Nicholas Bracewell Collection E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Nicholas Bracewell
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 1064

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

For Lord Westfield's men, sometimes murder takes centre stage...The reign of Elizabeth I has seen a flowering of English theatre. The esteemed theatrical company called Lord Westfield's Men have enjoyed many a success but it falls to Nicholas Bracewell, the company's bookholder and mainstay, to save his beloved actors when they are threatened by fierce rivals, assassins, plague and much more. Includes the first three instalments in the Nicholas Bracewell series: The Queen's Head, The Merry Devils and The Trip to Jerusalem.

Leseprobe

Contents

The Queen’s HeadDedicationEpigraphPrologueChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenThe Merry DevilsDedicationEpigraphChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenThe Trip to JerusalemDedicationEpigraphChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenALSO BY EDWARD MARSTON THE NICHOLAS BRACEWELL SERIESAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

The Queen’s Head

An Elizabethan Mystery

BOOK ONE

EDWARD MARSTON

TO THE ONLIE BEGETTER OF THESE INSVING CHRONICLES Mr. C.M. ALL HAPPINESSE WISHETH THE WELL-WISHING ADVENTVRER IN SETTING FORTH

‘Her head should have been cut off years ago.’

Queen Elizabeth I

Prologue

Fotheringhay CastleFebruary 1587

Death stalked her patiently throughout the whole of her imprisonment. Hardly a day passed when she did not hear or imagine its stealthy tread behind her, yet it stayed its hand for almost twenty years. When it finally struck, it did so with indecent haste.

‘Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.’

The Earl of Shrewsbury set the date and time of her execution in a faltering voice. He was part of the deputation which called on her after dinner in her mean apartments at the grim fortress. Mary was forced to get out of bed, dress and receive the men in her chamber. She was the Dowager Queen of France, the exiled Queen of Scotland and the heir to the English throne but she had to suffer the humiliations that were now borne in upon her.

Shrewsbury pronounced the sentence, then Beale, the clerk of the Council, read aloud the warrant from which the yellow wax Great Seal of England dangled so mesmerically. Everything was being done in strict accordance with the Act of Association.

Death had enlisted the aid of legal process.

Her captors gave her no crumbs of comfort to sustain her through her last hours. When she asked that her own chaplain be given access to her, in order to make ready her soul, the request was summarily denied. When she called for her papers and account books, she met with resistance again. The deputation was proof against all her entreaties.

Their licence extended beyond the grave. It was Mary’s wish that her body might be interred in France either at St Denis or Rheims but they refused to countenance the idea. Queen Elizabeth had expressly ruled against it. Alive or dead, the prisoner was to have no freedom of movement.

All further appeals were turned down. The interview came to an end, the deputation withdrew and Mary was left to soothe her distraught servants and to contemplate the stark horror of her situation.

Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock!

In an impossibly brief span of time, she had to tie off all the loose ends of a life which, for some forty-four years now, had been shot through with moments of high passion and deeply scored by recurring tragedies. Twelve days would not have been long enough for her to prepare herself and she was given less than twelve hours. It was a cruelly abrupt departure.

Supper was quickly served so that Mary could begin the task of putting her affairs in order. She went through the contents of her wardrobe in detail and divided them up between friends, relations and members of her depleted household. When she had drawn up an elaborate testament, she asked for Requiem Masses to be held in France and made copious financial arrangements for the benefit of her servants. Even under such stress, she found time to make charitable bequests for the poor children and friars of Rheims.

Her spiritual welfare now took precedence and she composed a farewell letter to the chaplain, de Préau, asking him to spend the night in prayer for her. The faith which had sustained her for so long would now be put to the ultimate test.

It was two o’clock in the morning before her work was done. Her last missive, to her brother-in-law, King Henry of France, was thus dated Wednesday 8th February, 1587, the day of her execution.

Mary lay down on the bed without undressing while her ladies-in-waiting, already wearing their black garments of mourning, gathered around her in a sombre mood. One of them read from a Catholic bible. The queen listened to the story of the good thief as it moved to its climax on the cross then she made one wry observation.

‘In truth, he was a great sinner,’ she said, ‘but not so great as I have been.’

She closed her eyes but there was no hope of sleep. The heavy boots of soldiers marched up and down outside her room to let her know that she was being guarded with the utmost care, and the sound of hammering came from the hall where the scaffold was being erected by busy carpenters. Time dragged slowly by to heighten the suspense and prolong her torment.

At six o’clock, well before light, she rose from her bed and went into the little oratory to pray alone. Kneeling in front of the crucifix for what seemed like an eternity, she tried to fit her mind for what lay ahead and to ignore the sharp pains that teased and tested her joints. The sheriff of Northampton eventually summoned her and the agony of the wait was over. The longest night of her life would now be followed by its shortest day.

Six of her servants were allowed to attend her. Mindful of her command that they should conduct themselves well, they drew strength from her evident composure and fortitude. Whatever the mistakes of her life, she was determined to end it with dignity.

Almost three hundred spectators had assembled in the great hall and they strained to catch a first glimpse of her as she came in, looking on with a mixture of hostility and awe. They knew that they were in the presence of a legend – Mary Queen of Scots, an erratic, imperious, impulsive woman who had lost two crowns and three husbands, was Catholic heir to a Protestant country and could, by her very existence, inspire rebellion while still under lock and key.

Her youthful charm might have vanished, her beauty might have faded, her face and body might have fleshed out, her shoulders might have rounded and her rheumatism might oblige her to lean on the arm of an officer as she walked along, but she was still a tall, gracious figure with the unmistakable aura of majesty about her and it had its due effect on her audience.

She was dressed in black satin, embroidered with black velvet and set with black acorn buttons of jet trimmed with pearl. Through the slashed sleeves of her dress could be seen inner sleeves of purple and although her shoes were black, her stockings were clocked and edged with silver. Her white, stiffened and peaked head-dress was edged with lace, and a long, white, lace-edged veil flowed down her back with bridal extravagance.

Mary held a crucifix and a prayer book in her hand, and two rosaries hung down from her waist. Round her neck was a pomander chain and an Agnus Dei. Her manner was calm and untroubled, and she wore an expression of serene resignation.

