Ben who?'

'Look to that "sweet creature". There is our clue. Hidden in that "creature", I dare swear, is a certain Creech.'

'Ben Creech?'

'One of the hired men in the company.'

'I know him. A surly fellow who cannot hold his ale.'

'He is our man, sir.'

'Could such a man as that write poetry?'

'He paid some scribbler to write it for him,' argued Hoode. 'Creech has been eyeing your daughter, Master Marwood, and it comes as no surprise to me. We had trouble with the fellow when we played at The Saracen's Head in Islington. It was a serving-wench on that occasion. Creech is a hot-blooded rogue.'

'He must be sent on his way!' yelled Marwood vengefully.

'He already has been. Ben Creech is no longer with us.'

'Is this true?'

'It is an accident that heaven provides,' said the other easily. Danger has passed and your daughter is safe.'

'This news brings much relief, sir.'

To me as well!' muttered Hoode with feeling. 'Tell me, Master Marwood. Did anyone read the sonnet to your daughter?'

'My wife did,' answered the landlord, twitching merrily. 'That was part of our concern, sir. Rose liked it. She is a fanciful girl and easily led astray. The poem touched her.'

Marwood went off across the room and Edmund Hoode wiped some of the perspiration from his lip. Agility of mind had saved both him and the company. Benjamin Creech had been palmed off as the love-lorn swain. Hoode's own hopes had been dashed for ever but there was one consolation. Rose Marwood did respond to a poet's lute, after all. She would think fondly of her admirer.

Needing some fresh air after the encounter with the landlord Hoode went out into the yard where the stage was being taken down. It was a scene he had witnessed many times but it was to hold a cruel element for him now. George Dart was as busy as always, carrying trestles away under the eaves that ringed the yard. The little stagekeeper paused to catch his breath and caught more. Rose Marwood popped out of her hiding place near the stables and kissed him on the cheek before racing away again. Since he had given her the poem, she clearly thought that he was its author.

Edmund Hoode's misery was complete. He went home.

*

The Bel Savage Inn supplied all his needs. He was given a large, low, well-furnished room with an adjacent bed-chamber which featured rich hangings around its four-poster. Nicholas Bracewell had been as reliable as always. Walking around the room, Lawrence Firethorn gave silent thanks for his book holder. Everything was as it should be, even down to the number and positioning of the candles. As night began to draw its curtains, the whole place was bathed in a soft, bewitching glow.

His patience was at last rewarded. When Lady Rosamund arrived, they would share an exquisite repast and drink the finest Canary wine. Musicians had been hired to play for them. He would then woo her ardently and they would glide together into the bed-chamber to consummate their love on a four-postered paradise. Life could hold nothing sweeter for him.

He heard a sound on the landing outside and came out of his reverie. There was a tap on the door. He cleared his throat.

'Come in.'

The door opened and Nicholas Bracewell looked in.

'The lady is below, master.'

'Show her up, sir.'

'She will be with you presently.'

Nicholas closed the door behind him and Firethorn moved to the mirror to check his appearance for the last time. Because Lady Rosamund had expressed a wish to see his Hector, he had thought of dressing up in the costume that he had worn while playing the role, but he decided that that would be gilding the lily. Looking spruce and gallant in his doublet and hose, he adjusted his hat slightly then smiled at himself in the mirror.

Footsteps sounded outside. He took up his stance and cleared his throat again. There was another tap on the door, it swung open and she was conducted into him. The whole room was filled with her presence and he swooned as he inhaled her luscious perfume. Nicholas withdrew and closed the door, leaving them alone together for the first time in their lives.

Lady Rosamund Varley stood in the shadows and smiled tenderly at him. A long gown covered her dress, a hood concealed her face. She had come to the assignation with as much eagerness as he had and he sensed her breathless urgency.

Firethorn had the speech to fit the occasion.

'"Now shall great Hector lay aside his sword,

Put off the garlands of a warrior,

And, talking terms of love, embrace defeat,

Surrender to his mistress all he hath!"'

*

He removed his hat to make his bow. Her gloved hands applauded softly and she stepped forward into the light. It was exactly as he had imagined it would be.

I have waited for this moment a long time,' he said.

With courteous boldness, he moved towards her and gently eased back her hood so that he could taste the honey of her lips. The kiss was brief and light and oddly familiar. He pulled back and looked her in the face. His amorous inclination fell stone dead. It was not Lady Rosamund Varley at all. It was his wife.

And have you done all this for me, Lawrence?' she asked.

For whom else, my clove?'

His actors training saved him once again.

*

It was well past midnight and a sudden downpour was washing the streets of London and carrying away their refuse in busy rivulets. Splashing through the puddles, Benjamin Creech lurched his way home from the tavern and cursed the weather. It had been a bad day for him. His anger had made him walk out of Westfield's Men and he now saw what a mistake it had been. He was no longer of use. Giles Randolph wanted him where he could do harm.

By the time that he reached his lodging, he was soaked to the skin. He let himself in and blundered his way upstairs. Belching loudly, he went into his tiny room and tottered towards the mattress, ready to drop on to it as he was to sleep off his inebriation. As he leaned forwards, however, strong arms grabbed him and thrust him into the only chair.

'Sit down, sir!'

'Who are you?' grunted Creech, totally bewildered.

'An old friend has come calling.'

Too drunk to get up and too weak to protest, Creech had to sit there while the tallow was lighted. The yellow flame helped him to identify his visitor.

'Master Bracewell!'

'You left before we had finished our dealings, Ben.'

'I've no dealings with you, sir!'

'No,' replied Nicholas. 'Your dealings have been with Banbury's Men.' He held up some gloves. 'These were stolen from Hugh Wegges. That music there was taken from Peter Digby. I found John Tallis's cap here and George Dart's shoes and much else that you sneaked off with.' He threw a glance of disgust around the miserable lodging. 'It is a pity you did not bring Thomas Skillen's broom back here and put it to some use.'

'Get out!' said Creech drowsily.

'Not until we have had a talk, Ben.'

'I've nothing to say to you.'

'Did you steal this?' demanded Nicholas, thrusting a tabor at him. When Creech remained silent, he grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. 'Answer me, sir!'

'I cannot...breathe...'

'Did you steal it?' said Nicholas, exerting more pressure.

'Aye.'

'And the rest of the things?'

'Aye.'

'Did you try to cripple Dick Honeydew?'

'You will choke me!'

'Did you, Ben?'

'Aye.'...

'And was it to help Banbury's Men?'

Fearing that he would be strangled, Creech nodded his admission of guilt. Nicholas released him and took a step back to reach for something from the table. Starting to retch, the other man rubbed at his sore neck. When Nicholas put his face in close, he could smell the stink on Creech's breath.

'There is more you have to tell me, Ben.'

'No.'

'You did know Redbeard. You were his accomplice.'

'As God's my witness, I never saw the man before.'

'You set on me that night in Bankside,' said Nicholas with subdued fury. 'The two of you worked together.'

'That is not true!' howled Creech.

'Then how did you come by this?'

Nicholas dropped something into his lap and his companion stared at it with blurred, uncomprehending eyes. The object had been lying with the rest of Creech's spoils.

It was the prompt book for Gloriana Triumphant.

Lord Westfield's Men had grown accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of their leading actor but he could still surprise them from time to time. When Lawrence Firethorn summoned a meeting of the full company, they all expected that it would follow its normal course. He would first harangue them for what he felt were gross lapses in standards then he would commend anything praiseworthy that he had noted in their recent work. Finally, he would remind them of the intense rivalry they faced from other dramatic companies and urge them on to greater efforts to enhance the reputation of Westfield's Men.

