Christopher Millfield surged back out onstage to continue his battle with Gabriel Hawkes. Both were fine actors who could carry off a wide range of supporting roles with assurance and each was a real asset to the company. But there would not be room for the two of them in the touring party. One had to give way to the other. They had never liked each other but, in all previous plays, their personal antipathy had been subdued for the sake of a common cause. Threatened with unemployment, they fell back on a raw hostility that was totally in keeping with the characters they were playing but which made for some rather alarming departures from the text.
Nicholas watched it all with a mixture of surprise and distaste. He might have expected such behaviour from Christopher Millfield, an arrogant and impulsive young man who was quick to take offence where none was intended. Gabriel Hawkes was a very different person, an unassuming and almost shy character who was ill at ease with the ribald banter of the players and who kept himself apart from the general throng. Nicholas admired the talents of both men but had much more affection for Hawkes. On a long and arduous tour, his soft-edged presence would be much more acceptable than Millfield’s brashness.
Yet he was giving the worst possible account of himself. In descending to open combat, Hawkes was doing his cause irreparable harm. To the amusement of the audience – but the detriment of the play – the two of them were grappling like wrestlers, throwing each other to the ground with blank verse before pummelling away unmercifully with rhyming couplets.
Then, suddenly, it was all over.
Gabriel Hawkes seemed to concede defeat. He sagged visibly and the spirit went out of his defiance. He let Christopher Millfield walk all over him and could not even offer a token resistance. It was painful to watch.
Most of the onlookers were unaware of the intense personal conflict which had been going on in front of them. Hawkes and Millfield did not have leading parts and they melted into the scenery whenever Lawrence Firethorn came onstage. He was a true King in every sense and his regal brilliance outshone everything else in view, including the hilarious exploits of Barnaby Gill as a decrepit suitor. Firethorn’s rule was paramount.
He led out the company to bask in the applause that echoed around the inn yard where they had set up their makeshift stage. Westfield’s Men were due to play at the Queen’s Head the following week but nobody believed that the performance would take place. The plague was closing in remorselessly. Spectators who would be deprived of entertainment for long months showed their appreciation of players who would be exiled from the city. It was a joyous yet rather wistful occasion.
Lawrence Firethorn wept genuine tears and delivered
a farewell speech. Barnaby Gill snuffled, Edmund Hoode swallowed hard and the rest of the company were patently moved. Nicholas Bracewell was not carried away on the tide of emotion. His attention was fixed on Gabriel Hawkes who was strangely detached from it all. A man who loved the theatre with a deep and lasting commitment was now looking quite alienated by it all.
As they came off stage, Nicholas sought him out.
‘What ails you, lad?’
‘Nothing, Master Bracewell.’
‘Can you be well?’
‘I feel a sickness coming on but it is not serious.’
‘What manner of sickness?’
‘Do not trouble yourself about me.’
‘Shall we carry you to a physician?’
‘It is of no account, I promise you.’
‘Have care, Gabriel.’
The young actor smiled weakly and touched his arm.
‘Thank you, Master Bracewell.’
‘Why so?’
‘You have been a good friend to me.’
There was an air of finality in his voice that upset Nicholas. As Gabriel Hawkes went off unsteadily to change out of his costume and make his way back to his lodgings in Bankside, the book holder had the worrying premonition that he would never see the man alive again.
Having toyed with the city for a few weeks, the plague moved in for the kill. London was helpless. It suffered
from pounding headaches, icy chills, agonising back pains, quickening pulse, heavy breathing, high fever and incurable restlessness. Ugly buboes began to appear in its groin and beneath its armpits. Vomiting was quite uncontrollable. As the body surrendered, the mind began to crumble as well. Delirium set in. The mortality rate climbed inexorably and people learned to pray once more.
‘When will you leave, sir?’
‘As soon as it is needful.’
‘Is there no hope of escape?’
‘Alas, no, my love. Seven deaths were reported in this parish alone and a dozen or more in Cripplegate. When all the parishes are reckoned up, the number will be well past thirty and even as high as thrice that number.’
‘God save us all!’