In the middle of the hall was the stage which had been built during the night. Some twelve feet square and two feet high, it was hung with black. As Mary was led up the three steps, her eye fell on the pile of straw which housed the executioner’s instrument. Her rank entitled her to be despatched with the merciful swiftness of a sharp sword but she saw only the common headsman’s axe. It was a crushing blow to her pride.

She listened with studied calm as the nervous Beale read out the commission for her execution. Mary was imperturbable. It was only when the Dean of Peterborough stepped forward to harangue her according to the rites of the Protestant religion that she betrayed the first sign of emotion.

‘Mr Dean,’ she said firmly, ‘I am settled in the ancient Catholic Roman religion, and mind to spend my blood in defence of it.’

Resisting all exhortations to renounce her faith, she hurled defiance at her judges by holding her crucifix aloft and praying aloud in Latin and then in English. When she had attested her devotion to Catholicism, she was ready to submit to her fate.

The executioners and the two ladies-in-waiting helped her to undress. Above a red petticoat, she was wearing a red satin bodice that was trimmed with lace. Its neckline was cut appropriately low at the back. When she put on a pair of red sleeves, she was clothed all over in the colour of blood.

Her eyes were now bound with a white cloth embroidered in gold. The cloth was brought up over her head so that it covered her hair like a turban. Only her neck was left bare. She recited a psalm in Latin then felt for the block and laid her head gently upon it. The executioner’s assistant put a hand on the body to steady it for the blow.

There was a rustle of straw as the axe was lifted up by strong hands, then it arched down murderously through the air. Missing her neck, it cut deep into the head, drenching the white cloth with blood and drawing involuntary groans from an audience that was watching with ghoulish fascination. The axe rose again to make a second glittering sweep, slicing through the neck this time but failing to sever the head from the body. With crude deliberation, the executioner hacked through the last few royal sinews.

The ceremony was not yet complete. Stooping down to grasp his trophy and exhibit it, the masked figure stood up and cried in a loud voice: ‘Long live the Queen!’ Gasps of horror mingled with shouts of disbelief. All that he was holding was an auburn wig.

The head parted from its elaborate covering, fell to the platform and rolled near the edge. From beneath her red skirts, a frightened lapdog came scurrying out to paddle in the blood that surrounded its mistress. Its pitiful whimpering was the only sound to be heard in the great hall.

Everyone was struck dumb. As they gazed at the small, shiny skull with its close-cropped grey hair, they saw something which made them shudder. The lips were still moving.

Chapter One

The Queen’s head swung gently to and fro in the light breeze. It was an interesting sight. Wearing a coronet and pearls in red hair that was a mass of tight curls, she had a pale, distinguished face with a high forehead, fine nose and full lips. Her regal beauty had an ageless quality that was enhanced by a remarkable pair of eyes. Dark, shrewd and watchful, they managed to combine authority with femininity and – when the sun hit them at a certain angle – they even hinted at roguishness. Nobody who met her imperious gaze could fail to recognise her as Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England.

Bright colours had been used on the inn sign. Enough of the neck and shoulders was included to show that she was dressed in the Spanish fashion, with a round, stiff-laced collar above a dark bodice fitted 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 from the timber on which they were painted. The same opulence shone with vivid effect on the reverse side of the sign. Royalty was at its most resplendent.

London was the biggest, busiest and most boisterous city in Europe, a thriving community which had grown up in the serpentine twists of the River Thames and which was already thrusting out beyond its boundary walls. Poverty and wealth, stench and sweetness, anarchy and order, misery and magnificence were all elements in the city’s daily life. From her high eminence in Gracechurch Street, the queen’s head saw and heard everything that was going on in her beloved capital.

‘Ned, that gown will need a stitch or two.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘You can sweep the stage now, Thomas.’

‘The broom is ready in my hand, Master Bracewell.’

‘George, fetch the rushes.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Where you will find them, lad. About it straight.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Peter!’

‘It was not our fault, Nicholas.’

‘We must speak about that funeral march.’

‘Our cue was given too early.’

‘That did not matter. It was the wrong music.’

Nicholas Bracewell stood in the courtyard of The Queen’s Head and took charge of the proceedings. Noon had just brought the morning’s rehearsal to a close. The afternoon performance now loomed large and it threw the whole company into the usual state of panic. While everyone else was bickering, complaining, memorising elusive lines, working on last minute repairs or dashing needlessly about, Nicholas was concentrating on the multifarious jobs that had to be done before the play could be offered to its audience. He was an island of calm in a sea of hysteria.

‘I must protest most strongly!’

‘It was only a rehearsal, Master Bartholomew.’

‘But, Nicholas, my play was mangled!’

‘I’m sure it will be far better in performance.’

‘They ruined my poetry and cut my finest scene.’

‘That is not quite true, Master Bartholomew.’

‘It’s an outrage!’

The book holder was an important member of any company but, in the case of Lord Westfield’s Men, he had become absolutely crucial to the enterprise. Nicholas Bracewell was so able and resourceful at the job that it expanded all the time to include new responsibilities. Not only did he prompt and stage manage every performance from the one complete copy that existed of a play, he also supervised rehearsals, helped to train the apprentices, dealt with the musicians, cajoled the stagekeepers, advised on the making of costumes or properties, and negotiated for a play’s licence with the Master of the Revels.

His easy politeness and diplomatic skills had earned him another role – that of pacifying irate authors. They did not get any more irate than Master Roger Bartholomew.

‘Did you hear me, Nicholas?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘An outrage!’

‘You did sell your play to the company.’

‘That does not give Lord Westfield’s Men the right to debase my work!’ shrieked the other, quivering with indignation. ‘In the last act, your voice was heard most often. I did not write those speeches to be spoken by a mere prompter!’

Nicholas forgave him the insult and replied with an understanding smile. Words uttered in the heat of the moment were normal fare in the world of theatre and he paid no heed to them. Putting a hand on the author’s shoulder, he adopted a soothing tone.

‘It’s an excellent play, Master Bartholomew.’

‘How are the spectators to know that?’

‘It will all be very different this afternoon.’

‘Ha!’

‘Be patient.’

‘I have been Patience itself,’ retorted the aggrieved poet, ‘but I’ll be silent no longer. My error lay in believing that Lawrence Firethorn was a good actor.’

‘He’s a great actor,’ said Nicholas loyally. ‘He holds over fifty parts in his head.’

‘The pity of it is that King Richard is not one of them!’

‘Master Bartholomew—’

‘I will speak with him presently.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘Take me to him, Nicholas.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘I wish to resolve this matter with him.’

