The Roaring Boy

Chapter Two

Shoreditch had once been a tiny hamlet, growing up at thejunction of two important Roman roads, and offering its inhabitants clean air, open fields and a degree of rural isolation. That was no longer the case. The relentless expansion of London turned it into yet another busy suburb, tied to the city by a long ribbon of houses, tenements and churches, and further entwined by the commercial and cultural needs of the capital. Shoreditch could still boast fine gardens, orchards and small-holdings-even common land for archery practice-but its former independence had perished forever.

Chief among its attractions were its two splendid custom-built playhouses, The Theatre and The Curtain, and the populace of London streamed out of Bishopsgate on those afternoons when the flags were hoisted above these famed arenas to indicate that performances would take place. Shoreditch competed with Bankside as a favourite source of entertainment but not all of its denizens were happy with this state of affairs. As well as the largely respectable and law-abiding spectators, theatres also attracted their share of whores, cheats and pickpockets in search of easy custom. Rowdiness, too, was a constant threat but the major complaint was against the barrage of noise that was set up during a performance.

Occupants of houses in Holywell Lane were especially vulnerable as they dwelt between the two theatres and thus at the mercy of rival cacophonies. They cringed before explosions of laughter and bursts of applause. They recoiled from strident fanfares and deafening music. Alarums and excursions afflicted them in equal measure. Even on the most sunlit and cloudless afternoons, thunder, lightning and tempest had been known to issue simultaneously from both playhouses as cunning hands usurped the role of Mother Nature. Gunpowder was frequently used with deafening effect. To live in Holywell Lane was to live cheek by jowl with pandemonium.

‘Arghhhhhhhh!’

A new and terrible sound shattered the early evening.

‘Noooooooooo!’

It was a roar of pain fit to waken the long-dead.

‘Heeeeeeeelp!’

Was it some wild animal in distress? A wolf caught in a trap? A bear torn apart by the teeth of a dozen mastiffs? A lion in the menagerie at the Tower, speared to make sport?

‘Yaaaaaaaaaa!’

The voice was now recognisably human but so full of grief, so charged with agony, and so laden with despair that its owner had to be enduring either the amputation of both legs or the violent removal of all internal organs. The cry came from a house in Old Street but everyone in Shoreditch heard it and shared in its fathomless misery. Was the poor creature being devoured alive by a pack of hungry demons?

‘Ohhhhhhhhhhh!’

Lawrence Firethorn was not one to suffer in silence. When he was in travail, the whole world was his audience. He lay in his bedchamber and bellowed his torment, quivering all over as a new and more searing pain shot through him.

Firethorn had toothache. To be more precise, he had one badly infected tooth in a set that was otherwise remarkably sound. The actor could not believe that so much tribulation was caused by such a minute part of his anatomy. His whole mouth was on fire, his whole head was pounding, his whole body was one huge, smarting wound.

His wife came bustling into the room with concern.

‘Is there anything I may get for you, Lawrence?’

‘A gravedigger.’

‘Let me at least send for a surgeon.’

‘A lawyer would be more use. To draw up my will.’

‘Do not talk so,’ she said, crossing to the bed. ‘This is no time for jests. You have a bad tooth, that is all.’

‘A hundred bad teeth, Margery. A thousand!’

An invisible hammer struck the side of his face and he let out such a blood-curdling yell that his neighbours thought he had just given birth to a litter of giant hedgehogs. Margery Firethorn wanted to put a comforting arm around him but she knew that it was inadvisable. Her husband’s cheek was twice its normal size and throbbing visibly. The handsome, bearded countenance of the most brilliant actor in London was distorted into an ugly mask of woe. On the posted bed with its embroidered canopy, they had spent endless nights of pleasure but it was now a rack on which his muscular torso was being stretched to breaking-point.

‘Let me fetch you another remedy,’ she suggested.

‘Dear God-no!’

‘This one comes with the apothecary’s blessing.’

‘More like his curse!’

‘It may reduce the swelling in your gum, Lawrence.’

‘I will take nothing!’ he snarled.

Firethorn had already submitted to three of his wife’s well-intentioned remedies and each had signally failed. The last-a compound of vinegar, oil and sulphur-had not only sharpened the pain to unbearable limits, it caused him to vomit uncontrollably. He vowed that nothing else would go into his diseased mouth. A fresh spasm made his eyes cloud over for a second. When he rallied slightly, he was hit by a tidal wave of guilt.

‘I have betrayed my fellows!’ he wailed.

‘Put them from your thoughts.’

‘How can I, Margery? Westfield’s Men rely on me and I was found wanting. For the first time in my life. I was prevented from doing my duty and exhibiting my genius as a player.’

‘You are not to blame,’ she said.

‘The name of Lawrence Firethorn is a symbol of true quality in our profession. Where was that true quality this afternoon? Flat on its back!’ He slapped his thigh with an angry palm. ‘I failed them. I, Margery! Who once played Hector with a broken toe. Who once conquered the known world as Antony with my arm in a sling. Who once led the company to triumph in Black Antonio when the sweating sickness was upon me. Disease and discomfort have never kept me off the stage until this fateful day. They needed me at the Queen’s Head as the exiled Duke of Genoa but I have been imprisoned here by this damnable toothache!’

In an unguarded moment, he jabbed a finger at his cheek and prodded the inflamed area. Another roar of agony made the low beams tremble. In his anguish, he believed that he could actually hear the stabbing pain as it beat out its grim message, but Margery placed another interpretation on the repetitive sound. Someone was at their front door.

