After stabling the horse, he approached the front door with furtive steps. Firethorn remembered how bitter his wife had been on his return the previous night. Rehearsing his excuses, he felt ready to withstand her fury again. But, when he tried the door, it would not budge. He pushed it, kicked it and even hurled his shoulder against it, but it had been bolted from inside and withstood all his assaults. He was about to yell up at the window of his bedchamber when he realised how futile that would be. Margery would not let him in and he would be telling the whole neighbourhood that he had been locked out. He wanted to save himself from that ignominy.
Firethorn ended the worst day of his life in the stable, sleeping in the straw.
Nicholas Bracewell was up at the crack of dawn. After an early breakfast, he did his best to reassure Dorothea Tate that he could cope with any dangers that lay ahead, and that the man who had violated her would soon be punished. As she saw him off at the door, Anne Hendrik was more composed. Horrified to learn that Edmund Hoode had been deliberately poisoned, she was relieved that he would soon be cured.
‘When you see him today,’ she said, ‘give him my love.’
‘Edmund will be back at the Queen’s Head with us before long.’
‘He’s endured so much needless suffering.’
‘I know, Anne,’ he said. ‘The culprits will be duly punished.’
He gave her a kiss and set off, walking briskly through the streets of Bankside and realising that he was unlikely to see them again that day. London Bridge was clogged with traffic as carriages, carts, and visitors on horseback or foot streamed into the city to buy or sell in the various markets. Nicholas had to dodge through the crowd to make any speed. Gracechurch Street was even more populous and he had to force his way through the press in order to reach the Queen’s Head. As he turned into the yard, the first person he saw was Leonard, using his broom to sweep up horse manure. Nicholas waved to him and Leonard ambled over with a vacant grin of welcome.
‘Good morrow, Nick,’ he said. ‘You are the first one here as usual.’
‘We have a busy day ahead of us.’
‘The Knights of Malta is a rousing tale. I’ve seen bits of it before.’
‘You’ve never seen it like this, I fear,’ said Nicholas, ‘for we lack the costumes to dress the play in all its pomp. I came early to see what Hugh Wegges proposes to do.’
‘Did that gentleman find you yesterday?’
‘What gentleman?’
‘The one who asked after you and Owen,’ said Leonard. ‘He wanted me to point you out but both of you had left by then.’
‘Did he say what business he had with us?’
‘No, Nick. He did not even know you were the book holder here until I told him.’
‘How did he react to that?’
‘It seemed to please him.’
‘Did he ask after anyone else in the company?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Leonard. ‘The gentleman was only interested in Nick Bracewell and Owen Elias.’
‘Describe the fellow to me.’
Scratching his head, Leonard gave a rough and halting description of the stranger who had accosted him in the yard. Nicholas was disturbed. The man was clearly neither Joseph Beechcroft nor Ralph Olgrave, but the book holder sensed that he had been sent by one of them. That raised the worrying question of how they had linked his name to that of Elias and traced the both of them to the Queen’s Head. Realising that they had both been misled by him, Beechcroft and Olgrave would want to strike back at Nicholas but he was relying on his ability to disappear into the crowd. All that they had was his name. How had they discovered his occupation?
Seeing the consternation on Nicholas’s face, Leonard became remorseful.
‘I did wrong, Nick. I can see that I did.’
‘No, no, Leonard. You merely answered a civil question. I’ll not fault you for that. But, should you see him again, I’d ask you to be wary of this man.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s no friend of ours,’ said Nicholas. ‘Of that I’m certain. Do not point us out to him. Instead, warn us of his arrival.’
‘Yes, Nick. I will.’
‘Keep your eyes peeled for the fellow. I fancy that he’ll be back.’
‘No question but that he will.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because he said so,’ explained Leonard. ‘He told me that he had to see you both on urgent business. I asked him if I could carry a message to you but he gave me none. Indeed, he bade me not even mention that he was looking for you.’
‘Why did he do that?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I think that he wanted to surprise you.’
Westfield’s Men responded to the challenge with collective vigour. Not only did they arrive early for rehearsal, they brought with them a determination to wipe away the shame of the previous afternoon by giving a performance that would eclipse all else. Even with an attenuated wardrobe, they felt capable of reaching their best. Lawrence Firethorn was the last to arrive, riding into the yard with the hangdog look of a chastened husband, and highly embarrassed when someone pointed out that he smelt of horse dung and still had some wisps of straw stuck the back of his doublet.
Nicholas took him aside to tell him about the prospect of Edmund Hoode’s swift recovery. Delighted to hear the news, Firethorn was soon bubbling with anger when he learnt of the way that Michael Grammaticus and Doctor Zander had conspired to bring the playwright down so that he was unable to work.
‘I’ll strangle the pair of them until their deceitful eyes pop out!’ he vowed.
‘They are beyond your reach,’ said Nicholas. ‘When the doctor had seen to Michael’s wound, I took them both before a magistrate, where they confessed their crime. The law must take its course now.’
‘The law will be too lenient, Nick. Deliver them up to me.’
‘We are well rid of both of them, and we have Edmund back in exchange.’
‘That gladdens my heart, Nick,’ said Firethorn. His face darkened. ‘But there’s one loss we suffer. The Siege of Troy was a wondrous play yet we must disown it.’
‘Why?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Now that we know who the true author is, we give him his due reward. We bought the play in good faith, remember. All that we have to do is to have the name of Stephen Wragby printed upon the playbills and justice will been done.’
Firethorn slapped his thigh. ‘The Lord bless thee!’ he shouted. ‘You are right. The play is ours.’ He embraced the book holder warmly. ‘We owe this all to you, Nick. You saved Edmund from further misery and caught those two deep-dyed villains.’
‘Margery’s brother-in-law deserves our thanks as well.’
‘What? That milksop, Jonathan Jarrold?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was he who told me about Michael during his time at Cambridge. Master Jarrold knew him and his friend very well. That was what first set me wondering about how good a playwright Michael Grammaticus really was. But you must know some of this,’ he went on. ‘Did not Margery’s brother-in-law mention that he and I had conversed at length about Michael?’
Firethorn shuffled his feet. ‘I got back home too late to speak to him last night.’ He recoiled from Nicholas’s look of rebuke. ‘Yes, yes, I know that I should not have gone anywhere near that card table,’ he admitted. ‘But I was tempted beyond my power to refuse. Still,’ he said, cheerily, ‘enough of my worries. Let’s share the good tidings with the others. If this does not lift their hearts, then nothing will.’
Clapping his hands to get their attention, Firethorn called everyone together before handing over to the book holder. Nicholas gave them a shortened version of events, emphasising that their beloved playwright would soon be back in the fold. While the whole company was thrilled with the news, not one of them had any sympathy for Michael Grammaticus. They rejoiced at his downfall. It was Firethorn who pointed out the implications of it all.