It was different that morning. He did not even look like the same man. In place of the usual alert and spirited personality was a rather dull, jaded, weary human being. Jokes immediately circulated about the exhausting effects of his supposed night with Lady Rosamund Varley and many sniggers had to be held back. Barnaby Gill was on hand with a characteristically tart comment.

'No wonder he cannot walk straight,' he said to Edmund Hoode in a whispered aside. 'The lady has broken his middle leg!'

'What is amiss with him?' wondered the other.

'Lust, Edmund. Over-satisfied lust.'

They were gathered in the tiring-house at The Queen's Head. Instead of attacking them with a barrage of words, Firethorn spoke quietly and almost without interest. There was no condemnation, no praise and no inspiration. He supported himself with one hand against the door jamb.

'Good morning to you one and all, gentlemen.'

(*)Chapter Thirteen

There was a murmured response from the whole company.

'I speak or our future,' he began, suppressing a yawn. 'Over the next six weeks, we shall be playing here, principally, at the Red Lion in Stepney, the Boar's Head near Aldgate, The Curtain, The Theatre and at Newington Butts. We will also make our debut at The Rose.' Another yawn threatened. 'Our repertoire will be Love and Fortune, The Two Maids of Milchester, Cupid's Folly, The Queen of Carthage, Marriage and Mischief and...' The pause brought the slightest twinkle to his eye. 'And Hector of Troy.' There was a buzz of interest. 'That is all, gentlemen.'

The buzz became a mild hubbub and the meeting started to break up. Lawrence Firethorn quelled all movement with a raised voice that flew to the back of the room like a spear.

'One thing more!'

Silence fell instantly. He was in no hurry.

'One thing more, gentlemen,' he repeated casually, as if passing on some minor piece of gossip. 'Westfield's Men have been invited to appear at Court this Christmas.'

Joy and amazement greeted the announcement and Firethorn watched it all with a beaming smile. His energy now seemed fully restored and he shared in general happiness. Performance at Court would bring no great financial advantage but it was a signal honour and it conferred status on the company. The previous year, it had been Banbury's Men who had played before the Queen during the Christmas Festivities. Firethorn's company had now supplanted them and there was a special pleasure in that.

Nicholas Bracewell watched it all with wry amusement. The leading actor could not simply pass on the good tidings to his fellows. He had to give them a performance and his air of fatigued indifference had fooled them all. The actor had set the place ablaze. Nicholas gazed round the faces in the tiring-house and saw the impact that the news had made.

Barnaby Gill wore a look of smug satisfaction as if he had just been accorded his just deserts. Edmund Hoode seemed a trifle overwhelmed. Richard Honeydew was ecstatic and almost in tears. Martin Yeo grinned, Stephen Judd giggled and the lantern jaw of John Tallis was dropped in awe. But it was Samuel Ruff whose reaction interested Nicholas the most. He sat in the corner with his eyes glistening, a man whose dream had just been fulfilled.

Here was a failed actor, outlawed from the profession, then rescued from obscurity. Instead of milking cows in Norwich over Christmas, he would be playing before Queen Elizabeth. Nicholas was very pleased for him.

Lawrence Firethorn now swooped down on him.

'Come here, you knave, you Satan!'

'Was everything to your satisfaction last night, master?'

The actor's rich chuckle cut through the tumult. With an arm around Nicholas, he led him out on to the stage which had already been erected in the yard. There were a few people about but there was an illusion of privacy.

'Why did you not tell me it was Margery?' asked Firethorn.

'It would have spoiled the moment of discovery.'

'Indeed, it would.'

'Mistress Firethorn is an astute woman,' argued Nick. 'She would have to be to marry you, master.'

'How came she to the Bel Savage?' demanded Firethorn.

'I brought her there.'

'Why?'

'Because she learned of your tryst,' lied Nicholas with convincing sincerity. 'Do not ask me how. Some gossip in the company may have told her. Mistress Firethorn purposed to come to the inn herself last night.'

'Heaven forfend!'

'I took your part in the matter and swore that you were faithful to her. The proof of which, I said, was that it was she who was bidden to supper at the Bel Savage.' He gave a discreet smile. 'The rest, I believe, you know.'

'I do, Nick,' said Firethorn nostalgically.

'Everything was to your taste?'

'Margery was a changed woman,' recalled her husband fondly. 'I played Hector once again and sheathed my sword for lack of argument.' He massaged the other's shoulder. 'Marriage has many pains, Nick, but it has its pleasures, too.'

Nicholas nodded sagely. One night of marital bliss had altered the case considerably. The fever of passion that Lady Rosamund Varley had excited had broken in the arms of Margery Firethorn. He was no longer besotted.

'How did you dispose of my other guest?' said the actor.

'By making your excuses. I told her that you had been struck down by a mysterious illness and that you would not be able to meet her. She was not too pleased, master.'

There was a long, ruminative pause. Firethorn chuckled.

'No matter. There are other ladies in London.'

Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode came out of the tiring-house in search of their colleague. Nicholas detached himself and left the three sharers alone on stage.

'Why was I not told first?' said Gill petulantly.

'But you were,' reminded Firethorn. 'No man heard the news before you, Barnaby.'

'What are we to play, Lawrence?' wondered Hoode. That is a question we must address with all speed.'

'Why not Marriage and Mischief?' suggested Gill, choosing a drama that gave prominence to his talents.

Parts of it are too base,' complained Hoode.

'Only those in which Barnaby is involved,' teased Firethorn.

'It has held the stage these three years for us,' argued Gill hotly. 'It has proven its worth.'

'So have many other plays,' countered Hoode.

'My vote is for Marriage and Mischief,' insisted Gill.

'And mine is not,' added Firethorn. 'Tried and tested it may be, Barnaby, but we cannot offer such a tired piece to the Court. Novelty is in request, sir. That is why I will commission a new play for the occasion.'

'By whom?' asked Edmund Hoode cautiously.

The look in Firethorn's eye made him quiver.

*

Outdoor performances were less comfortable as the days got colder and the nights started to draw in. Nicholas Bracewell found that the journeys home were now much quicker as he was hurrying to get in out of the chill. As he made his way back after another day at The Queen's Head, he was conscious of winter's swift approach. The wind bit more hungrily and the flurry of rain stung his face. He pulled his hat down over his brow and lengthened his stride. Bankside was not far away now.

Nicholas was as thrilled as anyone by the invitation to play at Court. It would bring kudos to Westfield's Men. It also gave them an opportunity to perform in conditions which were unique and which would force them to modify their outdoor techniques. Most important of all, it lifted the morale of the company after a succession of setbacks and enabled them to look forward instead of glancing back.

The past still obsessed Nicholas, however. Will Fowler's death had not been avenged and he was still dogged by the memory of the slit throat of Alice at The Cardinal's Hat. He was constantly reminded of the savagery of the men he sought. Creech may have been removed but the company was threatened by more malign forces. He had to be vigilant.

His walk through Bankside took him past the Hope and Anchor and a wash of noise slopped out as he went by the tavern. He thought of the last time he had seen Will Fowler alive, enjoying the company of his two friends, crackling with good humour and infused with a kind of truculent benevolence. Danger had attracted him to his profession and it was danger which had brought him down when he was off guard.

Nicholas determined that he would never be taken unawares. After the earlier attack on him, he was excessively careful when out alone at night. His increased watchfulness now came to his aid. He was no more than twenty yards from the house when he . saw the man. The tall figure was lurking in the shadows behind the angle of the house. Nicholas would not make any rash move this time. He had learned his lesson.