‘We have a visitor,’ she said. ‘Will you receive them?’

‘Not unless it be Nick Bracewell. He is the only man I would trust to see me in this dreadful condition and not mock my plight. Nick has real compassion and I am in sore need of that.’

A servant admitted the caller. Margery stood at the door of the bedchamber and listened to the voices below. Feet began to clatter up the oaken staircase.

‘Barnaby Gill,’ she announced. ‘I’ll head him off.’

‘He is the last person I want at this hour.’

‘Leave him to me. He shall not pass.’

Margery closed the door behind her and confronted the newcomer on the narrow landing. She was a big, bosomy woman with an iron determination. When fully roused, she was more than a match for her husband, so Firethorn was confident that she would soon send the visitor on his way. A dozen armed soldiers would not be able to force their way past his wife. He lay back on his pillow and gently closed his eyelids. A tap on the door made him open them with a suddenness he instantly regretted. His swollen jaw ached vengefully.

Easing the door ajar, Margery put her head around it.

‘Barnaby brings sad tidings,’ she said.

‘I’ll none of that leering clown today!’

‘They concern Westfield’s Men.’

‘Send the rogue on his way without further ado.’

‘His news will brook no delay. Please hear him.’

Before he could protest, she stood aside to let Barnaby Gill strut into the bedchamber. Wedded to ostentation, he wore a high-necked bombasted doublet in the Spanish fashion with its collar edged at the top with pickadils. The doublet was slashed, pinked and embroidered with a centre fastening of buttons from top to bottom. Its startling lime green hue was thrown into relief by hat, gloves and hose of a darker green. Short, squat but undeniably elegant, Gill doffed his hat in greeting, then gazed down at his stricken colleague with a mixture of sympathy and cold satisfaction.

‘What ails you, Lawrence?’ he asked with token dismay.

‘You do, sir!’

‘But I have saved all our lives this afternoon.’

‘Mine is far beyond recall.’

‘Listen to Barnaby,’ prompted Margery. ‘It is needful.’

Firethorn turned a bloodshot eye on his visitor.

‘Well?’

Gill sighed. ‘Ben Skeat is no longer with us.’

‘He has no choice in the matter. His contract binds him to Westfield’s Men in perpetuity.’

‘You do not understand, Lawrence. The poor man is dead.’

‘If he feels the way I do, I am not surprised. I expect to pass out of this world myself at any moment.’ Firethorn gulped as he heard what he had just been told. ‘Dead? That dear old workhorse, Ben Skeat? Deceased? Can this be so?’

‘Sadly, it can.’

‘When did this tragedy befall us?’

‘In the middle of Act Three.’

Firethorn sat up. ‘Ben Skeat died onstage?’

‘In full view of the audience.’

‘What happened?’ asked Margery. ‘Did you bring the play to an end? Did you send all the spectators home?’

‘Did you return their money?’ said Firethorn in alarm.

‘No,’ said Gill with studied nonchalance. ‘I stepped into the breach and rescued us from a gruesome fate. Had I not led Westfield’s Men with such spirit and authority, there would not be any of them left to lead.’

‘Nick Bracewell took control, surely?’ said Firethorn.

‘Yes,’ added Margery with brisk affection. ‘Nicholas steered you through, I’ll wager.’

‘Not this time, alas!’ lied Gill. ‘I was the saviour.’

They listened with rapt attention as the visitor told a story that he had rehearsed very carefully on the journey from the Queen’s Head to Shoreditch. According to Barnaby Gill, the book holder and the rest of the company had been ready to abandon the play as soon as Ben Skeat’s death became apparent. It was left to the court jester to berate them for their faint-heartedness and to insist that they press on with the performance, albeit in an amended form. The new version of The Corrupt Bargain-Gill emphasized this-was his brainchild. As actor and as author, he had led from the front and dragged an unwilling company behind him.

Lawrence Firethorn knew him well enough to be able to separate fact from fantasy. He was so closely acquainted with Nicholas Bracewell’s handiwork that it could not be passed off as someone else’s. Margery, too, sensed that the unassuming book holder had been the real hero in this crisis as in so many previous ones. One consolation remained. The performance had continued in such a way as to disguise the true nature of the emergency from the audience. No money had been returned but a high price had still been paid.

‘Ben Skeat dead?’ Firethorn was shocked. ‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul! He will be greatly missed.’

‘As were you, Lawrence,’ said Gill pointedly.

‘Not from choice, I assure you,’ said Firethorn.

‘Indeed not,’ agreed Margery. ‘He was laid low.’

Gill raised a derisive eyebrow. ‘By a mere toothache? It would take more than that to keep me from the practice of my art. The plague itself would not detain me from my place upon the boards. Thank heaven I was there this afternoon! Ben Skeat dying on us. Nicholas Bracewell failing us. Lawrence Firethorn deserting us.’

‘I did not desert you!’ howled the other man as the pain flared up once more. ‘I was unfit for service. Felled by some malign devil.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Leave we my condition until another time. Ben Skeat must now be our prime concern. What was the cause of his death? Who has examined the body? Where is it now? Have his relatives yet been informed? How stands it, Barnaby?’

