‘What on earth has kept you away for so long?’
‘Ben Skeat.’
‘That news was an aching tooth in itself.’
‘We still reel from the shock of it.’
‘Have all the arrangements been made?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I engaged the services of an undertaker and spoke to the parish clerk of St Leonard’s. Ben Skeat will be buried beside his beloved wife.’
‘When is the funeral?’
‘On Tuesday next at ten.’
‘The whole company must be there.’
‘They will need no urging on that score.’
‘No,’ said Firethorn. ‘He was loved and respected by all. How many of us can say that? But let us save our tears for his funeral. Now, tell me what happened.’
‘Has not someone already played the messenger?’
‘Oh, yes. Barnaby came dancing in here to boast of the way that he had rescued the company from extinction. The villain crowed over me like a very Chanticleer. But when he spoke out of turn to Margery, and told her-would you believe? — to hold her peace, I sent him dancing out again with his ears aflame.’
‘He may not have given you the full story.’
‘It was a pack of lies from start to finish. He forgot that the apprentices live under my roof. When they got home this evening, their version quarrelled with Barnaby’s in every particular.’ He gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Dick Honeydew was the most trustworthy. The lad was still shaking like an aspen at the horror of it all. Dick says that you were magnificent.’
‘I did only what was needful.’
‘You stopped them bolting like frightened horses.’
‘The play had to go on. Ben would have wanted that.’
Nicholas Bracewell gave a succinct account of the trials endured by Westfield’s Men during their performance. He explained that he had helped Edmund Hoode back to his lodgings but made no mention of the poet’s determination to write no more. Nor was it the moment to discuss the strange encounter with Simon Chaloner. The actor-manager was in need of comfort rather than anxiety and Nicholas was seasoned in the art of keeping unsettling news from his employer.
‘How do you feel now?’ he asked solicitously.
‘The worst is over, Nick. I’ll be back on Monday.’
‘Vincentio’s Revenge is a demanding piece.’
‘I can play it in my sleep.’
‘You are sure that you will be fully recovered?’
‘Double sure.’ Firethorn beckoned him closer. ‘But tell me what neither Barnaby nor the apprentices could. How bad a play was The Corrupt Bargain?’
‘It would be unfair to judge it on that showing.’
‘Come, come, man. Put tact aside for once. Beshrew your love for Edmund. Speak honestly about his work.’
‘He has written finer plays.’
‘Has he ever penned anything worse?’
Nicholas hesitated. ‘Possibly not.’
‘His talent has been drying up steadily all year.’
‘That is unkind.’
‘Unkind but not inaccurate.’
Lawrence Firethorn was sometimes mistakenly regarded as a monster of selfishness whose only interest was in his own performances. It was true that he had the vanity common to his trade and that it sometimes tipped over into an unseemly arrogance, but he had none of the bickering narcissism of a Barnaby Gill or the combative exuberance of an Owen Elias. Firethorn was a proven master of his craft with the confidence to tackle any role and the dedication to strive ever harder for perfection.
Proud of his own achievements, he did not ignore those of other people. Players were helpless without good plays and he had learned how to coax the best work out of his resident author. Performances were doomed without strict discipline, which was why he set such a high value on the stage management of Nicholas Bracewell. Firethorn might be the central pillar of Westfield’s Men but he never forgot that each member of the company made his own contribution. When that contribution was satisfactory, he had nothing but praise. If anyone was giving less than his best, he upbraided him without mercy.
‘I will have to speak to Edmund,’ he warned.
‘Stay your hand a little while.’
‘You cannot protect him forever, Nick. Someone has to tell him the truth. He is letting us down. Most of all, he is letting himself down.’
‘That has not evaded his notice.’
‘Then why does he not do something about it?’ He warmed to his theme. ‘His last two plays barely caused a ripple of excitement. This new one-by all accounts-was dying on its feet until a real death put some life into it. Edmund Hoode is in decline and it must be stopped.’
‘I am confident that it will be,’ said Nicholas with far more conviction than he felt. He thought of the jaded friend he had left asleep in Silver Street, a man so out of love with his craft that he talked of abandoning it. The book holder had been concealing the truth about Edmund Hoode’s condition from Lawrence Firethorn. He would now have to hide the actor-manager’s frank criticism from the playwright. ‘Edmund has been through a difficult time of late,’ he said, ‘but he is emerging from it now. His next play will surely vindicate his reputation. Give him time.’
Firethorn sighed. ‘Do you know what was worst, Nick?’
‘Worst?’
‘When I was lying here alone this afternoon.’
‘Missing the opportunity to play Duke Alonso?’
‘No, not that.’
‘Suffering such intense pain from your tooth?’
‘Nor that.’
‘Being clucked over afterwards by Barnaby Gill?’
‘Nor even that,’ said Firethorn. ‘It was the noise.’
‘Noise?’
‘From Holywell Lane. Heaven knows, I created a din myself but only to drown out that horrible sound from The Curtain.’ He gave a shudder. ‘Applause, Nick. Long and loud applause for Giles Randolph and Banbury’s Men. While I lay stricken here, he and his company were feted. At the expense of Lawrence Firethorn. It was unendurable. Topcliffe himself could not have devised a more exquisite torture for me.’
Nicholas gave a wry smile. Richard Topcliffe was the notorious interrogator of suspected Roman Catholics, a man whose name was synonymous with cruelty and who was so dedicated to his grisly work that he had built a private torture chamber in his own house at Westminster.
Firethorn writhed in anguish for a moment.
‘Giles Randolph was Topcliffe this afternoon.’
‘He is only a good actor where you are a great one.’
‘A good actor in a good play,’ corrected the other. ‘And that is far better than a great actor in a bad one. I need powerful weapons to battle against Randolph and my other rivals. Edmund has left me unarmed.’
‘He is not our only author.’
‘But he remains our touchstone.’
Nicholas could not deny it. Firethorn was only saying what Edmund Hoode himself had admitted. Westfield’s Men were having to rely more and more on staple dramas from their repertoire. Other companies were attracting the best and most consistent playwrights. Nicholas looked down at the manuscript that was still tucked under his arm. Though he had told Simon Chaloner that they received a steady flow of new plays, this was the first to be offered to the company in months. It would doubtless meet the same fate as the vast majority of its predecessors. The book holder’s instinct told him that The Roaring Boy would amount to no more than the scribble of a floundering amateur.
‘He must be told, Nick.’
‘Let me broach the topic with him.’
‘Very well,’ said Firethorn, ‘but do not let sentiment stand in the way of the harsh truth. Edmund must shake off this lethargy and learn to write small masterpieces once more. Otherwise-much as it would grieve me-we will have to dispense with his services as a playwright and replace him with a more durable talent. Make that clear to him!’