Pretending to have noticed nothing, he went up to the front door and fumbled for his key. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched for movement but none came. Yet the man was still there, still waiting, still exuding a profound menace. Nicholas prepared for attack. Inserting his key in the lock, he suddenly turned away from the door and flung himself at the figure in the darkness.

He met no resistance. The moment he hit the body, it went limp and collapsed against him. He lowered the man carefully to the ground so that he was face down. Between his shoulder blades was the handle of a long dagger.

Nicholas was totally confused.

The dead man was Redbeard.

*

Anne Hendrik was torn between relief at his safety and horror at the murder which had taken place on her doorstep. When officers had been summoned and the body removed, she drew Nicholas into her bed once more for comfort and reassurance.

Afterwards, they lay in each other's arms.

'Who was he?' asked Anne.

'There was no clue to his identity upon his person,' he said. 'We may never know his true name.'

'And was he working with Benjamin Creech?'

'No,' replied Nicholas. 'I am certain of that now. Ben never met him until that day. Redbeard contrived to be seen with him for my benefit.'

'Why?' she wondered.

'To throw suspicion upon Ben. I was meant to come upon them as I did. Redbeard knew that he could escape in that crowd.'

Anne considered the notion then sat up in surprise.

'Then it was all part of some deep plot?'

'I believe so.'

'What about the prompt book?' she reminded him. 'It was in Creech's lodging with some of the other things he stole.'

'I was deceived by that at first,' he admitted. 'It was intended that I should be. I would hazard a guess that Redbeard placed the book at the lodging for me to find. It linked Ben with the attack on me and with the killing of Will Fowler.' He shook his head. 'No, Anne. This is not the work of Ben Creech. We are up against a much more cunning adversary. He has been clever enough to hide his trail and ruthless enough to murder his own accomplice.'

'Redbeard?'

'My belief is that he was killed by his friend.'

She was aghast. 'His friend?.'

'Yes,' he argued. 'Who else would get close enough to a man like that to stab him in the back? Redbeard lived in foul dens and dark alleys. That was his world. Nobody would ever gain an advantage over him there.'

'Unless it was someone he trusted.'

'His accomplice. The man who hit me from behind.'

'Oh, Nick!'

The memory of the assault made her cling to him for a long time. He had to soothe her with kisses and caresses. Three people had now been murdered in gruesome circumstances and she was convinced that he would be the next victim. Nicholas was equally persuaded that he was quite safe. His life had already been spared once and he now realized why.

'He will not kill me, Anne,' he decided.

'How can you be so sure?'

'Because he needs me alive. He needs me in the company.'

'For what reason?'

'I have not fully divined it yet,' he confessed. 'But it has something to do with our appearance at Court. Perhaps that was the desired end all along. Once it had been achieved, Redbeard had served his purpose. He could be cast aside with a dagger in his back.'

'But why here? Outside my house?'

'So that I would be aware of his death. So that I would be misled even further. So that I would think all danger had passed.'

'I cannot make sense of this, Nick,' she complained.

He pulled her down to him and embraced her warmly. Then there was a long silence as he tried to puzzle it all out. She began to think that he was dozing off but his mind was racing as he evolved a plan.

'Who is your best hatmaker, Anne?' he said abruptly.

'What?'

'At the shop. Who is your most skilful craftsman?'

'Preben van Loew.'

'Can he make other things than hats?'

'Preben can make anything,' she said confidently.

'Could he make a dress?'

'Of course.'

'This would be a very special and elaborate costume.'

'You have your own tiremen in the company,' she pointed out. 'Could not they handle this commission?'

'It would not be politic,' he said. 'This is a secret that must be shared by as few people as possible. Master Firethorn will have to be involved but the rest of the company must be kept in ignorance. Apart from the boy, that is.'

'The boy?'

'It will all become clear in time,' he promised.

'Nick, what are you talking about?'

He pulled her closer and whispered in her ear.

'Play-acting.'

*

When he got to The Queen's Head next morning, the first person he sought out was Samuel Ruff. They went off to a corner of the yard to be alone together. Nicholas told him what had happened the previous night. The actor was astonished to hear about Redbeard's death, but that astonishment quickly convened to anger.

'Where is he, Nick?'

'He was taken away by the officers.'

Find out where. I wish to see him.'

'Why?' asked Nicholas.

'Because I want to look on the face of the cur who killed Will Fowler.' Sarcasm took over. 'I want to pay my respects!'

'Stay well away, Sam. That is my advice.'

Ruff punched the palm of his left hand.

'If only I had got to him first!' he said ruefully. 'I hoped to avenge Will's death myself. Redbeard escaped me.'

'He came to a deserved end.'

'I wanted to plunge the dagger into him!'

'It is too late for that now,' observed Nicholas.

Samuel Ruff inhaled deeply and fought to control his temper. When he calmed down, he nodded sagely.

'You are right,' he agreed. 'I suppose that we should just be grateful that his wretched life is now over. At least we have no more to fear from the villain.'

'Not from him, Sam. But we still have a mortal enemy.'

'Who?'

'The man who struck Redbeard down. His accomplice.'

'Accomplice?' echoed the other in disbelief. 'That cannot be, surely? Why should he kill a friend?'

'Because that friend was no longer of any use,' suggested Nicholas. 'Indeed, he was starting to become a problem.'

'In what way?'

'Redbeard was too intemperate--we saw evidence enough of that in Bankside. If he was given free rein, there was always the chance that his wildness would lead him to make a serious mistake. And that would endanger the whole enterprise.'

'What enterprise?' asked Ruff with interest.

'The destruction of Westfield's Men.'

The actor pondered. He found much that was plausible in Nicholas's line of reasoning. A name eased itself into his mind.

'Ben Creech!'

'What of him, Sam?'

'He was Redbeard's accomplice.'

'I think not.'

'He was, Nick,' argued the other. 'Ben stabbed him in the back. He paid Redbeard off.'

'No,' countered Nicholas. 'Ben Creech has much to answer for but he is not a murderer. He could never devise the sort of plan that lies behind all this. Ben is not shrewd enough. He had nothing whatsoever to do with Redbeard.'

'How do you know?'

'Because he could never control someone like that. Still less could he kill him off when the time was ripe.'

'I am not so sure,' murmured Ruff.

'Ben was working for Banbury's Men,' continued Nicholas. 'He was responsible for all the thieving. His task was to unsettle the company but he could only do that while he was a member of it. Now that he is gone, that threat has vanished.'

'Yet we still have an enemy, you say?'

'We do, Sam.'

'Inside the company?'

'No. He attacked from outside. With Redbeard.'

'Do you have any idea who the man is?'

'None,' said Nicholas. 'All I know is that he will be more dangerous than ever now.'

'Why?'

'Because he failed in what he set out to do. His intention was to cripple Westfield's Men and Will's murder was his first blow against us. But we survived.'

'Instead of being laid low, the company has prospered.'

'Exactly, Sam. Our appearance at Court is proof of that. But it is bound to stir up his envy even more. I believe that he will do his best to snatch that honour away from us.'

'Not while I have breath in my body!' vowed Ruff.

'We must be Vigilance itself,' insisted Nicholas. 'He will strike when it is least expected.'

'We must be armed against him!'

'I shall say as much to Master Firethorn. The whole company must be on guard from now on. Nothing must be allowed to rob us of our appearance at Court.'

'Nothing will,' said Ruff grimly.

Nicholas patted him on the shoulder and they strolled across the yard together. The book holder remembered someone.

'This news might be welcome in St Albans,' he mused.

'St Albans?'

'I was thinking of Susan Fowler. She will be interested to learn that her husband's killer has met his own death.'

'Interested and gratified, too.'

