‘It grieves me that Edmund is not here to witness the transformation,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was struck down at the very moment when your landlord took his leave.’
‘We are all praying that our master is away for a very long time.’
‘Westfield’s Men will join you in those prayers.’
He waved farewell to Leonard and headed for the taproom. The place was full and the atmosphere boisterous, but Nicholas was surprised to see that a number of people were missing. There was no sign of Owen Elias or Frank Quilter, and some of the hired men who invariably congregated there of an evening had somehow vanished as well, Nathan Curtis among them. Given the improvements under the new landlord, it seemed strange that so many of Westfield’s Men had chosen to leave. Nicholas crossed to a table where Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill were sitting.
‘Well, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘How is he?’
‘As weary as before,’ replied Nicholas, taking the empty chair. ‘Edmund has no fever, no pain and no evident sickness. Yet he is so listless that he needs help to walk across the room. Doctor Zander is perplexed beyond measure.’
‘So are we,’ said Gill, gloomily. ‘A new comedy was promised to us.’
‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ruffling his beard. ‘That’s our other concern. Edmund was contracted to deliver it within ten days.’
‘Then you must release him from the contract,’ advised Nicholas. ‘There is no way that he’ll be able to fulfil its terms. Edmund is not even able to read a play, let alone write one. You’ll have to wait.’
Gill was tetchy. ‘I cannot bear to wait,’ he said, ‘nor can my host of admirers. They have not seen me in a new comedy for months. Instead of creating fresh wonders to dazzle them, I am forced to rescue dark tragedies like Caesar’s Fall from the boredom into which they would otherwise sink.’
‘There’s nothing boring about my Julius Caesar,’ boomed Firethorn, striking his barrel chest with a palm. ‘Distraction only sets in when the soothsayer is onstage.’
‘Yes, Lawrence. I distract the audience from the misery, carnage and tedium that you inflict upon them. Tragedy needs the saving grace of a clown.’
‘Then it’s a pity we do not have one worthy of the title.’
Gill was outraged. ‘That’s unforgivable!’
‘And quite unjust,’ said Nicholas, bringing the exchange to an end before the insults really began to flow. ‘Everyone knows that in Barnaby we have the finest clown in London. Since we also have the greatest actor, the company will always outshine its rivals. Together — and only together — you help to make us what we are.’
‘Only if I am given the opportunity to shine in a comedy,’ said Gill.
Firethorn flicked a hand. ‘Comedy, tragedy or history,’ he said, airily. ‘Give me any of them you wish and I’ll turn it to gold with my Midas touch.’
‘Midas touch! Your touch is like a leper’s handshake.’
‘You are the one whose performances are always diseased, Barnaby.’
‘Need we bicker so?’ asked Nicholas, looking from one to the other. ‘We’ll not solve our problem by calling each other names. Edmund must be allowed to rest. If we want a new play, we must look elsewhere.’
‘Only Edmund can show me at my best,’ said Gill, haughtily. ‘Is there not someone else we can employ to finish the piece while the author languishes in bed? Lucius Kindell, perhaps?’
Firethorn shook his head. ‘He’d not be equal to the task.’
‘He and Edmund have worked together before.’
‘Lucius has his strengths,’ argued Nicholas, ‘and he will grow as a dramatist, but he’s no counterfeit Edmund Hoode. Ask him to finish the play and you’d see a glaring join between what each of them wrote. It could not be concealed. And there is the question of Edmund’s pride. He might not wish another hand to meddle with his play.’
‘Yet we must offer some novelty for our audience,’ said Firethorn. ‘Look how well they respond to Caesar’s Fall. It allows us to display our skills in new ways. And there is nothing to match the challenge of performing a work for the first time. It keeps us on our toes.’
‘As a dancer,’ boasted Gill, ‘I am always on my toes.’
‘Your fault, dear Barnaby, is that you keep treading on everyone else’s.’
‘There is one hope,’ said Nicholas, rubbing his chin. ‘Michael Grammaticus may be able to furnish us with what we need. He told me that he was working on something else, though I’ve no idea how far he has advanced, or if the piece would be suitable.’
Gill was dismissive. ‘It would be another tragedy. You only have to look at the fellow to know that he has no humour in his soul. Michael is too saturnine. He inhabits the murky underworld of drama, creating tragic heroes with besetting faults that lead to their destruction.’
‘That may be so,’ said Firethorn, ‘but his tale of Ancient Rome had spectators queuing halfway down Gracechurch Street this afternoon. Speak to him, Nick. I’d be interested to read anything that comes from his fertile brain.’ He pulled a face. ‘I just wish that I could bring myself to like Michael a little more.’
‘He has many good qualities,’ said Nicholas, ‘and is generous to a fault. Did you know that he’s been paying Doctor Zander’s bills?’
Firethorn was taken aback. ‘Why should he do that?’
‘Because he worships Edmund and draws his inspiration from him. He also feels guilty that it was during the rehearsal of Caesar’s Fall that Edmund suffered his own collapse. It seems that Michael insisted on paying for any treatment needed.’
‘That could be costly if the illness drags on.’
‘It makes no difference to Michael,’ said Nicholas. ‘He told Edmund that nothing was more important to him than finding a cure for this mysterious ailment.’
‘I begin to admire this Michael Grammaticus, after all,’ said Firethorn.
Gill was more critical. ‘He’s too arid a companion for me.’
‘He’ll be relieved to hear that, Barnaby. He’s shown no interest in women but, by the same token, he’d not wish to become one of your pretty boys either. I think the fellow’s taken a vow of chastity.’
‘What’s this about chastity?’ asked the landlord, cheerfully, coming to stand beside their table. ‘If you seek it here, my friends, you are in the wrong place. Chastity’s the one thing that’s not on our bill of fare. Some have lost it here,’ he added with a chortle, ‘but none, I dare swear, have ever managed to find it.’
Firethorn laughed. ‘I cannot even remember what chastity is, Adam.’
‘You were born a rampant satyr,’ taunted Gill.
‘It’s the secret of a happy life.’
‘Happiness comes from having an occupation that you love,’ said Adam Crowmere, complacently. ‘The stage is your kingdom, Lawrence, and I hold court here. As you see,’ he went on, using an arm to take in the whole room, ‘my happiness consists in spreading happiness. Listen to that laughter and merriment.’
‘We had precious little of that under our last landlord. What news of him?’
‘A letter came from Dunstable today. Alexander complains that his brother’s hanging on to life by his fingernails, but will not have the grace to go. It may be weeks before he’s ready for his coffin.’
‘If only they would bury that rogue, Marwood, alongside him.’
‘He’ll not know the Queen’s Head when he returns,’ said Crowmere. ‘We’ve more trade and livelier company in here. Oh, and that reminds me, Nick,’ he added, turning to the book holder. ‘You spoke of two friends in need of work. If they care to come here tomorrow, I’ve places for them now.’
‘You may need to fill them with someone else,’ said Nicholas, accepting the truth of the situation. ‘I fancy that Hywel and Dorothea changed their minds about coming here. They must have found employment elsewhere.’
London was not the ready source of money that they had imagined. Until they arrived in the capital, Hywel Rees and Dorothea Tate had not realised how many beggars were already there. They were competing with a whole army of vagrants, wounded soldiers, disabled children, vagabonds, tricksters and rogues, many of whom had staked out their territory and who were prepared to defend it with brutal force. The newcomers had been repeatedly beaten, cursed, chased, harried and, in one street, had even suffered the indignity of having the contents of a chamber pot emptied over them from an upper window. It left them in low spirits.