‘It’s only for a time, Margery.’
‘Not if this tyrant stays with you,’ she said. ‘What happens when you coax another play out of him? Master Hibbert will make even more demands then. If you lose Nick now, you’ll lose him for good.’
‘I couldn’t bear that thought.’
‘Then why did you force him out?’
‘We are merely resting him, Margery.’
‘In order to please a man you’d never heard of six months ago.’
‘All London has heard of him now,’ said Firethorn. ‘Everyone is demanding to see his play — Lord Westfield among them, and he’s seen it twice already. We have the success that we need and we must build on it. Would you have me let Saul take his talent to our rivals?’
‘Frankly, yes.’
‘That’s patent madness.’
‘Then you are married to a patent madwoman,’ she said. ‘From where I stand, The Malevolent Comedy is far more trouble than its worth. It’s given you too much malevolence and too little comedy. For there’s not a man in the company — apart from Barnaby, perhaps — who will laugh at Nick’s departure. Yet there are several who’ll weep.’
‘I’m one of them,’ he conceded, sadly. ‘Nick is like a son to me.’
‘Then behave like an honest father.’
‘I dare not, Margery.’
‘Renounce this upstart and send him on his way.’
‘Saul Hibbert is an important part of our future.’
‘Without Nick Bracewell, you’ll have no future. Call him back.’
‘It’s too late now. The play has been advertised for tomorrow.’
‘Then do not ask me to come and see it.’
‘Margery,’ he said, slipping an arm around her waist in an attempt to soothe her. ‘I would not have this happen for the world. Whatever we decided would involve some loss. I did what I felt was right for the good of the company. Come,’ he went on, tightening his hold. ‘Bear with me.’
‘Take your hand away.’
‘You’re my wife. You swore to love, honour and obey me.’
‘That was before I realised what villainy you’d stoop to,’ she said, pushing him off. ‘You deserve neither love, honour nor obedience. I cannot honour a man who behaves so treacherously or obey one who issues such unkind commands. As for love,’ she added with a harsh laugh, ‘you’ve seen the last of that, Lawrence. There’ll be no room in my bed for you while Nick is ousted from his place. You are banished.’
Most of Shoreditch had heard the dread sentence imposed.
Chapter Seven
The house was in a street off Cheapside, close to the Mercers’ Hall, where Linus Opie held high office in his guild. It was less palatial than might have been expected of such a wealthy man, with no conspicuous display of gold plate or rich tapestries, and no gilt-framed family portraits on the walls. Instead, the house reflected its owner’s love of music. The hall could seat thirty people with ease and still leave room for three keyboard instruments and a dais on which musicians and singers could perform. Edmund Hoode was fascinated to see where Ursula Opie lived. When he arrived that evening with Owen Elias, he was given a cordial welcome and shown to a chair at the back of the hall.
The other guests were largely business acquaintances of their host. They had brought their wives and, in some cases, their children, to hear one of the regular concerts that were put on at the Opie house. Elias had vanished and there was no sign of Bernice or Ursula Opie, so Hoode was left very much on his own. Having nothing whatsoever in common with the obese merchant tailor who sat next to him, he could manage only the most desultory conversation, nodding in agreement to everything that the man said about trade and offering a tentative forecast about the weather on the morrow. Before the concert started, he saw their host conducting the Bishop of London to a privileged position in the front row.
Hoode was amused. Knowing how promiscuous an existence his friend had led, he was tickled by the thought that Owen Elias would perform only feet away from a Prince of the Church. An actor whose private life would never attract an episcopal blessing was now taking a major role in what was, in effect, a religious service. Hoode admired him for it. Elias had a deep, rich singing voice of considerable range and Hoode had often written songs for him in his plays. Like other members of the company — Barnaby Gill and Richard Honeydew, for instance — Elias was keen to develop his singing talent by taking part in concerts, or giving recitals, whenever he could. It was an alternative source of income when the theatres were closed by plague, or when, during winter months, it was impossible to play outdoors at the Queen’s Head.
A polite round of applause signalled the arrival of the performers. Bernice and Ursula Opie led the way, followed by Owen Elias and by a callow young man with a lute. They began with a song by Orlando Gibbons, sung by Elias to the accompaniment of the lute. With her sister at the virginals, Bernice Opie then sang one of the three pieces by William Byrd that were in the programme, revealing a pleasing soprano voice with an unexpected power to it. When the lutenist favoured the audience with examples of John Dowland’s genius, he turned out to have a high, reedy voice that grated slightly on the ear.
Edmund Hoode barely heard him. His attention was fixed solely on Ursula Opie, moving from one instrument to another as she displayed her command of each keyboard, accompanying both Elias and her sister, individually, and during their occasional duets. Ursula was demure but dignified. She wore a pale blue gown with hanging sleeves of lawn. Her cambric ruff was lace edged and seemed, to Hoode, to set off her features perfectly. A French hood surmounted her head. To one member of the audience at least, she looked, in the candlelight, a picture of quiet beauty. Hoode was entranced.
When the concert was finally over, the guests responded with well-mannered clapping and Hoode was struck by the difference between them and the rowdy spectators who filled the Queen’s Head. Drinks and light refreshment were served and people were encouraged to mingle. Hoode tried to ease his way towards Ursula but it was her sister who accosted him, offering her brightest smile to the playwright.
‘I was so pleased to see you here, Master Hoode,’ she said.
‘Thank you. I thought you sang delightfully.’
‘Did you prefer the Byrd or the Tomkins?’
‘I found the Thomas Tallis most moving.’
‘But I did not sing that,’ she complained with a frown. ‘I was hoping that one of my songs would be to your taste.’
‘They all were,’ he reassured her, ‘and they could not have been performed better. The duets, too, were a magical experience, greatly helped by your sister’s accompaniment.’
‘Did you think so? I felt that Ursula was not at her best.’
‘Every note she played was a joy to hear.’
‘And what about the notes I sang?’ she pressed, wanting praise.
‘Musical perfection.’
‘Were you surprised, Master Hoode?’
‘I expected nothing less from you.’
The compliment broadened her smile. Though she was determined to monopolise him, Hoode kept looking around for her sister. When he saw her in a corner, talking earnestly to the lutenist, he felt a flicker of jealousy. Before Hoode could make his way to her, however, Owen Elias descended on him out of the crowd. The Welshman had dressed with care for the occasion, choosing his best doublet and hose, and investing in a new lawn ruff. He spoke as if they were on consecrated ground.
‘Did you enjoy the concert, Edmund?’ he asked.
‘Every moment.’
‘What of our duets?’
‘I was just saying how much I appreciated them,’ said Hoode, ‘along with the Byrd and the Tomkins, that is,’ he added, turning to Bernice. ‘Your voices blended so harmoniously.’
‘I simply followed where Bernice led.’
‘We loved the play yesterday,’ she said, beaming at Hoode. ‘You were so comical as the priest. I could not stop laughing, especially when you danced out of the way of that little dog.’