'Oh, Susan will take no pleasure from it,' said Nicholas. 'Here is not a vengeful nature. But I hope she may draw some modicum of comfort from it. Poor girl! She will need all the comfort she can get in the days that lie ahead. Susan will have to bring up her daughter without the love and support of a husband.'

'God protect them both!' added Ruff.

'Amen!'

*

Lord Westfield's Men continued their regular round of performances but it was their visit to Court which dominated their thoughts and their conversation. December came and Christmas hove into sight. Their excitement increased with each day that passed.

Goaded into creation once more, Edmund Hoode worked hard on the new play and delivered it for comment. The Loyal Subject was the inspiration of Lawrence Firethorn and it was tailored to the generous dimensions of his talent. He suggested a number of changes himself then disputed those that were offered by Barnaby Gill. The author reached for his pen again. When the final draft was ready, it was sent off to the Master of the Revels with the usual fee. It came back with the seal of approval.

The company committed itself wholeheartedly to the new piece. The prime advantage of a Court performance was that they were given excellent rehearsal facilities and a longer period in which to perfect their work. After the hectic compromise of their normal hand-to-mouth existence, the new dispensation came as a luxury. They were indoors, they were warm, and, moreover, they were about to cut a dash at Court.

The Loyal Subject was set in a part of Italy that was quintessentially English in every detail. Edmund Hoode had made his Duchess of Milan remarkably like his own sovereign and his play was a celebration of loyalty to the Crown. In the opening scene, the hero was arraigned on a charge of treason and condemned on false evidence. He went to the block but his loyalty was so great that it outlived him. In the person of his ghost, the loyal subject controlled the action of the whole realm for the benefit of his monarch, even crushing a threatened rebellion.

Richard Honeydew was overjoyed to be given the part of the Duchess of Milan. It more than made up for his disappointment over losing the opportunity to play Gloriana. The Duchess was another version of Gloriana and there was the additional thrill this time of portraying the character in front of its mirror image, Queen Elizabeth herself. The boy was determined to prove his worth. He brought willingness and enthusiasm to every rehearsal.

Nicholas watched it all with calm satisfaction. After one of the rehearsals, he chose the moment to take Richard aside. He smiled his congratulations at the boy.

'You are excelling yourself, Dick.'

'Thank you, Master Bracewell.'

'Everyone is delighted with your work.'

'I am very anxious to please.'

'That is good.'

'I want my appearance at Court to be a success in every way.'

Nicholas nodded then he became more confidential.

'Dick...'

'Yes, master?'

'I have a favour to ask of you.'

'It is granted before it is asked,' said the boy amiably.

'Hear what it is first,' advised Nicholas. 'It is a very big favour, Dick.'

'No matter.'

'It will mean sacrifice and it will call upon your loyalty.'

'Loyalty? To whom?'

'To me. To the company. And to your Queen.' Richard Honeydew listened with fascination.

*

Lawrence Firethorn did not believe in treating the text of a play as holy writ. He was compelled to modify and refine at every turn. Adjustment was a continuous process. The Loyal Subject would not reach its finished version until the day of performance.

The person who suffered most as a result of all this was Edmund Hoode. He became more and more embattled. While accepting that a new work could always be improved, he rejected Firethorn's glib assertion that daily tinkering with a play kept it fresh and alive. It merely kept Hoode busy when he should have been devoting his energies to the playing of Marsilius, the decrepit old judge in the opening scene.

Firethorn would not relent. As the two men dined together one day, therefore, Hoode braced himself for the inevitable. The actor-manager waited until they had eaten their meal before he broached the subject. Poets responded best on a full stomach.

'Did you enjoy the Westphalian ham?' he asked.

'I will not change the trial scene again,' said Hoode.

'Nobody is suggesting that you should, dear fellow.'

'As long as that is understood, Lawrence.'

'Perfectly.'

'I regard the trial scene as sacrosanct now,' affirmed the poet. 'We have altered it so many times that I have no heart left for further changes.'

'I would not amend a single word of it, Edmund.'

'I am relieved to hear it.'

'However...'

Feeling that he needed liquid fortification, Hoode reached for his cup and drained it. He suspected another veiled attack.

'However,' repeated Firethorn, 'We must always be looking to extract the full dramatic value out of each scene. A performance at Court is a special occasion. Nothing less than our best will suffice. We must bear that in mind.'

'Come to the point, Lawrence.'

'My soliloquy in prison.'

'I feared as much!' groaned Hoode.

'It is a truly magnificent speech,' praised Firethorn, 'but I believe we can add to its lustre.'

'We have added to its lustre almost every day.'

'This is my final comment.'

'I pray that it is!'

Firethorn leaned across the table with a knowing smile.

'Lorenzo must have more passion.'

'Passion?' Hoode was taken aback.

'Yes, Edmund.'

'On the eve of his execution?'

'You misunderstand me, sir,' explained Firethorn. 'I wish to introduce a more personal note into the speech. Lorenzo bewails his fate and then extols the virtue of loyalty. He talks about honour, duty and patriotism.' The smile returned. 'He should also talk about love.'

'For whom? For what?'

'For his sovereign and for his country. The two should be wedded together in his mind. He would not dare to betray either because it would be an act of infidelity. A lover being unfaithful to his lady.' Firethorn sat back in his chair. 'Six lines will be enough. Eight, at most. Show Lorenzo in a more passionate vein.'

'I will try, Lawrence.'

'Pursue that theme. A loyalty that is rooted in a deep love. Let him woo the Duchess in choice phrases. Ten lines are all that I require. A dozen would make that speech eternally memorable.

'Leave it with me,' sighed the other.

'I knew that you would listen to reason, Edmund.'

'Is that what I did?'

The reckoning was paid and the two men rose to go.

'One thing more,' said Firethorn easily.

'Yes?'

'The execution.'

'What about it?'

'It will now take place on stage.'

Hoode gulped. 'But thai is impossible!'

'Theatre is the art of the impossible,' reminded Firethorn.

'An execution... in full view of the audience?'

'Why not, sir? It will be far more effective than the present device, where the executioner appears with Lorenzo's gory head in his hand. I will perish before their eyes.'

'How?'

'Nicholas has the way of it. Let him explain it to you.'

Respect for the book holder at least made Hoode consider the idea properly, but he could not imagine how the effect would be achieved. He shrugged his shoulders.

'I am prepared to try it,' he conceded.

'It is not a question of trying it,' said Firethorn seriously. ' That is the way it will be done during the performance. I am resolved upon it.'

*

Samuel Ruff was as pleased as anybody that Richard Honeydew had secured the female lead in the play. He was genuinely fond of the boy and appreciative of his talent. He was both hurt and puzzled, therefore, when things began to go wrong. Richard's attitude slowly changed. His eagerness faded and he became almost timid. He faltered badly. The apprentice was clearly unhappy.

Ruff took the opportunity of a private word with him. 'What is it, lad?' he asked solicitously.

'It is nothing, Master Ruff.'

'I am not blind, Dick. Something ails you.'

'It will pass, sir.'

'Is it the other boys?'

Richard gave a noncommittal grunt.

Martin Yeo was annoyed that he had not been offered the role of the Duchess of Milan but he had done nothing beyond some mild verbal sniping at Richard. Stephen Judd and John Tallis likewise mocked their young colleague without taking any mote drastic action against him.

'I watched you rehearsing just now,' said Ruff with concern. 'You stumbled over lines that you knew well a few days ago.'

'My mind becomes a blank.'

'Let me help.'

'You cannot, sir.'

'But I could teach you your part.'

'That is not the help I need.'

'Then what is, lad?'