‘There’s no comfort for we wretched players, who must be the first to be sacrificed to this scourge. The Privy Council has issued an edict. All theatres, bear-baiting arenas and other places of public consort must be closed forthwith. It is iniquitous!’
‘It is inconsiderate, sir.’
Margery Firethorn clasped her husband to her and let him feel the warmth of her devotion. It had not been a placid marriage by any stretch of the imagination but he had never regretted it, even when the tempests were at their fiercest. Margery was a good wife, a caring mother, a thrifty housekeeper and a sound Christian. Living with such a rumbustious partner as Lawrence Firethorn would have cowed any other woman but she had met the challenge
with unflinching bravery. They were destined for each other. Kindred spirits forged from the same steel.
‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked.
‘Until the Queen’s Head can welcome us again.’
‘That day will be months away.’
‘Michaelmas at least.’
‘It will seem like an eternity.’
‘My old heart is sad at the contemplation of it.’
‘I will miss you sorely, Lawrence.’
Firethorn looked down at his wife as she lay beside him in bed and saw again the voluptuous young woman whom he had first courted all those years ago. Time had etched deep lines in her face and childbirth had been unkind to her figure but she was still an astonishing creature in her own way, with generous curves to her body that could entice and excite as of old. Firethorn had aroused the love of serving wenches and the lust of court beauties in his headlong flight into adultery but he always came back to the more mature charms of his wife and wondered, as he did now, feeling a rare pang of guilt, why he had bothered to go astray in the first place.
Margery gave him a joy beyond mere satisfaction and it was something to savour. Lying there in an attitude of complete welcome, she was as irresistible as she had been on their wedding night when the bed had creaked until dawn. Shafts of moonlight came in through the window to paint an even more wondrous portrait of her.
Lawrence Firethorn pulled her to him.
‘Come closer, my love. We need each other.’
‘One moment, sir,’ said Margery, wanting to get the practicalities out of the way beforehand. ‘How am I to live while my husband is away?’
‘As virtuously as if he were at home.’
‘I speak of household expenses, Lawrence.’
‘You will be provided for, my angel.’
‘In what way?’ she pressed.
‘The establishment will be much smaller when I am gone,’ he said. ‘I will take the lodgers, apprentices and all with me out of the house. There’ll be but you, our children and our servants left here in Shoreditch.’
‘Children and servants must eat, sir.’
‘And so they shall. Every day, most regularly.’
‘Will I be furnished with money, then?’
‘Of course, Margery,’ he said, stroking her thigh as a prelude to their shared delight. ‘I will give you all that I am able. Let that content you.’
‘And how if it should not be sufficient?’
‘Be frugal, woman, and all will be well.’
‘Even frugality must come at a price.’
‘Have no fear, sweeting.’
‘Then put my mind at rest.’
‘I will, I will,’ he said, letting his hand travel up to cup her ample breast. ‘While I am away, I will send you more money. And if that be not enough, why, then, you must raise some capital from elsewhere.’
‘Teach me how, sir.’
‘Sell my second-best cloak.’
Margery was touched. She knew how much his apparel
meant to him and how he would sooner lose a limb than part with a yard of it. The cloak, a magnificent garment that was paned with yellow, green, blue and red sarcanet and lined with buckram, was a present from Lord Westfield himself and would not disgrace the wardrobe of any peer.
‘Do you speak true, Lawrence? I may sell it?’
‘Only if the need arises.’
‘And you will not berate me for it?’
‘Your comfort must come before my vanity.’
‘This gladdens me more than I can say.’
It was the moment to secure his prize. Firethorn reached under the pillow for the ring which he had placed there earlier then slipped it symbolically on to the third finger of her left hand. The ruby mesmerised her.
‘It is for me?’
‘For whom else? Wear it till I return.’
‘Nothing would make me take it off.’
‘It is a token of my adoration,’ he said, easing her thighs apart with gentle pressure. ‘Let it be a perpetual reminder of the love I bear you. A precious jewel to show that you are the treasure of my existence. A lasting tribute to the fairest of her sex.’ She gave him a kiss which set him aflame and which banished all common sense. His tone was ruinously casual. ‘And if the worst should happen – sell the ring as well.’
