'You did go home, Sam.'
'I did?'
'To the theatre.'
Ruff acknowledged the remark with a nod then his smile became more confidential. He leaned across the table.
'Shall I make confession to you, Nick?'
'Of what?'
'I hate cows. I cannot abide the beasts.'
'We saved you from that,' said Nicholas with a grin.
'Oh, you did so much more, my friend!'
When Marwood had been paid for the ale, they went out together into the yard. Evening was starting to close in on what had been a fine, clear day. They reached the main gate and paused at the archway. Ruffs emotion showed through again.
'I could not bear to lose this, Nick!'
He shook the book holder's hand warmly then strode off through the archway to head towards his lodging. Nicholas cast one more glance around the yard and would have gone out into Gracechurch Street himself if his attention had not been caught by a sign of movement at a window. It was the tiring-house.
Nicholas was troubled. Everyone else from the company had gone home and the room had been locked up to protect the valuable costumes that were stored there. His first instinct was to cross to the window and peer in but that might alert whoever was inside. He decided instead to go back into the taproom to confront Marwood.
'Could I have the key to the tiring-house, please?'
"It has not been returned, Master Bracewell.'
'Then who has it?'
'I have no idea, sir.'
'Give me the key to the adjacent room.'
'What is amiss?' asked the worried landlord.
'Oh, nothing,' said Nicholas casually, trying to make light of it. 'I daresay that Hugh Wegges is working late on a costume.' He took the proferred key. 'Thank you, Master Marwood. I will return it very soon.'
Nicholas hurried off to the tiring-house and tried the door. It was locked. He went around to the door of the adjacent room and let himself quietly in. Crossing the floorboards with a gentle tread, he reached the door that connected with the tiring-house and put his ear to it. Muffled sounds came from within and he thought he heard a costume swish. He had no doubt what was happening. The thief was at work again.
Lifting the latch with painful slowness, he eased the door wide enough open to look into the tiring-house. He was so startled by what he saw that he had to blink. It was the most unexpected discovery of all and he could not at first believe it.
In the corner of the room, Barnaby Gill was kissing a young woman. They were locked in a tender embrace and the actor was behaving with almost knightly courtesy, taking his pleasure softly and with evident respect for his lady. If it had not been so astonishing, the sight would have touched Nicholas.
He opened the door further and it creaked on its hinges. The couple immediately sprang guiltily apart and swung round to face him. He was given another severe jolt. The woman wore the costume and auburn wig that would be used in the next play.
It was Stephen Judd.
The apprentice turned red and Barnaby Gill blustered.
'What business have you here, sir?' he demanded.
'I saw something through the window.'
'It is nothing that need concern you. I was giving the boy some instruction, that is all. We are done now.'
'Yes, Master Gill,' said Nicholas evenly.
'You may leave us,' added the other loftily.
'I will see Stephen safe home first.'
'Get out!'
There was an expressive venom in the command but Nicholas held his ground and met the other's glare. Barnaby Gill gradually backed off as cold reason searched him out. If the book holder reported what he had witnessed, the sharer would be placed in a very awkward predicament. Firethorn and the others wore well aware of Gill's preference for boys but it was mutually understood that he would not pursue or corrupt the apprentices. His brief moment with Stephen Judd could be fatal.
Nicholas stared him out. In those long, silent minutes, a bargain was struck between the two men. In return for saying nothing of what he had seen, Nicholas would keep Samuel Ruff in the company. It was an uneasy compromise but Gill yielded to it.
Stephen Judd was still flushed with guilt, which suggested that this had been the first time that he had succumbed to the actor's blandishments. Nicholas was determined that it would also be the last time. A serious talk with the boy was now due.
'Get changed, Stephen,' he said.
Nervous and confused, the apprentice turned to Gill for guidance. The actor made a vain attempt to take control of the situation and waved a dismissive hand at the book holder.
You need not wait for him, sir,' he said fussily, 'I will take the lad back to his lodging. We bid you adieu.'
'Get changed,' repeated Nicholas quietly.
After a long pause, Gill gave the boy a curt nod and the latter began to remove the costume and wig. Nicholas opened the door fully and stepped to one side. Barnaby Gill took his cue. Without a backward glance, he marched quickly away from the scene of his latest disappointment. Another conquest had been lost.
Sunday morning found Lawrence Firethorn in his accustomed place in the parish church of St Leonard's, Shoreditch, with his wife, children, apprentices and servants. He sang lustily, prayed zealously and stayed awake throughout a long and wayward sermon on a text from the Gospel According to St Mark. To all outward appearances, he was a contented family man at his regular devotions, and nobody in the full pews would have guessed that the matronly woman who stood, sat or knelt beside him was harbouring such murderous thoughts about her husband.
The Spanish Armada had served to strengthen the Protestant church immeasurably and to extend its hold over some of its less devout souls. Fear of invasion sent everyone hurrying to matins and vespers to pray for deliverance, and the English victory was celebrated in every pulpit in the land before a packed and grateful congregation. During that summer and autumn of 1588, churchwardens in town and country alike had far less cause to tax any feckless parishioners with poor attendance. Armada fever and its association with Rome swelled the flocks of even the most undeserving shepherds, and banished any nostalgia for the glories of the old religion.
Lawrence Firethorn had never been lax in attending to his spiritual needs. Old enough to remember the Latin liturgy that was restored during Mary's reign, he had been pleased when Elizabeth's accession brought a return to the Protestant service. He had quickly fallen under the spell of the Book of Common Prayer and the beauty of its language was a gift to an actor of his stature. The colour and ritual of the church had a theatricality which appealed to him and he was always ready to learn something from a priest who brought histrionic skills into the pulpit.
As he went down on his knees once more at the end of the service, his eyes did not close in prayer. They were fixed on the altar and a beatific smile covered his face. Margery Firethorn took a sidelong glance at him and wondered if he had been transfigured, such was the light that shone from him. But her husband was not suffused with the joy of Christian worship. What mesmerized him was the colour of the altar cloth--a royal blue embroidered with gold. It precisely matched the hue of the bodice that Lady Rosamund Varley had worn to The Curtain.
The text of the sermon wafted back into his ears.
'Behold, I send my messenger before thy face...'
*
Nicholas Bracewell wasted no time in passing on the good news to Samuel Ruff. Though concealing the circumstances in which it had occurred, he told the actor about Barnaby Gill's change of mind. Ruff was so delighted that he gave the book holder a spontaneous hug that crushed the breath out of him. 'This gladdens my heart, Nick!'
'They are happy tidings for us all.'