Richard tried to tell him but the words would not come. He was evidently in some distress. Biting his lip, he turned on his heel and ran out of the room. Samuel Ruff was mystified. He took his problem to Nicholas who was poring over a sketch with one of the carpenters. Ruff spoke of his anxiety about the boy.

'Leave him be,' suggested Nicholas.

'What has happened to him? Why has he lost his way?'

'It is not his way that he has lost, Sam.'

'How so?'

'The lad is scared. He has lost his nerve.'

'With such an opportunity before him?'

'That is the cause of it all,' said Nicholas. 'The occasion is too much for him. Dick is still very young and raw. This will be his first leading role and he has to play it before the Queen of England and the whole Court. That is a lot to ask from such an inexperienced actor.'

'He is equal to it, Nick.'

'Let us hope so for all our sakes.'

'What can we do for him?' asked Ruff.

'Give him time,' advised Nicholas. 'He needs our care and understanding. I have spoken to Master Firethorn and told him not to browbeat the boy if he stumbles. That could be fatal.'

'How do you mean?'

'You have seen him, Sam. He is in a delicate state and can only take so much. If Dick Honeydew is pushed too far, he will crack.'

*

Queen Elizabeth was spending Christmas at Richmond that year. For some months now, she had been sad and withdrawn, shattered by the death in September of her old favourite, the Earl of Leicester, and shrinking from public appearances. Instead of rejoicing in the defeat of the Armada, she mourned the loss of a loved one.

The Queen chose the splendid Richmond Palace for the Christmas festivities and it was hoped that they would bring some cheer into a royal life which had narrowed considerably throughout the autumn. A full programme of music, dance and drama had been arranged for her. The Loyal Subject was the first play she would see and it was due to be given on the day after Christmas. Its theme had a particular relevance in Armada year.

The rehearsal period approached its climax. Place your head in the middle of the block, lad!'

'I am trying to, Master Firethom.'

'Hurry, you knave, or I will use the axe myself!'

Lawrence Firethorn was working on his own execution.

Nicholas Bracewell had devised the effect and he was there to supervise it. Edmund Hoode watched nervously from the corner of the room. He still had reservations about the whole thing.

The Loyal Subject opened with the trial scene in which the noble hero, Lorenzo, was condemned to death. Taken off to await his unjust fate, he delivered his long soliloquy in the prison cell. Gaolers then entered to prepare him for his final hour. Brave to the last, he was led out.

The block was brought on stage and the executioner stood beside it with his axe. When the condemned man reappeared, however, it was not Firethorn. A clever substitution had taken place. John Tallis, much shorter than the actor-manager, came in wearing an identical costume, except that his own head was below the neck of the doublet. A false head had been made, painted and covered with a wig. It bore a striking resemblance to Lorenzo.

When the head was on the block, it was chopped off. Remain quite still, you young rascal!

'Will it hurt, Master Firethorn?' whimpered Tall is.

'That depends what we decide to cut off!'

'Take care, sirs!' wailed the boy.

'Silence!'

'Have no fear, John,' said Nicholas, bending down to position the apprentice behind the block. 'You will not feel a thing.'

'But it is a real axe, Master Bracewell!'

'The weapon is in safe hands, I assure you.'

He turned to the sturdy actor who held the axe ready.

'I'll not hurt you, lad,' promised Ruff.

'But I will!' threatened Firethorn. 'If you dare to move.'

'There is no danger,' continued Nicholas, trying to calm the boy. 'Sam has been practising with that axe for days. We chose him because he is so reliable. Stay exactly where you are, John, and it will be over in a matter of seconds.'

Nicholas stood back and gave the signal. Ruff raised the blade high in the air. When it swished down, it sliced clean through the wax neck and embedded itself in the block. The false head went rolling across the floor with stunning effect.

John Tallis howled from inside the doublet.

'Am I still alive?'

*

Christmas Day began early in London and all the bells of the city tolled out their message of joy. Margery Firethorn was up well before dawn to take charge of the multifarious chores that fell to her and still find time to accompany her family to church for matins. There was great excitement in the house at Shoreditch. Her children were up to savour the wonder of the special day, and they were soon joined by Martin Yeo, John Tallis and Stephen Judd.

Margery could not understand why Richard Honeydew was so tardy. It was his first Christmas with the company and she had done what she could to ensure that he would enjoy it. Troubled by his absence, she went off to find him herself.

'Dick! Wake up, boy! It's Christmas Day!'

Now that the beams in the attic had been replaced, Richard had moved back in there. She puffed up the stairs as fast as she could. Overflowing with seasonal benevolence, she cooed and called all the way to his door.

'Don't lie abed in there, Dick! It's Christmas! Come and see what we have for you! Get up!'

Margery knocked, entered and reacted with horror.

'Lord help us!' she exclaimed.

The bed was empty and the window was wide open.

*

Richmond Palace was a sumptuous Gothic residence that was well situated between Richmond Green and the River Thames. Its skyline of turrets and gilded weather-vanes gave it a romantic image, and it was flanked by gardens and orchards that were planted with hundreds of fruit trees. The palace covered some ten acres in all and had a regular layout round a series of spacious courtyards.

The birthplace of her father, it had not been one of Elizabeth's favourite homes in the early part of her reign. Now, however, she was coming to appreciate the singular charms of a place that she called her warm winterbox. Descending upon it with her household, the Queen filled it with light and noise and colour. She even began to look forward to the Christmas festivities.

Lawrence Firethorn did not share her anticipatory pleasure. Deserted by his female lead on the day before the performance, he rushed around in a frenzy to try to repair the damage. Martin Yeo was once again promoted to royal status in a place of the youngest apprentice and Hugh Wegges had to make hasty alterations to the costumes to accommodate Yeo's greater bulk. A dark shadow had been cast over the long-awaited appearance at Court. The early carefree excitement had now gone out of the event.

The afternoon of December 26th found the company at Richmond for a last rehearsal. There was much anger over Richard Honeydew's disappearance and the upheaval it had caused. Bur one person at least tried to see it from the boy's point of view.

'I feel sorry for him,' said Ruff sadly.

'So do I,' agreed Nicholas.

'He must have been very unhappy to do this.'

'He was.'

'Yet I never thought he would run away like that.'

'I am not sure that he has, Sam.'

'What do you mean?'

'Look at the evidence,' said Nicholas. 'His room was empty. Dick and his belongings had gone. There was a ladder outside the open window.'

'How else can you explain it?'

'People go up ladders as well as down them.'

'So?'

'Dick may have fled,' conceded Nicholas, 'but it is equally possible that someone came in through the window to take him away. I think that he has been abducted.

'By whom?'

'Redbeard's accomplice. The man who has dogged us for months now. I said he would strike when least expected. What better way to hurt us than by kidnapping Dick on the eve of performance?'

Samuel Ruff was bewildered but he had no time to speculate on what might have happened. Lawrence Firethorn called them to order. They were in a crisis once more. It was time to assert his leadership and lift sagging spirits.

'Gentlemen,' he began, 'I do not need to remind you how important this occasion is for Westfield's Men. We have the honour to play before our beloved Queen and the opportunity to enhance our reputation with the highest in the realm. What occurs here this evening will have a bearing on our whole future so we must not be distracted by a minor upset. The loss of Dick Honeydew is unfortunate but it is no more than that. It is but a trifle. With hard work this afternoon, we will make up any leeway and give our new play the performance it deserves!' He raised a fist in a gesture of pride. 'Let us show our true mettle here. Let us prove we are lusty fellows, loyal subjects and the finest actors in London!'

Amid the hubbub, they all raced to their positions.