‘Later.’

‘I demand it!’

But the howled demand went unsatisfied. Conscious of the disturbance that the author was creating, Nicholas decided to get him away from the courtyard. Before he knew what was happening, Roger Bartholomew was ushered firmly into a private room, lowered into a seat and served with a pint of sack. Nicholas, meanwhile, poured words of praise and consolation into his ear, slowly subduing him and deflecting him from his intended course of action.

Lawrence Firethorn was the manager, chief sharer and leading actor with Lord Westfield’s Men. His book holder was not shielding him from an encounter with a disappointed author. Rather was he protecting the latter from an experience that would scar his soul and bring his career in the theatre to a premature conclusion. Roger Bartholomew might be seething with righteous anger but he was no match for the tempest that was Lawrence Firethorn. At all costs, he had to be spared that. Nicholas had seen much stronger characters destroyed by a man who could explode like a powder keg at the slightest criticism of his art. It was distressing to watch.

Allowances had to be made for the fact that Master Roger Bartholomew was a novice, lately come from Oxford, where his tutors held a high opinion of him and where his poetry had won many plaudits. He was clever, if arrogant, and sufficiently well-versed in the drama to be able to craft a play of some competence. The Tragical History of Richard the Lionheart had promise and even some technical merit. What it lacked in finesse, it made up for in simple integrity. It was over-written in some parts and under-written in others but it was somehow held together by its patriotic impulse.

London was hungry for new plays and the companies were always in search of them. Lawrence Firethorn had accepted the apprentice work because it offered him a superb central role that he could tailor to suit his unique talents. It might be a play that smouldered without ever bursting into flame but it could still entertain an audience for a couple of hours and it would not disgrace the growing reputation of Lord Westfield’s Men.

‘I expected so much more,’ confided the author as the drink turned his fury into wistfulness. ‘I had hopes, Nicholas.’

‘They’ll not be dashed.’

‘I felt so betrayed as I sat there this morning.’

‘Rehearsals often deceive.’

‘Where is my play?’

It was a cry from the heart and Nicholas was touched. Like others before him, Roger Bartholomew was learning the awful truth that an author did not occupy the exalted position that he imagined. Lord Westfield’s Men, in fact, consigned him to a fairly humble station. The young Oxford scholar had been paid five pounds for his play and he had seen King Richard make his first entrance in a cloak that cost ten times that amount. It was galling.

Nicholas softened the blow with kind words as best he could, but there was something that could not be concealed from the wilting author. Lawrence Firethorn never regarded a play as an expression of poetic genius. He viewed it merely as a scaffold on which he could shout and strut and dazzle his public. It was his conviction that an audience came solely to see him act and not to watch an author write.

‘What am I to do, Nicholas?’ pleaded Bartholomew.

‘Bear with us.’

‘I’ll be mocked by everyone.’

‘Have faith.’

After giving what reassurance he could, the book holder left him staring into the remains of his sack and wishing that he had never left the University. They had taken him seriously there. The groves of academe had nurtured a tender plant which could not survive in the scorching heat of the playhouse.

Nicholas, meanwhile, hurried back to the yard where the preparations continued apace. The stage was a rectangle of trestles that jutted out into the middle of the yard from one wall. Green rushes, mixed with aromatic herbs, had been strewn over the stage to do battle with the stink of horse dung from the nearby stables. When the audience pressed around the acting area, there would be the competing smells of bad breath, beer, tobacco, garlic, mould, tallow and stale sweat to keep at bay. Nicholas observed that servingmen were perfuming large ewers in the shadows so that spectators would have somewhere to relieve themselves during the performance.

As soon as he appeared, everyone converged on him for advice or instruction – Thomas Skillen, the stagekeeper, Hugh Wegges, the tireman, Will Fowler, one of the players, John Tallis, an apprentice, Matthew Lipton, the scrivener, and the distraught Peter Digby, leader of the musicians, who was still mortified that he had sent Richard the Lionheart to his grave with the wrong funeral march. Questions, complaints and requests bombarded the book holder but he coped with them all.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with long fair hair and a full beard, Nicholas Bracewell remained even-tempered as the stress began to tell on his colleagues. He asserted himself without having to raise his voice and his soft West Country accent was a balm to their ears. Ruffled feathers were smoothed, difficulties soon resolved. Then a familiar sound boomed out.

‘Nick, dear heart! Come to me.’

Lawrence Firethorn had made a typically dramatic entrance before moving to his accustomed position at the centre of the stage. After almost three years with the company, Nicholas could still be taken aback by him. Firethorn had tremendous presence. A sturdy, barrel-chested man of medium height, he somehow grew in stature when he trod the boards. The face had a flashy handsomeness that was framed by wavy black hair set off by an exquisitely pointed beard. There was a true nobility in his bearing which belied the fact that he was the son of a village blacksmith.

‘Where have you been, Nick?’ he enquired.

‘Talking with Master Bartholomew.’

‘That scurvy knave!’

‘It is his play,’ reminded Nicholas.

‘He’s an unmannerly rogue!’ insisted the actor. ‘I could run him through as soon as look at him.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Why, sir? Because that dog had the gall to scowl at me throughout the entire rehearsal. I’ll not put up with it, Nick. I’ll not permit scowls and frowns and black looks at my performance. Keep him away from me.’

‘He sends his apologies,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

‘Hang him!’

Firethorn’s rage was diverted by a sudden peal of bells from a neighbouring church. Since there were well over a hundred churches in the capital, there always seemed to be bells tolling somewhere and it was a constant menace to open air performance. The high galleries of the inn yard could muffle the pandemonium outside in Gracechurch Street but it could not keep out the chimes from an adjacent belfry. Firethorn thrust his sword arm up towards heaven.

‘Give me a blade strong enough,’ he declared, ‘and I’ll hack through every bell-rope in London!’

Struck by the absurdity of his own posture, he burst into laughter and Nicholas grinned. Working for Lawrence Firethorn could be an ordeal at times but there was an amiable warmth about him that excused many of his faults. During their association, Nicholas had developed a cautious affection for him. The actor turned to practicalities and cocked an eye upwards.

‘Well, Nick?’

‘We might be lucky and we might not.’

‘Be more exact,’ pressed Firethorn. ‘You’re our seaman. You know how to read the sky. What does it tell you?’

