The Queen's Head

'If they did it,' said Nicholas sceptically.

'Of that there is no question, sir! Who else has so much to gain from our humiliation? Giles Randolph and that pack of knaves he calls an acting company! They are definitely behind it.'

'Will you tax them about it, Lawrence?' asked Hoode.

'Oh, no. We must make our enquiries by stealth first.'

'And my play?'

'We simply carry on as if nothing had happened, Edmund. We show these varlets that it will take more than violence and theft to stop Westfield's Men. We are adamantine proof!'

There was a pathetic knocking on the door. Nicholas went to open it and George Dart crept in, collapsing from fatigue but bearing what he had been sent to fetch. He held it up to Firethorn and waited for a word of congratulation that never came.

'You're late, sir,' complained the other.

'I'm sorry, Master Firethorn.'

'Where have you been?'

'Running, sir. To and fro.'

'Did you find Creech?'

'Just after midnight,' said the stagekeeper with a yawn.

'Then what has kept you?'

'He would not wake up, master. As soon as he did, we went back to his lodging and he gave me what I needed.' He wanted me sort of recognition for his efforts. 'Have I done well, sir?'

'No,' said Firethorn.

'Very well, George,' corrected Nicholas.

'I'll say aye to that,' supported Hoode.

George Dart smiled for the first time in a week. He handed the sheets to Firethorn then closed his eyes tightly.

'Good night, sirs!'

Nicholas caught him as he slumped forward.

*

Shoreditch was as busy as ever next morning and the crowds were restive in the hot sun. By midday, people began to converge on The Curtain for the afternoon's entertainment. One of the first to arrive was a short, intense, studious young man in dark attire and hat. He paid a penny to gain entry to the playhouse then a further twopence for the privilege of a cushioned seat in the front row of the second gallery. It was the ideal spot for his purposes.

As he stared down at the empty stage, he was at once excited and repelled. His work belonged there but it had been viciously flung aside by an uncaring profession. The time had come for him to make his protest and he would do so in the most dramatic fashion that he could devise.

Roger Bartholomew wanted his revenge.

(*)Chapter Ten

The atmosphere backstage at The Curtain was as tense as a lutestring. Keyed up already by the occasion, the company was one large collection of taut nerves when it heard the full story of the missing prompt book. The idea of a direct and vicious attack upon Lord Westfield's Men was deeply unsettling and speculation was rife as to whom the perpetrators could be. It did not put them in the best frame of mind to tackle their new play.

Superstition weighed heavily with many people and Barnaby Gill voiced the fears of a substantial number.

'What will be next, I wonder?'

'How say you?' asked Hoode, already reduced to a shambling wreck by the events of the night.

'Disasters come in threes, Edmund.'

'Do they?'

'We had Dick Honeydew's accident. Then the theft of the book.' His voice explored a lower octave. 'Now--what is to be the third catastrophe?'

'Your performance!' said Samuel Ruff under his breath and set up a few sniggers around him.

In seeking to dispel the tension, Lawrence Firethorn merely increased it. Summoning the whole company together in the tiring' house, he gave them a short speech about the need to fight back at their enemies by raising the level of their performance. His exhortations united them all in a common purpose but disseminated an unease that was strangely akin to stagefright. Only the more experienced actors were immune from it.

'Samuel...'

'Yes, lad?'

'I feel sick.'

'Take some deep breaths, Martin.'

'This dress is suffocating me.'

'Drink some water.'

'I'll never be able to stand still on stage.'

'Of course, you will,' assured the hired man. 'The moment you step out there, all your worries will disappear. It's the same before a battle when everyone--no matter how brave--feels afraid and unready. As soon as things start, they get carried away by the thrill and the emotion of it all. Theatre is a form of battle, Martin. You'll fight well, I know.'

The very fact that Martin Yeo could turn to Samuel Ruff showed the extent of the boy's discomfort. Three full years with the company had given him a confidence that sometimes spilled over into arrogance, but he was now bereft of all that. With long faces and dry throats all around him, Yeo had sought out a man whom he had always disliked before. Ruffs composure set him apart from most of the others and the boy drew strength from it. He was even ready to confide a secret.

'Do you know something, Samuel?'

'What?'

'I never thought I'd say this but.

'You wish Dick was here to play Gloriana.' Yes! How did you guess?'

'It was not difficult, lad,' said Ruff with mild amusement. 'Shall ' tell you something now?'

'What?'

If Dick were in that costume, he'd be wishing that you were taking on the role instead.'

Nicholas Bracewell was grateful for someone like Ruff to act as a calming influence. Cold panic showed in most eyes and Edmund Hoode was a prime victim. After his sterling work throughout the night, he was now in danger of losing his nerve completely. Doubts about his play became uncertainties about himself and widened into questions about the whole validity of the playhouse. Here was creative suffering of a kind that nobody else could understand. Hoode therefore stalked the perimeter of the tiring-house on his own, finding more and more phantoms to assail him.

It was Nicholas himself who was the main antidote to the general hysteria. With his head still swathed in bandages, he exerted his usual cool control in a way that instilled peace. As long as the book holder was there, the company had a solid framework in which to operate. It heartened them. Nicholas went out of his way to pass a remark or two with those most in need of moral support. As people swirled to and fro in the tiring-house, he was there with friendly comments.

'The music was excellent yesterday, Peter.'

'Thank you.'

'It could not be improved upon...Thomas...'

'Yes, master?'

'We'll need to rely on you heavily today.'

'Oh, dear,' muttered the old stagekeeper.

'Your experience will be a rock.'

'I hope so.'

'Hugh...'

'Aye?' called the tireman, fluffing out petticoats for John Tallis.

'Those costume changes will need to be quick.'

'We can manage.'

'Especially Gloriana in the last act.'

'Two of us will be standing by.'

'George...'

'Here, master,' said Dart through a spectacular yawn.

'You were a Trojan last night.'

'Did Trojans run their legs off as well, then?'

'Try not to fall asleep too often.'

'How am I supposed to stay awake, Master Bracewell?'

'Gregory...'

'Not here!'

'Where is he?'

'Where do you think?'

'Again?'

The general laughter eased the tension. Everybody knew where the jangled Gregory was and it was his fourth visit. Like every other part of the playhouse, the privy made a significant contribution to the performance.

Nicholas fought off his fatigue and looked around the company.

Nerve ends were still raw, mouths were still dry and faces were still lack-lustre, but he sensed that the worst was past. They were professionals. The ordeal of the wait would evanesce into the excitement of the performance, and nobody would let himself down. Lord Westfield's Men would survive with honour. He actually began to look forward to it all.