George Dart would have quailed to hear that such a construction was being placed on his separation from a loved but feared mentor. The hired man occupied the most menial station in the company and it obliged him to be the butt and scapegoat with depressing regularity, yet at least he was still employed. A tour would double the already heavy workload that was thrust upon him and condemn him to play a string of minor parts in the plays, but even these guarantees of additional pain and humiliation were preferable to being cast out with Thomas Skillen and the others.
It was the scurrying legs of George Dart that Nicholas Bracewell used on the previous evening to notify the chosen company of the time and place of departure. The tiny stagekeeper had been given good news to spread while Nicholas reserved for himself the more onerous and saddening task of telling the rest of his fellows that they had been set aside. Knowing their haunts and their habits, he had spent long hours in tracking them down to pass on the bad tidings as gently as he could. It now struck him as a harsh irony that a man enjoined to oust so many others had then himself been ejected from a cherished home.
Emotions were running high in the yard and sobbing was breaking out among the women. When Nicholas saw husbands reassure their wives and lovers embrace their mistresses, his sense of desolation grew. The only person he wanted to see at that moment in time was not there. At the start of any previous tour, Anne Hendrik had always sent him on his way with love and best wishes, but there would be no farewell kiss this time. It emphasised the anomaly of his position. Nicholas was in limbo. He was making a journey between past lives, between a woman who had turned him out and a family he had disowned. It was a dispiriting itinerary because it left him without a final destination.
Someone else took note of his condition and intervened.
‘Come here, Nicholas!’
‘Gladly, mistress.’
‘Where is your good lady?’
‘Detained elsewhere, I fear.’
‘Then I shall give you her due of kisses as well.’
Margery Firethorn fell on him with unashamed affection and planted her lips firmly on his. A handsome woman with a vivacity that tilted towards excess, she had always been fond of the book holder and sensed his dismay at Anne Hendrik’s absence. Relationships within the theatrical world explored all the extremes of human behaviour, and Margery had learnt to accommodate the caprices and eccentricities of her husband’s colleagues. Nicholas Bracewell was the most stable man in the company in every way. If he had parted from a lover, it would not have been done lightly.
‘Write to her, Nick,’ she purred in his ear.
‘What do you say?’
‘Absence can soften even the hardest heart.’
She gave him another kiss then went across to snatch her children away from the arms of Lawrence Firethorn so that she could take a wifely leave of him. Like everything that the actor did, it was a performance in itself and he might have been playing a scene from a tragedy of love. Margery was an ideal soulmate, matching him in passion and tenderness, yet able to summon up reserves of fury that made even his tirades seems mild by comparison. Whether she was caressing or quarrelling with her husband, she was a most formidable woman. Husband and wife now reached down to lift up the children again into communal embrace. When it was over, the actor-manager leapt into his saddle, pulled out his rapier and held it high as he delivered a short speech to give inspiration to his company.
It was time to leave. Nicholas rode up beside him.
‘We must tarry, master. Edmund is not yet here.’
‘He was amongst the first to appear.’
‘I do not see him.’
‘That is because he does not wish to be seen.’
‘He is hidden in the waggon?’
‘Our poet has found another disguise. Mark this.’
Firethorn nudged his friend and indicated the crooked figure of an old parson who sat on a horse near the gateway. He was completely detached from the others and seemed to be deep in solemn contemplation. Firethorn brought him out of it with a clarion call.
‘Edmund!’ he cautioned, ‘there’s one Master Matthew Diamond here to seek a word with you.’
The parson came alive, the horse neighed and the pair of them went cantering out into the street. Westfield’s Men took their cue and rolled out after him. The tour had begun.
Waving his hat in farewell, Lawrence Firethorn led his company away on his bay stallion, a prancing animal with a mettle commensurate with that of its rider. Barnaby Gill rode beside him on a striking grey mare, dressed in his finery and revelling in the opportunity to parade it through the streets. True to prediction, no money was forthcoming from their patron, but Lord Westfield did lend a bevy of horses from his stables so that most of the sharers could make the journey in the saddle. One who did not was Owen Elias, self-appointed driver of the waggon that carried the company’s costumes, properties and scenic devices. The two mighty animals between the shafts were also pulling along the four apprentices and a couple of hired men. George Dart and two other unfortunates trotted at the waggon’s tail with the weary resignation of convicted criminals being dragged to the place of execution. Only when the procession left London and needed to pick up speed would they be allowed to ride aloft with the others.
Nicholas Bracewell brought up the rear on the roan that he had inherited from the dead girl. This not only enabled him to make sure that the pedestrian members of the company did not straggle, it also gave him the opportunity for a last, long, hopeful gaze around the yard as he left it but there was still no sign of her. Leonard trotted beside him and thrust the ballad into his hand.
‘You are famous, Master Bracewell.’
‘That is not how your employer would speak of me.’
‘Forget his hot words,’ said Leonard. ‘I will work on him in your absence and change his mind completely.’
‘Thank you, my friend.’
‘Come back to us one day.’
‘We will, Leonard.’
‘God be with you!’
Leonard had more to say but no breath with which to say it. He staggered to a halt and let his smile and his wave convey his message. Clustered around him were the other well-wishers, calling out their farewells and their encouragement. When the waggon and its cargo were swallowed up in the seething morass of people in the Bailey, a sudden grief descended on the watching group. Touring had its hardships but it was preferable to being left behind. As the company now headed west along Holborn, it left unemployed men and weeping women in its wake. Set apart from the former by virtue of his occupation, Leonard sided instead with the latter and copious tears trickled down his face. Westfield’s Men made the Queen’s Head an exciting place to work. It would seem dull and lifeless without them.
One observer was impervious to the general melancholy. The man with the trim attire and the well-barbered black beard was pleased with what he had witnessed. He had singled out Nicholas Bracewell at once and studied him intently. All that he needed to know was the route the company had taken out of the city and that was now clear. They had followed the line of the city wall as far as Newgate then swung left to take the Uxbridge Road. There was no hurry to follow them. He could judge their pace and how far it was likely to take them by nightfall. His pursuit needed to be stealthy. Their progress would be remarked by all whom they passed on the way, so it would be easy to pick up their trail by enquiry. Westfield’s Men were a memorable spectacle.