Nicholas looked up at the rectangle of blue and grey above the thatched roof of the galleries. A bright May morning had given way to an uncertain afternoon. The wind had freshened and clouds were scudding across the sky. Fine weather was a vital factor in the performance as Firethorn knew to his cost.

‘I have played in torrents of rain,’ he announced, ‘and I would willingly fight the Battle of Acre in a snowstorm this afternoon. I care not about myself, but about our patrons. And about our costumes.’

Nicholas nodded. The inn yard was not paved. Heavy rain would mire the ground and cause all kinds of problems. He was as anxious to give good news as Firethorn was to receive it. After studying the sky for a couple of minutes, he made his prediction.

‘It will stay dry until we are finished.’

‘By all, that’s wonderful!’ exclaimed the actor, slapping his thigh. ‘I knew I chose the right man as book holder!’

The Tragical History of Richard the Lionheart was a moderate success. Playbills advertising the performance had been put up everywhere by the stagekeepers and they brought a large and excitable audience flocking to The Queen’s Head. Gatherers on duty at the main gates charged a penny for admission. Many people jostled for standing room around the stage itself but the bulk of the audience paid a further penny or twopence to gain access to the galleries, which ran around the yard at three levels and turned it into a natural amphitheatre. The galleries offered greater comfort, a better view and protection against the elements. Private rooms at the rear were available for rest, recreation or impromptu assignations.

All sorts and conditions of men flooded in – lawyers, clerks, tinkers, tailors, yeomen, soldiers, sailors, carriers, apprentices, merchants, butchers, bakers, chapmen, silk-weavers, students from the Inns of Court, aspiring authors, unemployed actors, gaping countrymen, foreign visitors, playhouse gallants, old, young, lords and commoners. Thieves, cutpurses and confidence tricksters mingled with the crowd to ply their trade.

Ladies, wives, mistresses and young girls were fewer in number and, for the most part, masked or veiled. Gentlemen about town pushed and shoved in the galleries to obtain a seat near the women or to consort with the prostitutes who had come up from the Bankside stews in search of clients. Watching the play was only part of the entertainment and a hundred individual dramas were being acted out in the throng.

Some men wore shirts and breeches, others lounged in buff jerkins, others again sported doublet and hose of figured velvet, white ruffs, padded crescent-shaped epaulets, silk stockings, leather gloves, elaborate hats and short, patterned cloaks. Female attire also ranged from the simple to the extravagant with an emphasis on the latest fashions in the galleries, where stiffened bodices, full petticoats, farthingales, cambric or lawn ruffs, long gowns with hanging sleeves, delicate gloves, and tall, crowned hats or French hoods were the order of the day.

Wine, beer, bread, fruit and nuts were served throughout the afternoon and the cheerful hubbub rarely subsided. The trumpet sounded at two-thirty to announce the start of the play, then the Prologue appeared in his black cloak. The first and last performance of The Tragical History of Richard the Lionheart was under way.

Squeezed between two gallants in the middle gallery, Roger Bartholomew craned his neck to see over the feathered hats in front of him. The pint of sack had increased his anger yet rendered it impotent. All he could do was to writhe in agony. This was not his play but a grotesque version of it. Lines had been removed, scenes rearranged, battles, duels, sieges and gruesome deaths introduced. There was even a jig for comic effect. What pained the hapless author most was that the changes appealed to the audience.

Lawrence Firethorn held the whole thing together. He compelled attention whenever he was on stage and made the most banal verse soar like sublime poetry:

My name makes cowards flee and evil traitors start

For I am known as King Richard the Lionheart!

His gesture and movement were hypnotic but it was his voice that was his chief asset. It could subdue the spectators with a whisper or thrill them with a shout like the report of a cannon. In his own inimitable way, he made yet another play his personal property.

His finest moment came at the climax of the drama. King Richard was besieging the castle of Chalus and he strode up to its walls to assess any weaknesses. An arbalester came out on to the battlements – the balcony at the rear of the stage – and fired his crossbow. The bolt struck Richard between the neck and shoulder where his chain mail was unlaced.

For this vital part of the action, Firethorn used an effect that had been suggested by Nicholas Bracewell. The bolt was hidden up the actor’s sleeve. As the crossbow twanged, he let out a yell of pain and brought both hands up to his neck with the bolt between them. The impact made him stagger across the stage. It was all done with such perfect timing that the audience was convinced they had actually seen the bolt fly through the air.

Richard now proceeded to expire with the aid of a twenty-line speech in halting verse. After writhing in agony on the ground, he died a soldier’s death before being borne off – to the correct funeral music, on cue – by his men.

Thunderous applause greeted the cast when they came out to take their bow and a huge cheer went up when Lawrence Firethorn appeared. He basked in the acclaim for several minutes then gave one last, deep bow and took his leave. Once again he had wrested an extraordinary performance out of rather ordinary material.

Everyone went home happy. Except Roger Bartholomew.

Nicholas Bracewell had no chance to relax. Having controlled the play from his position in the tiring-house, he now had to take charge of the strike party. Costumes had to be collected, properties gathered up, the stage cleared and the trestles dismantled. Lord Westfield’s Men would not be playing at The Queen’s Head for another week and its yard was needed for its normal traffic of wagons and coaches. The debris left behind by almost a thousand people also had to be cleaned up. Rain added to the problems. Having held off until the audience departed, it now began to fall in earnest.

It was hours before Nicholas finally came to the end of a long day’s work. He adjourned to the taproom for some bread and ale. Alexander Marwood came scurrying across to his table.

‘How much was taken today, Master Bracewell?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘There is the matter of my rent.’

‘You’ll be paid.’

‘When?’

‘Soon,’ promised Nicholas with more confidence than he felt. He knew only too well the difficulty of prising any money out of Lawrence Firethorn and spent a lot of his time explaining away his employer’s meanness. ‘Very soon, Master Marwood.’

‘My wife thinks that I should put the rent up.’

‘Wives are like that.’

Marwood gave a hollow laugh. The landlord of The Queen’s Head was a short, thin, balding man in his fifties with a nervous twitch. His eager pessimism had etched deep lines in his forehead and put dark pouches under his eyes. Anxiety informed everything that he did or said.

