Nicholas diverted him by flattering him about his performance. When Barnaby Gill came up to complain that Firethorn had deliberately ruined one of his jigs by standing between him and the audience, the book holder saw his chance to slip away. John Tallis sat in the corner of the tiring-house, still wearing the costume of a maid of honour but weeping the tears of a young man. Richard Honeydew tried to console his colleague but his piping voice only reminded Tallis of his fatal loss.
‘My hour on the stage is over!’ he wailed.
‘Do not talk so,’ said Nicholas, crouching beside him. ‘As one door closes, another one opens for you.’
‘Yes! The door out of Master Firethorn’s house. He will kick me through it most certainly. This morning, I was one of the apprentices; this afternoon, I am doomed.’
‘You came of age, John. It happens to us all.’
‘Not in the middle of the Court of France!’
He sobbed even louder and it took Nicholas several minutes to comfort him. Tallis eventually stepped out of a dress he would never be able to wear again and put on his own attire. The lantern jaw sagged with despair.
‘What will become of me?’ he sighed.
‘We’ll find occupation for you somewhere,’ Nicholas reassured him. ‘In the meantime, keep out of Master Firethorn’s way and do not-this I beg you, John-do not let him hear your voice.’
The boy produced the deepest and harshest croak yet.
‘Why not?’ he said.
Even Nicholas had to suppress a smile.
She was there. He sensed it. Without knowing who she was or where she might be sitting, Edmund Hoode was certain only of her presence. It set his blood racing. Throughout the performance, he scanned the galleries whenever he came on stage, searching for that special face, waiting for that telltale smile, hoping for that significant gesture. When she chose not to reveal herself, he felt even more excited. In preserving her mystery, she became infinitely more appealing. Simply to know that she existed was an inspiration in itself.
Alone of the cast, the Constable of France was unmoved by the sudden transformation of a maid of honour into a husky youth. With a rose pressed to his heart beneath his costume, he was proof against all interruption. If John Tallis had turned into a three-headed dog and danced a galliard, he would not have distracted Hoode. She was there. That was all that mattered.
‘What means this haste, Edmund?’
‘I have somewhere to go.’
‘Deserting your fellows so soon?’
‘They will not miss me.’
‘You have some tryst, I venture.’
‘Venture all you wish, Jonas. My lips are sealed.’
Jonas Applegarth chuckled aloud and slapped Hoode on the back. The latter was just leaving the tiring-house after shedding the apparel of the Constable of France. Inspired by the hope that his admirer might make fresh contact with him, he was not pleased to find the massive Applegarth blocking his way.
‘You have talent as a player, Edmund.’
‘Thank you.’
‘That is the finest performance I have seen you give.’
‘Much thought went into it, Jonas.’
‘To good effect. I could not fault you.’
‘Praise, indeed.’
‘The role was base, the play even baser, but you rose above those shortcomings. It is your true profession.’
‘I am a poet. Writing plays is a labour of love.’
‘But they show too much of the labour and too little of the love, Edmund. Abandon the pen. It leads you astray. Let sharper minds and larger imaginations create new plays. Your destiny is merely to act in them.’
The amiable contempt of his remarks did not wound Hoode. He was armoured against the jibes of a rival, even one as forthright as the corpulent Applegarth. Excusing himself with a pleasant smile, Hoode pushed past the portly frame and hurried along the passageway. Where he was going he did not know, but hope kept him on the move.
Chance dictated his footsteps, guiding him through the taproom, down another passageway, up one staircase, down a second, deep into a cellar, until he finally emerged in the yard once again. It was almost deserted. Most of the spectators had now dispersed, save for a few stragglers. Hoode halted with disappointment. There was no sign of his pining lover, no hint even of a female presence in the yard or up in the galleries.
Rose Marwood then materialised out of thin air and came tripping across the yard towards him. He revived at once. Another rose? A different token of love? A longer missive? But all that she bore him was a shy smile. Wafting past him, she went back into the building and shut the door firmly behind her.
Hoode was abashed. Had his instincts betrayed him? Was his secret admirer absent from the afternoon’s performance? Or had she taken a second and more critical look at her quondam beloved before deciding that he was unworthy of her affections? His quick brain conjured up a dozen reasons why she was not there, each one more disheartening than its predecessor.
He gave a hollow laugh at the depths of his own folly. While he walked the boards as the Constable of France, he was supremely aware of her attention. His vanity was breathtaking. Why should any woman swoon over him? Set against the imperious charm of Lawrence Firethorn, the sensual vitality of Owen Elias, or the striking good looks of James Ingram, his qualities were negligible. It was idiocy to pretend otherwise. The rose which had warmed his heart all afternoon was now a stake which pierced it. His hand clutched at his breast to hold in the searing pain.
And then she came. Not in person, that was too much to ask. An innyard in the wake of a performance was not the ideal place for the first meeting of lovers. It was too public, too mundane, too covered in the litter of the departed audience. What she sent was an emissary. He was a tall, well-favoured youth in the attire of a servant. Walking briskly across to Hoode, he gave him a polite bow and thrust a scroll into his hand before leaving at speed.
The fragrance of the letter invaded Hoode’s senses and confirmed the identity of the sender. He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment to read her purpose. His heart was whole again and pounding with joy. The elegant hand had written only one word, but it gave him a positive surge of elation.
‘Tomorrow…’
***
When did you speak with Raphael Parsons?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘You sought him out?’
‘He came to me, Nick. The porter told him how he might track me down. He was waiting for me at my lodging when I returned from here.’
Nicholas Bracewell and James Ingram were sharing a drink and comparing opinions in the taproom. Both had been astounded by the unheralded arrival of Raphael Parsons, but each had learned much from his visit.
‘I found him at odds with expectation,’ said Ingram. ‘My first encounter with him was too fleeting for me to form a proper opinion. This time, I conversed alone with him. He did not seem at all like the ogre I had been led to expect. A strong-willed man, yes, and with strong passions. But he was too polite and reasonable to be a vile tyrant.’
‘Tyranny can work in many ways,’ observed Nicholas. ‘A reasonable despot can sometimes be more difficult to resist. Master Parsons was civil with me but I sensed a capacity to be otherwise. We saw but one side of him.’
‘A caring man, deeply shaken by the murder of a friend.’
‘That was how he wanted to present himself, James.’
‘It was a form of disguise?’
‘I am not sure, but Raphael Parsons knew best how to engage our help. He was eager yet not overbearing, persistent but undemanding. He even invited me to question him. That was most enlightening. At the same time…’
‘You had doubts about him?’
‘I did.’
‘He put mine to flight, Nick.’
‘And most of mine, I must confess. He was very adept. Perhaps it was his ease in stilling my doubts which kept one or two of them alive. There is craft here. Deep cunning.’