‘I left all that to Nicholas Bracewell,’ said Gill with evident boredom. ‘Cleaning up a mess is the one thing at which he has some moderate skill. My task was to ride post-haste to Shoreditch to put you in possession of the full facts. We have lost one of our sharers, Lawrence.’

‘The best and sweetest of men.’

‘I’ll say “Amen” to that,’ said Margery soulfully.

‘When I was a raw beginner,’ continued Firethorn in nostalgic vein, ‘it was Ben Skeat who helped me, advised me and taught me all I know about the craft of acting. He let me feed on his long experience. There was not an ounce of selfishness in that dear creature. Ben was a rock on which we all built our performances.’

‘Yes,’ said Gill with heavy sarcasm. ‘Ben was a rock. But this afternoon-like a rock-he could neither move nor speak. If it had not been for my sterling courage in the face of mortal danger…’

But his hosts were not listening. Margery Firethorn was too busy recalling a thousand and one pleasant memories of an actor who had served Westfield’s Men with honour since the inception of the company, and who had always been a most welcome visitor to the house in Old Street. Her husband was concentrating on practicalities. Ben Skeat was a sharer, one of the ranked players who were named in the patent for Westfield’s Men and who were thus entitled to a portion of such profits as it might make. Sharers also took all the major roles in any play. They had real status and a qualified security. To become a sharer with one of the London companies was to join an exclusive brotherhood. Ben Skeat had just resigned from that charmed circle.

Lawrence Firethorn weighed all the implications.

‘Ben must be mourned,’ he decreed, ‘then replaced.’

‘You are too hasty,’ said Gill. ‘One less sharer and the rest of us have a slightly larger slice of the pie.’

‘Fresh blood is needed in the company.’

‘I beg to differ, Lawrence.’

‘When do you do otherwise?’

Gill tensed. ‘I am entitled to my opinion.’

‘No question but that you are, Barnaby,’ said the actor-manager with light irony. ‘I value that opinion. I shall, of course, ignore it as usual but I can still respect it. The matter is decided. As one Ben Skeat leaves us, another must be found to take his place.’

‘The issue has not even been discussed.’

‘We just discussed it-did we not, Margery?’

‘What more debate is needed?’ she said.

‘Much more,’ argued Gill, irritated that she should be brought into their deliberations. ‘Edmund has a voice here. When he hears reason, he will side with me.’

‘Reason will incline him to my persuasion.’

Lawrence Firethorn had no doubt on that score. He could invariably win the resident playwright around to his point of view. All the sharers had a nominal voice in company policy but it was effectively decided by its three leading personalities. Of these, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode were allowed only the illusion of control. It was Firethorn whose guiding hand was really on the tiller.

‘Think back, Barnaby,’ he counselled. ‘When Old Cuthbert retired from the company, what did we do? We promoted from within. Owen Elias rose from the hired men to become our new sharer and he has been a credit to us ever since.’

‘You bitterly opposed his selection,’ reminded Gill.

‘That is all in the past.’

‘You hated Owen because he joined our sworn enemies.’

‘We have put the incident behind us.’

‘It was the one time when you were overruled.’

Firethorn breathed in deeply through his nose and tried to remain calm. Owen Elias’s elevation from hired man to sharer had taken place in exceptional circumstances and was largely the work of Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder’s astute stage management of the situation had overcome Firethorn’s serious qualms about the Welshman. Although Owen Elias was now an established player of the first rank in Westfield’s Men, the recollection of his promotion was not untinged with bitterness for Firethorn.

‘We will look outside the company,’ he said firmly.

‘Why look at all?’ countered Gill.

‘A new sharer would invest money in Westfield’s Men.’

‘Owen Elias did not.’

‘Forget Owen. He has no place in this argument.’

‘I believe that he does.’

‘So do I,’ said Margery.

The men stared at her. Ordinarily, she would have no right to be present-let alone involved-in the dispute. Acting was a male prerogative. No woman was permitted to take part in a play, still less to assist in the running of one of the companies, but Margery Firethorn had a habit of breaking rules that hindered her. Gill was patently annoyed by an intrusion he had no power to stop, while a weakened Firethorn was unable to assert himself over his wife. Margery stated her case with blunt clarity.

‘Choose the best possible man,’ she said.

‘Why, so we will,’ consented her husband.

‘Then turn to Owen Elias.’

‘We cannot make him a sharer for the second time.’

‘Take him as your example, Lawrence,’ she said. ‘You looked with Westfield’s Men and the right choice came.’

‘More or less.’

‘Do the self-same thing again.’

‘How so?’

‘Nominate the only person fit for the honour.’

‘And who might that be, my dove?’ he wondered.

‘Who else but Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘Anyone else!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘I forbid it!’

Firethorn pondered. ‘Margery guides us along the path of logic,’ he said. ‘Nick Bracewell is the obvious choice.’

‘Where would you be without him?’ she said.

‘Consigned to oblivion.’

‘No!’ said Gill with outrage. ‘This is madness. He is just one more hired man. You cannot turn a mere book holder into a sharer. Who is to be next in line? Hugh Wegges, the tireman? Nathan Curtis, the carpenter? George Dart, that shivering idiot of an assistant stagekeeper? You make a mockery of our standing.’

Margery’s eye kindled dangerously. ‘Nick Bracewell is as good a man as any in the company.’ She shot a meaningful glance at Gill. ‘Far better than some I could name, who stand much lower in my esteem. I’ll not hear a carping word against Nick. It is high time that his worth was fully appreciated.’