The play was being presented in the hall, which was a hundred feet long and some forty feet wide. It had an elaborate timber roof with hanging pendants. There was a lantern in the roof over a charcoal fire. The upper parts of the walls had large perpendicular windows with paintings in between of those kings of England who had distinguished themselves on the battlefield. If they had been able to study it, they would have seen that the whole apartment was an architectural wonder.

As it was, they were so preoccupied with their rehearsal that they took little stock of their luxurious surroundings. They performed on a raised platform at one end of the hall. Seating was arranged in tiers on three sides and the royal throne was set up on a dais in front of the stage.

The rehearsal was an amalgam of professional calm and frantic improvisation. Several mistakes were made but they were quickly retrieved. Martin Yeo was not as fine a Duchess as Richard Honeydew but he was more than competent. The other players adapted their performances around his. Morale was slowly boosted. The play achieved its own momentum and carried them along.

When it was all over, they rested in the adjacent room that was being used as their tiring-house. The tensions of the last twenty-four hours had sapped them mentally and physically but recovery was imminent. With Firethorn at the helm, they now believed that they could distinguish themselves with The Loyal Subject. A wounded optimism spread.

John Tallis did not share it. Nothing could quiet his urgent pessimism. He was still highly apprehensive about the execution scene. Though it went exactly to plan, with the axe doing its work some inches away from the top of his skull, the boy was not reassured. What if Samuel Ruffs aim was wayward during the performance? How could the lad defend himself?

Execution was not a precise art. The most famous headsman of the day, Bull, was notorious for his errors. When he officiated in the grim tragedy at Fotheringhay Castle, he needed three attempts to behead Mary Queen of Scots. Yet Bull was heralded as a master of his trade. Why should Ruff be any more reliable? He was an untrained novice with a murderous weapon in his hands.

Tallis took his problem to Firethorn once more.

'Find someone else to double as Lorenzo,' he pleaded.

'There is nobody else,' replied the actor-manager.

'What about George Dart? He is short enough.'

'Short enough, yes,' conceded the other. 'But is he brave enough? Is he clever enough? Is he good enough? Never, sir! He is no actor. George Dart is a willing imbecile. He does simple things well in his own simple way. Lorenzo is an heroic figure in the ancient mould. I will not be doubled by a half-wit!'

'Release me from this ordeal!' implored Tallis.

'It will help to form your character.'

'But I am afraid, master.'

'Control your fears like every other player.'

'Please!'

'You will honour your commitment.'

'It grieves me, sir.'

'Cease this complaint.'

'But why me?'

Lawrence Firethorn produced his most disarming grin.

'Because you do it so well, John,' he flattered.

He moved away before the boy could protest any further. Tallis was trapped in the matching doublet. He looked across at Samuel Ruff. The latter was as relaxed and composed as ever but the boy's qualms remained. If the executioner's hand slipped, the career of John Tallis could be sliced in two. It was a devastating thought.

A muted excitement pervaded the room. Everyone else was savouring the experience of playing at Court. What the play offered them was a brief moment at the very pinnacle of their profession. The Loyal Subject was about duty and patriotism and love. It was the perfect Christmas gift for their Queen.

John Tallis viewed it differently. The execution scene was paramount for him. He had no concern for the themes of the drama or for its wider values. Only one thing mattered.

Where would the axe fall?

It was a pertinent question.

*

Queen Elizabeth and her Court supped in splendour that night. Fresh from their banquet and mellowed by their wine, the lords and ladies took up their appointed places in the hall at Richmond Palace. Caught in the flickering light of a thousand candles, they were an august and colourful assembly. A good-humoured atmosphere prevailed. Behind the posing and the posturing and the brittle repartee was a fund of genuine warmth. They were a receptive audience.

Every one of the tiered seats was taken but the throne stayed empty. While her guests waited for the entertainment, the Queen herself caused a delay. It was unaccountable. The longer she stayed away, the greater became the speculation. In no time at all, the whole place was a buzz of rumour.

The delay brought grave disquiet backstage. Keyed up for their performance, the actors were distressed by the unexpected wait. They were all on edge. Lawrence Firethorn paced uneasily up and down. Edmund Hoode's throat went dry and Barnaby Gill fidgeted nervously with his costume. Martin Yeo's bladder seemed to be on the point of bursting and John Tallis felt a prickly sensation around his neck. As he stood ready to set the furniture for the opening scene, George Dart was shaking like an aspen.

Even Samuel Ruff was disconcerted. His anxiety steadily increased. Perspiration broke out all over him and his naked arms and shoulders were glistening. As the delay stretched on and on, he fondled the handle of the axe with sweaty palms.

'Where is her Majesty?' whispered Gill.

'Exercising the privilege of royalty,' returned Firethorn.

'Making her players suffer?'

'Taking her time, Barnaby.'

A trumpet fanfare told them that the Queen had at last arrived. The comfortable din in the hall fell to a murmur. The tension among the players increased. Their moment was at hand.

Lawrence Firethorn applied his eye to a narrow gap in the curtain at the rear of the stage. He described what he saw in a low, reverential voice.

Surrounded by her guard, Queen Elizabeth sailed down the hall and ascended the dais to take up her seat on the throne. Resplendent in a billowing dress of red velvet, she acknowledged all those around her with a condescending wave. Her hair was encircled with pearls and surmounted by a tiny gold crown that was encrusted with diamonds. Her jewelled opulence filled the hall. Time had been considerate to her handsome features and her regal demeanour was unimpaired. Flames from the candles and from the huge fire made her finery dance with zest.

The actor-manager concluded with an awed whisper.

'Gentlemen, we are in the presence of royalty!'

Nicholas Bracewell took over the watch. When the Queen was settled, she motioned to Sir Edmund Tilney, the Master of the Revels, and he in turn signalled to the book holder. On a call from Nicholas, the command performance began.

Music wafted down from the gallery where Peter Digby and his musicians were placed. The prologue was delivered and the trial scene commenced. From his first line, Firethorn exerted his power over the audience. He went on to bewitch them with his voice, to thrill them with his spirited honesty and to move them with his anguish. By the end of the scene, he had touched all their hearts and prompted the first few tears.

When sentence of death was passed, the judge vacated the stage and Lorenzo was led away by two gaolers. Music played as the others processed off. George Dart came on to set a stool in position and to remove the bench he had brought out earlier for the trial He skipped hurriedly off.

Assuming a look of wistful integrity, Firethorn was led on stage again by his gaolers. He sat on the stool in his cell. The two men departed, Lorenzo stared at the manacles on his wrists then he looked up with supplication in his eyes.

'O Loyalty! Thy name Lorenzo is!

For twenty faithful years I have been true

To my fair Duchess, angel from above,

Descended here to capture all our hearts

And turn our Milan into paradise.

Could I betray such sovereign beauty

For ugly coins of foul conspiracy?

Rather would I live in cruel exile

Or kill myself upon a dagger's point.

Fidelity had always been my cry

And constant will I be until I die!'

While Firethorn declaimed his soliloquy, the players in the tiring-house got ready for their next entrance. As Nicholas lined them up in order, he kept a wary eye on Ruff. The executioner was more nervous than ever. One of the most experienced actors in the company seemed to be unsettled by the occasion. Sweat still poured out of him and he moved from foot to foot.

'Do please take care, Master Ruff!'

'What?' he replied with a start.

'My safety lies with you, sir.'

The voice came from inside the doublet of the figure standing beside him. Equipped with the false head, John Tallis was about to double as Lorenzo during the execution.

'Use me kindly,' said the boy plaintively.

'I will, John,' promised the other.

'Let the axe fall in its rightful place.'

'Oh, it will,' said Ruff grimly. 'It will.'