Nicholas always took pains to be pleasant to Marwood. Lord Westfield’s Men were trying to persuade the landlord to let them use the inn on a permanent basis and there were sound financial reasons why he might convert his premises to a playhouse. But Marwood had several doubts about the project, not least the fact that a City regulation had been passed in 1574 to forbid the staging of plays at inns. He was terrified that the authorities would descend upon him at any moment. There was another consideration.

‘We had more scuffles in the yard.’

‘Good humoured fun, that’s all,’ said Nicholas. ‘You always get that during a play.’

‘One day it will be much worse,’ feared Marwood. ‘I don’t want an affray at The Queen’s Head. I don’t want a riot. My whole livelihood could be at stake.’ The nervous twitch got to work on his cheek. ‘If I still have a livelihood, that is.’

‘What do you mean, Master Marwood?’

‘The Armada! It could be the end for us all.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ returned Nicholas easily.

‘It’s ready to set sail.’

‘So is the English fleet.’

‘But the Spaniards have bigger and better ships,’ moaned the landlord. ‘They completely outnumber us. Yes, and they have a great army in the Netherlands waiting to invade us.’

‘We have an army, too.’

‘Not strong enough to keep out the might of Spain.’

‘Wait and see.’

‘We’ll all be murdered in our beds.’ Armada fever had been sweeping the country and Marwood had succumbed willingly. He gave in before battle had even commenced. ‘We should never have executed the Queen of Scots.’

‘It’s too late to change that,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘Besides, you were happy enough about it at the time.’

‘Me? Happy?’

‘London celebrated for a week or more. You made a tidy profit out of the lady’s death, Master Marwood.’

‘I would give back every penny if it would save us from the Armada. The Queen of Scots was treated cruelly. It was wrong.’

‘It was policy.’

‘Policy!’ croaked Marwood as the nervous twitch spread to his eyelid and made it flutter uncontrollably. ‘Shall I tell you what policy has done to my family, sir? It has knocked us hither and yon.’ He wiped sweaty palms down the front of his apron. ‘When my grandfather first built this inn, it was called The Pope’s Head, serving good ale and fine wines to needy travellers. Then King Henry fell out with the Catholic religion so down comes the sign and we became The King’s Arms instead. When Queen Mary was on the throne, it was Protestants who went to the stake and Catholics who held sway again. My father quickly hung the Pope back up in Gracechurch Street. No sooner had people got used to our old sign than we had a new queen and a new name.’

‘It has lasted almost thirty years so far,’ said Nicholas with an encouraging smile, ‘and, by God’s grace, it will last many more.’

‘But the Spaniards are coming – thanks to policy!’

‘The Spaniards will attempt to come.’

‘We have no hope against them,’ wailed Marwood. ‘My wife thinks we should commission another sign in readiness. Henceforth, we will trade as The Armada Inn.’

‘Save your money,’ counselled Nicholas, ‘and tell your wife to take heart. The Spaniards may have more ships but we have better seamen. Lord Howard of Effingham is a worthy Admiral and Sir John Hawkins has used all his experience to rebuild the fleet.’

‘We are still so few against so many.’

‘Adversity brings out true mettle.’

Marwood shook his head sadly and his brow furrowed even more. Nothing could still his apprehension. Seers had long ago chosen 1588 as a year of disaster and the portents on every side were consistently alarming. The landlord rushed to meet catastrophe with open arms.

‘The Armada Inn! There’s no help for it.’

Nicholas let him wallow in his dread. Like everyone else, he himself was much disturbed at the notion of a huge enemy fleet that was about to bear down on his country, but his fear was tempered by an innate belief in the superiority of the English navy. He had first-hand knowledge. Nicholas had sailed with Drake on his famous circumnavigation of the globe in the previous decade.

Those amazing three years had left an indelible impression upon him and he had disembarked from the Golden Hind with severe reservations about the character of the man whom the Spaniards called the Master Thief of the Unknown World. For all this, he still had immense respect for his old captain as a seaman. Whatever the odds, Sir Francis Drake would give a good account of himself in battle.

Darkness was falling when Nicholas left The Queen’s Head to begin the walk home to his lodgings in Bankside. He glanced up at the inn sign to see how his sovereign was responding to the threat of invasion. Buffeted by the wind and lashed by the rain, Queen Elizabeth creaked back and forth on her hinges. But she was not dismayed. Through the gathering gloom, Nicholas Bracewell fancied that he caught a smile of defiance on her lips.

Chapter Two

Rumour was on the wing. It flew over the country like a giant bird of prey that swooped on its victims at will. Estimates of the size of the Armada increased daily. The Duke of Parma’s army in the Netherlands was also swelled by report. A papal promise of a million crowns to reward a successful invasion became a guarantee of ten times that amount. Terror even invented a massive force of English Catholics, who would stream out of their hiding places to join forces with Spanish soldiers and to help them hack Protestantism to pieces. The satanic features of King Philip II appeared in many dreams.

England reacted with fortitude. An army of twenty thousand men was assembled at Tilbury under the Earl of Leicester. With the muster in the adjacent counties, it was a substantial force with the task of opposing any landing. A second army was formed at St James for the defence of the Queen’s person. The martial activity at once reassured and unnerved the citizens of London. They watched armed bands doing their training at Mile End and they heard the gunners of the Tower in Artillery Yard, just outside Bishopsgate, having their weekly practice with their brass ordnance against a great butt of earth. Invasion had a frightening immediacy.

Queen Elizabeth herself did not hide away and pray. She reviewed her troops at Tilbury and fired them with stirring words. But the Armada would not be defeated with speeches and Rumour was still expanding its ranks and boasting about its dark, avenging purpose. On 12th July, the vast flotilla set sail from Corunna. The defence of Queen and country now became an imperative. King Philip of Spain was about to extend his empire.

A week later, the captain of a scout-boat sent news that some Spanish vessels were off the Scillies with their sails struck as they waited for stragglers. On the ebb tide that night, Lord Admiral Howard and Sir Francis Drake brought their ships out of Plymouth Sound, making use of warps, to anchor them in deep water and be ready for action. Howard commanded the Ark Royal, the imposing flagship of the English fleet. At dawn the next day, he took fifty-four ships to the leeward of the Eddystone Rock and sailed to the south in order to be able – by working to windward – to double back on the enemy.

Drake was in Revenge. That same evening, as he positioned his eight ships for an attack on the Spanish rear, he caught his first glimpse of the Armada. It was a majestic sight. A hundred and thirty-two vessels, including several galleons and other first-line ships, were moving up the Channel in crescent formation. Their admiral, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, believed so totally in Spanish invincibility that he thought nothing could stop him reaching his support army in the Low Countries.

