‘I have searched for him in vain.’
‘Then search again with your eyes open.’
‘No fellow has seen him today, master.’
‘You will be the first. Away, sir!’ He watched the other trudge slowly away. ‘Be more speedy, George. Your legs are made of lead.’
‘And my heart, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I miss Roper.’
‘So do we all, so do we all.’
Firethorn saw the tears in his eyes and crossed to put a hand of commiseration on his bowed shoulder. For all his bravado, the actor-manager had been shaken by the incident at The Rose.
‘Roper died that we may live,’ he said softly. ‘Cherish his memory and serve the company as honestly as he did.’
George Dart nodded and went off more briskly.
Almost everyone had arrived by now and it was time for the rehearsal to begin. The musicians, the tiremen, the stagekeepers all needed advice from Nicholas Bracewell The carpenters could not stir without him. The players grew restless at his absence. Barnaby Gill caused another scene and demanded a public reprimand for the book holder. He and Firethorn were still arguing when George Dart returned. He had been diligent in his search. Nicholas was nowhere at the Queen’s Head.
‘Then run to his lodgings and fetch him from his bed!’
‘Me, sir?’ asked Dart. ‘It is a long way to Bankside.’
‘I will kick you every inch of it if you do not move, sir!’
‘What am I to say to Master Bracewell?’
‘Remind him of the name of Lawrence Firethorn.’
‘Anything else, sir?’
‘That will be sufficient.’
‘I fly.’
But George Dart’s journey was over before it had even begun. As he turned to leave, the figure of a handsome woman swept in through the main gates and crossed the inn yard towards them. Anne Hendrik moved with a natural grace but there was no mistaking her concern. Firethorn gave her an extravagant welcome and bent to kiss her hand.
‘Is Nicholas here?’ she said.
‘We hoped that he would be with you, dear lady.’
‘He did not return last night.’
‘This is murky news.’
‘I have no idea where he went.’
‘I can answer that,’ said Edmund Hoode, stepping forward. ‘Nick came with me to my lodging to share some ale and discuss some private business. It was late when he left for Bankside.’
‘He never arrived,’ said Anne with increased anxiety.
Firethorn pondered. He knew the dangers that lurked in the streets of London and trusted his book holder to cope with most of them. Only something of a serious nature could have detained Nicholas.
‘George Dart!’ he called.
‘Here, master.’
‘Scour the route that he would have taken. Retrace his steps from Master Hoode’s lodging to his own. Enquire of the watch if they saw anything untoward in that vicinity. Nicholas is a big man in every way. He could not vanish into thin air.’
‘Roper Blundell did,’ murmured the other.
‘Think on hope and do your duty.’
George Dart went willingly off on his errand and several others volunteered to join in the search. Nicholas was a popular member of the company and everyone was keen to find out what had befallen him.
‘Let me go, too,’ said Hoode.
‘No, sir.’
‘But I am implicated, Lawrence.’
‘You are needed here.’
‘Nothing is as important as this.’
‘It is – our art. We must serve it like professional men.’ Firethorn raised his voice for all to hear. ‘The rehearsal will go on.’
‘Without Nick?’ said Hoode.
‘It is exactly what he would have wished, Edmund.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Anne. ‘It is. Nick always put the theatre first.’
‘To your places!’
Firethorn’s command sent everyone scurrying off into the tiring-house. A difficult couple of hours lay ahead of them. They all knew just how much the book holder contributed to the performance.
Anne Hendrik searched for a crumb of reassurance.
‘Where do you think he can be, Master Firethorn?’
‘Safe and sound, dear lady. Safe and sound.’
‘Is there no more we can do, sir?’
‘Watch and pray.’
Anne took his advice and headed for the Church of St Benet.
Francis Jordan gave her a couple of days to muse upon her fate then issued his summons. He wanted Jane Skinner to come to his bedchamber that night. Implicit in his order was the threat of reprisal if she failed to appear, but he had no doubt on that score. The girl had been meek and submissive when he spoke to her and all resistance had gone. He would enjoy pressing home his advantage.
