Nicholas was pleased by the turn of events but he had not forgotten Leonard’s warning and kept his wits about him. He was much exercised, too, by the information that Abel Strudwick had supplied. If there was a form of conspiracy afoot and the Chamberlain were part of it, then it must reach to the very highest levels of municipal administration. Alderman Rowland Ashway was deeply involved in it and his agents were totally ruthless. If a defenceless young apprentice like Hans Kippel could be murdered, then the killers would stoop to anything — even to an attack on Lawrence Firethorn. The book holder started as he recalled the warning. Leonard had told him that both he and the actor-manager were marked men. In the middle of a large gathering in the taproom, Nicholas was quite safe but there was no sign of Firethorn. Concern flared up.
A quick search of the ground floor of the premises yielded nothing. Nicholas was about to go upstairs when he heard a distant sound that stilled him somewhat. Out in the darkness was a voice so quintessentially that of Lawrence Firethorn that he relaxed at once. The great man was merely rehearsing under the stars and giving the angels themselves some nocturnal entertainment. Letting himself out in the yard, the book holder realised at once from where the speech was coming. The paddock was a ghostly silhouette in the moonlight. Nine giant oak trees stood in a circle to form a natural amphitheatre. Sublime verse was declaimed with such feeling and ferocity that it sailed upwards into the branches of the trees and came back in weird echoes.
Lawrence Firethorn was truly supreme. Only he could make a speech crackle with such intensity and only he would steal off into the night to rehearse alone and to perfect his art. Nicholas walked towards the paddock so that he might enjoy the treat to the full. It was only when he recognised the play that his panic returned. Henry the Fifth was haranguing his troops before battle in the lilting cadences of a true Celt. Once again, the imitation had been uncanny but this was not the actor-manager in conference with the giant oak trees. It was Owen Elias.
The moment Nicholas realised this, the speech was cut dead to be replaced by a loud gurgling. He ran towards the paddock as fast as he could but the foliage was so dense and widespread that it shadowed the whole area. Only the terrible noise guided him, the final, fading cries of an actor on the verge of the ultimate exit. Nicholas sprinted all round the circle until he collided with a pair of dangling legs and was knocked to the ground. High above him, swaying to and fro, was the twitching Owen Elias who grasped feverishly at the rope around his neck. For a man whose voice was his own greatest joy, it was a cruel way to die.
The Welshman was an unintended victim. Taken for Lawrence Firethorn, he was at least quitting his life in a leading role. The rope was slung over a branch then secured around the trunk of a tree. Nicholas drew his dagger and hacked through the hemp to bring his friend crashing to the ground.
There was no time to attend to him because Firk leapt out from his hiding place with a sword in his hand. He circled his prey menacingly. Nicholas had only the dagger with which to defend himself. Firk rushed in and slashed the air viciously with his blade, catching the other a glancing blow on the left arm. The stinging pain and the gouting blood made Nicholas change his tactics at once. At their last encounter, his attacker had been stabbed in the stomach and must still be suffering from that injury. The book holder put pressure on the wound. He dodged behind a tree then skipped on to another so that Firk had to waddle after him. Nicholas broke into a run and weaved in and out of the nine giants with the sword whistling at his heels all the way. The further he went, the more he tired his pursuer. Firk was panting violently and threshing the air with increasing fury. Leaves fell at each stroke and whole branches were lopped off. Fatigue eventually slowed him and he leant against a tree to catch his breath, one hand holding the sword while the other grabbed at his wounded stomach.
Nicholas switched from defence to attack, moving in to circle his man with the dagger at the ready. Firk responded with a few murderous swipes but his strength was clearly diminished. He made a sudden lunge at his foe but Nicholas parried the sword with his dagger, stepped back a few yards, flicked the blade into his hand then threw the weapon hard at the advancing Firk. It hit him in the shoulder and spun him round. The rapier dropped to the ground and Firk staggered after it. Nicholas was on to him like a shot, grappling madly and rolling in the grass until both were muddied all over. Even in his weakened state, Firk was still strong but he was up against someone who had more than strength on his side.
New power surged through Nicholas. As well as fighting for his own life, he was avenging the deaths of his friends. He was pitted against the man who had cut down Hans Kippel with callous violence in the street. He was wrestling with the creature who had hanged a poor actor intent on improving his craft. They rolled again and Nicholas finished on top, pinning his opponent to the ground and managing to get both hands to his neck. His first squeeze drew a roar of protest from Firk but that did not halt him. The book holder ignored the punches that rained on his chest and the grasping fingers that tried to pluck out his eyes.
He tightened his grip as hard as he could. The spirit of Hans Kippel lent his puny strength and Owen Elias groaned his encouragement from the ground. Between the three of them, they throttled every semblance of breath out of Firk and left him prone on the ground in an attitude of complete submission. The weary Nicholas hauled himself up and went over to the purple-faced Welshman who was slowly recovering from his brush with death. Loosening the knot around his friend’s neck, the book holder pulled the noose off and tossed it over to the corpse.
Owen Elias croaked his gratitude and raised a weak arm in salute. There would be no part for him in the play but at least he would live to act another day.
Lawrence Firethorn, meanwhile, was loping along the passage to the private room where his treasure was stored away. Having spoken to the landlord and ordered that food and wine be sent up, he could now begin the soft preliminaries of love and prepare her for the joyful consummation that was to follow. He paused outside the door to adjust his doublet, smooth his beard and lick his lips then he knocked boldly three times and sailed through the door to claim his prize.
‘I have come to you, my love!’ he sighed.
But Matilda Stanford was not there to receive him. Most of the candles had been extinguished and the room looked empty in the half-dark. Fierce disappointment then gave way to rekindled lust as her inviting noises came from the four-poster. He crossed to the bed to see her body writhing under the bedclothes to allure and excite. Evidently, she could not wait for the leisurely meal and the long seduction. Her ardour brooked no delay and it produced a like passion in him. Running to the door, he slammed home the bolt so that they would not be disturbed then he began to tear at the hooks on his doublet and pull down his breeches. The sounds from the bed grew more desperate every second and he amplified them with his own grunting and groaning.
Firethorn was half-naked by the time he launched himself onto the four-poster, landing beside his love and pulling back the sheets to behold the beauty of her face. His first kiss was to have ignited her passion to the utmost limit but his lips instead met with cold response. He soon saw why. Instead of holding Matilda Stanford, he had his arms around a squirming maidservant whose mouth was covered with a thick rag.
Prudence Ling had been bound and gagged.