‘I need no lessons in behaviour from you,’ snarled Hibbert.
‘It seems that you do.’
‘Step aside, man.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, standing his ground. ‘I want an apology first.’
‘Apology? For what?’
‘Putting yourself before Hal Bridger.’
Hibbert was contemptuous. ‘He means nothing to me.’
‘Well, he does to us,’ said Nicholas, vehemently. ‘When he joined Westfield’s Men, he became part of a family and we cherish each member of it dearly. Spurn him at your peril, Master Hibbert.’
‘Who are you to give orders to me? Be off with you!’
He reached out both hands to push Nicholas aside but he soon regretted doing so. His wrists were grabbed and he was swung so hard against the wall of the tiring-house that it knocked the breath from him. Putting a hand around his throat, Nicholas forced his head back.
‘You may be the talk of London,’ he said, ‘but it’s clearly not because of your manners. You’re a disgrace to the name of gentleman, Master Hibbert. You’ll start treating the members of this company — from the highest to the lowest — with the respect that’s due to them, or you’ll answer to me. And the same goes for the landlord. Talk to him civilly and pay your bills on time.’ He banged the playwright’s head against the wall. ‘Do you understand?’
‘I’ll kill you for this,’ yelled Hibbert, struggling in vain to escape.
Nicholas tightened his grip. ‘Do you understand?’
‘No,’ croaked the other, defiantly. Nicholas applied more pressure until Hibbert’s eyes began to bulge. The playwright was eventually forced to capitulate. ‘Yes,’ he gurgled. ‘I understand.’
‘Good,’ said Nicholas, releasing him with a cold smile. ‘And if you should still wish to kill me, Master Hibbert, I’ll be happy to indulge you at any time. You can have choice of weapons.’
‘Oh, I will!’ warned Hibbert, rubbing his throat. ‘Nobody treats me like that — least of all an upstart book holder. I’ll be back, I promise you. I’ll be back to get my revenge.’
Cursing under his breath, he reeled out of the tiring-house.
The atmosphere in the taproom was strangely subdued. Though the actors were entitled to celebrate, they did so in muted fashion, all too conscious of the fact that one of their number had been poisoned in the course of the play. Guilty feelings had been stirred by Hal Bridger’s death. Those who had mocked him and exploited his good nature now felt pangs of remorse. They wished that they had been kinder to him when he was alive, and more tolerant of his shortcomings. Lawrence Firethorn shared the general contrition, aware that he, too, had been unduly harsh to the assistant stagekeeper at times. Seated at a table in the corner, the actor-manager reflected on the situation with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode.
‘This changes everything,’ he said, gloomily.
‘I do not think so,’ countered Gill. ‘We must make the most of our success and play The Malevolent Comedy again tomorrow. When word of it spreads, we’ll be able to run for a week or more.’
‘And must we poison someone in each performance?’ asked Hoode, sardonically. ‘For that is what they saw and loved onstage this afternoon. Whose turn will be next? Yours, Barnaby?’
‘Cease this jesting.’
‘I speak in all seriousness.’
‘And so do I,’ said Firethorn. ‘Edmund is right. We owe it to Hal Bridger to let a decent interval pass before we tackle the play again. We’ll stage Black Antonio tomorrow, as planned.’
‘That’s madness!’ chided Gill. ‘You throw away our advantage.’
‘The Malevolent Comedy will keep for a few days.’
‘I never thought to hear such stupidity coming from the mouth of a blacksmith’s son. Strike while the iron is hot, Lawrence. Is that not the first thing you learnt at your father’s anvil?’
‘No,’ replied Firethorn, nostalgically. ‘The first thing I learnt was not to put my hand on the anvil because it was usually still hot from the horseshoe that had just been hammered into shape upon it.’
‘I do not think we should play at all tomorrow,’ opined Hoode.
‘Then you must have taken leave of your remaining senses,’ said Gill, pouting with outrage. ‘Leave our stage empty? Our rivals would love that, I am sure. Why not simply surrender our occupations altogether?’
‘I have already done that, Barnaby.’
‘And not before time, I may say.’
‘No more of this nonsense!’ ordered Firethorn, putting down his empty wine cup with a bang. ‘It’s folly to say that we’ll deny our audience tomorrow and double folly to say that Edmund is a spent force as a playwright.’
‘He admitted it himself,’ noted Gill.
‘Willingly,’ said Hoode. ‘I yield the palm to Master Hibbert.’
‘Westfield’s Men need more than one playwright to keep up a steady flow of new work,’ said Firethorn, ‘and I look to the time when we have you back at your incomparable best.’
‘Earlier today, you talked only of a second Edmund Hoode.’
‘Give me a third, a fourth or even a fifth Edmund Hoode and none of them would hold a candle to you.’
‘Saul Hibbert does,’ said Gill, flatly. ‘He holds a dozen candles in both hands to light up the stage with his brilliance.’
‘I see none of that fabled brilliance now,’ observed Firethorn, as the playwright strode across the taproom towards them. ‘Master Hibbert looks as if he has sat upon those twenty-four candles of yours before he had the sense to snuff out their flames.’
Still enraged by his confrontation in the tiring-house, Saul Hibbert was puce and beetle-browed. He ignored the congratulations that were called out to him and charged over to Firethorn.
‘I crave a word in private, Lawrence,’ he said.
‘There’s privacy enough at this table,’ explained Firethorn. ‘I have no secrets from Barnaby and Edmund. We form the triumvirate that runs the company. If you wish to discuss business, pray do so in front of my honoured fellows here.’
‘We were less than honoured when you commissioned Saul’s play,’ recalled Gill, spikily. ‘You did not mention it to either of us.’
‘Do you disapprove of my choice?’
‘No, Lawrence. The Malevolent Comedy is unsurpassed.’
‘I rest my case.’
‘Then let me put mine,’ said Hibbert, sitting on the empty stool at the table. ‘I want some recompense for providing you with the outstanding play of your season.’
‘You’ve had your fee in full.’
‘I need more than that, Lawrence, and I feel that I’m in a position to demand it. I talk not of money — that’s irrelevant here. I ask only this of you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Dismiss your book holder.’
The others were so astounded that they could say nothing for a full minute. It was only when Hibbert repeated his demand that Firethorn found his voice. He burst out laughing.
‘Get rid of Nicholas Bracewell?’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s like saying that we should disband the whole company. Nick is its heart.’
‘Yet he’s only a hired man,’ argued Hibbert.
‘And blest are we that were lucky enough to hire him.’
‘I take issue with that,’ said Gill, contentiously.
‘Do not listen to Barnaby,’ said Hoode. ‘He has never appreciated Nick’s value. Nor do you, Master Hibbert. Did you not see what occurred today? But for Nick Bracewell’s speed in removing a corpse from the stage, your play might have twitched to death like poor Hal Bridger. You owe our book holder some gratitude.’
‘All that I owe him is enmity,’ said Hibbert. ‘He insulted me.’
‘That does not sound like him. Was there any provocation?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Then why did he speak roughly to you?’
‘He did more than speak,’ complained Hibbert. ‘He threw me against a wall and held me by the throat.’
‘I beg leave to question that,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick is the gentlest of men. He’d not hurt a fly. And you tell me that he attacked you?’