Only a performance of the highest quality could make the audience forget the torrid conditions, and Westfield’s Men provided it. With a revitalised Frank Quilter at his best, the play moved into its closing scenes with cumulative power. Firethorn was supreme. Having watched his military triumphs being overturned by the enemy, he felt that suicide was the only way to make a dignified exit. His final speech was truly harrowing. As the erstwhile conqueror collapsed in a heap on the ground, there was a collective sigh of pain, sorrow and regret. It was some time before applause rang out to fill the inn yard.
All discomfort was now forgotten. Actors who had sagged in the stifling heat positively bounded back onstage to bask in the ovation. Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe out with eager strides, holding a position centre stage and bowing in turn to different sections of the audience. His face was now one big, broad, gracious, endearing smile. High above him, surrounded by his effete entourage, Lord Westfield discarded his pomander long enough to clap his gloved hands enthusiastically together. Hannibal was among his favourite plays and he was delighted with the way in which the company that bore his name had acquitted themselves. As the noisome reek rose up from the pit, he resorted to slapping his thigh with one hand while the other held the pomander in place. Heat and stink notwithstanding, it had been a remarkable performance.
Francis Quilter was relieved that it was finally over. He was a tall, slim, wiry, sharp-featured man in his twenties, with a handsome face that lent itself to comedy or tragedy with equal facility. Having discharged his duty, he was preoccupied with more serious concerns. While the others beamed and grinned at the cheering spectators, he remained detached and expressionless. He knew that he had let his fellows down badly in the earlier part of the play but hoped that he had done enough to make amends. A confrontation with Firethorn was inevitable and there would be criticism from other quarters as well. Barnaby Gill, in particular, would voice his displeasure at Quilter’s shortcomings. So would the forthright Owen Elias. A testing time lay ahead for the young actor. The sole support would come from Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder was Quilter’s one real friend in the company, the only person in whom he had confided his grim secret. With Nicholas at his side, he felt, he could face anything, even the wrath of an enraged Lawrence Firethorn.
Nicholas, meanwhile, resolved to protect his friend. When the actors quit the stage at the end of their curtain call, he took Quilter aside to whisper some advice.
‘Keep clear of Master Firethorn,’ he said.
‘Is he angry with me, Nick?’
‘Furious.’
‘He has every right to be. I was abysmal.’
‘You were distracted, Frank, that is all.’
‘I was completely lost at the start,’ admitted Quilter. ‘I gabbled the first lines that came into my head.’
Nicholas gave a kind smile. ‘Fortunately, some of them were correct.’
‘Most of them were not. Master Firethorn’s eyes were ablaze.’
‘You vexed him in the extreme.’
‘I thought he was going to strike me.’
The whole company was crowding into the tiring house. Complaining about the heat, most of them tore off their costumes and sat down on the rough wooden benches that were arranged around the walls. Firethorn was the last to leave the stage, preening himself in front of his public before departing with a final wave. When he swept into the tiring house, his mood changed. He glared around the room.
‘Where is that traitor?’ he demanded.
‘Here it comes,’ murmured Quilter, bracing himself for the onslaught.
‘Where is that tongue-tied lunatic who dared to take part in my council of war? I should have killed him in the Alps and left his rotting body to feed the birds!’
‘I am the clown in the company,’ protested Gill, waving a peevish hand, ‘and I was robbed of my just reward. I blame you, Lawrence. You let that gibbering imbecile, Francis Quilter, run amok so wildly with his lines that he provoked more laughter than me. I’ll not stand for it, do you hear?’
‘Be quiet, Barnaby!’
‘Not until you censure an appalling performance.’
‘If you wish,’ retorted Firethorn sharply. ‘You gave an appalling performance, Barnaby, and it’s earned my severest censure.’
‘I was at my peak!’ yelled Gill over the mocking jeers of the others.
‘Then I would hate to see you at your worst.’
‘Francis should bear the brunt of your admonition — not me.’
‘I agree with you there, Barnaby,’ said Owen Elias. ‘I know that Frank is new to the company but he should know the difference between an exit and an entrance by now. If I’d not pushed him off when I did, he would have been party to a debate in the Roman camp. Try to remember whose side you are on, Frank.’
‘I crave your pardon, Owen,’ said Quilter.
‘We’ll need more than an apology,’ resumed Firethorn, determined to upbraid the actor in front of his fellows. ‘To begin with, we need an explanation. How could an actor in whom we have placed such faith betray us so completely?’
Nicholas moved in quickly. ‘Before we hear his answer,’ he said politely, ‘I have some news to report. It concerns the day’s takings.’
‘Nothing is amiss, I hope?’ asked Firethorn anxiously.
‘Not with regards to the money itself. The gatherers did brisk business. Hannibal has made us a tidy profit for us this afternoon. Our efforts were richly rewarded.’ There was a murmur of approval from everyone. ‘No,’ he went on seriously, ‘the problem, I fear, is related to the landlord.’
Firethorn snorted. ‘That death’s head! Marwood is an eternal problem.’
‘He is due to collect the rent from us today.’
‘Then pay him off and keep his hideous visage away from me.’
‘That will not be possible, I fear.’
‘Why? The varlet is not trying to raise his charges again, is he?’
‘He’s in no position to do so.’
‘Then why even bother me with the hated name of Alexander Marwood?’
‘Because I bring sad tidings.’ Nicholas paused to make sure that everyone was listening. ‘The landlord is so ill that he has taken to his bed.’ A spontaneous cheer went up. ‘The rent is to be paid instead to his wife.’
‘Marwood, ill?’ said Firethorn, rocking with laughter. ‘This is wonderful news, Nick. Why did you keep it from us, man? By heaven, I’ll ride to church this very afternoon and pray for the continuance of his malady!’
‘I’ll gladly kneel beside you, Lawrence,’ said Elias, grinning happily. ‘If that miserable devil is abed, we can venture into the taproom with pleasure for once.’
‘Am I authorised to pay Mistress Marwood?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Yes,’ replied Firethorn. ‘Give the money to that old gorgon and have done with it. Tell her that if her husband has the grace to die of his disease, we’ll gladly open a subscription for his coffin. And I’ll be the first to dance on it.’
The remark unleashed general hilarity. Alexander Marwood, the gloomy landlord of the Queen’s Head, was their sworn enemy, a man who loathed the presence of actors on his premises, yet who welcomed the regular income that they brought in. At the best of times, Westfield’s Men had an uneasy relationship with him and his flint-hearted wife, Sybil. If either of them was laid low by sickness, no tears would be shed on their behalf in the company. It would be seen as a welcome gift to the actors.
‘This calls for a celebration!’ announced Elias. ‘Come, lads! Let’s drink to our deliverance. We’ve sweated enough for one day. It is time to slake our thirst.’
There was immediate agreement. Everyone hurriedly changed out of his costume so that they could troop off to the taproom. Nicholas took care to keep Firethorn talking so that the actor-manager’s ire was deflected from Quilter. When their discussion came to an end, the room was almost deserted. By the time that Firethorn remembered the sins of his military advisor, the miscreant had slipped quietly away.