Hay made a dignified exit from the Great Yard. Nicholas made his way across to the theatre and explained to the porter why he had come. Geoffrey Bless surprised him.
‘Then you will have seen Master Ingram,’ he said.
‘When?’
‘A few minutes ago when he left the theatre.’
‘He was here?’
‘Talking to me even as you are now.’
‘I saw no sign of him.’
‘You could not have missed him,’ said the porter. ‘If you came across the Great Yard, you would need to be blind to miss him. I wonder that Master Ingram did not hail you.’
Nicholas was wondering the same thing. He decided that Ingram must have seen him first and concealed himself in one of the angles of the building. It was strange behaviour for a friend. He went swiftly back through the main door and looked around, but Ingram was nowhere to be seen. Nicholas concluded that he might not yet have left the premises. He returned to the ancient porter.
‘What was James doing here?’
‘He called in to see me, sir,’ said Geoffrey. ‘To talk over old times when Blackfriars was a happier place to be.’
‘How long was he here?’
‘Above an hour.’
‘Did he know that there was a rehearsal this evening?’
‘I told him so.’
‘What was his reaction?’
‘He thought it wrong, sir. On the day of the funeral.’
The porter’s eyes moistened. He was old and tired. Murder in the Blackfriars Theatre had taken all the spirit out of him. Alert and watchful before, Geoffrey Bless was now a broken man. It would not be difficult for someone like James Ingram to slip unnoticed back into the building.
Nicholas went up the staircase and let himself into the theatre as quietly as he could. Raphael Parsons was standing on stage, clapping his hands to summon his actors. Having changed into costume for the rehearsal, they drifted out from the tiring-house. Philip Robinson was the last to come, wearing a dress and pulling on an auburn wig. Nicholas took a seat at the very back of the auditorium. Parsons and his young company seemed unaware of his presence.
‘We’ll rehearse the Trial Scene,’ announced the manager. ‘Philip Robinson?’
‘Yes, sir?’ said the boy.
‘You must carry the action here. All depends on you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Regal bearing, Philip. Remember that. You may be in chains but you are still a queen. Regal bearing even in the face of adversity. Clear the stage. Set the scene.’
Parsons jumped down into the auditorium and caught sight of Nicholas. He gave his visitor a noncommittal nod before turning back to his work. The stagekeeper set a table and benches on stage, then vacated it quickly.
‘Begin!’ ordered the manager.
Three judges came on stage in procession and took their places behind the table. Two soldiers, wearing armour and holding pikes, stood either side of the commission in order to signal its importance and to enforce its decisions.
‘Bring in the prisoner!’ called Parsons.
The gaoler dragged in the hapless Queen with a rope. Philip Robinson did his best to suggest wounded dignity. He stood before his accusers without flinching. The charges were read out, then one of the judges addressed the prisoner.
judge: What have you to say?
queen: The charges against me are false.
judge: That is for us to decide.
queen: You have no power over me, sir. I am a queen and answer to a higher authority than any you can muster here. I’ll not be subject to this mean court like any common malefactor. Do you dare to sit in judgement on God’s anointed? By what perverse and unnatural right do you presume to put the crown of England on trial here?
The speech was long and impassioned. Philip Robinson began slowly but soon hit his stride, delivering the prose with a clear voice that rang around the theatre. Nicholas was impressed. It was more than a mere recitation of the lines. The boy was a true actor. Of the apprentices with Westfield’s Men, only Richard Honeydew could have handled the trial speech with equal skill and righteous indignation.
Having cowed his accused with his majesty, the boy flung himself dramatically to the ground before the judicial bench and challenged them to strike off his royal head. Before the judges could reply, a voice roared out from the back of the theatre.
‘Philip! What on earth have they done to you?’
Ambrose Robinson stood in the open doorway looking with horror at his son. The sight of the dress and the wig ignited him to fever pitch. He went storming towards the stage with his hand stretched out.
‘Come away!’ he shouted. ‘Come with your father. I’m here to rescue you from this vile place. Come home!’
But the boy showed no inclination to return to Bankside. As his father bore down on him, Philip Robinson leapt to his feet and backed away. Snatching his wig off, he cried out in fear:
‘I am happy here, Father! Leave me be!’
‘Come with me!’
‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I will not!’
He fled into the tiring-house and Robinson tried to clamber upon the stage to pursue him. The manager moved in quickly to restrain the angry parent.
‘Stop, sir! There is no place for you here.’
‘I want my son.’
‘Philip is a lawful member of the Chapel Children. You may not touch him. I am Raphael Parsons and I manage this theatre. I must ask you to leave at-’
‘Parsons!’
Robinson turned on the man he saw as the author of his misery. He went berserk. Shrugging Parsons off, he pulled the cleaver from beneath his coat and struck at him with all his force, catching him on the shoulder and opening up a fearful wound that sent blood cascading all over him. The manager fell to the floor in agony and the butcher stood over him to hack him into pieces.
The young actors were too frightened to move, but Nicholas Bracewell was already sprinting down the auditorium. Before the cleaver could strike again, he dived into Robinson with such force that the butcher was knocked flying. As the two of them hit the wooden floor with a thud, the weapon jerked out of Robinson’s hand and spun crazily away. He now turned his manic anger upon Nicholas, rolling over to get a grip on his neck and trying to throttle the life out of him.
Rage lent the butcher extra power, but Nicholas was the more experienced fighter, twisting himself free to deliver a relay of punches to the contorted face, then grabbing the man by the hair to dash his head against the floor. As the two of them grappled once more, footsteps came running towards them and James Ingram hurled himself on top of Robinson to help Nicholas to subdue him. The assistance was not needed. The butcher stopped struggling.
Realising where he was and what he had done, Robinson seemed to come out of a trance. He began to wail piteously. The porter came panting into the hall with two constables.
‘I tried to stop him,’ he said, ‘but he pushed past me. I ran for help.’ He almost fainted at the sight of Parsons. ‘Dear God! What new horror is here!’
Nicholas got to his feet. With Ingram’s help, he pulled Robinson upright and handed him over to the constables. As they marched him out of the theatre, the butcher was still crying with remorse. Raphael Parsons lay on the floor in a widening pool of blood. Nicholas turned to the porter.
‘Fetch a surgeon!’ he ordered.
‘I’ll go,’ volunteered Ingram. ‘Faster legs than Geoffrey’s are needed for this errand.’
The actor went running off towards the staircase, but his journey would be in vain. Nicholas could see that Parsons was well beyond the reach of medicine. Groaning with pain, the manager lay on his back with half his shoulder severed from his body. Nicholas tried to stem the flow of blood but it was a hopeless task. Parsons revived briefly. He looked up through bleary eyes.