The English Fleet begged to differ. Staying to windward of the Armada, they hung upon it for nine days as it ran before a westerly wind up the Channel, pounding away with their long-range guns at the lumbering galleons, harrying, tormenting, inflicting constant damage, yet giving the Spaniards little chance to retaliate and no hope of grappling and boarding. The buccaneering skills of Drake and his like had free rein.

When the wind sank on 23rd July, both fleets lay becalmed off Portland Bill. There was a further engagement two days later off the Isle of Wight then Medina Sidonia made the fatal mistake of anchoring his demoralised fleet in Calais Roads.

The Queen’s ships which had been stationed at the eastern end of the Channel now joined the main fleet in the Straits and the whole sea-power of England was combined. Because it was not possible to get safely within gunshot range of the enemy, Howard held a council of war on the Ark Royal and a plan of action was decided upon. Eight ships were speedily filled with pitch, tar, dry timber and anything that would easily burn. The guns were left aboard but were double-shotted so that they would explode from the intense heat.

Before midnight, the fire ships were lashed together and carried by the wind and a strong tide on their voyage. As the blazing vessels penetrated the cordon of fly-boats and pinnaces that guarded the galleons, the Spaniards flew into a panic and cut their cables. The pilotless ships wreaked havoc and the Armada was forced back out to the open sea where it was at the mercy of the English.

Soon after dawn, battle was joined in earnest and it went on for almost eight hours, a raging conflict at close quarters during which the English showed their superiority over their opponents in handling their ships in difficult water. The Armada was stricken. If the English fleet had not run out of ammunition, hardly a single Spanish vessel would have escaped. As it was, the shattered flotilla fled northwards to face the horrors of a long voyage home around Scotland and thence south past Ireland.

More than five hundred Spanish lives were lost on the return journey. Medina Sidonia limped home with less than half the fleet which had sailed out so proudly. The English had not lost a ship and scarcely a hundred men. The first invasion attempt for over five centuries had been gloriously repelled. Catholicism would never lay at anchor in the Thames.

Weeks passed before the news reached England. Rumour continued to flap its wings and cause sleepless nights. It also flew across to the Continent to spread guileful stories about a Spanish victory. Bells were rung in the Catholic cities of Europe. Masses of thanksgiving were held in Rome and Venice and Paris. Rejoicing crowds lit bonfires in Madrid and Seville to celebrate the defeat of the heretic, Elizabeth, and the capture of the sea devil, Francis Drake.

Truth then caught up with Rumour and plucked its feathers. Shocked and shamed, the Spanish people went into mourning. Their king would speak to nobody but his confessor. England, by contrast, was delirious with joy. When the news was made public, there was a great upsurge of national pride. London prepared to welcome home its heroes and toast their bravery a thousand times over.

The Queen’s Head got its share of the bounty.

‘It’s agreed then. Edmund is to begin work on the play at once.’

‘I’ve not agreed,’ said Barnaby Gill testily.

‘Nor I,’ added Edmund Hoode.

‘We must seize the time, gentlemen,’ urged Firethorn.

‘You are rushing us into it,’ complained Gill.

‘Speed is of the essence, Barnaby.’

‘Then find someone else to write it,’ suggested Hoode. ‘I’ll not be hurried into this. Plays take much thought and many days, yet Lawrence wants it ready for tomorrow.’

‘I’ll settle for next Sunday,’ said Firethorn with a ripe chuckle. ‘Call upon your Muse, Edmund. Apply yourself.’

The three men were sitting downstairs in Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch. Barnaby Gill was smoking his pipe, Edmund Hoode was drinking a cup of water and the host himself was reclining in his favourite high-backed oak chair. A meeting had been called to discuss future plans for Lord Westfield’s Men. All three of them were sharers, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for the company and who took the major roles in any performance.

There were four other sharers but Lawrence Firethorn had found it expedient to limit decisions about the repertory to a triumvirate. Barnaby Gill had to be included. He was a short, stocky, pleasantly ugly man of forty with an insatiable appetite for foul-smelling tobacco and sweet-smelling boys. Morose and temperamental offstage, he was a gifted comedian once he stepped on to it and his facial expressions could reduce any audience to laughter. It was for his benefit that the comic jig had been inserted into the play about Richard the Lionheart.

Professional jealousy made the relationship between Gill and Firethorn a very uneasy one with regular threats to walk out being made by the former. However, the two men knew that they would never part. The dynamic between them onstage was a vital ingredient in the success of the company. For this reason, Firethorn was ready to make allowances for his colleague’s outbursts and to overlook his indiscretions.

‘I do not like the idea,’ affirmed Gill.

‘Then you’ve not fully understood it,’ rejoined Firethorn.

‘What is there to understand, Lawrence? England defeats the Armada. You seek a play to celebrate it – and every other company in London will be doing the same thing.’

‘That is why we must be first, Barnaby.’

‘I’m against it.’

‘You always are.’

‘Unfair, sir!’

‘True, nonetheless.’

‘Why must we ape everyone else?’ demanded Gill, bristling. ‘We should try to do something different.’

‘My performance as Drake will be unique.’

‘Yes, there you have it.’

‘What?’

‘I see no part in this new play for me.’

Edmund Hoode listened to the argument with the philosophical half-smile of someone who has heard it all before. As resident poet with the company, he was often caught between the rival claims of the two men. Each wished to outshine the other and Hoode usually ended up pleasing neither.

He was a tall, slim man in his early thirties with a round, clean-shaven face that still retained a vestige of youthful innocence. His curly brown hair and pale skin gave him an almost cherubic look. Hoode excelled in writing poems to the latest love in his life. What he found himself doing was producing hasty, if workmanlike, plays at a rate that moved him closer to nervous collapse each time. The one consolation was that he was always able to give himself a telling cameo role with romantic interest.

‘How soon will you have something to show us, Edmund?’

‘Christmas.’

‘I’m serious about this.’

‘So am I, Lawrence.’

‘We ask you as a special favour,’ purred Firethorn.

‘You expect too much of me.’

‘Only because you always deliver it, dear fellow.’

‘He’s wooing you,’ warned Gill cynically.

‘It will not serve,’ said Hoode.

