‘I still abide by that decision.’
‘Even though you saw the effect upon us? That was the main reason we lacked any spirit today. We missed our book holder.’
‘Can one man make such a difference?’
‘Judge for yourself.’
‘Saul,’ purred a woman’s voice in the background.
‘One moment,’ Hibbert said to her.
‘Come back to bed now.’
‘Go to her,’ encouraged Firethorn, waving him away. ‘I can see you’d rather sport with your mistress than save your reputation.’
‘My reputation is everything to me, Lawrence.’
‘Then watch it wither on the vine. It rests on three performances of a play that no longer exists. Success entails keeping yourself in the public eye, Saul. A month off the stage and you’ll be forgotten.’
Hibbert was rocked. ‘Is there no way we can redeem ourselves?’
‘Only one.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Turn to Nick Bracewell. Let him work his magic.’
‘How could he come to our rescue?’
‘The way he did once before,’ said Firethorn, ‘when a play of Edmund Hoode’s went astray, stolen by a disaffected actor. Within the space of twelve hours, Nick had conjured another copy out of the air.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Then ask Edmund. The play was called Gloriana Triumphant. We played it to celebrate the victory over the Spanish Armada.’
Hibbert’s resolve weakened. ‘Is there no other solution here?’
‘None.’
‘Could nobody else do what Nicholas would do?’
‘They would not have the knack of it, Saul.’
‘I’d rather it be any man but him.’
‘Nick may say the same about you, I fear.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’d come to the aid of other playwrights without hesitation. With you, alas, he’s more likely to drag his feet.’
‘He’d dare to refuse?’ asked Hibbert, aghast.
‘I’ve no means to compel him.’
‘Hold him to his contract.’
‘You abrogated that, Saul. He was contracted to stay in place for every play we staged but you disbarred him from yours.’ Seizing the advantage, Firethorn twisted the knife gently. ‘It might be the one way to win him back,’ he suggested, floating the idea. ‘The one way to soothe his injured pride.’
‘The one way?’
‘Let him occupy his rightful position again.’
‘He’ll not touch my play!’
‘Without him, you may have no play.’
‘Saul,’ cooed the woman. ‘How long are you going to be?’
‘Just wait!’ he snapped at her.
‘Is that how you treat a lady?’ she complained.
‘Be quiet, please. I need to think.’
‘You’ve already made your feelings clear,’ said Firethorn, pretending to withdraw. ‘I’ll tell the company we play Black Antonio again tomorrow and send George off to the printer for some new playbills.’
‘Wait, Lawrence!’
‘Go to the lady. She sounds impatient.’
‘I’ll need time to meditate on this.’
‘Time is not on our side, Saul. The whole five acts of your play will have to be copied out again. Can you imagine how long that will take?’
‘It took me months to write it.’
‘Then why throw all that effort away in a fit of pique?’
‘I need to have my work back on the stage.’
‘Then make your peace with Nicholas.’
‘You talk of a man who assaulted me.’
‘Let him make amends by snatching your career from the fire.’
‘You are sure he’ll do it?’
‘Only at the price I named,’ said Firethorn, exploiting the other’s uncertainty. ‘Even then, I’ll have to use all the persuasion at my command. Which is it to be?’ he asked, adjusting his position so that he got a tantalising glimpse of the naked woman on the bed. ‘Will you swallow your pride and call Nick back? Or would you rather watch your star fall down from the sky after only three performances?’
Hibbert pondered. ‘Seek his help,’ he said at length.
‘Wisdom at last.’
‘Be sure to put The Malevolent Comedy back onstage tomorrow, but do something else for me. Find me the man who stole it in the first place,’ he demanded. ‘Who on earth can the rogue be?’
John Vavasor let himself into his house and received a token kiss from his wife. He went straight to the room where Cyrus Hame was poring over a manuscript on the table. His co-author looked up.
‘I’ve been working on that Prologue you requested,’ he said.
‘Does it roast Lawrence Firethorn?’
‘Like a chestnut in hot coals.’
‘I long to see it,’ said Vavasor, taking the sheet of parchment from him. ‘The more poniards it inserts into his carcass, the more I’ll like it.’
‘How did you fare at the Queen’s Head?’
‘The play was good, the performance rather tepid.’
‘Saul Hibbert would not have liked that.’
‘He’ll soon be ripe for more conference with us.’
Hame smirked. ‘Have we so soon won him over?’
‘No, Cyrus,’ said the other, complacently. ‘Our silver tongues have helped but I fancy the real damage was done at the Queen’s Head. Saul will not be running towards Banbury’s Men as much as running away from the troupe that let him down.’ He burst out laughing. ‘Oh, my word!’ he said, waving the Prologue in the air. ‘This is worth its weight in rubies. First, we rob him of his playwright. Then we steal his vaunted role as Pompey the Great and finally — best of all — we take away his reputation with this buzzing swarm of rhyming couplets. We are made, Cyrus,’ he exclaimed, ‘and Westfield’s Men are doomed at last.’
Chapter Eight
Margery Firethorn had an iron determination that the passage of time only served to reinforce. Enraged by her husband when he was in the house, she was even more furious with him now that he was absent. While she did her daily chores, she turned over in her mind the many kindnesses that Nicholas Bracewell had shown to her and the countless favours he had done for Westfield’s Men. Money could not repay the efforts and sacrifices he had made on the company’s behalf. And yet Lawrence Firethorn, her once beloved husband, the actor-manager of the troupe and its commanding presence, had humiliated his book holder by making him step down on the whim of a tetchy playwright. In Margery’s eyes, it was a hideous betrayal of someone she cherished. She could not have been more appalled if the cruelty had been meted out to one of her own children.
Sensing her mood, the servants kept out of her way in the house in Shoreditch. When they heard her talking to herself, they knew that Margery was working herself up into frenzy that would be released when her husband dared to return home. As befitted an actor’s wife, she was rehearsing her lines, but they were far too raw and unchristian to be allowed on a public stage without incurring protest. The day wore on and her temper glowed redder with every minute. When she chopped meat in the kitchen, she did so with such force and viciousness that she might have been beheading her spouse. Margery was primed for action.
Expecting her husband to come home late, drunk and with his tail between his legs, she was surprised to hear the familiar gait of his horse, trotting up Old Street early that evening. When she watched him through the window as he dismounted, she saw no sign of remorse in his face. It made her simmer even more. Having stabled his mount, Firethorn came into the house with something of his old swagger and braggadocio.
‘All is well, my dove,’ he announced. ‘I’ve moved mountains.’
‘You can move yourself back out that door if you try to woo me with pet names,’ she warned him. ‘I’m no dove, angel, pigeon, peacock, bear, honeycomb, sweet chuck, little rabbit or light of your life.’
‘No, my dearest darling. You are all of them rolled into one. You are my apple of desire, Margery.’