Anne paraphrased freely and he lapped up the flattery. Nicholas looked on with amusement. She was already proving her value to the company. Even Gill was coming to appreciate that. Firethorn could not resist a gibe at the clown.
‘Who said that a lady had no place in the theatre?’
‘I did,’ affirmed Gill. ‘And I hold to that view.’
‘After all that Anne has just done for us?’
‘Drama is the domain of men.’
‘Translate that into German.’
Gill conceded a unique smile of self-deprecation.
‘Even I have my limitations,’ he said.
***
Three days in Frankfurt helped to erase ugly memories of Flushing and uneasy recollections of The Corrupt Bargain in Cologne. Westfield’s Men could do no wrong. Marriage and Mischief won them countless new friends at their second performance and Cupid’s Folly extended their fame even further on the final afternoon. As they returned to the Golden Lion to celebrate their achievements, they were in a buoyant mood.
‘I begin to love this country,’ said Owen Elias.
‘It is growing on me as well,’ agreed James Ingram.
‘I still do not like the beer,’ said George Dart timidly. ‘It is too strong for my stomach.’ His face brightened. ‘But I like the sausages. They are wonderful. Wunderbar!’
‘You are not the only person to like them, George,’ said Elias. ‘Do you know what a German’s idea of happiness is?’
‘No, Owen.’
‘Lange Würste, Kurz Predigen.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Long sausages, short sermons.’
‘Food before faith,’ observed Ingram. ‘They’re a practical people, the Germans.’
‘Their women have a similar motto,’ said Elias.
‘Do they?’
‘A long sausage, twice a night.’
Dart was puzzled. ‘The women eat sausages at night?’
‘If their menfolk are lucky!’
The jest produced ribald laughter from some of the others but its meaning was way beyond Dart. He turned his attention to the monster sausage before him. As he popped the end into his mouth, his fellows gave him a mocking cheer. None the wiser, he chewed away contentedly.
Nicholas was at a table with Firethorn, Hoode and Anne Hendrik. While the actors were toasting their success on the stage, the book-holder was reflecting on the financial benefits of their visit. Part of his job was to collect, count and look after all the money paid for admission to the performances. In addition to what the gatherers had taken, there was a generous donation from the City Council. Three days in Frankfurt had brought in as much as three weeks at the Queen’s Head. It made Firethorn think fondly of home once more.
‘Margery must share in this good fortune,’ he said. ‘I must find a way to send money back to her in Shoreditch.’
‘She will surely be grateful,’ said Anne.
‘There will be others of the same mind,’ added Nicholas. ‘They have wives and families as well.’
‘So much money in such a short time!’ said Firethorn, rubbing his palms together. ‘Germany has enriched us.’
‘And ennobled us,’ Hoode pointed out. ‘We came here as threadbare players and they treat us like minor aristocrats. In England, we are reviled as shiftless actors. Here, we are gentlemen of a company.’
‘It is no more than we deserve, Edmund. Wait until we get to Bohemia. The Emperor will probably give us knighthoods.’
Evening soon merged with night and the atmosphere at the inn grew steadily rowdier. Westfield’s Men were not the only roisterers. Other travellers were staying there and the Golden Lion also had its regular customers from the locality. It was only a matter of time before the drinking songs began in lusty German. Anne decided that it was time to retire to bed. They were leaving at dawn next morning and she needed her sleep. Nicholas escorted her away from the revelry before it took on an even more boisterous note. After taking a fond farewell outside her bedchamber, he urged her to lock her door and open it to nobody. Anne gave a wan smile.
‘I would feel safer if you were with me,’ she said.
‘It is where I would love to be, Anne, but…’ He glanced downstairs. ‘It is awkward. I have other duties.’
‘I understand.’
‘They are envious enough of me, as it is.’
She nodded. What they could easily do in the privacy of her house became trickier when he was with the whole company. Nicholas did not want to expose Anne to lewd gossip or himself to the knowing looks of his colleagues. Discretion was the first priority.
‘There will be time,’ he promised. ‘One day.’
‘I will wait.’
She blew him another kiss and retreated behind the door. When he heard the bolt being slipped home, he went downstairs to the taproom. Firethorn and Hoode had moved to the main table to be with the rest of the company. Nicholas saw that a stranger had joined them.
‘Come and sit here, Nick,’ said Firethorn, making room on the bench. ‘Meet our new friend. I’ll call him plain Hugo because my tongue cannot get round his other name.’
‘Usselincx,’ said the stranger. ‘Hugo Usselincx.’
‘This is Nick Bracewell. The mainstay of the company.’
Nicholas exchanged greetings with the newcomer and sat opposite him. Usselincx was a well-built man of short stature, but his shoulders were so rounded and his manner so diffident that he seemed even smaller than he was. He was soberly dressed in the Dutch fashion with a cap that was pulled down over his forehead. A nervous smile hung around the wide mouth. His English was good but overlaid with a Dutch accent.
‘I came to congratulate you,’ he said softly.
‘You saw the performance this afternoon?’
‘Hugo saw all three performances, Nick,’ said Firethorn with a hearty chuckle. ‘He is a stauncher patron than Lord Westfield.’
‘I only found out this evening where the company was staying,’ explained Usselincx. ‘I would not normally have come. I am very shy. But I had to make the effort this time.’
‘That is very gratifying, Master Usselincx,’ said Nicholas.
‘Please. Call me Hugo. It is easier.’
Nicholas was trying to weigh up the man. Frankfurt was full of merchants-many from Holland-but Hugo Usselincx was not one of them. He had none of the assertiveness of a man who lives to haggle. The dark attire suggested a religious affiliation of some kind. Having been appraised himself, the Dutchman was carrying out his own shrewd scrutiny of Nicholas.
‘Master Firethorn was right to call you the mainstay.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you kept the company together,’ said Usselincx. ‘You are the book-holder, are you not?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Because you do not look like an actor and you are the only member of the company who did not appear onstage. You were behind the scenes, Nicholas Bracewell. Working hard to make the play flow from scene to scene. The book-holder is an important man. Especially in a company like yours.’
‘You have seen English players before?’
‘Many times. I lived in London for a while.’
‘Oh?’
‘I saw you wondering if I was in holy orders,’ said the other with a smile. ‘You were close. I am an organist. I have worked in churches and cathedrals all over Europe. Earlier this year, I was in London. I heard much about Westfield’s Men and saw you perform Black Antonio at the Queen’s Head.’
‘I hope you enjoyed it, Hugo,’ said Nicholas, warming to him. ‘What brings you to Frankfurt?’
‘I am on my way to Prague to take up a post there. The Týn Church. It is very famous.’ He looked around the actors. ‘I could not believe my luck when I discovered that Westfield’s Men were here. I should have left two days ago but I stayed on so that I did not miss a single performance.’
‘We are bound for Prague ourselves.’
‘So Master Firethorn was telling me.’