As Lorenzo finished his speech, the gaolers went on to bring the condemned man out of his cell. The trembling George Dart now replaced the stool with the block. Drums rolled and the procession made its way solemnly on stage.

Edmund Hoode was first in his role as the judge. Courtiers and guards followed him. The chaplain came next, holding his prayer book tightly. Lorenzo was guided to the centre of the stage by the two gaolers. Ruff brought up the rear as the executioner.

When the tableau had been formed, the chaplain turned to admonish the prisoner sternly.

'Settle Christ Jesus in your heart and confess.'

Lorenzo remained silent but Tallis's teeth chattered.

'Join in prayer with me,' continued the chaplain, 'for the salvation of your soul. Go to your Maker with a contrite heart.'

He began to recite prayers at the hapless Lorenzo.

Samuel Ruff only half-listened to the words. Dressed in the traditional black garb of an executioner, he stood beside the block with the head of the axe resting between his feet. Through the slits in his mask, he stole a glance at the Queen of England. She was a serene and majestic figure no more than a dozen yards from him. Though guards flanked her, they were caught up in the action on the stage.

Closing his eyes for an instant, Ruff offered up his own prayer. His opportunity had been heavensent. It was up to him to seize it with eagerness. The significance of it all was brought home to him and extra pressure was imposed. His arms and shoulders were now awash with sweat and his palms were pools of moisture. He schooled himself to wait just a little longer. To buttress his determination, he recalled other executions that Queen Elizabeth had witnessed. The blood was soon pulsing in his temples.

Anxiety was turning its hunger on Nicholas Bracewell. From a vantage point at the rear of the stage, he watched the proceedings with mounting concern. He was more fully aware than anyone of the extent of the danger. As the moment of truth approached, he wondered if he had made the right decision or if he had delivered up an innocent life to the stroke of death. Nicholas had an impulse to rush on stage and intervene but he resisted it. The chance had to be taken. Peril had to be faced.

The chaplain intoned the last words of his prayer.

'And may God have mercy on your soul...Amen!'

Having completed the spiritual offices, he stood back so that the rigour of the law could be enforced. The loyal subject was about to be executed for his supposed disloyalty. On the command of the judge, the gaolers took Lorenzo to the block, made him kneel in front of it and position his false head carefully over the timber.

The drums rolled more loudly. Nicholas was on tenterhooks.

Samuel Ruff now took over. He was no mock executioner in a play. He was a gleaming figure of vengeance with murder in his heart. A last fleeting look at the Queen showed him that Her Majesty was totally captivated by the performance. Everyone was off guard. Ruff swallowed hard, tightened his jaw then wiped his palms dry on his hips. It was now or never.

He took a firm grip on the glittering axe.

Nicholas fought off another urge to interrupt. Teeth clenched and fists bunched, he was tormented by the helplessness of his situation. Whatever the cost, he must hold back.

The drums beat out their tattoo, the judge nodded and the executioner lifted the axe high in the air. Its blade shimmered in the candlelight. Its menace was real. But it did not arc down towards John Tallis. Another victim had been selected for execution. Jumping down from the stage, Ruff charged towards the throne with a wild cry of revenge.

'Death to all tyrants!'

His weapon was aimed at the head of the Queen.

Yet somehow she was prepared for the attack and ducked out of the way with great dexterity. The guards, too, were ready and they closed in upon Ruff to grapple with him. Instead of scything through the royal neck, the axe thudded into the back of the throne and almost split it asunder.

'Seize the villain!'

'Hold him!'

Shouts and screams rent the air. A large space was cleared around the throne as terrified nobles scampered out of the way. The Court was horrified that the sovereign had been so close to a grisly death and the suddenness of it all bewildered them.

Overpowered by the guards, Ruff was held tight. The glare of hatred that he directed at the Queen soon turned to a look of utter amazement. Removing crown, wig and pearls, she gazed back at him with the hurt expression of someone who feels she has been betrayed by a close friend.

It was not the Queen of England at all.

It was Richard Honeydew.

Waves of astonishment rolled across the hall. Sir Edmund Tilney, a spruce figure in almost garish apparel, climbed on to the stage and raised his hands to quell the noise.

'You will not be deprived of your entertainment,' he told them. 'There will be a short intermission then Her Majesty will join us. What you have just witnessed requires some explanation...'

Ruff was not allowed to hear it. He was hustled out of the room without ceremony. Richard Honeydew went with him. They found Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell waiting for them in the corridor.

The book holder's immediate concern was for the boy. He was relieved to see that Richard was quite unharmed. The actor-manager looked at Ruff and gave a dark chuckle.

'Caught like a rat in a trap!' he noted. 'You were right, Nick. This was indeed the way to draw his hand.'

The stunned Ruff turned on the book holder.

'How did you know?'

'There were many things,' explained Nicholas. 'They all pointed towards religion. You were so true to the old faith that you were prepared to kill for it.'

'And to die for it!' said Ruff defiantly.

'Will Fowler was a devout Roman Catholic as well but he renounced his religion. You could not forgive him for that, Sam. Nor could you rest easy while your days in the theatre came to an end and Will's talent flourished. Your bitterness went deep.'

'Will betrayed us!' argued Ruff.

'Out of love for his young wife,' reminded Nicholas.

'I did not know of her,' said the other quietly. 'It is perhaps as well. Susan would have weighed on my conscience.'

'What conscience?' sneered Firethorn, pointing a finger at him. 'You're a traitor, sir!'

'I am loyal to the old religion!'

Richard Honeydew was baffled by an important detail.

'But why was Will Fowler murdered?' he asked.

'So that Sam could take his place,' said Nicholas. 'Most of us cheered when the Armada was defeated but it was a crippling blow to those of the Romish persuasion. Sam wanted to strike back on their behalf in the most terrible way he could imagine--by killing

Her Majesty. The only chance he had of getting close enough to her was during a performance at Court.'

'With Westfield's Men,' added Firethorn. 'Our company was the most likely to be invited to play here. This rogue sought to hide himself behind our reputation.'

Nicholas smiled and patted the boy on the back.

'As it happened, you gave the outstanding performance, Dick. You not only deceived an assassin, you convinced the whole Court.' He turned to Ruff. 'A true actor will never desert his audience. The lad did not run away on Christmas Day. He stayed with me at my lodging and rehearsed his new part. This dress of his was made by a Dutch hatmaker. It was worthy of a Queen.'

'You have been very brave, Dick,' observed Firethorn.

'I was a little afraid, sir,' confessed the boy.

'As were we all,' said Nicholas.

Samuel Ruff was embittered but chastened. He recognized just how cleverly the book holder had misled him. Nicholas had evidently suspected him for a long time. As the guards tried to move him away, he held his ground to make a last admission.

'I gave that crib to Susan Fowler.'

'She would rather you spared her husband,' said Nicholas.

'I know.'

'You should have gone to that farm in Norwich, Sam. You would have been far better off working with your brother.'

Ruff shook his head sadly and gave a smile of regret.

'There was no farm and I did work with my brother.'

'Redbeard?' Nicholas was shocked.

'He was my half-brother. For all his wild ways, Dominic was as committed to the true faith as I am. They imprisoned him in Bridewell for it and gave him those scars on his back. When Dominic was released, he was ready to do anything to help me.'

'So you repaid him with a sly dagger.'

'No!' denied Ruff vehemently. 'I could never murder my own kin. That was not my doing.' Pain contorted his face and his chin dropped to his chest. 'We both knew that it would cost us our lives in the end. Dominic was getting out of hand. The plan was in jeopardy while he lived. I did not want him killed but...it was in some ways a necessary despatch. He had done all that was required of him.'