Glanville reacted quickly to orders. He had drafted in some extra craftsmen and work on the Great Hall was now advancing at a much more satisfying pace. Jordan gave instructions for the banquet and the invitations were sent out. He began to relax. The steward ran the household efficiently and gave him no real cause for complaint so the new master could enjoy the fruits of his position. Jane Skinner was one of them. Riding around his estate was another.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A word, sir.’
‘We’ve said all we need to say to each other.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Get out of my path.’
‘Listen.’
The unkempt man with the patch over one eye was lurking around the stables as Jordan rode out. There was the same obsequiousness and the same knowing smirk as before. He bent and twisted as he put his request to the roaster of Parkbrook House.
‘They tell me Jack Harsnett’s gone, sir.’
‘I dismissed him for insolence.’
‘So his cottage is empty?’
‘Until I find a new forester.’
‘Let me live there, sir.’
‘You’re not fit for the work.’
‘I’ve always liked that cottage, sir,’ said the man, sawing the air with his hands and trying an ingratiating grin. ‘I’d be warm in winter there. It’s a quiet place and I’d be out of the way.’
‘No.’
‘I ask it as a favour, sir.’
‘No!’
The reply was unequivocal but it did not dismay him. The smirk came back to haunt and nudge Jordan who fought against the distant pull of obligation. The man revolted him and reminded him.
‘You weren’t always master here, sir.’
‘I am now,’ said Jordan.
‘Thanks to a friend, sir.’
‘You were well-paid and told to leave the country.’
‘The money ran out, sir.’
His single eye fixed itself on Jordan and there was
nothing humble in the stare now. It contained a demand and hinted at a warning. Jordan was made to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a few silver coins, hurling them to the ground in front of the man. The latter fell on them with a cry of pleasure and secreted them at once.
‘Now get off my land for ever,’ ordered Jordan.
‘But that cottage is—’
‘I don’t want you within thirty miles of Parkbrook ever again. If you’re caught trespassing here, I’ll have you hanged! If I hear that you’re spreading stories about me, I’ll have your foul tongue cut out!’
Francis Jordan raised his crop and lashed the man hard across the cheek to reinforce his message. He did not stop to see the blood begin to flow or to hear the curses that came.
The rehearsal was a shambles. Deprived of their book holder, Westfield’s Men were in disarray before
Vincentio’s Revenge
. Scene changes were bungled, entrances missed, two dead bodies left accidentally on stage and
special-effects
completely mismanaged. Prompting was continuous. Lawrence Firethorn stamped a measure of respectability on the performance when he was on stage, but chaos ruled when he was off it. The whole thing ended in farce when the standard that was borne on in the final scene slipped out of the hand of Caleb Smythe and fell across the corpse of Vincentio himself who was heard to growl in protest. As the body was carried out in dignified procession, it was the
turn of the musicians to add their contribution by playing out of tune.
Lawrence Firethorn blazed. He called the whole company together and flogged them unmercifully with his verbal cat o’ nine tails. By the time they trooped disconsolately away, he had destroyed what little morale had been left.
Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill adjourned to the tap room with him.
‘It was a disgraceful performance!’ said Firethorn.
‘You have been better,’ noted Gill, scoring the first point.
‘Everybody was atrocious!’
‘The play needs Nick Bracewell,’ said Hoode.
‘We do not
have
Nick Bracewell, sir.’
‘I am bound to say that
I
did not miss him,’ observed Gill.
Firethorn bristled. ‘What you missed was your entrance in Act Four, sir, because the book holder was not there to wake you up.’
‘I never sleep in the tiring-house, Lawrence!’
‘Only on stage.’
‘I regard that as gross slur!’
‘You take my meaning perfectly.’
‘This will not be forgotten, sir.’
‘Try to remember your lines as well, Barnaby.’
Hoode let them fight away and consulted his own worries. Concern for his friend etched deep lines in his forehead. It hurt him to think that he might be indirectly responsible for any misadventure into which Nicholas stumbled after, leaving the playwright’s lodging. If anything
serious had happened, Hoode would not be able to forgive himself. Meanwhile, there was another fear. Grace Napier would be in the audience that afternoon. He trembled at the thought of her seeing a calamitous performance by the company because it was bound to affect her view of him. It was some years since he had had anything more than abuse thrown at him from the pit.