A volcano erupted directly beneath him.
The bed creaked mightily but not for joy.
Bankside was kinder to its departing Thespians. Nocturnal pleasures were not squandered so readily by Nicholas
Bracewell. Because they were less frequent occurrences in his life, he had schooled himself to enjoy them when they came and to lock out all thought of the real world. It was only afterwards – as they lay side by side in lazy provocation – that he turned his mind to harsher matters.
‘Will you stay in London, Anne?’
‘Unless the plague should worsen.’
‘All the signs point that way.’
‘Then I will visit relatives in the country.’
‘Your cousins in Dunstable?’
‘Or my uncle in Bedford. Or even my other uncle in Nottingham. I’ll go to one, or two, perchance all three of them before I stay here to catch the plague.’
‘Is that what I am?’ he teased.
‘I grow feverish whenever you are near, Nick.’
Anne Hendrik was one of the more unusual residents of Bankside. In an area notorious for its brothels, its gambling dens, its taverns and its teeming low life, she owned a respectable house and ran a successful business. English by birth, she was the widow of Jacob Hendrik, a conscientious Dutchman who brought his skills as a hatmaker to London only to discover that the City Guilds were intent on keeping him and his compatriots out of their jealous brotherhoods. Forced to set up shop outside the city boundary, he chose Southwark as his home and Anne as his wife.
Fifteen happy years of marriage had produced no children. What Anne inherited was a fine house, a thriving business and her husband’s belief in the dignity of work for its own sake. She also inherited Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Which towns will you visit?’ she asked.
‘The details are yet to be decided upon.’
‘In what direction do you travel?’
‘North, Anne.’
‘Haply, you may find your way to Dunstable, then?’
‘Or to Bedford. Or to Nottingham. Or to anywhere else you should chance to be. If I am in the same county as you, I’ll find a way to see you somehow.’
Anne kissed him fondly on the cheek than nestled into his shoulder. In the time that he had lodged at her house, Nicholas had become more than a friend. They shared a bed only occasionally but their lives were nevertheless intertwined. He was drawn to the tall, graceful, attractive woman who had such a refreshing sense of independence about her and she, in turn, was fascinated by his blend of humour, intelligence and quiet strength. She had never met anyone who could be so modest about his many attributes. Though he was only a hired man with the company, Nicholas had made himself indispensable and taken on duties that would normally be beyond the scope of a book holder.
Intrigued by the theatre, Anne Hendrik took a lively interest in the affairs of Westfield’s Men and she was well-informed about its shifting population. Having sat through the last performance of
The Constant Lover
, she was curious to know which of its cast would appear in the play when it was taken on tour.
‘How large will the company be, Nick?’
‘But fifteen of us.’
‘That calls for severe surgery.’
‘Master Firethorn has made a swift incision.’
‘And who has been cut out?’
‘Far too many, I fear.’
‘George Dart?’
‘No, I saved him.’
‘Thomas Skillen?’
‘He was beyond rescue.’
Nicholas shook his head sadly. In choosing those who would remain with the company, Lawrence Firethorn was in close consultation with his book holder. They had spent hours in deep debate and Nicholas had fought hard to keep certain people, though not always with success. It was the actor-manager who made the final decisions and he did so with brutal efficiency, making no concessions to sentiment or to compassion. What fell to Nicholas was the gruesome task of telling good friends that their services would no longer be required and it had been a disturbing process.
Thomas Skillen was a case in point. The stagekeeper was steeped in theatre and as dependable as a rock but his old age and rheumatism told against him. Younger legs and more versatile hands were preferred. Peter Digby was another casualty. As leader of the musicians, he was a key figure in every performance but his expertise was a luxury that could not be afforded in a touring company. Actor-musicians were given priority because they had dual value. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, would see some of his fine costumes leave London while he was forced to stay behind.
His infinite skill with needle and thread was not enough to secure his passage. Nathan Curtis, master carpenter, was also set aside. Only minimal scenery and properties could be taken and his craft was now superfluous.