'Who stabbed him, then?' pressed Firethorn.

Samuel Ruff met his gaze with dignity and defiance.

'That is something you will never know.'

'Someone has suborned you and set you on!' accused the other. 'The rack will get the truth out of you. Take him away!'

As the guards dragged their captive off, Ruff lapsed back into Latin to proclaim his faith.

'In manus tuas, Domine, confide spiritum meum.'

They were the last words spoken by Mary Queen of Scots as she laid her head upon the block. In trying to behead another Queen, he had delivered himself up to execution. Interrogation would be followed by a slow, agonizing death.

Nicholas was not entirely surprised to learn that Ruff was part of a wider conspiracy. He and Redbeard had been the active partners in the scheme while others lurked in the shadows. Their names would doubtless emerge in conversation in the privacy of the torture chamber.

One revelation, however, had rocked the book holder.

'I had no idea that Redbeard was his brother,' he said. 'I guessed that he was a fellow Catholic when he attacked the inn sign at The Cardinal's Hat. It mocked his faith. But I did not realize that he and Sam were related.'

'Two yoke-devils!' snarled Firethorn.

'There is no madness worse than religion,' murmured Nicholas.

Richard Honeydew was troubled by feelings of regret.

'But Master Ruff was such a kind and friendly man.'

'He was a fine actor,' said the book holder. 'He was even ready to receive a wound in order to play his part effectively. It was his bout with Master Gill that set me thinking.'

'In what way?' asked the boy.

'Sam tried to avoid it in order to hide his fencing skills. But he was forced into the bout and we saw his true merit. A swordsman as expert as that could easily have rehearsed the brawl in the Hope and Anchor. Will Fowler was murdered to plan.'

Edmund Hoode came scurrying along the corridor to join them. Confused by the speed of events, he only half-understood why his play had been halted in such dramatic fashion.

'What is going on, I pray?'

'Retribution!' declared Firethorn. 'We have unmasked an assassin and brought him to justice.'

'Samuel Ruff?'

'Villainy incarnate,' said the other. 'The man was deep and cunning but he met his match in our book holder. Ruff stage managed things so cleverly that we were all fooled by him at first. Nick alone was equal to him.'

'I did what was needful,' said Nicholas modestly.

'You were magnificent!' insisted Firethorn. 'You won the villain's confidence and made him believe that you feared a threat from outside the company. Ruff thought that he was undiscovered. It then remained to show him in his true light.'

'Yes,' agreed Nicholas. 'By creating the very opportunity that he sought.'

'I begin to see,' said Hoode. 'When you asked me to put the execution on stage, you had a definite purpose in mind.'

'We did, Edmund,' explained the book holder. 'By casting Sam in the role of the executioner, we knew exactly when and how he would strike. With the aid of Dick here, we were able to prepare an irresistible trap for him.'

Slightly peeved that he had not been party to it all, Hoode nevertheless congratulated them warmly. There was one particular point that he wanted clarified.

'What of the theft of Gloriana Triumphant? he asked.

'That puzzled me, too,' said Nicholas. 'When the book was stolen from me, I thought it was another blow at Westfield's Men. Yet why should Ruff and his accomplice seek to wound the company? It was in their interests to ensure that it thrived.'

'So what lay behind it?' wondered Hoode.

'Religion. Your play was a celebration of the victory over the Spanish Armada and the defeat of Roman Catholicism. It offended them and their faith. That is why they tried to stop the performance.'

'Nobody can stop a performance by Westfield's Men!' asserted Firethorn grandly. 'We have foiled a plot to kill our own dear Queen and we have rendered our country a sterling service. But we still have unfinished business here. Gentlemen, we play before our sovereign this night. Let us prepare ourselves for this supreme moment in our history. Dick Honeydew has shown us the way. Onward to another royal triumph!'

*

The Loyal Subject was staged at midnight with reverberating success. Its themes gained extra resonance from the thwarted assassination attempt and it caught the mood of the hour to perfection. The whole Court surrendered itself to a unique and stirring experience. Richmond Palace was alive with unstinted praise.

Presiding over it all was Queen Elizabeth herself, who occupied her throne in a spirit of happy gratitude. She was ostentation itself. She wore a dress in the Spanish fashion with a round stiff-laced collar above a dark bodice with satin sleeves which were richly decorated with ribbons, pearls and gems. A veritable waterfall of pearls flowed from her neck and threatened to cascade down on to the dais. As befitted a sovereign, her radiance outshone the entire Court.

To repair the absence of Ruff--and to assuage Tallis's rampant fears--Nicholas Bracewell took over the small role of the executioner himself. With a measured sweep of the axe, he severed the wax head and sent the head spinning across the floor. The effect was breathtaking. Deathly silence held sway for a full minute before applause broke out. After exhibiting the head of the traitor, Nicholas went off to take up his book again.

Richard Honeydew had played his part already. He now stayed in the tiring-house with the others and sneaked an occasional look at the action on stage. Westfield's Men were at their best. The music was excellent, the costumes superb and the performances quite remarkable. Martin Yeo won plaudits for his youthful brilliance as the Duchess of Milan, Barnaby Gill supplied some stately comedy as a wrinkled retainer and Edmund Hoode was a suitably judicious judge.

Lawrence Firethorn was charismatic as Lorenzo and he caused many a flutter among the ladies. Constrained by the presence of her husband, Lady Rosamund Varley could only watch and sigh. Her erstwhile swain was no longer aiming his performance at her. It was directed to a higher station. Lorenzo was patently acting for his Queen and country.

At Firethorn's request, Hoode had written a new couplet to end the play. It related the capture of Samuel Ruff to the action of the drama. Firethorn made the two lines ring with conviction as he laid them proudly at the feet of his sovereign.

'For I alone have turned aside the traitor's baneful blade

And now his spotted soul for aye will wander Hades' shade.'

An ovation ensued.

Lord Westfield himself basked in the approval of the Court. The company had markedly improved the standing of their patron with the Queen. By the same token, the Earl of Banbury sat in sour-faced discomfort as he touched his palms together in reluctant applause. Westfield's Men had carried the day in every sense. His own company was obliterated from the memory.

After taking several bows, the players adjourned to the tiring-house. A communal ecstasy seized them. They had succeeded beyond all expectation. It was a fitting climax to the year's work.

Firethorn swooped down on his book holder.

'Stop hiding away in that corner, Nick!'

'I was merely reflecting on events, master.'

'There is no time for that, dear heart,' urged the other, pummelling his arm. 'Her Majesty wishes to favour us. She has asked to meet the principal members of the company.'

'Who else is there but you?' teased Nicholas gently.

'How profoundly true!' agreed Firethorn without a trace of irony. 'Take charge, Nick. Be swift, sir.'

'Whom should I call?'

'Use your discretion. It has always served us well.'

Nicholas organized a line-up of the principal artistes, making sure that Richard Honeydew was given pride of place. Queen Elizabeth was conducted up on to the stage to be introduced to each one of them in turn by the fawning actor-manager. She praised Edmund Hoode for his play and she congratulated Barnaby Gill on his amusing antics.

When she showered her personal thanks upon Richard, the boy was duly overwhelmed. Being so close to the royal person reduced him to open-mouthed wonder. His performance had helped to save the Queen from the attack yet it now seemed a gross impertinence even to try to impersonate her.

With a becoming lack of modesty, Lawrence Firethorn claimed much of the credit for himself and wished to be remembered as her loyal subject in thought, word and deed. He gave the impression that he alone was responsible for keeping the Queen's head firmly on her shoulders.

Nicholas Bracewell stayed quietly behind the scenes.

The End