When Nicholas got back to the house late that night, Anne Hendrik was waiting for him with a smile of welcome. Her pleasure at seeing him home again was mingled with relief that he had come to no harm. Nicholas had been working his way through the Bankside stews once more and she feared for his safety in an area that swarmed with low life. His task was fraught with dangers because it took him to some of the most notorious criminal dens in London.
'How did you fare?' she asked.
'Not well,' he admitted. 'Someone at the Antelope remembered a tall man with a red beard but he was not sure if our sketch bore any likeness to him. The hostess at the Dog and Doublet thought she recognized the face in the drawing but she insists that his beard was black.'
'Did you call at the Cardinal's Hat?'
'Yes,' he said, rallying, 'and there was better news. Alice will be discharged from the hospital soon. She's recovered well and got her wits back, by all accounts. I have great hopes that she will be able to give me more details about Redbeard.'
'What of Samuel Ruff?'
'He continues to search as diligently as me,' he said. 'We will run our man to earth in the end.'
Apprehension flitted across her face and she stepped in close to give him a brief hug. Her eagerness to see the killer brought to justice was tempered by a natural anxiety.
'If you do find him, Nicholas…'
'No question but that we will.' ^!
'You will have the utmost care?' she pleaded.
'Have no fear, Anne,' he soothed. 'I go armed. Redbeard will not have the chance to stab me unawares.'
He took her in his arms and gave her a reassuring kiss.
Susan Fowler was no longer staying in his room but he still did not return to it. He and Anne went upstairs together to her bedchamber at the front of the house. It was a large, low room with solid pieces of furniture, tasteful hangings and a small carpet over the shining oak floorboards. Paintings of Dutch interiors hung on the walls as a memento of her late husband's homeland. Like all parts of the house, it was kept spotlessly clean.
The four-poster was soft and comfortable, and they made love with a languid tenderness under its linen. Afterwards, they lay in the dark with their arms entwined. Nicholas Bracewell and Anne did not share a bed often. Neither of them was ready to commit themselves to any full or permanent relationship. He was far too independent and she was still wedded to memories of a happy marriage with Jacob Hendrik. It suited them both to drift in and out of their moments of intimacy, and to see them as occasional delights rather than as a routine habit. The magic was thus retained.
'Nick…'
'Mm?'
'Are you asleep?'.
'Yes.'
They both laughed. She dug him playfully in the ribs.
'I was thinking about Will Fowler,' she continued.
'So was I.'
'Maybe that is the reason he was drawn to the theatre.'
'Reason?'
'It's a kind of refuge,' she argued. 'Actors have to be seen but only as somebody else. Do you understand me? Will Fowler went into the theatre to hide. Just like you.'
'Is that what I did?' he asked with amusement.
'You tell me, sir.'
But she knew that he would not. Anne Hendrik had enquired about his past life many times but he had yielded only the barest details. Born and bred in the West Country, he was the son of a well-to-do merchant who ensured that Nicholas had a sound education then took him into the business. It gave him the chance to travel and he made many voyages to Europe.
Suddenly, he broke with his family and took service with Drake on his voyage around the world. The experience changed his whole attitude to life and left him a more philosophical man. When he came back to England, his days as a sailor were over. Eventually, he moved to London and began to work in the theatre.
'What exactly did you do, Nick?' she wondered.
'When?'
'In those years between coming home to your own country and joining Lord Westfield's Men. You must have done something.'
'I did. I survived.'
'How?'
He kissed her by way of reply. The missing years in his life had left their mark on him but he would never disclose why. Anne would have to accept him as he was, a quiet, strong-willed person whose self-effacing manner was a form of mask. She might not know everything about him but there was enough to make him very lovable.
'Speak to me,' she whispered.
'What shall I say?'
'Do you agree with me? About Will Fowler?'
'Perhaps.'
'And what about Nicholas Bracewell?'
'Perhaps not.'
'Oh, Nick!' she sighed, as she tightened her grip on him. 'I love this closeness but there are times when I wonder who the man I am holding really is.'
'I wonder that myself,' he confessed.
He kissed her softly on the lips and began to stroke her dark, lustrous hair. Nestling into his chest, she felt at once soothed and aroused. It was several minutes before she broke the silence.