Gill curled a lip in scorn. ‘Oh, it is, it is. We took his measure this afternoon.’

‘What say you?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Your precious Nicholas Bracewell was at last revealed in his true light. He is not the paragon of virtue you take him for, Lawrence.’ Gill was working himself up into a mild rage. ‘He not only let us down in our hour of need, he committed the most foul assault on my person.’

‘With good reason, I dare swear.’

‘He attacked me, Lawrence!’

‘I have often thought of doing so myself.’

‘Violent hands were laid upon me.’

‘How I envy him!’

‘Our book holder became a vicious animal.’

‘Never!’ said Margery. ‘Nick is as gentle as a lamb.’

‘Your opinion was not sought,’ snapped Gill.

‘I offered it gratis.’

‘Please keep out of this discussion.’

‘Do not bandy words with my wife, sir!’ said Firethorn.

‘Then ask her to withdraw from our conference.’

‘Will you be assaulted again!’ she threatened.

‘Desist, woman! You are not a sharer in the company.’

‘I am,’ said Firethorn, leaping off the bed, ‘and that gives me the right to box your ears first. Nobody speaks to Margery with so uncivil a tongue and escapes rebuke. Though she is not one of Westfield’s Men, she is a sharer in a house and home whose hospitality you dare to abuse.’ Still in his nightshirt, he took a step towards the now quaking Gill. ‘You have denounced Nick Bracewell, insulted my dear wife and presumed to call in question my role as the manager of the company. Whipping would be too soft a punishment for these transgressions. Mutilation would be too kind. You deserve to be dragged through the streets on a hurdle, then set in the stocks for a fortnight.’ He towered over Gill and vented his spleen. ‘Get out of my house, you prancing ninny! Take your fine apparel and your false reports away from Shoreditch. Or by the affection that now guides me most, I’ll tear you limb from limb and feed your rotten carcass to the pigs. Avaunt! Begone! Away, you seagreen sickness!’

He lunged at his visitor but Barnaby Gill was too quick for him, electing to take to his heels rather than to try to reason with a homicidal maniac. With a cry of fear, he raced down the stairs, flung open the front door and hurtled out into Old Street as if pursued by the Devil himself.

Up in his bedchamber, Lawrence Firethorn roared like an enraged bull and pawed the ground with one foot. Margery surveyed her husband with lascivious admiration.

‘That was heroic! My big, strong, wonderful hero!’

Hands on hips, he inflated his chest and basked in the unstinting adoration of his wife. Theirs was a turbulent marriage but it was grounded in deep love and understanding. This enabled them to enjoy to the full the glorious lulls between the recurring marital storms. Firethorn knew that such a lull was now upon them. Then he realised something else and his misshapen face beamed with joy.

‘It is gone, Margery. My toothache has abated.’

‘You frightened it away, my love!’

‘By Jove! I feel as if I am a new man.’

‘I see it well. Every muscle about you ripples.’

‘I have risen from my bed of pain!’ he said with a laugh of sheer relief. ‘Let me return to it as to a palace of pleasure. Anger is indeed the surest medicine. It has made my blood boil. Come, Margery. I have been set free. I have come back to you as a doting husband. Is this not a just cause for celebration?’

‘Oh, yes!’ she said, flinging herself down on the bed with weighty abandon and kicking her legs in the air. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

‘You are the best cure for any toothache, my angel.’

‘Let my body be your physick.’

‘I am whole once more.’

‘Take me, Lawrence! Take me!’

The bed creaked happily for half an hour.

***

Nicholas Bracewell had even more to do than usual in the wake of that afternoon’s performance. He had to convey the body of Ben Skeat to a private room at the inn, send for a surgeon, placate the landlord, Alexander Marwood, who was almost demented at the thought of someone actually dying in such a public fashion on his premises, supervise the dismantling of the stage, ensure that all costumes, properties and scenic devices were safely locked away and advise the company when they would next be needed. There was marginal relief in the fact that there would be no performance on the following day because it was the Sabbath. Westfield’s Men used a venue within the precincts of the city and were thus debarred from playing on a Sunday. No such regulation hampered their rivals at The Theatre and The Curtain in Shoreditch, or at The Rose in Bankside.

The surgeon confirmed what Nicholas had suspected. Ben Skeat had died by natural means. He suffered a heart attack of such severity that it killed him almost instantly. It was the surgeon’s opinion that Skeat may well have had earlier warnings of his failing health but he had evidently kept them to himself. Nicholas believed that he knew why.

‘Does he have a family?’ asked the surgeon.

‘None,’ said Nicholas.

‘No wife to mourn him?’

‘She herself died six months ago. He and Alice had been married for nearly thirty years. That is unusual in this profession. Actors are poor husbands. Few enjoy such a happy marriage as Ben Skeat.’ He gave a wistful sigh on his own account, then read the next question in the surgeon’s face. ‘Three children in all but they were not destined for this harsh world. None of them lived to see a first birthday. It drew Ben and Alice even closer. Two such well-matched souls it would have been hard to find.’

‘He must have been cut adrift without her.’

‘Half his life was stolen away from him.’

‘Did he pine?’

‘Ben kept his grief hidden but it was there.’

