A stage was erected against the building which stood at right angles to the town hall. Curtains hung from horizontal poles along the other two sides to screen off the rectangle. Chairs and benches were laid out in rows at the front, with standing room behind them for the bulk of the audience. Seats were also placed in the upper windows of the town hall so that the Burgomaster, his Council and their wives could view the entertainment from a privileged position.
As in Flushing, curtains at the rear of the stage hid the tiring-house from view. It was in the hallway of the building. A stout wooden box below the stage enabled actors to mount it with ease before bursting between the curtains to make an entrance. When not doubling as characters in the play, the musicians could make use of an upper room as their minstrels’ gallery. Nicholas had been diligent in his preparations. Since Nathan Curtis, their master carpenter, had been left behind in London, it was the book-holder who devised and built the cunning trapdoor through which a number of surprise appearances would be made.
The beaming Burgomaster had been as good as his word. He had provided Nicholas with four able-bodied servants, who took some of the massive load from the inadequate shoulders of George Dart, and he persuaded every citizen of distinction to attend the performance. Market-day had swelled the numbers in the city, and many from the surrounding areas decided to avail themselves of the rare treat to see a performance by an English theatrical troupe.
Nicholas converted his German assistants to gatherers and placed them at strategic points to collect money for admission. Four albus was an attractively low price to pay. Westfield’s Men had an audience three times the size of that in Flushing. It flattered their vanity and stimulated their desire to give of their best.
Owen Elias could not resist peering through the curtains.
‘The whole city is out there!’ he said.
‘Let them see you during the play,’ advised Nicholas at his shoulder, ‘and not before. The time to appraise the spectators is when you stand before them.’
‘I know, Nick. But my curiosity was whetted.’
‘About what?’
‘I had to see if they were in the audience.’
‘They?’
‘Some of those eleven thousand virgins.’ Nicholas’s smile threw the Welshman on the defensive. ‘They do exist,’ he claimed. ‘We drank with a German watchmaker last night. His English sounded more like double Dutch, but one thing he did make clear was that there are eleven thousand virgins in Cologne. The city is famous for them.’ He grinned with frank lechery. ‘There’ll be a few less in number by the time I quit this place.’
‘You are centuries too late,’ said Nicholas, taking the curtain from his hand to close it again. ‘Your watchmaker forgot to tell you that the eleven thousand virgins existed in Cologne a long time ago. They accompanied Princess Ursula on a pilgrimage to Rome. When Ursula was martyred by Attila the Hun, she was made into the patron saint of Cologne.’
Elias was deflated. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘The Burgomaster gave me a history of the city.’
‘There are no virgins here?’
‘Not in the numbers you hope for, Owen.’
‘I have been cruelly misled.’
‘Only by the heat of your desire.’
‘You speak true, Nick,’ admitted the other with a wry grin. ‘We Celts are too goatish. When I first heard about those virgins, I thought my cod-piece would burst asunder.’
‘Save your strength for the play.’
He led the disappointed actor back to the tiring-house. Spirits were high among the rest of the cast. A substantial audience was awaiting them in a state of anticipatory delight. This was no routine assignment in their calendar. Westfield’s Men were making their debut before German spectators and were not quite sure how their work would be received. They needed an unqualified success in order to purge the sad memories of their last presentation. Love and Fortune would be a shroud to lay over the corpse of Adrian Smallwood.
Nicholas juggled his many responsibilities with the composure that was typical of him. His outward calm concealed his deep anxiety. He was being stalked by a man who would have no compunction about killing him in order to lay hands on the documents he was carrying. Nicholas had told Firethorn of his discovery and they had decided to take Owen Elias and James Ingram into their confidence. Four of them were now on guard against possible attack, but it was not enough. As long as his identity was unknown, the advantage would always lie with an assassin who could choose when and where to strike.
‘Stand by!’ Nicholas called, marshalling the company.
‘Speak up and follow me!’ ordered Firethorn. ‘And spare a thought for dear Adrian. This performance is for him.’
Music played, then Elias went out to deliver the Prologue. The ovation he collected raised the general excitement even higher. Firethorn and Gill virtually ran onto the stage to play the first scene together. They struck sparks off each other which ignited the whole cast. Love and Fortune had never been played with more attack and commitment.
Cologne adored it. Whether laughing at the wild antics or sighing with the forlorn lovers, they were in their element. They understood only half of the plot and less than a quarter of the dialogue, but that did not dim their appreciation one bit. Movement and gesture were eloquent interpreters. Songs and dances were self-explanatory. And Firethorn’s storming performance in the central role was stunning. Gill’s clown was the perfect foil for him. Whenever the two of them came together, the play took on an extra bite and richness.
What kept them enthralled was the overall quality of the company. Westfield’s Men were undoubted professionals. With Nicholas at the helm behind the scenes, the play was like a seamless web that grew larger and more ornate with each minute. The spectators thought of their own strolling players and winced. The performance of Love and Fortune made their homespun actors look like raw beginners. Two hours flew past in two magical minutes, then applause came in an irresistible avalanche.
It was led by the Burgomaster, standing in a window with his wife and family, cheering loudly and laughing until tears of joy trickled down his cheeks. The cast were kept onstage for ten minutes or more before the acclaim began to show signs of abating. When he led his troupe back into the tiring-house, Firethorn embraced each one of them with gratitude. Even Gill got a spontaneous hug of thanks.
‘That performance had everything!’ declared Firethorn. ‘We were at the height of our powers and the audience worshipped us. What more could we want?’
‘A few of those eleven thousand virgins,’ said Elias.
‘The city is ours. Tomorrow, we storm the Palace.’
‘Not with Love and Fortune,’ warned Nicholas.
‘It is our greatest weapon, Nick. You saw its power.’
‘Over the good citizens of Cologne, yes. But there will be a very different audience at the Palace. You play in front of prelates and nobles. The Archbishop may prefer something less full of noise and bawdy humour. Meat for the commonalty may stick in the throat of the Church.’
Barnaby Gill agreed and pushed forward the claims of Cupid’s Folly yet again. Firethorn countered angrily with Hector of Troy. They wielded the two plays like broadswords and the others backed out of range. The issue was still undecided when the Burgomaster sailed into the tiring-house. His eyes were glistening, his mouth was locked in a permanent grin and his cheeks were like two giant red apples left out in the rain.