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.