As Nicholas talked with the surgeon, he recalled other small signs of the strain the actor had been under. Skeat had started to eat larger meals and drink far more ale. He had become more withdrawn from his fellow-actors and brooded in dark corners. Hitherto an almost vain man, he took less care with his attire and appearance. The book holder had offered what solace he could to his old friend but something of the latter’s spirit had gone into the grave with his wife. In recommending him for the part of Duke Alonso in the play, Nicholas Bracewell thought to help him out of his despondency. Instead, the additional pressures of such a taxing role may have helped to put an end to his life. It made the book holder feel obscurely responsible.

A sense of guilt stayed with him as he arranged the removal of the body to the morgue before returning to his other duties at the inn. Would his friend have survived longer if he had not had the leading role thrust upon him? Or was he already dwindling quietly towards his coffin? Had Ben Skeat, in a sense, willed his own death so that he could quit his profession as he scaled its highest peak? Was an element of choice involved? Speculation on these and on other issues left Nicholas both sad and perplexed.

He was glad when his chores were finally over and he could repair to the taproom to join his fellows. He felt the need of a drink and a respite before going to Shoreditch to report to Lawrence Firethorn. The taproom was busy when he entered. Good-humoured banter could be heard on all sides. Nicholas simply wanted to drop on to a stool and call for some ale but he saw that one more chore awaited him. Edmund Hoode was seated at a table, crouched over his tankard in an attitude of despair and oblivious to the reassurance that Owen Elias was trying to pour into his ear.

The Welshman looked up as Nicholas joined them.

‘Thank God you’ve come, Nick. He is deaf to my voice.’

‘How much ale has he taken?’

‘Far too much. Sorrow is a thirsty comrade.’

‘What has Edmund said?’

‘Nothing. That is the worry of it. He is struck dumb by circumstance.’ He gave Hoode a gentle nudge. ‘Nick is here. Will you join us both in a fresh pot of ale?’ The playwright remained silent and Elias gave an elaborate shrug. ‘It is like talking to a post.’

‘The mood will pass,’ said Nicholas.

‘Have you ever seen the fellow in such a state?’

‘Not from this cause, Owen.’

Elias chuckled. ‘Ah, well, I take your meaning. If there was a woman in the case, all would be explained. Edmund is a martyr to the fairer sex. Another doomed love affair might plunge him into this misery but that is not so here.’ He spoke into Hoode’s ear. ‘Come back to us, Edmund. We are your friends. Let us help.’

The hurt silence continued. Nicholas ordered ale for himself and Owen Elias, then talked with the latter as if a third person were not present. They discussed the demise of Ben Skeat and the exigencies it forced upon them. Both had high praise for Barnaby Gill’s invention onstage and more caustic comment for his behaviour off it. They wondered if a new sharer would be brought into the company and how such an actor would be recruited. Owen Elias was voluble on this topic. Having laboured for so long in the humbler regions of the hired man, he relished the privilege of being accepted as a sharer.

The Welshman eventually came back to the play itself.

‘Let us be honest, Nick,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘The Corrupt Bargain was not his best play.’

‘It was serviceable enough.’

‘Too much matter, too little poetry.’

‘You are a stern critic, Owen. I liked it.’

‘Why, so did I. But less than his other plays.’

‘It merely needed more work on it,’ said Nicholas.

‘New title, new characters, new plot.’ Elias grinned. ‘Its defects would soon be mended then. It lacked vigour.’

Edmund Hoode murmured his way into the conversation.

‘It lacked everything that bears the name of drama.’

‘Welcome back to the land of the living,’ said Elias. ‘Nick and I were just passing judgement on-’

‘I heard,’ interrupted Hoode. ‘Heard and suffered every word that passed between you.’

‘Your play had much merit,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then it was put there by other hands,’ confessed the author gloomily. ‘Owen was right. It is a time for honesty and honesty compels me to admit that The Corrupt Bargain was my worst piece of work. The characters were stiff, the plot would not bend to my purpose, the verse would not soar from the page. My art is moribund, gentlemen. That is why I am so oppressed. I have lost my creative spark.’

‘That is not true, Edmund, said Nicholas loyally. ‘The Corrupt Bargain bore all the marks of your talent, but it had no chance to display them in that performance. The finest drama ever penned will not yield up its true essence if it loses its hero in the middle of Act Three.’

‘Ben’s death was your misfortune,’ said Elias.

‘No,’ said Hoode. ‘It was an apt comment on my play. Ben Skeat went to his grave to escape the ignominy of being in such a lame and undeserving tragedy.’

‘The rest of us lived to enjoy it,’ noted Elias.

‘Enjoy!’ Edmund Hoode gave a hollow laugh. ‘Enjoy!’

Nicholas Bracewell traded a glance with Owen Elias and the latter rose gratefully to take his leave. The Welshman had tried and failed to raise the spirits of the company’s actor-playwright. A more delicate hand was needed and only the book holder could supply that. Elias took his ale off to a more boisterous table and was soon joining in the raucous badinage. Nicholas leaned in closer to his companion.

‘Take heart, Edmund. You have had setbacks before.’

‘This was no setback, Nick. It was a catastrophe.’

‘Not of your making.’

‘The Corrupt Bargain was a sign.’

‘Of what?’

‘His end.’

‘Whose end?’

‘That impostor.’

‘You talk in riddles.’

‘That cheat, that counterfeit, that mountebank.’

‘Who?’

‘Edmund Hoode, poet.’

‘He sits before me even now.’

‘I am merely his ghost.’

‘This is foolish talk.’