'What are you thinking?' she said.
'It doesn't matter, Anne.' There was a shrug in his voice.
'Please. Tell me.'
'It was not very cheering.'
'I still want to know.'
"Very well,' he explained. ' I was thinking about failure.'
'Failure?'
'High hopes that end in chaos. Noble ambitions that crumble.'
'Is that what happened to your hopes and ambitions?'
'You keep on trying,' he said with a little laugh, then he became more serious. 'No, I was thinking about Susan Fowler, poor creature. Her plans have fallen apart. Then there is Samuel Ruff.
Failure brought him low as well. Even now there is still a deep sadness in the man that I cannot fathom.'
There was a long pause. Her voice was a murmur in the pillow.
'Nick…'
'I know what you're going to say.'
'You might go back to your own room tomorrow.'
'I will, Anne.'
But she was his for some luscious hours yet. His need made him tighten his grip on her and it did not slacken until he at last fell asleep from a lapping fatigue.
*
Richard Honeydew was overwhelmed at the news that he was to be cast in the title role of the new play. Performing for the first time at The Curtain would have been thrill enough for him, bur to make his debut there as Gloriana, Queen of England, filled him with a blend of excitement and terror. They evidently had great faith in him and that thought helped to steady his nerves and still his self-doubts.
The other apprentices were outraged and Firethorn had to slap down their complaints ruthlessly. Martin Yeo was wounded the most. A tall, slim, assured boy of fourteen, he had played most or the leading female roles for the company over the past couple of years, and he had come to look upon them as his by right. To be deprived of an outstanding part by a novice was more than his pride could take, and he withdrew into a sullen, watchful silence. John Tallis and Stephen Judd did the same. It they had disliked Richard before, they now hated him with vengeful intensity. Every morning, as they sat around the table with him for breakfast, they glared their anger at Richard and were only restrained from attacking him by the vigilance of Margery Firethorn. As a punishment for the way they had tied their victim up, she had put the three of them on reduced rations, so that they had half-empty bellies while the youngest of their number ate from a full plate. In every way, Richard Honeydew was getting more than them.
'I could have killed him!' asserted John Tallis.
'Yes,' added Stephen Judd. 'The worst thing is the way he tries to be friendly with us-as if we could ever be friends with him now!'
'It's not fair,' said Martin Yeo simply.
They had gone back up to their room and they fell easily into a conspiratorial chat. The three boys often had differences among themselves but they had now been united against a common enemy Tallis was livid, Judd was aching with envy, and Yeo took it as a personal insult. They came together in a solid lump of resentment.
Some companies actually paid their apprentices a wage, but Lord Westfield's Men did not. In return for their commitment to the company, the boys were given board, lodging, clothing and regular training in all the arts of the playhouse. The arrangement had been satisfactory until Richard Honeydew had appeared. He had unwittingly upset the balance of power within the Firethorn household, and within the company, and he had to pay for it.
'What are we going to do about it?' asked Tallis.
'There's nothing much we can do,' admitted Judd. 'He's got Samuel Ruff and Nick Bracewell on his side now.'
'He'll need more than them,' warned Yeo.
'You should have that part, Martin,' said Tallis.
'I know-and I will.'
'How?' asked Judd eagerly.
'We'll have to work that out.'
'Can we get rid of him altogether?' urged Tallis.
'Why not?' said Yeo.
The conspirators shared a cosy snigger. Richard Honeydew was riding high at the moment but they would bring him down with a bump when he least expected it. All that they had to do was to devise a plan.
*
Back in his own room, Nicholas Bracewell reached under the bed^ and pulled out a large battered leather chest. As well as being the book holder he was, literally, the book keeper. It was his function to keep the books of all the plays that the company used, new, old or renovated. The play chest was an invaluable item that had to be kept safe at all times. With so much piracy of plays going on, it behoved very company to guard its property with the utmost care.
Nicholas unlocked the chest with a key then lifted up the lid to reveal a confused welter of parchment and scrolls. The history of his involvement with Lord Westfield’s Men was all there, written out in various hands then annotated by himself. As he ran his eye over the ealiz prompt copies, a hundred memories came surging back at him from his past. He quickly reached for the manuscripts that lay on the very top of the pile then closed the lid firmly. When the chest had been locked, he pushed it back to its home beneath the bed.