Vincentio’s Revenge
could change that. Hoode did not relish the idea of being pelted by rotten food while his beloved looked on from the balcony.
‘Here’s George Dart!’ said Firethorn.
‘Alone!’ observed Hoode.
‘That does not trouble me,’ added Gill.
Dart came to a halt in front of them and gabbled his story. He had found nothing. When he approached the watch, he was told that the operation of the law was none of his business and sent away with a flea in his ear. The one piece of information he did glean was that a man was killed in a brawl on the north embankment around midnight.
His three listeners immediately elected their book holder as the corpse. Dart was interrogated again then dismissed. Firethorn slumped back in his chair and brooded.
‘I see Willoughby’s hand in this!’
‘You see Willoughby’s hand in everything but in your wife’s placket, sir,’ said Gill waspishly.
‘We must look into this at once,’ decided Hoode.
‘
After
the performance,’ said Firethorn.
‘
Instead
of it, Lawrence.’
‘Ha! Sacrilege!’
They returned to the tiring-house to find it a morgue. Everyone had now heard George Dart’s tale about the murder on the embankment and they were convinced that Nicholas Bracewell was the victim. Nor was it an isolated incident. In their febrile minds, they saw it as the latest in a sequence that began with the appearance of a real devil in the middle of their performance. Devil, maypole, Roper Blundell – and now this. The cumulative effect of it all was overwhelming. They mourned in silence and wondered where the next blow would fall. Not even a stirring speech from Firethorn could reach them. Westfield’s Men had one foot in the grave.
The irony was that
Vincentio’s Revenge
had attracted a sizeable audience. They came to see blood flow at the Queen’s Head and that put them into good humour. Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry were there to decorate the gallery and act as cynosures for wandering eyes. They knew the play by repute and longed to while away a couple of hours in a more tragic vein. Grace was a little uneasy but Isobel was brimming with self-confidence, discarding her mask and coming to the theatre for the first time as an independent young woman with a mind of her own. As the glances shot across at her, she returned them with discrimination.
Seats filled, noise grew, tension increased. The genial spectators had no notion of the accelerating misery backstage. They did not realise that they might be called upon to witness the low point of the company’s achievement. Blood and thunder were their priorities. With a bare five minutes to go before the start, the latecomers wedged themselves into their
seats and insinuated their bodies into the pit.
Panic gave way to total immobility in the tiring-house. They were turned to stone. Firethorn chipped manfully away at it with the chisel of his tongue but he could not shape it into anything resembling a theatrical company. He tried abuse, inspiration, reason, humour, bare-faced lying and even supplication, but all failed. They had given up and approached the coming performance with the hopeless resignation of condemned men about to lay their heads on the block of their own reputation.
With execution two minutes away, they were saved.
Nicholas Bracewell entered with Margery Firethorn.
The whole place came back to life at once. Everyone crowded around the newcomers with excited relief. Firethorn pushed his way through to embrace the book holder.
‘A miracle!’ he said.
‘Do you have no welcome for me, Lawrence?’ chided his wife. ‘You have me to thank for his release.’
‘Then I take you to my bosom with joy,’ said her husband, pulling her close for a kiss of gratitude. ‘What is this talk of release?’
‘From prison.’
‘Mon Dieu!’
‘I was locked in the Counter,’ said Nicholas, ‘but there is no time for explanation now, sir. The spectators have paid.’
He took charge at once and the effect was incredible. With their book holder back at the helm, it might yet be possible to salvage the play. The only disturbing factor was the presence of Margery.
‘You cannot stay here, my love,’ said Firethorn.
‘Why not, Lawrence?’
‘Because it is not seemly.’
‘Do you think I have not seen men undressed before? It will not fright me, I warrant you.’ She pointed at the half-naked John Tallis who was being helped into a skirt. ‘I will look on the pizzle of the Duchess of Venice and not be moved.’
‘I share your disappointment!’ said Gill wickedly.