‘No, Nick,’ said Hoode with solemn assurance. ‘It is a wisdom born of cruel experience. Ben Skeat was not the only poor wretch who died upon that stage this afternoon. I did as well. My art finally expired. Give it a decent burial, then find another poet to fashion your new plays.’

‘We already have the best in London,’ said Nicholas.

‘Kind words will not conceal the ugly truth.’

‘We need you, Edmund.’

Hoode shook his head. ‘I have nothing left to give.’

‘That is arrant nonsense!’

Nicholas did what he could to lift his friend’s morale but it was all to no avail. What made his task more difficult was the fact that there were distinct elements of truth in what Hoode had been saying. The Corrupt Bargain fell far short of his best work. Its construction was faulty, its pace uncertain and its promising theme not fully explored. Given a rousing performance-and with Lawrence Firethorn as the exiled Duke of Genoa-the play would have passed muster but not even its greatest admirers would wish to see it given a regular place in the repertoire of Westfield’s Men.

While heaping lavish praise on the poet, and struggling to keep a positive note in his voice, Nicholas was all too conscious of the recent deterioration in the latter’s work. Edmund Hoode was contracted to write three new plays for the company each year. The Corrupt Bargain was the last, and least impressive, of his annual trio but its two predecessors had also been disappointing works, competent rather than inspiring, and wholly deficient in those flashes of brilliance for which the playwright was so renowned.

‘The Muse has deserted me, Nick,’ concluded Hoode.

‘Not so.’

‘When did I last create anything of consequence?’

‘With this afternoon’s play.’

‘Shallow stuff. Poorly put together.’

‘You heard the spectators. They acclaimed you.’

‘They acclaimed my fellows for replacing the vile scenes that I gave them with more worthy material of their own. That is what hurt me most. That crude and disfigured version of The Corrupt Bargain was better than my original.’

‘Never!’

‘It was, Nick. I am done.’

‘You have still dozens of fine plays left in you.’

‘No, let us not delude ourselves.’ He put a hand on his companion’s arm. ‘You know the hideous truth as well as I do, dear friend. My last work of any real quality was The Merchant of Calais and that owed much to your help and encouragement. You gave me both plot and theme.’

Nicholas winced slightly. He had also helped to draw the character of the play’s eponymous hero, a merchant from the West Country who bore a closer resemblance to his own father than he had either wished or intended. The Merchant of Calais had been a triumph for its author but it carried some rather uncomfortable memories for Nicholas Bracewell. It made him anxious to change the subject.

‘No more of that,’ he said. ‘Sleep is the only true physician here, Edmund. Go home and rest your troubled head. The case will be altered in the morning. A spent man may go to bed this evening but a gifted poet will rise from it.’

Hoode was about to contradict him when an outburst of laughter took their attention to the far end of a taproom. A group that included Owen Elias was clustered around a young man and guffawing appreciatively as he told them a tale. The stranger was young, well favoured and attired like a gallant in doublet and hose of a subtle red hue. His hat was set at a rakish angle and his cloak was thrown back to reveal its silken lining. He mimed the drawing of a dagger and stabbed the air dramatically to produce fresh mirth from his audience.

‘Who is he?’ asked Hoode.

‘A roisterer, by the look of him,’ said Nicholas. ‘He seems to have fallen in very easily with our fellows.’

‘There is something of an actor about him.’

‘And rather more of a swaggerer. Every hostelry in London is plagued by such roaring boys. Drunk with ale and the sound of their own voices. Friends of all the world on a moment’s acquaintance, ready to dupe and cozen when occasion serve.’ Nicholas watched the way the stranger slipped his arms familiarly around two of the group. ‘He will pick no fruit from that tree. Owen and the others are too sharp to be gulled by a smooth-faced knave like that.’

‘He is a noisy devil,’ complained Hoode. ‘My ears begin to ache with the very sound of his voice and their jollity.’

‘Take yourself home to bed,’ said the other.

‘Sound advice.’ He stood up and swayed violently. ‘My head obeys you but my legs rebel.’

‘You took more ale than you thought,’ said Nicholas with an indulgent smile, getting up to support his friend. ‘Come, Edmund. I’ll bestow you at your lodging before I make my way to Shoreditch and give my account of this afternoon’s escapade to Master Firethorn.’

‘Barnaby will already have been to Old Street.’

‘That is why I must go as well. To correct his version of events, for it will surely be well wide of the truth.’

They shared a laugh as they headed for the door. Hoode was grateful for the steadying arm of Nicholas Bracewell. As they passed the group at the far end of the room, the young man was at his loudest and most expressive, sharing some new jest and reinforcing it with comical gestures. Owen Elias was shaking with glee. The newcomer was patently a soulmate.

It was a pleasant evening as the two friends stepped out into Gracechurch Street to begin their journey. Shadows were lengthening but there was still enough light for them to be able to pick their way easily along. Hoode’s lodging was in Silver Street near Cripplegate but he would never have got there without his friend’s assistance. Drink and despair had robbed him of his sense of balance.

‘Will you give Lawrence the awful tidings?’

‘He will already have heard of Ben Skeat’s death.’

‘I speak of my own demise.’

‘That news will keep, I fancy,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘Master Firethorn has already endured severe toothache and a visit from Barnaby Gill. Three calamities in one day are too much for any man to bear.’

‘Why does he not have the tooth drawn?’

‘He fears the surgeon.’

‘Does he expect the pain to go away on its own?’

