‘We have been through a dark night, my friends,’ he declared, ‘but we’ve emerged into the sunshine. Let us celebrate onstage this afternoon. Lord Westfield will be in his accustomed seat, our loyal spectators will be flooding into the yard and, before too long, Edmund will be here to take up his place once more.’ Smiling broadly, he held out both arms. ‘It will be just like old times.’
‘Yes,’ observed Barnaby Gill, grimly. ‘Our landlord will soon be back.’
Eager to hear what he had learnt, Ralph Olgrave met him at a tavern near Bridewell.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘What did you find out, Gregory?’
‘More than I expected, sir. Both of them are employed by Westfield’s Men.’
‘Nicholas Bracewell is also an actor?’
‘No,’ said the other. ‘He’s their book holder and, according to the simpleton I talked to at the Queen’s Head, he’s held in high esteem there.’
‘Did you get a sighting of him?’
‘Neither of him, nor of Owen Elias. Both of them had left the inn.’
Olgrave handed him a purse. ‘You’ve done well, Gregory,’ he said. ‘Take this. There’ll be much more when we’ve seen this business through. So,’ he added, sampling his wine, ‘the two of them are yoked together in Westfield’s Men, are they?’
‘That makes our task much easier, Master Olgrave.’
‘Did you find out where they live?’
‘Alas, no,’ said Gregory, slipping the purse into a pocket. ‘The shambling oaf who spoke to me did not know their addresses. I doubt if he could remember his own. All that he could say was that Nicholas Bracewell lived in Bankside, and that the Welshman lodged somewhere near Coleman Street.’
‘Now that we know where they work, we’ll soon track them to their lairs.’
‘They play The Knights of Malta this afternoon.’
‘Do they? Is that a comedy or tragedy?’
‘How would I know, Master Olgrave? I’ve never seen it acted.’
‘Then we’ll have to repair that omission,’ said Olgrave with a chuckle. ‘You and I will both join the crowd at the Queen’s Head today. I’d love to see what Owen Elias looks like. If he’s the only Welshman in the company, we’ll pick him out by his voice.’ He glanced across at his companion. ‘Come well armed, Gregory,’ he instructed. ‘We may catch a glimpse of their book holder as well.’
While she did her best to look after her young guest, Anne Hendrik could not neglect her own work. She invited Dorothea to go with her into the adjoining house that morning but the girl soon tired of watching the industrious Dutchmen, even though the apprentice kept smiling up at her. Dorothea excused herself to return to the house. Preben van Loew, the oldest and most experienced of the hatmakers, waited until the girl had left.
‘The child is too restless,’ he commented.
‘I was like that at her age, Preben.’
‘I do not believe that you ever had time on your hands,’ he said with admiration. ‘You could not be idle if you tried. As for Dorothea, she needs employment.’
‘I’ve tried to give her simple jobs to do.’
‘Her mind is on other things.’
‘She is beset with worries.’
Anne did not enlarge on her remark. The Dutchman was a good friend and a loyal servant but she did not wish to confide details of what had happened to Dorothea Tate. He would not be able to help the girl out of her predicament. Anne gave him a sketch she had made of a hat that had been commissioned by a mercer’s wife in the city. Since it would be expensive and difficult to make, she assigned it to Preben van Loew. Staring at it with interest, he discussed its finer points with her.
It was half an hour before Anne was able to go back to her house. Letting herself in, she was surprised not to find the girl in the parlour. She went across to the stairs.
‘Dorothea!’ she called. ‘Dorothea, are you there?’
There was no reply. She went quickly up the steps and let herself into the girl’s room. Her worst fears were realised. The dress that Dorothea had been wearing had been discarded, and the tattered garments in which she had first arrived were missing. An upsurge of guilt made Anne cry out in alarm. The girl had run away.
In spite of their poor account of Love and Fortune on the previous day, Westfield’s Men enticed a full audience into the Queen’s Head that afternoon. Whether they had come to mock or to admire, it did not matter. The company had the chance to vindicate itself and it was resolved to succeed. Lawrence Firethorn, in the leading role of Jean de Valette, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John Jerusalem, led his actors as if he was a general, taking a real army into battle. His voice was like the boom of a cannon.
‘No tyrant from the east shall conquer here.
The Knights of Malta will protect the isle
And fight with God Almighty on their side
To bless their cause and urge them on to feats
Of valour, acts of noble note, triumphing
At the last o’er Turkish hordes, whate’er their
Strength and purpose.’
Firethorn had such spirit and authority that nobody in the yard seemed to notice that the cloak he wore over his armour was only a velvet curtain, borrowed from the house of a friend. Hugh Wegges had worked hard to transform the mass of costumes into something that looked vaguely appropriate to the play, and — apart from occasional moments of sartorial incongruity — nobody’s appearance provoked derision. Barnaby Gill, as the jester, Hilario, was clothed in yellow from head to foot and, because the costume had been tailored to fit him perfectly, he was able to dance and turn somersaults with his usual freedom.
It was clear from the start that here was a performance of exceptional power and commitment. Having seized the attention of their audience, the company did not let it wander for a second. The Knights of Malta moved on with gathering momentum. Owen Elias had two parts in the play. Having first given a vivid portrayal of a Turkish spy, he changed sides to reappear in the final scene as Don Garcia de Toledo, Viceroy of Sicily, the man who raised the siege and liberated the gallant knights. But it was Firethorn who, having spoken the first lines in the play, brought it to a conclusion with a speech that thundered around the yard.
An ovation greeted the actors and everyone in the galleries rose spontaneously to signal their joy. Even Lord Westfield, their sybaritic patron, disentangled himself from the arms of his mistress long enough to get to his feet and applaud. When they surged back into the tiring-house, the actors were in a state of euphoria. Their only disappointment was that Edmund Hoode had not been there to share in the acclaim. Though The Knights of Malta had been written by another hand, it had been so greatly improved by Hoode’s deft touches that he was looked upon as the author. In previous performances, he had always reserved the role of the Viceroy of Sicily for himself.
Firethorn was ecstatic. ‘Did you hear that applause, Nick?’
‘It was no more than you deserved.’
‘Costumes or not, we set their hearts and minds alight today.’
‘You have never played the part better,’ said Nicholas with sincerity. ‘Everyone in the company was inspired by you.’
‘All but Barnaby. He gave us the same stale antics.’
‘The audience loved him, as they should. Nobody can deny that.’
‘True,’ conceded Firethorn. ‘When you’ve heard those jests as often as I have, you are bound to find them barren. I think our clown did very well.’ He leant over to whisper into Nicholas’s ear. ‘But do not tell Barnaby that I said so.’
‘An encouraging word from you would be savoured,’ said Nicholas.
‘That’s why he must never hear it.’ Firethorn’s broad grin suddenly vanished. ‘O woeful day!’ he sighed, putting a hand against a wall for support. ‘What a case I am in, Nick. This afternoon, I was Jean de Valette himself, lately Governor of Tripoli and Captain General of the Order’s galleys, now the Grand Master. Yet this evening,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘I must creep home to Shoreditch with my tail between my legs and try to make peace with Margery.’