His footsteps took him in the direction of Bishopsgate. When he reached the corner of Threadneedle Street, he realised why. Something was impelling him to visit Hal Bridger’s grave. He was humbled. Instead of thinking of himself, he should be paying his respects to someone who was no longer able to act upon a stage. Honeydew had to make his own small act of remembrance. He went into the churchyard and searched for the grave. Like Nicholas, he soon found it and smacked his palms together to scare away the two ravens who had perched on the mound of earth. Richard Honeydew removed his cap and stood in silence.
His own cares seem to float away and he went into a kind of trance. He felt close to Hal Bridger. He could almost hear his laughter and see the excitement in his face. Honeydew tried to talk to him but got no reply. When he reached out to touch him, the boy was not there. Yet he was still nearby and grateful for the visit of a friend. Honeydew could sense his gratitude. There was contact.
The rustle of light feet through grass made him turn round. Walking towards him was an attractive young woman, holding a handkerchief to her eyes. She stopped a yard away from him.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘My name is Dick Honeydew.’
‘I see.’
‘I was Hal’s friend.’
She lowered her head. ‘Then you’ll know how he died.’
‘I was there at the time,’ he said. ‘It was dreadful.’
‘Yes. Yes, it must have been.’
‘I … came to bid farewell to him.’
‘So did I,’ she said, dabbing her eyes as she looked at him. ‘Hal was my nephew. I loved him so much.’
‘Were you at the funeral yesterday?’
‘No, we only arrived in London this afternoon. I’ve just come from his parents. They told me where to find the grave so that I could pay my respects. I’m honoured to share the moment with you, Dick.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Will you step into the church with me and say a prayer for him?’
‘Gladly.’
Honeydew was unguarded. It never occurred to him that the beautiful, elegant woman in front of him might have worn something more suitable to a churchyard than the striking red and green dress with a matching hat. From the little that Hal Bridger had told him about them, Honeydew had gathered the impression that his parents were earnest, austere, dedicated Puritans. When he had joined Westfield’s Men, they had disowned him, behaviour that Honeydew simply could not understand. In his trusting way, the apprentice was pleased that at least one member of Hal’s family seemed to show genuine grief.
They did not even reach the porch. As soon as the boy’s back was turned, a man came around the angle of the church and crept up behind him. When the moment was ripe, the sobbing aunt tossed away her handkerchief and used both hands to grab Honeydew by the shoulders and push him towards her accomplice. Before he knew what was happening, a cloak had been thrown over him and strong arms lifted him from the ground. Honeydew was terrified. He was unable to struggle free and his cries for help went unheard beneath the thick woollen cloak.
There was no escape. He had been kidnapped.
Chapter Nine
John Vavasor had been visiting his brother in Richmond that day and did not return to the city until early evening. Instead of going home, he rode straight to the Green Man, where he could be certain of finding his co-author. Cyrus Hame was in high spirits. He was carousing at the tavern with two of the actors from the Curtain, sharers with Banbury’s Men, who had enjoyed the success of Lamberto and who looked forward to repeating it with Pompey the Great. Vavasor joined them and revelled in the jollity until the actors took their leave.
‘They cannot stop thanking us for Lamberto,’ said Hame. ‘It was so far above the level of their other plays that it is set to remain a favourite with them for a long while.’
‘Every time it’s performed, our names will be voiced abroad.’
‘John Vavasor and Cyrus Hame.’
‘By rights, it should be Cyrus Hame and John Vavasor.’
‘Why?’
‘You should take first place.’
‘I’d not hear of it.’
‘You made the play acceptable to Banbury’s Men,’ said Vavasor.
‘I’ll own that I do have that knack,’ said Hame, affably. ‘I’ve always been able to improve a play but, first, I need a good play on which to work. In Lamberto, you provided that.’
‘You changed it completely, Cyrus.’
‘I merely brought out its full power. You are the master craftsman, John, and I, a simple journeyman. Your name should take precedence.’
‘You are so gracious.’
‘And you are so generous. Though we toiled side by side on the play, you let me have the lion’s share of the fee.’
‘You could have had it all, Cyrus.’
‘Your benevolence is overwhelming.’
‘I write for fame. All that I wanted was to see my work on a stage.’
‘Whereas I prefer to write for money,’ said Hame, feeling his purse. ‘Fame is simply a dream, a fantasy, an illusion, something that only exists in the minds of others. Money is real. You can hold it in your hands, toss it in the air, bite it with your teeth and, best of all, spend it. That’s where my ambition lies.’ He sipped his drink and became reflective. ‘Yet I sometimes wonder if it could have been played better.’
‘What?’
‘The role of Lamberto.’
‘Giles Randolph surpassed himself.’
‘Yes, but would he have surpassed Lawrence Firethorn?’
‘Do not mention that foul name!’ rasped Vavasor.
‘We are bound to compare the two titans of the stage.’
‘I’d not let Firethorn say a single word that I wrote.’
‘Nor me, John, but I’ll not deny his monstrous talent.’
‘It’s his monstrous character that I object to. He’s a colossus of conceit. But, no, to answer your question, I do not think that he could have matched Giles as Lamberto.’
‘Could Giles have matched him as Lord Loveless?’
‘Matched him and beaten him,’ said Vavasor. ‘On the strength of what I saw at yesterday’s performance of The Malevolent Comedy, many actors could have outdone Firethorn. He simply walked through the part, Cyrus. I’ve never seen him put so little effort into a role, and the rest of them were no better. They were lacklustre.’
‘That does not sound like Westfield’s Men.’
‘They let Saul Hibbert down badly.’
‘He’ll not have liked that.’
‘It will have brought him one step closer to Banbury’s Men.’
‘Our main task is to drive a wedge between him and Firethorn,’ Hame reminded him. ‘That’s all that Giles urged upon us. Saul has written a fine comedy but there’s no certainty that he can do it again. If he fails to fulfil his promise, he’ll fall by the wayside.’
‘I’ll not weep for him. He’s as big a monster as Firethorn.’
‘There’s not room for two of them in Westfield’s Men.’
‘Three — you forget Barnaby Gill.’
Hame laughed. ‘The worst of them, in some respects.’
‘We’ve done what was asked of us,’ said Vavasor. ‘We poured our poison into Saul’s ear. We dangled the prospect of more money in front of him, stroked him, flattered him, fawned upon him and led him to believe that he’ll be welcomed with open arms at the Curtain.’
‘Only if his mind is fertile enough, and I begin to doubt it.’
‘Why?’
‘All that he has to offer is one act of a new play.’
‘Does he work so slowly?’
‘Saul is lazy and too easily distracted.’
‘I’d written six plays before Lamberto,’ recalled Vavasor, ‘and the moment that it was sold, we began work on Pompey the Great.’
‘You are chased by demons, John.’
‘I have this nagging compulsion to write.’