‘I have your title,’ explained Firethorn. ‘It will leap off the playbills along with your name. Gloriana Triumphant!’

‘An ill-favoured thing, to be sure,’ noted Gill, wincing.

‘Be quiet, sir!’

‘I’m entitled to my opinion, Lawrence.’

‘You’re being peevish.’

‘I simply wish to choose another play.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hoode. ‘Another play by another author.’

Lawrence Firethorn regarded them through narrowed eyes. He had anticipated opposition and he had the means to remove it at a stroke. His chuckle alerted them to the danger.

‘The decision has already been taken, gentlemen.’

‘By you?’ challenged Gill.

‘By Lord Westfield.’

There was nothing more to be said. The company owed its existence to its patron. Under the notorious Act for the Punishment of Vagabonds, the acting profession had been effectively outlawed. The only dramatic companies that were permitted were those which were authorised by one noble and two judicial dignitaries of the realm. All other players were deemed to be rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars, making them liable to arrest. Lord Westfield had saved Firethorn and his fellows from that indignity. The patron’s word therefore carried enormous weight.

‘Start work immediately, Edmund,’ ordered his host.

‘Very well,’ sighed Hoode. ‘Draw up the contract.’

‘I have already done so.’

‘You take too much upon yourself,’ accused Gill.

‘Someone has to, Barnaby.’

‘We are sharers, too. We have rights.’

‘So does Lord Westfield.’

Barnaby Gill summoned up his fiercest grimace. Not for the first time, he had been outwitted by Firethorn and it stoked his resentment even more. Edmund Hoode turned wearily to his new task.

‘I must talk with Nicholas.’

‘Do, do,’ encouraged Firethorn. ‘Use his knowledge of seamanship. Nicholas could be of great help to us here.’

‘We lean on him too much,’ said Gill irritably. ‘Master Bracewell is only a hired man. We should treat him as such and not deal with him as an equal.’

‘Our book holder has rare talents,’ countered Firethorn. ‘Accept that and be truly grateful.’ He turned to Hoode. ‘Make full use of Nicholas.’

‘I always do,’ answered the other. ‘I often think that Nicholas Bracewell is the most important person in the company.’

Firethorn and Gill snorted in unison. Truth is no respecter of inordinate pride.

London by night was the same seething, stinking, clamorous place that it was by day. As the two men made their way down Gracechurch Street, there was pulsing life and pounding noise all around them. They were so accustomed to the turmoil of their city that they did not give it a second thought. Ignoring the constant brush of shoulders against their own, they inhaled the reek of fresh manure without complaint and somehow made their voices heard above the babble.

‘Demand a higher wage from them, Nick.’

‘It would never be granted.’

‘But you deserve it, you bawcock.’

‘Few men are used according to their deserts, Will.’

‘Aye!’ said his companion with feeling. ‘Look at this damnable profession of ours. We are foully treated most of the time. They mock us, fear us, revile us, hound us, even imprison us, and when we actually please them with a play for two hours of their whoreson lives, they reward us with a few claps and a few coins before they start to rail at us again. How do we bear such a life?’

‘On compulsion.’

‘Compulsion?’

‘It answers a need within us.’

‘A fair fat wench can do that, Nick.’

‘I talk of deeper needs, Will. Think on it.’

Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler were close friends as well as colleagues. The book holder had great respect and affection for the actor even though the latter caused him many problems. Will Fowler was a burly, boisterous character of medium height whose many sterling qualities were betrayed by a short temper and a readiness to trade blows. Nicholas loved him for his ebullience, his wicked sense of humour and his generosity. Because he admired Fowler so much as an actor, he defended him and helped him time and again. It was Nicholas who kept Fowler in a job and it strengthened their bond.

‘Without you, Westfield’s Men would crumble into dust!’

‘I doubt that, Will,’ said Nicholas easily.

‘We all depend upon you entirely.’

‘More fool me, for bearing such an unfair load!’

‘Seek more money. A labourer is worthy of his hire.’

‘I am happy enough with my wage.’

‘You are too modest, Nick!’ chided the other.

‘The same could not be said about you, I fear.’

Will Fowler broke into such irrepressible laughter that he scattered passers-by all around him. Slapping his friend between the shoulder blades, he turned a beaming visage upon him.

‘I have tried to hide my light under a bushel,’ he explained, ‘but I have never been able to find a bushel big enough.’

‘You’re a born actor, Will. You seek an audience.’

‘Applause is my meat and drink. I would starve to death if I was just another Nicholas Bracewell who looks for the shadows. An audience has to know that I am a good actor and so I tell them as loud and as often as I can. Why conceal my excellence?’

‘Why indeed?’

Nicholas collected a second slap on the back.

They were crossing the bridge now and had to slow down as traffic thickened at its narrowest point. The massive huddle of houses and shops that made up London Bridge extended itself along the most important street in the city. The buildings stretched out over the river then lurched back in upon each other, closing the thoroughfare down to a width of barely twelve feet. A heavy cart trundled through the press. Nicholas reached forward to lift a young boy out of its path and earned a pale smile by way of thanks.

‘You see?’ continued Fowler. ‘You cannot stop helping others.’

‘The lad would have been hit by that wheel,’ said Nicholas seriously. ‘Too many people are crushed to death in the traffic here. I’m glad to be able to save one victim.’

‘One victim? You save dozens every day.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes!’ urged Fowler. ‘And they are not just careless lads on London Bridge. How many times have you plucked our apprentices from beneath the wheels of that sodden-headed, sheep-faced sharer called Barnaby Gill? That standing yard between his little legs will do far more damage than a heavy cart. You’ve saved Dick Honeydew and the others from being run down. You’ve saved Westfield’s Men no end of times. Most of all, you save me.’

‘From Master Gill?’ teased Nicholas.

‘What!’ roared Fowler with jovial rage. ‘Just let the fellow thrust his weapon at me. I’ll saw it off like a log, so I will, and use it as a club to beat his scurvy head. I’d make him dance a jig, I warrant you!’

‘Even I could not save you then, Will.’

They left the bridge, entered Southwark and swung right into Bankside. The Thames was a huge, rippling presence beside them. Nicholas had been invited to a tavern by Fowler in order to meet an old friend of the latter. From the way that his companion had been flattering him, Nicholas knew that he wanted a favour and it was not difficult to guess what that favour was.

‘What is your friend’s name, Will?’

