The Queen's Head

Stephen Judd examined the dormer with care. Those other beams were quite secure earlier on,' he said. Someone must have loosened them. They would never have come down otherwise.'

'Who would do such a thing?' wondered Tallis.

'I don't know,' said Yeo uneasily. 'But if Dick had been underneath it when it all came down, he might never have appeared in a play again.'

The three apprentices were completely unnerved.

They stood amid the rubble and tried to puzzle it out. A small accident which they engineered had been turned into something far more dangerous by an unknown hand.

Evidently, someone knew of their plan.

*

Susan Fowler went to London as a frightened young wife in search of a husband and returned to St Albans as a desolate widow with her life in ruins. The passage of time did not seem to make her loss any easier to bear. It was like a huge bruise which had not yet fully come out and which yielded new areas of ache and blemish each day.

Her mother provided a wealth of sympathy, her elder sister sat with her for hours and kind neighbours were always attentive to her plight, but none of it managed to assuage her pain. Not even the parish priest could bring her comfort. Susan kept being reminded of the day that he had married her to Will Fowler.

Grief inevitably followed her to the bedroom and worked most potently by night. It was a continuous ordeal.

'Good morning, father.'

'Heavens, girl! Are you up at this hour?'

'I could not sleep.'

'Go back to your bed, Susan. You need the rest.'

'There is no rest for me, father.'

'Think of the baby, girl.'

She had risen early after another night of torture and come downstairs in the little cottage that she shared with her parents and her sister. Her father was a wheelwright and had to be up early himself. A wagon had overturned in a banked field the previous day and one of its wheels was shattered beyond repair. The wheelwright had promised to make it his first task of the day because the wagon was needed urgently for harvesting.

After a hurried breakfast of bread and milk, he made another vain attempt to send his daughter back to bed. Susan shook her head and adjusted her position in the old wooden chair. The baby was more of a presence now and she often felt it move.

Her father crossed the undulating paving stones to the door and pulled back the thick, iron bolt. He glanced back at Susan and offered her a look of encouragement that went unseen. He could delay no longer. The wagon was waiting for him outside his workshop.

When he opened the door, however, something barred his way and he all but tripped over it.

'What's this!' he exclaimed.

Susan looked up with only the mildest curiosity.

'Bless my soul!'

He regarded the object with a countryman's suspicion. It might be a gift from the devil or the work of some benign force. It was some time before he overcame his superstitions enough to pick the object up and bring it into the cottage. He set it down on the table in front of his daughter.

It was a crib. Small, plain and carved out of solid oak, it rocked gently to and fro on its curved base. Susan Fowler stared at it blankly for a few moments then a tiny smile came.

'It's a present for the baby,' she said.

(*)Chapter Eight

Nicholas Bracewell confronted him first thing the next morning.

'You must be mistaken,' said Creech bluntly.

'No, Ben.'

'I did not go to The Curtain yesterday.'

'But I saw you with my own eyes.'

'You saw someone who looked like me.'

'Stop lying.'

'I'm not lying,' maintained the actor hotly. 'I was nowhere near Shoreditch yesterday afternoon.'

'Then where were you?'

Creech withdrew into a defiant silence. His mouth was dosed tight and his jaw was set. Nicholas pressed him further.

'You were supposed to be here, Ben.'

'Nobody told me that,' argued the other.

'I told you myself--in front of witnesses, too--so you can't pretend that that never happened either. The tiremen were expecting you and you failed to turn up.'

'I...couldn't get here yesterday.'

'I know--you were at The Curtain instead.'

'No!' denied Creech. 'I was...' He glowered at Nicholas then gabbled his story. 'I was at the Lamb and Flag. I only went in for one drink at noon but I met some old friends. We started talking and had some more ale. The time just flew past. Before I knew what was happening, I fell asleep in my seat.'

'I don't believe a word of it,' said Nicholas firmly.

'That is your privilege, sir!'

'We'll have to fine you for this, Ben.'

'Do so,' challenged the hired man.

'One shilling.'

Creech's defiance turned to shock. One shilling was a steep fine to a person whose weekly wage was only seven times that amount. He had many debts and could not afford to lose such a sum. Nicholas read his thoughts but felt no regret.

'You've brought this upon yourself,' he stressed. 'When will you learn? I've covered for you in the past, Ben, but it has to stop. You simply must be more responsible. There are dozens of players to be had for hire. If this goes on, one of them may be taking over your place.'

'It's not up to you, Nicholas,' muttered Creech.

'Would you rather discuss it with Master Firethorn?'

'No,' he said after a pause.

'He would have kicked you out months ago.'

'I earn my money!'

'Yes, when you're here,' agreed Nicholas. 'Not when you're lying in a drunken stupor somewhere or sneaking off to The Curtain.'

'That was not me!'

'I'm not blind, Ben.'

'Stop calling me a liar!'

Creech bunched his fists and he breathed heavily through his nose. Discretion slowly got the better of him. The book holder might seem quiet but he would not be intimidated. If the occasion demanded it, Nicholas Bracewell could fight as well as the next man and his physique was daunting. Nothing would be served by throwing a punch.

'One shilling, Ben.'

'As you wish.'

'And no more of your nonsense, sir.'

Benjamin Creech risked one more glare then he withdrew to the other side of the tiring-house. The talk had sobered him in every sense. Samuel Ruff had watched the exchange from the other side of the room and he now came across to the book holder.

'What was all that about, Nick?'

'The usual.'

'Too much ale?'

'And too little honesty, Samuel. I saw the fellow at The Curtain yesterday in broad daylight--yet he denies it!'

'He may have good cause.'

'In what way?'

'Where did you see him, Nick?'

'Talking with a couple of the hired men..'

'There's your answer. He does not wish to admit it.'

'Admit what?'

'I never thought to mention this because I assumed that you knew. Obviously you do not.' Ruff looked across at the man. 'Ben Creech was with Banbury's Men for a time.'

'Is this true?' asked Nicholas in astonishment.

'Oh, yes. I was there with him.'

*

While the future of one hired man was being discussed in the tiring-house, the future of another was under dire threat in an upstairs room. No rehearsal period of Westfield's Men was complete without a fit of pique from Barnaby Gill and he was supplying one of his best. Edmund Hoode bore it with equanimity but Lawrence Firethorn was becoming progressively more irritated, facing the room madly, the anguished sharer worked up a real froth.

'He is not fit to belong to Lord Westfield's Men!'

'Why not?' asked Hoode.