‘It’s better than starving, Hywel.’
‘I’d rather take my chances on the streets.’
‘Look where it got you.’
‘They’d not catch us again.’
Hywel gazed wistfully out of the window. Along with a handful of others, they were locked in a room on the second floor of a building that overlooked one of the courtyards. In former days, the palace had echoed to the footsteps of royalty and of visiting ambassadors, but it had a decided air of neglect now. The courtyard was deserted. It was evening, and work had finally ceased. Having been given their meal, the inmates were all under lock and key. Ned Griddle had settled into the routine without complaint, but his companion was restless.
‘I must get out of here,’ said Hywel.
‘We all think that at first.’
‘I have a friend, Dorothea. She needs me to look after her.’
‘You’ll forget her in time.’
‘Never!’ retorted Hywel. ‘I love her.’
Griddle shrugged. ‘You may never see her again,’ he said. ‘They let us out and keep the women here. There’s far more work for them to do. The lucky ones eat good food and wear fine clothes.’
‘Lucky ones?’
‘Stay here a while. You’ll see.’
Hywel did not have long to wait. Ten minutes later, a carriage appeared and the clatter of hooves reverberated around the courtyard. When the vehicle stopped outside the door to the main hall, five men in rich apparel hauled themselves out and exchanged noisy banter. It was clear from their laughter and unsteady movements that drink had been taken. A tall figure in ostentatious attire emerged from the door to greet them.
‘Master Beechcroft,’ said Griddle.
‘Is this the night of the feast?’
‘Yes, Hywel. The women will be here soon.’
But it was a second carriage that next swept into the yard, bringing with it another bevy of loud and mirthful guests. The four men who alighted were all middle-aged, and they embraced Beechcroft in turn before going into the hall. Hywel watched with growing discomfort as other guests arrived on horseback. They were all men, and, judging by their hilarity, they were intent on enjoying themselves. When they had dismounted and tethered their horses, they followed Beechcroft through the doorway.
When the women finally came into view, Hywel was revolted by what he saw. They were denizens of Bridewell, convicted harlots, let out to play and to provide entertainment for the guests. Dressed in gaudy taffeta and wearing cheap trinkets, they tripped across the courtyard. Some were young, but most were older women, experienced members of the trade, painted and powdered to make them look more appealing. From the sound of their happy chatter, it was evident that they, too, were looking forward to the festivities in the main hall.
There was one exception. She was the youngest and prettiest of them all, but she wore her dress of red taffeta with great reluctance. While the other women hurried across the courtyard like a gaggle of geese, she was struggling to get away from the keeper, who was dragging her along by the wrist. When she emitted a cry of pain, Hywel leant right out of the window to call to her.
‘Dorothea!’ he yelled.
Chapter Six
The meeting took place in a private room at the Queen’s Head because it gave them both quiet and privacy. Since the advent of Adam Crowmere, the inn had become much more popular and the taproom was in a state of happy tumult every evening. It was not just the quality of his ale, the standard of service or the charms of the buxom tavern wenches that brought in more custom. By a combination of hard work and warmth of personality, the new landlord had created a more joyous atmosphere at the inn. Everyone noticed it.
‘The taproom has truly come alive tonight,’ said Owen Elias. ‘It was never like this when our old landlord was here.’
‘No,’ agreed Lawrence Firethorn, pouring a glass of Canary wine for all four of them. ‘Under that ghoul, Marwood, it was more like a morgue. That fearful wife of his used to send shivers down my spine.’
‘Can you imagine sharing a bed with that old crone, Lawrence?’
‘She’d turn my prick to ice!’
‘Can we begin?’ asked Barnaby Gill, impatiently. ‘You may all have time on your hands but I have somewhere important to go.’
‘What’s his name?’ teased Firethorn.
‘There’s much to debate,’ said Nicholas Bracewell. ‘Shall we make a start?’
‘Aye, Nick. We must not detain Barnaby from the pleasures of the night.’
They were seated around a table on which a candle had been lighted to stave off the evening shadows. Its flickering flame threw a halo around The Siege of Troy, the play they had now all read. There were a number of sharers in the company but its policy was determined, for the most part, by Firethorn, Gill and Edmund Hoode. In the absence of the playwright, Elias had been invited to the table. Though not of equivalent status, Nicholas was always included in such discussions because of his wise counsel.
Firethorn was decisive. ‘I like the play,’ he said, slapping it with the palm of his hand. ‘Nick and Owen are of like opinion. I urge that we accept it.’
‘You are too hasty, Lawrence,’ said Gill, raising a finger. ‘We should not be so rash to part with our money until The Siege of Troy meets all our demands. Changes must be made.’
‘Of what kind? I call for no changes.’
‘Nor me,’ said Elias. ‘The only change that I would gladly make is the name of the author. A fine play it is, I know, but I wish that it had been penned by anyone but Michael Grammaticus.’
‘Yet he’s the only author who could have written it,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Even our own dear Edmund does not have that great a knowledge of history.’
‘I agree, Nick. My quarrel is not with The Siege of Troy. I take it to wrest the laurel wreath from Caesar’s Fall. No,’ he went on, ‘what troubles me is that we will have that mournful face watching us rehearse it. Michael is such lugubrious company.’
‘Ignore his presence. Think only of your role.’
‘That’s what I have done,’ said Gill, tasting his wine, ‘and my role falls short of perfection. It needs at least two more songs to give it body, and a jig in the last act.’
Firethorn bridled. ‘The last act belongs to Ulysses,’ he declared. ‘I’ll not have the audience distracted by your antics, Barnaby. You only follow where I lead.’
‘You will lead us into boredom if there’s no comedy in Act Five.’
‘What of the scene between the three servingmen? That must earn laughs.’
‘But I do not happen to be in it,’ said Gill, tapping his chest. ‘Why have a clown if he is not allowed to clown his way to the end of the play?’
‘Why have an author if you do not obey his dictates?’
Gill sneered. ‘Since when did you ever obey the dictates of an author, Lawrence? If it serves your purpose, you carve his work to shreds without a scruple.’
‘I make improvements, Barnaby, that is all.’
‘Then let me do the same.’
‘A fair point,’ said Nicholas, searching for a compromise. ‘Barnaby’s complaint is easily answered. Ask our playwright to amend the scene with the servingmen so that it involves the clown and all objections vanish. Is that not so?’
Elias congratulated him on having found the solution and Gill was mollified. With a little persuasion from the book holder, Firethorn was eventually reconciled to the idea. There were other scenes that aroused discussion but none that required any major alteration. They were soon able to move on to the scenery and the costumes. An hour later, it was all settled.
‘Good!’ said Firethorn, rubbing his hands together. ‘We can come to composition with Michael Grammaticus. I’ll have our lawyer draw up the contract.’