‘Samuel Ruff. As stout a fellow as you could find.’

‘How long is it since you last saw him?’

‘Too long. The years drift by so fast these days.’ He gave a sigh. ‘But they have been kinder to me than to Sam.’

‘Does he know that I’m coming?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Not yet.’

‘I’ve no wish to intrude upon an old friendship.’

‘It’s no intrusion. You’re here to help Sam.’

‘How?’

‘You’ll find a way, Nick. You always do.’

They strode on vigorously through the scuffling dark.

Even though it lay fairly close to his lodging, the Hope and Anchor was not one of Nicholas’s regular haunts. There was something irremediably squalid about the place and its murky interior housed rogues, pimps, punks, thieves, pickpockets, gamblers, cheaters and all manner of masterless men. Ill-lit by a few stinking tallow candles, the tavern ran to rough wooden benches and tables, a settle and a cluster of low stools. Loamed walls were streaked with grime and the rushes on the stone-flagged floor were old and noisome. A dog snuffled for rats in one corner.

The Hope and Anchor was full and the noise deafening. An old sailor was trying to sing a sea shanty above the din. A card game broke up in a fierce argument. Two drunken watermen thumped on their table for service. Prostitutes laughed shrilly as they blandished their customers. A fug of tobacco and dark purpose filled the whole tavern.

Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler sat side by side on the settle and tried to carry on a conversation with Samuel Ruff, who was perched on a stool on the other side of the table. All three drank bottle-ale. It had a brackish taste.

Nicholas glanced around the place with candid surprise.

‘You lodge here, Samuel?’ he said.

‘For my sins.’

‘Can it be safe?’

‘I sleep with one hand on my dagger.’

‘And the other on your codpiece,’ said Fowler with a grin. ‘These drabs will give you the pox as soon as they breathe on you, then charge you for the privilege.’

‘I’ve no money to waste on pleasure, Will,’ added Ruff.

‘What pleasure is there in a burning pizzle?’ Fowler’s grin became rueful. ‘There be three things an actor fears – plague, Puritans and pox. I never know which is worse.’

‘I can tell you.’

‘Which one, Sam?’

‘The fourth thing,’ explained Ruff.

‘And what is that?’

‘The greatest fear of all. Being without employ.’

There was such sadness in his voice and such despair in his eyes that the garrulous Fowler was silenced for once. Nicholas had an upsurge of sympathy for Samuel Ruff. He knew what it was to fall on hard times himself and he had a special concern for those who fell by the wayside of a necessarily cruel profession. Ruff was not only evidently in need of work. He had to be helped to believe in himself again. Nicholas showed a genuine interest.

‘How long have you been a player, Samuel?’

‘For more years than I care to remember,’ admitted Ruff with a half-smile. ‘I began with Leicester’s Men, then I toured with smaller companies.’

‘At home or abroad?’

‘Both, sir.’

‘Where have you been on your travels?’

‘My calling has taken me to Germany, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, even Poland. I’ve been hissed at in many languages.’

‘And applauded in many more,’ insisted Fowler loyally. ‘Sam is a fine actor, Nick. Indeed, he is almost as good as myself.’

‘No recommendation could be higher,’ said Nicholas, smiling.

‘We are old fellows, are we not, Sam?’

‘We are, Will.’

‘If memory serves me aright, we first played together in The Three Sisters of Mantua at Bristol. They were happy days.’

‘Not for everyone,’ recalled Ruff.

‘How say you?’

‘Have you forgotten, Will? You fetched the trumpeter such a box on the ear that he could not play his instrument properly for a week.’

‘The knave deserved it!’

‘If he’d not ducked in time, you’d have boxed his other ear and taken his breath away for a fortnight.’

‘What was the man’s offence?’ wondered Nicholas.

‘He blew a scurvy trumpet,’ explained Will.

Fowler and Ruff shook with mirth at the shared recollection. As further memoirs were revealed by the former, the other seemed to relax and blossom, secure in the knowledge that there had been a time when his talent had been in demand. Samuel Ruff was older and greyer than Fowler but his build was similar. Nicholas noted the faded attire and the neglected air. He also studied the big, open face with its honest eyes and resolute jaw. There was an integrity about Ruff which had not been beaten out of him by his straitened circumstances, and his pride was intact as well. When Fowler offered him money, he was frankly wounded.

‘Take it back, Will. I can pay my way.’

‘I mean it as a loan and not as charity.’

‘Either would be an insult to me.’

Fowler slipped the coins quickly back into his purse and revived some more memories of their time together. The laughter soon started again but it lacked its earlier warmth. Nicholas had taken a liking to Samuel Ruff but he could not see how he could help him in the immediate future. The number of hired men in the company was kept to a minimum by Firethorn in order to hold down costs. There was no call for a new player at the moment.

In any case, Ruff did not appear to be in search of a job. Months without work had taken their toll of his spirit and he was now talking of leaving the profession altogether. Will Fowler gasped with shock as he heard the news.

‘What will you do, Sam?’

‘Go back home to Norwich.’

‘Norwich?’

‘My brother has a small farm there. I can work for him.’

‘Sam Ruff on a farm!’ exclaimed Fowler with healthy disgust. ‘Those hands were not made to feed pigs.’

‘He keeps cows.’

‘You’re an actor. You belong on the stage.’

‘The playhouse will manage very well without me.’

‘This is treasonable talk, Sam!’ urged Fowler. ‘Actors never give up. They go on acting to the bitter end. Heavens, man, you’re one of us!’

‘Not any more, Will.’

‘You will miss the playhouse mightily,’ said Nicholas.

‘Miss it?’ echoed Fowler. ‘It will be like having a limb hacked off. Two limbs. Yes, and two of something else as well, Sam. Will you surrender your manhood so easily? How can anyone exist without the theatre?’

‘Cows have their own consolation,’ suggested Ruff.

‘Leave off this arrant nonsense about a farm!’ ordered his friend with a peremptory wave of his arm. ‘You’ll not desert us. D’you know what Nick and I talked about as we walked here tonight? We spoke about the acting profession. All its pain and setback and stabbing horror. Why do we put up with it?’

‘Why, indeed?’ said Ruff gloomily.

‘Nick had the answer. On compulsion. It answers a need in us, Sam, and I’ve just realised what that need is.’

‘Have you?’

‘Danger.’

‘Danger?’