After taking his leave of Anne, he walked across to the nearby wharf to be ferried by boat across the river. The Thames was thronged with craft of all sizes and they zigzagged their way across the busiest and oldest thoroughfare in London. Nicholas loved the exuberance of it all, the hectic bustle, the flapping sails, the surging colour, the distinctive tang and the continuous din that was punctuated by cries of ‘Westward Ho!’ and ‘Eastward Ho!’ from vociferous boatmen advertising their routes.
He had seen many astonishing sights in his travels but he could still be impressed anew by the single bridge that spanned the Thames. Supported by twenty arches, it was a miniature city in itself, a glorious jumble of timber-framed buildings that jutted out perilously over the river below. A huge water wheel of Dutch construction stood beneath the first arch, harnessing the fierce current that raced through the narrow opening and pumping water to nearby dwellings.
On the Bridge itself, it was Nonesuch House that dominated, a vast, ornate and highly expensive wooden building which had been shipped from Holland and reassembled on its stone foundations. A more grisly feature could be seen above the gatehouse tower where the heads of executed traitors were displayed on poles. Nicholas counted almost twenty of them, rotting in the morning sun as scavenger kites wheeled down to peck hungrily at the mouldering flesh. London Bridge was truly one of the sights of Europe but it embodied warning as well as wonder.
When he alighted on the other bank, Nicholas paid and tipped his boatman then made his way to the teeming Gracechurch Street.
Roger Bartholomew was waiting for him outside The Queen’s Head in a state of high anxiety.
‘I got your message, Nicholas.’
‘Good.’
‘Did he read my play?’
‘Yes, Master Bartholomew. So did I.’
‘Well?’ The poet was on tenterhooks.
‘It’s a fine piece,’ praised Nicholas, trying to find something positive to say that would cushion the disappointment. ‘It has memorable speeches and stirring moments. The account of the battle itself is very striking.’
‘Thank you. But what of Lawrence Firethorn.’
Everything hung on the decision. For Roger Bartholomew, it was a last hope of a career as a playwright. Acceptance would nourish him and rejection would destroy. Nicholas hated to be the one to deal the blow. What he could do was to conceal the virulence of Firethorn’s attack on the play.
‘I believe that he…saw its promise as well.’
‘And the leading role?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Did it captivate him as I foretold?’
‘To a degree, sir. He recognized the extent of your talent.’
‘Then he wishes to present it?’ asked the poet with a wild laugh. ‘Lord Westfield’s Men will offer me another contract?’
‘Unhappily, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it docs not fit in with our plans, sir.’
Roger Bartholomew was stunned. An Enemy Routed had become his obsession and he thought of nothing but the day when it would first be staged. He had put his whole being into the play. If his work was rejected then he himself was being cast aside as well-
‘Are you sure that he read it?’ he demanded.
‘I can vouch for it.’
‘Make him reconsider.’
‘He will not, sir.’
‘But he must!’
‘There’s no point, Master Bartholomew.’
‘There’s every point!’ howled the other. ‘He does not ealize what is at stake here. My play is a work of art. It’s his sacred duty^ to bring it before the public.’
Nicholas reached into the leather bag he was carrying. Taking out one of the manuscripts that lay inside, he held it out to the scholar.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said firmly. ‘Thank you for offering it to us but I’ve been told to return it herewith.’
‘Let me see Master Firethorn.’
‘That would not be wise.’
‘Is the man hiding from me?’
‘Indeed not, sir.’
‘Then I’ll hear this from his own lips.’
‘I strongly advise against it.’
‘You’ll not get in my way this time,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘Make an appointment for me. I mean to have this out with him in person and nothing will stop me.’
Nicholas felt that the truth would halt him. His attempt to protect the other from it had failed. It was time for plain speaking.
‘Master Firethorn does not like the play at all, sir.’
‘That cannot be!’ protested the author.
‘His comments were not kind.’
‘I won’t believe this, Nicholas!’
