‘What is your name?’ said Nicholas.
‘Simon Chaloner.’
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend to Westfield’s Men.’
‘Friend?’
‘I bring something of great value,’ he said. ‘I offer it to you in return for your help.’
‘Why?’
‘All will become clear in due course.’
Simon Chaloner studied him carefully as if unwilling to go on until a proper scrutiny had been made. Nicholas took in the cut and cost of the man’s apparel and noted, for the first time, the bulge in his doublet. He remained calm under the young man’s searching gaze. Eventually, his visitor gave a firm nod of approval. Whatever examination he had been subjected to, the book holder seemed to have passed it.
‘They all speak well of you.’
‘Who?’
‘Your fellows. They say that you are the prop that holds up Westfield’s Men, its very foundation.’
‘They overpraise me,’ said Nicholas. ‘I am but the book holder. Lawrence Firethorn is our manager.’
‘I know his reputation. That is why I came to you.’
‘Me?’
‘To you and to Edmund Hoode.’ He looked over at the sleeping poet. ‘Master Firethorn would not listen to me. He is too caught up in himself, too restless a spirit. He is a born actor. Need I say more? You, on the other hand, have more forbearance. Patience.’
‘That patience is fast running out, sir.’
‘Then I will trespass on it no further.’ An urgency came into his voice. ‘Briefly, my plea is this. Undertake to read something for me. Ensure that Master Hoode reads it as well for he alone can invest it with real life and purpose. If the piece offends you, return it to me forthwith and no harm will have been done. If it please you-and I dare swear that it will set your curiosity alight-then we may talk further.’
‘You wish to offer us a play?’
‘A semblance of one, Master Bracewell. It is more an idea for a drama than a finished manuscript, and yet it would not take much to mould it into an acceptable shape.’
‘Are you the playwright, Master Chaloner?’
‘I was involved in the creation of it.’
‘A co-author, then?’
‘Not quite, sir.’
‘Then what?’
‘Read the piece first. It speaks for itself.’
‘We are given dozens of new plays every year.’
‘Not like this one.’
‘Do not raise your expectations too high.’
‘They are based on my knowledge of Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode. The one will give me a fair hearing and the other will be able to repair the many faults in the play. Together, you would be able to persuade Lawrence Firethorn to take an interest in the project.’
‘You presume far too much, sir.’
‘This is no rash move on my part, I assure you. I have watched Westfield’s Men for some time. You have qualities that none of your rivals can offer.’ He gave a smile. ‘What is more important, you are ready to take appalling risks.’
‘Risks?’
‘A man died onstage this afternoon. The play went on.’
‘You are very perceptive,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but that particular risk was thrust unsought upon us.’
‘You contended with misfortune and won through. Most of the spectators saw nothing amiss but I did. I applaud your skill without reservation. It is one of the main reasons that I chose your company.’
‘What are the others?’
‘Read the play, sir. Then I will tell you.’
He undid the fastening on his doublet before putting his hand inside to pull out a thick manuscript. Sheets of yellowing parchment were bound neatly together by a red ribbon. The young man fondled the play for a moment with distant affection before holding it out to Nicholas. The latter felt obliged to issue a warning that he gave to all aspiring authors.
‘It will be read in time,’ he promised, ‘but we can give no guarantee of performance. Most of the work submitted to us either falls below the standard required or is simply not suitable for Westfield’s Men. Prepare yourself for disappointment.’
‘There is no question of that now that we have met.’
‘I have little influence on the choice of plays.’
‘You will fight on behalf of this one. Take it, sir.’
He thrust the manuscript into Nicholas’s hands, then crossed rapidly to the door. The book holder took a few bewildered steps after him.
‘Wait, sir. You have not said where you dwell.’
‘That is my business.’
‘How, then, do we get in touch?’
‘I will come to you.’
‘But we need more details than that.’
‘Find them in the play.’
Nicholas glanced down at a manuscript that clearly held immense significance for his mysterious visitor. With no small risk to himself, it seemed, Simon Chaloner had gone to great lengths to deliver the play. The veil of secrecy was annoying but it was also intriguing. Not withstanding his suspicions, Nicholas felt his interest quicken.
‘What is its title?’ he asked.
‘The Roaring Boy.’
Chapter Three
Having feasted with the gods on ambrosia and nectar, Lawrence Firethorn suffered grievously for his over-indulgence. When he opened his eyes once more, he was no longer at a banquet on Mount Olympus, sporting with a compliant young nymph. He was twisted like a convolvulus around the ample frame of his wife and a tiny mole was burrowing its way eagerly through his swollen cheek. Connubial delight was at an end. Toothache reigned supreme. Time thereafter throbbed slowly past.
‘Fenugreek,’ said Margery later that evening.
‘What?’
‘Fenugreek. That is what the apothecary recommends.’
‘A fig for his recommendations!’
‘You are still in agony, Lawrence.’
‘I do not need to be told that!’ he howled.
‘Is not this fenugreek at least worth trying?’
‘No!’
‘Fill the tooth with it, said the apothecary. Hold it in place with wax. In time, he assured me, the ailing tooth would so loosen that you may pluck it out with your fingers.’
Firethorn bridled. ‘I’ll pluck the apothecary’s stones off with my fingers if he dares inflict that remedy on me! God’s tits! The cure is worse than the disease.’
It was only a few hours since they had smothered pain beneath a blanket of passion but it seemed like a century ago. When he tried to bestow a fond smile on her, his face remained locked into a lopsided grimace. Firethorn extended a forlorn hand to his wife and she gave it a sympathetic squeeze. She was about to steal away and leave him alone in the flickering light of the bedchamber when there was a loud knocking at the front door of the house.
‘Nick Bracewell, I’ll be bound,’ she said.
‘Where has the rogue been?’
‘I’ll show him in myself.’
‘Chide him for his lateness when you do so.’
‘He is always welcome here, whatever the hour.’
Margery went skipping down the stairs with an almost girlish delight and waved away the servant girl who was about to open the door. Nicholas was admitted by the mistress of the house and greeted with an affectionate smile. He doffed his cap politely.
‘I am sorry I have been delayed,’ he said.
‘We knew that you would come when you could.’
She gave him a warm hug and pulled him into the house before closing the door. Her voice became conspiratorial.
‘Deal gently with him, Nick.’
‘How is he?’ whispered the other.
‘More comfortable but still in pain.’
‘Has a surgeon been sent for yet?’
‘He will not consider it.’
Nicholas glanced upwards. ‘Is he still awake?’
‘Yes!’ bellowed Firethorn. ‘Still wide awake and able to hear everything the pair of you are muttering. Send him up here, Margery. Make haste, sir. I have waited long enough.’
Nicholas smiled and picked his way up the staircase to the main bedchamber of the house. With a lighted candle either side of him, Lawrence Firethorn was propped up on some pillows in his nightshirt like a potentate worn down by the cares of state. He wagged an admonitory finger.