But none came. Delighted with his own account of the two roles, and certain that his company would rise to the occasion in front of a large audience, the actor-manager dismissed them all with a few kind words then swept off into the tiring-house. Nicholas Bracewell was not so uncritical of what he had seen and he had many notes to give to erring performers before they slipped away. He had just administered a gentle reprimand to George Dart when Edmund Hoode sidled up to him.
‘Tell me her name, Nick.’
‘Who?’
‘This enchantress who has bewitched Lawrence.’
‘That is his business alone.’
‘It is ours as well if it affects his conduct here among his fellows. Why, man, he was grinning at us like some lovesick youth just now. If this lady’s magic is so potent, we must lure her into the company and pay her to keep the old bear sweet. It would be money well spent.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘We all would benefit.’
‘So who is this paragon?’
‘I may not say, Edmund.’
‘But it was you who tracked her down.’
‘Master Firethorn has sworn me to secrecy.’
‘Can you not divulge the name to me?’
‘Neither to you nor to any living soul.’
‘But I am your friend, Nick.’
‘It is my friendship that holds me back,’ said the other seriously. ‘You would not thank me for breaking my oath. Better it is that you do not know who the lady is.’
Hoode’s eyes widened. ‘Do I spy danger here?’
‘Acute danger.’
‘For Lawrence?’
‘For all of us.’
Sir Lucas Pugsley, fishmonger, philanthropist and incumbent Lord Mayor of London, finished another gargantuan meal and washed it down with a glass of French brandy. His guest was still guzzling away at his lunch and taking frequent swigs of beer from the two-pint tankard that stood before him. The Mayor was dining in private for once and sharing confidences with an old friend. Pugsley was as thin as a rake and as pale as a spectre. No matter how much food he ate — and his appetite was gross — he never seemed to put on any weight. The narrow face with its tight lips, its high cheekbones and its tiny black eyes resembled nothing so much as the head of a conger eel. Even in his full regalia, he looked as if he were lying on a slab.
Rowland Ashway was a completely different man. His gormandising had left its mark all too flagrantly upon him. The wealthy brewer had been turned into a human barrel to advertise his way of life. Regular consumption of his own best beer had given the puffed cheeks and the blob of nose such a florid hue that he appeared to be cultivating tomatoes. The two men had a political as well as a personal connection. As Alderman for Bridge Ward Within, the wily Ashway had promoted Pugsley’s candidacy for the ultimate civic honour. The fishmonger did not forget such loyalty and it had been rewarded by more than the occasional free meal. Ashway pushed the last mouthful down his throat then emptied his tankard after it. He gave a monstrous belch, laughed merrily and broke wind. It was time for them to sit back in their carved chairs and preen themselves at will.
‘My mayoralty has been a triumph,’ said Pugsley with easy pomposity. ‘I have grown into the role.’
‘It fits you like a glove.’
‘This city has cause to be grateful to me.’
‘Your bounty is in evidence on all sides,’ noted the other. ‘You have founded schools, built almshouses and donated generously to the Church.’
‘Nor have I been slack in my love of country,’ said the fishmonger piously. ‘Queen Elizabeth herself — God bless her — has been ready to borrow Pugsley money for the defence of the realm. English soldiers are the salt of the earth. I feel honoured that I was able to put uniforms onto their backs and weapons into their hands.’
‘A knighthood was a fitting reward, Luke.’
‘Sir Lucas, if you please.’
‘Sir Lucas.’ Ashway fawned obligingly. ‘The pity of it is that you cannot remain in place as Lord Mayor.’
‘Nothing would please me more, Rowland.’
‘We have all been beneficiaries of your term of office and are like to remember it well.’
‘There is more still to come. I value friendship above all else and set a true value on it. Aubrey and I were discussing the matter only this morning.’
‘Aubrey Kenyon is an upright man,’ said the brewer. ‘His opinions are to be taken seriously.’
‘That is why I always seek them out. My Chamberlain is always the first person I consult on any subject. He is a complete master of the intricacies of municipal affairs and I could not survive for a second without him.’
‘You are in safe hands, Sir Lucas.’
‘None safer than those of Aubrey Kenyon.’
‘Indeed not.’ Ashway did some fishing of his own. ‘And you say there is something in the wind for me?’
‘A small reward for your unfailing loyalty.’
‘You are too kind.’
‘A trifling matter to a man of your wealth but it may bring some pleasure. You will acquire the control and rent of certain properties in your ward. My Chamberlain advised me on the form of it and he is drawing up the necessary documents.’
‘I must thank Master Aubrey Kenyon once again.’
‘Where I command, he takes action.’
‘Your Chamberlain is truly a paragon.’
‘I would trust him like my own brother.’ Pugsley took another sip of brandy then appraised his companion. ‘Does your business still thrive, Rowland?’
‘Assuredly. We go from strength to strength.’
‘Feeding off the drunkenness of London!’
‘Stout men need strong ale. I simply answer their demand.’
They shared a chuckle then Pugsley fingered his chain with offhand affection. ‘I have felt happy and fulfilled as never before in this office,’ he said. ‘Would that I might stay in it for ever!’ A wistful sigh. ‘Alas, that is not to be. Election has already been made.’
‘I did not vote for him, that I swear.’
‘Others did.’ Pugsley’s sadness turned into cold fury. ‘It is painful enough to have to retire from office but to be forced to hand over to Walter Stanford is truly galling. I detest the man and all that he represents.’
‘You are not alone in that, Sir Lucas.’
‘He is unworthy to follow in my footsteps.’
‘As for that young wife of his …’
‘It ought not to be allowed,’ said the other in a fit of moral indignation. ‘A man should pay for his pleasures in private, not flaunt them before the whole city of London!’
‘She is a pretty creature, though, I grant him that.’
‘Stanford is bestial!’
‘He is not Lord Mayor yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.’
Sir Lucas Pugsley sat upright in his chair and spat out his words like a snake expelling its venom.
‘I would do anything to stop him!’
Fine weather and high expectation saw large crowds of playgoers surging north out of the city. Many of them converged on The Curtain, the other public playhouse in Shoreditch, a circular structure that stood on land that had once been part of Holywell Priory. Banbury’s Men were in residence there and the audience flocked to see Giles Randolph as the evil King John. His reputation was overshadowed by that of Lawrence Firethorn, who brought even more spectators hurrying through the doors of The Theatre. Once again, Westfield’s Men had the critical edge over its hated rivals.