‘His prayers tend in that direction.’

‘The only way to cure a diseased tooth is to pull it out by the roots,’ said Hoode in maudlin tones as he saw a parallel situation. ‘As with Lawrence, so with the company.’

‘Company?’

‘We have been in pain these many months, Nick. Poor performances of weak plays by dispirited actors. Our reputation has suffered. It wounds me to say this but our rivals wax while we but wane. Banbury’s Men hold first place among the companies. We trail far behind them.’

‘How does a diseased tooth come into it?’

‘He lurches along at your side.’

‘You?’

‘Who else?’ He heaved a deep sigh of regret. ‘I did not realise it until this afternoon but I am the source of pain in the mouth of the company. The Corrupt Bargain was a symbol of our agony. My failure has infected everyone. Until I am plucked from Westfield’s Men by a pair of pincers, the rest of you will suffer the torments of the damned.’

‘Those torments would be greater still without you.’

‘My way is clear. I must quit the theatre.’

‘Your contract forbids you.’

‘I’ll buy myself out of it.’

‘But you love the stage, Edmund.’

‘It no longer loves me.’

‘Put these wild thoughts aside,’ said Nicholas. ‘A true man of the theatre will never desert his calling.’

‘You did.’

‘That was…a mistake that was soon put right.’

‘But you did try to escape this verminous occupation.’

‘Yes,’ conceded the other. ‘I did.’

Nicholas fell silent. It was not a happy memory and he tried to erase it from his mind. When a woman whom he loved forced him to choose between her and the theatre, he had turned his back on the latter only to find that his sacrifice had come too late. Restored to the fold, he vowed that he would never try to leave it again. The theatre offered only a precarious living but it was his natural home.

Edmund Hoode burbled on without even realising that he was having a long conversation with himself. His mood of self-pity was gradually eroded by exhaustion and he was virtually hanging on to his friend’s shoulder as they came within sight of Silver Street. Nicholas only half listened to the sorrowful outpourings. Another sound had claimed his interest and he had been glancing behind him whenever they came to a bend or a corner. When they finally reached Hoode’s lodging, he propped the poet up against the wall and put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘Do not leave me here, Nick,’ begged the other.

‘It will not be for long.’

‘Take me in. I can never climb those stairs alone.’

‘Wait but a moment.’

‘Why do we stay here in the street?’

‘Because we are followed,’ whispered Nicholas.

‘I see no one.’

‘He stays in the shadows.’

‘Where?’

‘Watch.’

Drawing his weapon, Nicholas swung quickly round and ran diagonally across to the dark alley on the other side of the narrow street. Someone stirred in the darkness and he caught the flash of another blade. Nicholas engaged his man at once and the swords clashed in the gloom.

‘Hold, sir! Hold!’ called his adversary. ‘I seek no quarrel. I am a friend!’

‘Why, then, do you fight with me?’

‘Merely to defend myself. I pray you, stand off.’

Nicholas took a few steps back but kept his weapon at the ready. The other man stepped forward into the half-light with an apologetic smile. He gave a shrug and sheathed his own sword. Nicholas was startled. It was the young man whom he had seen roistering at the Queen’s Head but there was no hint of the latter’s inebriation now. The roaring boy had become a gentleman who bore himself with dignity.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Nicholas.

‘Someone who would like to know you better, sir.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘That can only be divulged in privacy.’

‘You followed us!’

‘How else could I find out where you went?’

‘Why were you carousing with our fellows?’

‘So that I could learn more about Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Me?’

‘You and Edmund Hoode.’ He pointed to the sword. ‘We would have easier conference if you were to put that away. I mean you no harm. I will happily surrender my own weapon, if that will reassure you.’

‘No need.’ Nicholas relaxed slightly and sheathed his sword. ‘Now, sir. What is your name?’

‘I would rather not speak it in the street.’

‘Why have you come to spy on us?’

‘Because I need your help,’ said the other with obvious sincerity. ‘I would not have come else. You and Master Hoode are the only ones whom I could trust.’

‘Trust?’

‘May we not step inside the house? It is safer there.’

‘Safer?’

‘For all three of us.’

‘Why?’

The young man threw a nervous glance up and down the street before stepping back into the shadows. His rampant joviality had been left behind at the Queen’s Head. He had other preoccupations now. There was a polite seriousness about him which compelled respect. He certainly posed no threat to Nicholas.

Edmund Hoode was now barely awake, his back to the wall of the little half-timbered house, his feet slowly losing their purchase on the cracked paving. He registered the newcomer’s appearance without hearing a word of what he said. Secure in the knowledge that Nicholas Bracewell would fend for him, Hoode gave up all pretence of interest in the remainder of the day and drifted off into a welcome sleep. The book holder was just in time to catch him before he slumped to the ground. Crossing to join them, the young man took his share of the playwright’s weight.

‘One good turn deserves another,’ he said.

‘Leave him be, sir.’

‘Two can carry more easily than one.’

Nicholas spurned the offer. Hoisting the slim body of Edmund Hoode across his shoulders, he took him swiftly into the house before ascending the rickety staircase to his chamber. The room was in darkness but Nicholas knew its geography well enough to negotiate the meagre furniture and lower his cargo gently down on to the bed. Hoode gave a loud yawn of gratitude. After lighting a candle and checking that his friend was lying in a comfortable position, Nicholas went back downstairs and into the street. It seemed to be quite empty but he knew that their visitor would be hiding in the shadows.

