‘We none of us have cloven feet and forked tails, Mrs Bridger.’
‘Do not mock me, sir.’
‘I was not doing so,’ said Nicholas, seriously. ‘Before we go any further, let me say that Hal was a credit to the company. I know that you despise the playhouse, but your son was at home with us. He soon made many friends.’
‘And you were one of them. Hal told us so.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘No,’ she explained. ‘After he left, my husband would not have him in the house, but Hal wrote to us. His letters were torn up and thrown away before I could read them. But I was curious.’
‘So you pieced them together again?’
‘They were addressed to both of us.’
‘And how did they make you feel?’
‘Sad. Very, very sad.’
‘For your son?’
‘For all of us,’ she confessed. ‘We were married for over twenty years before we were blessed with a child. That’s a long time to wait, a long time to pray. When my son was born, it seemed like a small miracle. We were such a happy family.’
‘I’m sorry if that happiness was destroyed. Hal went his own way, as sons are apt to do. I did the same myself at his age. But you did not come to hear about me, Mrs Bridger,’ he added quickly, with a self-effacing smile. ‘You want to know about your son.’
She clasped her hands tight. ‘Tell me what happened, please.’
Nicholas could think of few worse places to pass on sad tidings than a narrow lane only twenty yards away from a busy market, and he wished that she had been sitting down when he spoke. She looked frail and likely to faint but her religion gave her an inner strength that helped her through the ordeal. He tried to make it as swift and painless as possible, suppressing the details about the agony that her son had suffered, and emphasising the many good qualities in the boy’s character. All that Alice Bridger had been told was that her son was dead. The news that he had been poisoned made her shudder, but she somehow regained her composure.
‘I understand your feelings, Mrs Bridger,’ said Nicholas when he had finished. ‘Your husband left me in no doubt about your attitude to Hal. I regret it deeply, but I accept it. We’ll take full responsibility for his funeral. He’ll be buried in his parish church with his many friends there to mourn him.’
‘No,’ she said, breaking her silence. ‘I brought him into the world and I’ll see him out of it. We’ll take care of the funeral arrangements.’
‘Will your husband agree to that, Mrs Bridger?’
‘That’s our business. As for these friends you talk of,’ she went on, fixing him with a stare, ‘I’d rather that they stayed away.’
‘We’d like to show our respect.’
‘Then do so at a later date. You’re not wanted at the funeral. Visit his grave, if you must. We cannot stop you doing that.’
‘I’ll pass that message on,’ said Nicholas, quietly. ‘And before you go, I wish to do something that your husband prevented me from doing. Hal was a delightful lad and I miss him already. I’d like to offer my sincere condolences.’
‘Thank you.’
‘If there is anything that we can do …’
‘No,’ she said interrupting him with a wave of her hand. ‘There’s nothing, sir. You’ve done more than enough already.’
‘Hal came to us of his own accord, Mrs Bridger.’
‘And look what happened to him as a result.’
‘It was a tragic accident. It could have happened to anybody.’
‘You are wrong. What happened to our son was deliberate. It was a judgement from heaven on the sinful life he was leading,’ she asserted. ‘Hal was punished for his transgression.’
By the time that John Vavasor joined them, Saul Hibbert and Cyrus Hame had drunk the best part of a bottle of wine between them. The two playwrights had got on well, finding much in common and talking about their ambitions in the theatre. Vavasor was delighted to find them in such high spirits. Hame had been instructed to befriend Hibbert and win his confidence. It was John Vavasor, a plump, grinning, red-faced man in his forties, who was primed to offer the bait.
‘More wine here, I think,’ he said, lowering his bulk onto a seat at the table. A flick of the fingers brought a serving wench. Vavasor tapped the bottle on the table. ‘The same again, please, and another cup.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said and bobbed away.
‘So — this is the celebrated Saul Hibbert, is it?’ said the newcomer, eyeing him. ‘So young, so handsome and so supremely talented.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hibbert.
‘I envy you, sir. I am old, unsightly and only half-talented.’
‘I make up the other half,’ said Hame, gaily. ‘Apart, we struggle for recognition, but, together we can produce a play worthy of the name.’
‘Lamberto is far more than worthy,’ said Hibbert. ‘I’m honoured to share a table with its authors.’
‘The honour is entirely ours,’ insisted Vavasor.
A new bottle and a cup soon arrived. After pouring the last of the old bottle into his cup, Vavasor added some wine from the other bottle. Then he lifted his cup in a gesture of congratulation before sipping his drink. Hibbert took a moment to weigh him up. The older man presented a sharp contrast to his friend. While the latter hailed from Lincoln, Vavasor was a Londoner. His suit was expensive but dull, his face decidedly ugly and his voice coarsened by too much tobacco. He looked more like a debauched country lawyer than an eminent playwright. Cyrus Hame poured more wine into Hibbert’s cup and his own.
‘I told Saul that he would be better off with Banbury’s Men.’
‘Substantially better,’ said Vavasor.
‘How much did they pay you?’ asked Hame.
‘Four pounds,’ replied Hibbert, ‘with the promise of another pound if the play has more than ten performances within a month.’
‘We were paid five pounds for Lamberto.’
‘But that’s divided between the two of you.’
‘Cyrus took most of it,’ said Vavasor, genially, ‘because he has to pay his tailor and his wine merchant. I had the sense to marry wealth so money is immaterial to me. I write for rewards of the heart.’
‘Banbury’s Men will give us six pounds for our next play,’ boasted Hame, ‘and they’ve never paid that much before to anyone. We’ve set a standard where you could follow, Saul.’
‘Are you not afraid that I’d compete with you?’ said Hibbert.
‘Not at all. The stage at the Curtain will accommodate all three of us with ease. Besides, you write comedies whereas John and I are born tragedians.’
‘How do you get on with Lawrence Firethorn?’ wondered Vavasor.
‘Well enough,’ replied Hibbert.
‘Then you fared much better than me. When I took a play of mine to him, he sent me away with a flea in my ear. I’d never heard such foul language,’ he recalled, grimacing. ‘Firethorn threw the play back at me as if it gave off a nasty smell. I’d not work for that monster if the Queen herself commanded it.’
‘Yet he’s a magnificent actor.’
‘In certain roles.’
‘I wrote Lord Loveless with him in mind.’
‘And he played it well enough,’ agreed Hame, ‘but I fancy that Giles Randolph could have played it better.’
‘Does he have a gift for comedy?’
‘For comedy, tragedy, history or any combination of the three,’ said Vavasor. ‘More to the point, he knows how to nourish new talent like ours — and like yours, Saul.’
‘I’m already committed to Westfield’s Men.’
‘Only for this play. What of your next?’
‘Lawrence and I are still discussing terms.’
‘Bring them to us before you accept them, and we’ll get a far better offer from Giles Randolph for you. Westfield’s Men are past their best,’ said Vavasor, downing some more wine. ‘Apart from Firethorn, there are only three men of consequence in the company.’