‘Does he dissemble?’ wondered Nicholas.
‘I think not,’ replied Elias. ‘I have been in many gaming houses and know how to smell out a cony-catcher. Master Lavery is not one of them. The first thing he did was to let me inspect his cards to see for myself that they were not marked in any way. How many would do that?’
‘Very few, Owen. Unless they work by the quickness of their hand.’
‘I take him for an honest man. How else could I have won?’
‘I see that I will have to talk to Master Lavery myself,’ said Nicholas, curiosity sparked by what he had heard. ‘But leaving him aside, have you had any sight of those young beggars we met the other day?’
‘The counterfeit crank and his girl?’
‘Yes, Owen.’
‘No, I’ve not spied them. What about you?’
‘I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of them. The pity of it is that I found them both a place here at the Queen’s Head. As a favour to me, Adam Crowmere would have given them work, food, and shelter. They would have been rescued from the street.’ Nicholas thought about them for a moment and felt a surge of compassion. ‘I fear for them, Owen. They are strangers here. They do not know the perils of the city.’
‘You forget something,’ said Elias airily. ‘Hywel Rees is Welsh. He has the same unquenchable spirit I do. That will see him through.’
‘I do not descry any of that unquenchable spirit in you now,’ said Nicholas with amusement.
Elias mustered some defiance. ‘It is still there, I promise you,’ he said, thrusting out his jaw. ‘But have no qualms about Hywel and his pretty Dorothea. They will survive. Whatever troubles they meet in London, I am sure they will overcome them.’
Though he could neither read nor write, Hywel Rees had a great capacity for learning. His ears were sharp, and what they did not pick up, his other senses somehow gleaned. In his short time in Bridewell, he had gathered a deal of information about the place, much of it profoundly troubling. It was both a house of correction and a workhouse, an institution that took in children of the poor, capable of nothing more than manual labour, invalids who were sufficiently recovered to undertake light employment, and vagrants. It was a severe blow to Hywel’s pride that he and Dorothea were considered to belong to the group of sturdy rogues and loose women who had been convicted by a court.
Bridewell was also the home of captives from the Spanish Armada as well as those who were persecuted for their religion. Like Dorothea, he had heard the anguished cries of nameless Roman Catholics and the occasional Puritan as they were put to the torture in order to extract confessions from them. It disturbed him that he was under the same roof as these unfortunate prisoners and therefore might be subject to the same punishment. Yet the keeper who stood over him while he toiled with the other men told Hywel that he was there to be cured. Hard labour seemed to him a cruel medicine.
‘How many of us are there?’ he asked.
‘Less than there used to be.’
‘They let people out, then?’
‘Dozens of them, Hywel. My brother was one of them.’
‘Why did they discharge him?’
‘Less mouths to feed,’ said the boy.
Hywel’s companion was no more than twelve, a scrawny lad with a habit of glancing nervously over his shoulder as if expecting to be hit at any moment. The bruises on his face and bare arms suggested that his apprehension was well founded. His name was Ned Griddle, and he had been in Bridewell for almost three years. He and Hywel were unloading a cart in one of the courtyards, carrying heavy wooden boxes between them to the kitchens. The smell of fresh fish in one box was so strong and appetising that it brought an involuntary smile to Hywel’s face.
‘Not for the likes of us,’ warned Griddle. ‘They’d sooner see us starve.’
‘Who?’
‘Those that have taken over the place. Master Beechcroft is the worst of them.’
‘Why?’
‘He treats us like dirt.’
They left the box of fish in the kitchen and went back out into the courtyard. Hywel kept scanning the windows all around him, hoping for a glimpse of Dorothea. He was desperate to get in touch with her but did not even know where she was. They reached the cart and manoeuvred another box off it. Hywel glanced at the casks of wine.
‘What is all this food and drink for, Ned?’ he wondered.
‘Master Beechcroft and the others will have another feast.’
‘There is enough here to feed dozens of people.’
‘There always is.’
‘Who are the guests?’
‘Not you and me, Hywel.’
‘Will anyone in Bridewell be invited to the feast?’
‘Only if they are pretty enough’
‘What do you mean?’
Griddle was about to reply when he suddenly received one of the blows he had feared. A stocky man hit him across the back with a stick and ordered him to get on with his work. The boy was too frightened to speak after that, and Hywel was left to speculate on what he had meant by his remark about the feast. The Welshman was deeply alarmed. His resolve to get to Dorothea was stiffened.
Lawrence Firethorn had played the leading role so often that it was lodged forever in his mind. While others checked their lines or rehearsed their moves, he was able to relax before the performance, certain that the blank verse would spring to his lips when required. Firethorn’s memory was truly phenomenal. Since he knew well above two dozen plays by heart, he could offer a wide range of choice to spectators when he was on tour. His role in Vincentio’s Revenge was one that he could recall instantly. Nicholas Bracewell sought to add another to the actor-manager’s repertoire.
‘The tragedy is called The Siege of Troy,’ he explained.
Firethorn was blunt. ‘Is there a part worthy of me?’
‘Ulysses will be very much to your taste.’
‘Then why is he not in the title? Did Michael tell you that? Why did he not name his play Ulysses and the Siege of Troy? As you know, Nick,’ he said, adjusting his costume, ‘I have a fondness for title roles.’
‘You would enjoy this play if it had no title at all.’
‘It comes with your approval, then?’
‘It does,’ said Nicholas. ‘It has all the virtues of Caesar’s Fall and others unique to itself. Its only fault, if fault it be, is that it is at times too clever.’
‘Too clever?’
‘Aimed more at the trained scholar than the ordinary spectator. For instance, there are five or six hidden sonnets in the play. Most of our audience will hear them without even recognising what they are. They will be lost on the common herd.’
‘So is much that we play,’ said Firethorn. ‘As long as we have fights, arguments, deaths, dances, and comic antics, the vulgar souls in the yard will be satisfied. When the performance is over this afternoon, give me Michael’s tragedy. I’ll devote the whole evening to it.’
‘Your time will not be wasted.’
‘Thanks to you, Nick. Had the play been feeble, you’d not foist it upon me. That’s the reason I gave it first to you.’ He stroked his beard and struck a pose. ‘Did I incur Anne’s displeasure?’
‘How could you do that?’ asked Nicholas.
‘By making you read five acts of a drama. You must have been a dull companion for her last night. Margery will not stomach my presence if I dare to study a play while I’m abed.’ He gave a bountiful smile. ‘Beg Anne’s forgiveness for me.’
‘None is needed. Work of her own kept her occupied.’
‘I wish that it were always so with my wife,’ said Firethorn enviously.
They were in the tiring house, and other members of the company were starting to come in. Nicholas had no real worries about the performance. Vincentio’s Revenge was a blood-soaked tragedy that never failed to work on stage, and the troupe always acted it with surpassing confidence. Now that Owen Elias seemed to have recovered his customary vitality, everything pointed toward another success. It was Firethorn who voiced a slight concern.