‘He could only bring himself to read a few scenes and he found them without interest. He was especially critical of your rhyming. You may talk with him if you wish, but he will only tell you the same thing in much rounder terms.’
Roger Bartholomew was dazed. Rejection was torment enough but an outright condemnation of him and his work was far worse. His face was ashen and his lip was trembling. He snatched his play back then turned all the venom he could muster upon Nicholas.
‘You lied to me, sir!’
‘I thought to spare you some pain.’
‘You led me astray.’
‘There was never a chance of your play being accepted.’ ‘Not while I have friends like you to thank!’
‘We already have a drama about the Armada,’ said Nicholas, indicating his leather bag. ‘I did warn you of that.’
‘You will all suffer for this,’ threatened Bartholomew, lashing out blindly with words. ‘I’ll not be treated this way by anybody, no, not by you, nor Master Firethorn, nor anyone in your vile profession. I want satisfaction for this and, by heaven, sir, I mean to get it!’
Vibrating with fury, he clutched his play to his chest then pushed past Nicholas to rush off at speed. The book holder watched him go then looked down at the leather bag that contained a copy of Gloriana Triumphant. Two plays on the same subject had brought different rewards to their authors. Once again, he was profoundly grateful that he was not a playwright in such a treacherous world as that of the theatre.
*
Barnaby Gill had been unhappy at first about the decision to promote Richard Honeydew to the title role of the new play. He had a high opinion of Martin Yeo's talent and felt that the older boy would bring more regal authority to the part of Gloriana. At the same time, he was ready to recognize the claims of Stephen Judd, who had improved his technique markedly in recent months and who had been an undoubted success in Love and Fortune as a wanton young wife. The lantern jaw of John Tallis put him out of the reckoning but the other two were powerful contenders.
Apprenticeship was bound by no formal rules and practises varied with each company, but Barnaby Gill accepted the general principle of seniority. On that count alone, Richard Honeydew had to be excluded. The other three boys had earned the right to be considered before him, and Gill put this point forcefully at a meeting with his colleagues.
Lawrence Firethorn spiked his guns. Edmund Hoode and the other sharers had already been talked around by the wily Firethorn so the decision stood. All that Gill could do was to register his protest and predict that they would rue their mistake. Richard Honeydew was over-parted.
'Well done, Dick.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'You have natural grace.'
'I simply wish to please, sir.'
'Oh, you do that, boy,' said Gill. 'You may prove me wrong yet.'
The more he watched Richard, the more he came to see his unusual gifts as a performer. His voice was clear, his deportment good and his use of gesture effective. With a dancer's eye, Gill admired his sense of balance, his timing and the easy fluency of his movement. Most important of all, the boy had now learned to wear female apparel as if he were himself female and this was a special accomplishment. Richard Honeydew might turn out to be the best choice as Gloriana, after all, and Gill did not in the least mind admitting it.
Lord Westfield's Men had rented a large room at The Queen's Head for early rehearsals. Barnaby Gill contrived a word alone with the boy during a break for refreshment.
'How are you enjoying it, Dick?'
'Very much, sir.'
'Have you ever played a queen before?' .
'Never, Master Gill. It's a great honour.'
'Who knows?' he teased softly. 'You may even outshine our own Gloriana.'
'Oh, no,' replied the boy seriously. 'Nobody could do that, sir. I think that our Queen is the most wonderful person in the world.'
Gill saw a chance to impress the boy and he took it.
'Yes,' he said casually. 'Her Majesty has been gracious to admire my playing on more than one occasion.'
Richard gaped. 'You've met her?'
'I've performed at court a number of times.'
There had, in fact, been only two appearances at the royal palace and they had been some years ago, but Gill disguised all this. He also concealed his true feelings about Queen Elizabeth. Most women filled him with mild distaste but the royal personage had done rather more than that.
Richard Honeydew might worship her along with the rest of her subjects but the fastidious, observant actor had got close enough to her to see her as no more than a middle-aged woman with a ginger wig, black teeth and a habit of using thick raddle on any part of her skin that could not be covered by clothing. Queen Elizabeth was a walking wardrobe. Beneath the flamboyant attire was a mass of wires, stays and struts, which supported the stiff exterior. Gill acknowledged that she had given a striking performance but the ravaged beauty had not won his heart.