‘Come forth, sir,’ he called.

‘Thank you,’ said the other, emerging from the darkness.

‘I shall want plain speaking if you are admitted.’

‘You will get it.’

Nicholas led the way in and shut the front door behind them. When they entered Hoode’s chamber, the lodger was still dozing peacefully on the bed. The young man peered down at him with some misgiving.

‘He does not look like a famous poet.’

‘Appearances can mislead. As you well know.’

‘Indeed, Master Bracewell.’

They exchanged a smile. The young man crossed to the window and gazed down into the street for a moment. Only when he was satisfied that there was nobody outside the house did he turn around and nod at Nicholas. The latter appraised him shrewdly.

‘Why all this secrecy?’ he said.

‘I am often watched.’

‘By whom?’

‘That is the problem. I do not know.’

‘Are you in danger?’

‘I will be.’

Nicholas waved him to a stool, then moved the candle so that it illuminated the visitor’s face. Handsome features were set off by a dark beard that was carefully trimmed. A high forehead glistened with intelligence. The large brown eyes sparkled. It was time for some elucidation.

‘What is your name?’ said Nicholas.

‘Simon Chaloner.’

‘Who are you?’

‘A friend to Westfield’s Men.’

‘Friend?’

‘I bring something of great value,’ he said. ‘I offer it to you in return for your help.’

‘Why?’

‘All will become clear in due course.’

Simon Chaloner studied him carefully as if unwilling to go on until a proper scrutiny had been made. Nicholas took in the cut and cost of the man’s apparel and noted, for the first time, the bulge in his doublet. He remained calm under the young man’s searching gaze. Eventually, his visitor gave a firm nod of approval. Whatever examination he had been subjected to, the book holder seemed to have passed it.

‘They all speak well of you.’

‘Who?’

‘Your fellows. They say that you are the prop that holds up Westfield’s Men, its very foundation.’

‘They overpraise me,’ said Nicholas. ‘I am but the book holder. Lawrence Firethorn is our manager.’

‘I know his reputation. That is why I came to you.’

‘Me?’

‘To you and to Edmund Hoode.’ He looked over at the sleeping poet. ‘Master Firethorn would not listen to me. He is too caught up in himself, too restless a spirit. He is a born actor. Need I say more? You, on the other hand, have more forbearance. Patience.’

‘That patience is fast running out, sir.’

‘Then I will trespass on it no further.’ An urgency came into his voice. ‘Briefly, my plea is this. Undertake to read something for me. Ensure that Master Hoode reads it as well for he alone can invest it with real life and purpose. If the piece offends you, return it to me forthwith and no harm will have been done. If it please you-and I dare swear that it will set your curiosity alight-then we may talk further.’

‘You wish to offer us a play?’

‘A semblance of one, Master Bracewell. It is more an idea for a drama than a finished manuscript, and yet it would not take much to mould it into an acceptable shape.’

‘Are you the playwright, Master Chaloner?’

‘I was involved in the creation of it.’

‘A co-author, then?’

‘Not quite, sir.’

‘Then what?’

‘Read the piece first. It speaks for itself.’

‘We are given dozens of new plays every year.’

‘Not like this one.’

‘Do not raise your expectations too high.’

‘They are based on my knowledge of Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode. The one will give me a fair hearing and the other will be able to repair the many faults in the play. Together, you would be able to persuade Lawrence Firethorn to take an interest in the project.’

‘You presume far too much, sir.’

‘This is no rash move on my part, I assure you. I have watched Westfield’s Men for some time. You have qualities that none of your rivals can offer.’ He gave a smile. ‘What is more important, you are ready to take appalling risks.’

‘Risks?’

‘A man died onstage this afternoon. The play went on.’

‘You are very perceptive,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but that particular risk was thrust unsought upon us.’

‘You contended with misfortune and won through. Most of the spectators saw nothing amiss but I did. I applaud your skill without reservation. It is one of the main reasons that I chose your company.’

‘What are the others?’

‘Read the play, sir. Then I will tell you.’

He undid the fastening on his doublet before putting his hand inside to pull out a thick manuscript. Sheets of yellowing parchment were bound neatly together by a red ribbon. The young man fondled the play for a moment with distant affection before holding it out to Nicholas. The latter felt obliged to issue a warning that he gave to all aspiring authors.

‘It will be read in time,’ he promised, ‘but we can give no guarantee of performance. Most of the work submitted to us either falls below the standard required or is simply not suitable for Westfield’s Men. Prepare yourself for disappointment.’

‘There is no question of that now that we have met.’

‘I have little influence on the choice of plays.’

‘You will fight on behalf of this one. Take it, sir.’

He thrust the manuscript into Nicholas’s hands, then crossed rapidly to the door. The book holder took a few bewildered steps after him.

‘Wait, sir. You have not said where you dwell.’

‘That is my business.’

‘How, then, do we get in touch?’

‘I will come to you.’

‘But we need more details than that.’

‘Find them in the play.’

Nicholas glanced down at a manuscript that clearly held immense significance for his mysterious visitor. With no small risk to himself, it seemed, Simon Chaloner had gone to great lengths to deliver the play. The veil of secrecy was annoying but it was also intriguing. Not withstanding his suspicions, Nicholas felt his interest quicken.

‘What is its title?’ he asked.

‘The Roaring Boy.’