‘Nick Bracewell, of course. He comes every day. Owen Elias, too. And most of the other sharers have looked in at some time. The only one to avoid me is Barnaby.’
‘Would he desert you in your hour of need?’
‘He has always been squeamish about disease.’
‘Squeamish or selfish?’ she asked, sharply. ‘Barnaby is inclined to be both. He ought to be here out of simple friendship, if nothing else. I’ll tax him about it.’
‘No, no,’ he pleaded. ‘Let him be. I have visitors enough without him. He is likely to bring more reproach than sympathy, and I would rather avoid that.’
‘What on earth could he reproach you for, Edmund?’
‘Being unable to finish a play that I was contracted to write.’
‘Illness delays you. That is not your fault.’
‘Barnaby would make me feel that it was. He has badgered me for a new comedy and, when I am on the point of completing it, I am struck down. He feels robbed.’
‘I’ll rob him of something else if he dares to chide you,’ vowed Margery, ‘and his voice will be much higher as a result. I think it barbarous that he ignores you when you have taken to your sick bed. Has he no Christian charity?’
‘Barnaby is a law unto himself.’
‘I think his treatment of you is shameful, and I’ll say so to his face. As for this new comedy,’ she went on, ‘it can surely wait. Lawrence says that they look for another in its stead. Michael Grammaticus is writing a second play.’
‘Nick told me as much,’ said Hoode, ‘and I was heartened by the news. If we have something new to offer, I’ll not feel that I have failed the company.’
‘You could never do that, Edmund.’
‘I pray that Michael can come to our rescue.’
‘Oh, what a sweet creature you are!’ she said, bending forward to kiss him on the head. ‘Most authors are green with envy when they hear of the success of others, yet you seek to help your rivals.’
‘Michael is no rival. He is a burgeoning playwright. It’s my bounden duty to nurture his talent so that Westfield’s Men can benefit. Caesar’s Fall, as I hear, carried all before it.’ He smiled up at her. ‘Is it possible that Michael Grammaticus can write something as accomplished as that again?’
Nicholas Bracewell could see the transformation that success had wrought in him. On the eve of its performance, Michael Grammaticus was as taut as a lute string, fearing that the play was inadequate or that it would somehow founder before an audience. The applause that had greeted Caesar’s Fall had put a deep satisfaction in his eyes. He had passed a crucial test and the relief was immense. Although he was still not at ease with most of the company, he somehow felt that he was at last part of them. Nicholas did his best to encourage that feeling.
‘Come whenever you wish, Michael,’ he said. ‘We are always pleased to see you at the Queen’s Head. You have earned the right to rub shoulders with Westfield’s Men.’
‘Thank you, Nick. I regard it as an honour.’
‘Then you are a rare author indeed.’
‘Am I?’
‘Others who live by the pen often believe that it is the actors who should honour them. They demand respect. Some even want veneration.’
‘Vanity is nought but weakness of character,’ said Grammaticus.
Nicholas chuckled. ‘Do not let Lawrence Firethorn hear you say that,’ he advised. ‘Or Barnaby Gill, for that matter. Their vanity is a real source of strength.’
‘Long may it flourish!’
They were sitting alone at a table in a corner of the taproom. It was early evening and some of the actors, having celebrated the afternoon performance of Marriage and Mischief with a tankard of ale, had drifted off. Nicholas was pleased to note that Nathan Curtis and Hugh Wegges were among those who had left, chastened men returning to their families, deeply grateful to the book holder for helping them to discharge their debts by paying them their wages in advance. Michael Grammaticus, by contrast, was patently not a family man, nor did he have any interest in becoming one. There was an aura of loneliness about him that made Nicholas feel sorry for the playwright.
‘When can we see this new play of yours, Michael?’ he asked.
‘I am not sure that it is ready for performance yet.’
‘Let us be the judges of that. Is it finished?’
‘More or less,’ said Grammaticus, squinting at him. ‘Strictly speaking, it is not a new play. I worked on it for months before setting it aside to write Caesar’s Fall. When I went back to it, I was able to improve it out of all recognition.’
‘I like the sound of that. What is its title?’
‘The Siege of Troy.’
‘Ah,’ said Nicholas. ‘You are deserting Rome for ancient Greece.’
‘Both are rich with possibilities for an author,’ said Grammaticus with a flash of enthusiasm. ‘It is of a different order to Caesar’s Fall. It is as much about the tragedy of Troy itself as about the suffering of individuals. And it has much more comedy in it.’
‘That will appeal to Barnaby.’
‘The part of the clown was written with him in mind. The role of Ulysses is the one that I tailored to meet Lawrence Firethorn’s talents. I hope that he will be tempted.’
‘Show us the play and we will find out.’
‘Let me complete the Epilogue first. I have struggled with it for days.’
‘Struggle on while we read the rest,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘An epilogue is only an afterthought to the drama itself. Give us the five acts already written and it will be plenty on which to base a decision. Come, Michael,’ he said, seeing the hesitation in the other man’s face. ‘Do you not wish us to present another of your plays?’
‘Yes, yes. But only when it is worthy of the stage.’
‘How can we know, if you will not let us see the piece?’
Grammaticus seemed to be wrestling with some inner demon. Desperate for more success, he had doubts about the quality of the other play and did not wish to lose the good opinion of Nicholas and the others by offering them an inferior work. At the same time, he could not let such an opportunity pass. Westfield’s Men were soliciting him.
‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘You may read The Siege of Troy.’
‘I’ll bear you company to your lodging and collect it.’
‘No, no. I’ll fetch it, Nick. I’ve no wish to take you so far out of your way.’
‘I’d willingly go a hundred miles to find a play like Caesar’s Fall.’
‘You’ll not need to walk a hundred yards for this one,’ said Grammaticus, getting to his feet and moving to the door. ‘Stay here with the others. I’ll not be tardy.’
Nicholas let him go. He had no time to wonder why the playwright was so anxious to keep him away from his lodging. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adam Crowmere enter the taproom. The landlord was as full of exuberance as ever. After greeting many of the customers by name, he came across to Nicholas’s table and stood beside it with arms akimbo.
‘This hot weather is good for business, Nick,’ he said, happily. ‘We sold far more drink than usual during the play. My servingmen filled pitchers all afternoon.’
‘It’s not only the bright sunshine that makes them thirsty. Give some credit to Marriage and Mischief. I have noticed before that comedy seems to quicken the need for ale or wine more readily than any tragedy. Do not ask me why, Adam.’
‘If this be so, let’s have more comedies.’
‘We need to offer a range of plays,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our audiences would soon tire of comedy if that is all that they could see at the Queen’s Head. Tragedy and history also have their place.’
Crowmere beamed. ‘Whatever you perform, it is always enchanting.’
‘Thank you. That’s a fine tribute. But I am glad you mention enchantment,’ he went on. ‘From what I’ve been told, it is not confined to the inn yard.’
‘I do not follow you.’
Nicholas rose from his seat. ‘Some of the actors, it seems, have been enchanted by one of your guests, a certain Philomen Lavery.’