'Will the company play at court again?' asked Richard.
'We hope so. It wants but an invitation.'
'It must be inspiring to play before Her Majesty.'
'Oh, it is. I was transported, Dick.'
'Did you dance your jig, Master Gill?'
'Twice. The Queen insisted that I repeat it.' He took a step closer to the boy. 'I would teach you the steps one day if we could find time together.'
'I would appreciate that, sir.'
'Swordplay, too,' continued Gill. 'I was instructed by a Master of Fence. I know far more about it than Nicholas Bracewell. You would do well to seek my help with a sword in future.'
'Nicholas has taught me so much, though.'
'I will teach you a lot more, Dick. Would you like that?'
The boy hesitated. The avuncular smile was worrying him again. Besides, his first loyalty was to Nicholas. He tried to speak but the actor stopped him with a raised palm.
'Come to me this evening,' he wooed. 'We'll have a bout then.'
'That will not be possible, Master Gill,' said a voice.
'Who asked you, sir?' rejoined the actor.
'Dick will be with me this evening. I am to instruct him in the use of the rapier.'
Richard was surprised to hear this but grateful for the interruption. Samuel Ruff had come to his aid once again. The boy's relief was not shared by Barnaby Gill.
'Why must you meddle, sir?' he snapped.
'The boy and I have an arrangement.'
'Is this true, Dick?'
'Yes, I think so…'
'Well, I do not think so.' He rounded on the hired man. 'And I do not believe that you have ever carried a rapier.'
'You do me wrong, Master Gill.'
'Ah!' mocked the other. 'Have you been hiding your light under a bushel all this time? Are you a Master of Fence?'
'No, sir. But I have borne a sword.'
'Let us see how much you remember.'
Ruffs intercession had annoyed Gill intensely and he wanted to teach the man a lesson. There would be the additional bond? of being able to show off in front of Richard. Crossing to a table, Gill snatched up two rehearsal foils and offered one of the bell-like handles to Ruff.
'Not a rapier, sir, but it will serve.'
'I do not wish to have a bout with you, Master Gill.'
'Are you afeard, then?'
'No, sir. But it would not be wise.'
'Who asks for wisdom out of swordplay?'
'Somebody might get hurt,' explained Ruff. 'Even with a button on, a foil can cause injury.'
'Oh, I forgot,' teased Gill. 'You have wounds enough already.'
'My arm is mended, sir. That is not the reason.'
'Then what is?'
'Common sense.'
'Common sense or cowardice?'
Samuel Ruff was stung by the gibe. He had no wish to fence with Gill but the insult could not be ignored. Slipping off his jerkin, he handed it to Richard and accepted the foil from his adversary. The latter gave him an oily grin. He was going to enjoy humiliating this troublesome hired man and would not even bother to remove his doublet to do so.
Others in the room quickly came over to watch the bout. Benjamin Creech shouted words of encouragement to Ruff but the general feeling was that he had little chance. The three older apprentices lent their support to Barnaby Gill. They wanted to see Richard Honeydew's friend humbled.
'Instruct him, Master Gill,' urged Martin Yeo.
'I'll wager a penny you have the first hit,' said Stephen Judd. ' Tuppence. Will you back your man, Dick?'
'I have no money, Stephen.'
'Owe it to me. The wager stands.'
Barnaby Gill held the light, slender foil and swished it through the air a few times before taking up his stance. His opponent held his weapon ready. The hired man was bigger and sturdier but Gill was much lighter on his feet.
'Come, Samuel,' he invited. 'Let me trim your ruff!'
The three apprentices sniggered but Richard was frightened, sensing that his friend was in real danger. Gill had been involved in a sword fight on stage during the play about Richard the Lionheart and had shown himself to be an expert. The boy quailed. Anxious for the duel to be prevented, his spirits rose when the book holder came striding into the room.
'Stop them, Master Bracewell!' he begged.
'What is going on?' asked Nicholas.
'Keep out of this!' ordered Gill.
'Is this a quarrel?'
'Stand off, Nick,' said Ruff. 'It is only in play.'
Before Nicholas could make any move, the duel had been The foils clashed in a brief passage of thrust, parry and count thrust. They started again. Barnaby Gill forced the pace of the bout, keeping his opponent under constant attack, lunging with vicious intent and using all his tricks to entertain the audience Ruff could do little but defend and he went through all eight parries time and again. Gill circled him, first one way and then the other, baiting him like a dog with a bull.
Yet somehow he could not score a hit to appease his burning resentment of the man. Remise, reprise and flanconade were used but Ruff somehow held him at bay. Gill speeded up his attack and found an opening to slash at his opponent's left arm. The hired man was quick enough to elude injury but the button opened up the sleeve of his shirt and a bandage showed through.
'A hit!' cried Stephen. 'You owe me tuppence, Dick!'
'No hit,' insisted Ruff. 'A touch.'
Gill cackled. 'Here comes your wager, Stephen.'
He attacked again with his wrist flashing, thrusting in quarte and tierce, setting up another opening for himself. Crouching low as he lunged towards his adversary's stomach, he was astonished when his foil was deftly twisted out of his hand and sent spinning through the air. Unable to save himself, Barnaby Gill ended up flat on his back with the point of Ruff's weapon under his chin. It was the hired man's turn to use the well-tried pun.
'You have a Ruff at your throat now, sir.'
A tense silence ensued. The apprentices were non- plussed, Creech and his fellows were astounded, and Nicholas Bracewell was delighted. Barnaby Gill was seething. Instead of humiliating Samuel Ruff, he had been chastened in public himself and his pride had taken a powerful blow. He would not forget or forgive.
It was left to Richard Honeydew to speak first.
‘I will claim my wager now, Stephen.'
*
The cardinal's hat presented a sorry sight to the morning sun. Long splinters of wood had been hacked away and much of the paint had been scored. On one side of the tavern sign at least, the hat was very much the worse for wear. No wind disturbed
Bankside. The cardinal's hat hung limp and forlorn. Nicholas Bracewell looked up to assess the damage that Redbeard had caused. There was a window adjacent to the sign and he supposed that it was in the room belonging to Alice. He was soon given confirmation of this. 'She is upstairs now, sir.' 'May I see her?'
The landlord looked even more like a polecat in daylight. His arrowed eyes went to his visitor's purse. Nicholas produced a few coins and tossed them on to the counter. 'Follow me, sir.'
'Is the girl fully recovered now?' said Nicholas, as he went up the winding staircase with the man. 'Alice? No, sir. Not yet.'
'What are her injuries?'
'Nothing much,' replied the landlord callously. 'One of her arms must stay bound up for a week or more and she still limps badly.'
They reached the first landing and walked along a dingy passageway. Nicholas glanced around with misgivings. 'Will the girl get proper rest here?'
'Rest!' The polecat drew back his teeth in a harsh laugh. 'Alice came back to work, sir, not to rest. She was as busy as ever in the service last night.'
The sleeping figure of an old man now blocked their way. Kicking him awake with the toe of his shoe, the landlord stepped over him and went on to a door. He banged hard on it. 'Alice!'
There was no sound from within so he peered through the keyhole. He used his fist to beat a tattoo on the timber. Are you alone in there, Alice?' with a shrug of his shoulders, he grabbed the latch of the door and lifted it. Nicholas was led into a small, filthy, cobwebbed room with peeling walls and a rising stench that hit his nostrils. A mattress lay on the floor with a ragged blanket over it. Under the blanket was a small head that the landlord nudged with his foot.
'Wake up, girl. You've a visitor.'
'Perhaps this was not a good time to call,' suggested Nicholas. 'She plainly needs her sleep.'
'I'll rouse her, sir, have no fear,' said the landlord.
After shaking her roughly by the shoulder, he took hold of the blanket and pulled it right away from her. The sight which met them made Nicholas quake. Lying on the mattress at a distorted angle was the naked body of a young woman in her early twenties. One arm was heavily strapped, one ankle covered with a grimy bandage. Eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. The mouth was wide open to issue a silent scream for mercy.
Alice would not be able to tell Nicholas Bracewell anything. Her throat had been cut and the blood had gushed in a torrent down her body. The stink of death was already upon her.