Meadow and pasture now predominated, much of it set aside for the feeding and fattening of livestock from Wales before the last part of its trek to the capital. The clay soil responded to the plough and much corn was grown in addition to the grass and hay for the drovers’ animals. Sheep seemed to be grazing everywhere and the rumble of their waggon could make a whole flock go careering around a field as if their tails were on fire. What was amusing to the passing company of actors, however, held a more serious meaning for others. Because of the profits to be gained from offering keep, many landowners converted from arable farming to sheep grazing. The subsequent enclosures brought grave hardship to small farmers, tenants and labourers, and Buckinghamshire was one of several midland counties that suffered periodic rioting against the new dispensation. A tranquil scene held rebellion in its sub-soil.
Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe at a steady pace and they only paused once, at an inn near Uxbridge, to take refreshment and to rest the horses after the first fifteen miles. Anxious to make as much headway as daylight and discretion would allow, the company then pressed on to Beaconsfield before making a final spurt of five miles to bring them to High Wycombe. Firethorn was satisfied. They were over halfway to Oxford and they were offered cordial hospitality at the Fighting Cocks, a fine, big, rambling inn with good food and strong ale in plenty, and rooms enough to accommodate them and three more such companies. For that night at least, they would all sleep in fresh linen.
Nicholas Bracewell took charge of the stabling of the horses and the unloading of the waggon. Everything was carried into the hostelry and put under lock and key. The item that Nicholas guarded most carefully was the chest in which he kept the company’s stock of plays. Since most of them only existed in a single copy, the chest contained the very lifeblood of Westfield’s Men. It was stowed beneath his bed in the chamber that the book holder was to share with Edmund Hoode, a particularly suitable venue since the chest held the entire dramatic output of the playwright.
Hoode had now exchanged his clerical garb for doublet and hose, but his sombre mood retained its hold on him. He stared down at the chest with doleful eyes.
‘Such small accomplishment in so many years!’ he said. ‘That chest contains my whole misguided life, Nick.’
‘Your plays have brought delight to thousands.’
‘And misery to their author.’
‘Edmund-’
‘Bury that box in the ground,’ he said. ‘It will give but short work to the spade. Those are the useless relics of an idle brain and they should be covered with unforgiving earth.’ He heaved a sigh and wrote an epitaph. ‘Here lies Edmund Hoode, a poor scribe, who took his own life with quill and parchment, and left no memory of his passing. Pity him for the emptiness of his existence and despise him for the failure of his ambition. Amen.’
Nicholas put a consolatory arm around his shoulders. Yet another of his friend’s love affairs had miscarried and yet another set of lacerations had been inflicted on a soul that was already striped with anguish. In view of his own broken relationship, the book holder now had a closer affinity with the wounded playwright.
‘Let’s go below for supper,’ he said. ‘A full stomach will remind you of your sterling worth, then you may tell me what has happened.’
‘The words would choke me, Nick!’
‘You need some Canary wine to ease their passage. Come, sir. Let’s join the others.’
After locking the door, they went down to a taproom that was already bubbling with merriment. Westfield’s Men had taken over the largest tables and were tucking into their meal with relish. Fatigue was soon washed away with ale. The landlord was a fund of jollity, the other guests warmed to the lively newcomers and there was a general atmosphere of camaraderie. It was all a far cry from the charred wreck of the Queen’s Head and the ever-lamenting Alexander Marwood. Mine host of the Fighting Cocks clearly liked actors.
His affection was shared by some of the other guests.
‘You are players from London, I hear,’ said one.
‘Westfield’s Men,’ announced Lawrence Firethorn with pride. ‘No company has finer credentials.’
‘Your fame runs before you, sir.’
‘It is no more than we deserve.’
The man stood up from his chair to cross over to them. His grey hair framed a long, clean-shaven face that shone with affability, and his bearing indicated a gentleman. He wore fine clothes and there was further evidence of his prosperity in the rings that adorned both hands. He was in excellent humour.
‘Westfield’s Men,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Are you not led by a titan of the stage called Lawrence Firedrake?’
‘Thorn!’ corrected the other, irritably. ‘Firethorn, sir. If you saw him act, you would never mistake his sharp thorn for the quack of a drake. Lawrence Fire-thorn!’
‘Pardon me, sir,’ said the man. ‘No offence was intended, I assure you.’ He glanced around. ‘And is this same Master Firethorn with you at this time?’
The actor-manager rose to his feet and drew himself to his full height, hands on hips, feet splayed and barrel chest inflated. Inches shorter than the older man, he yet seemed incomparably taller as he imposed his presence upon the taproom. An arrogant smile slit his beard apart.
‘Lawrence Firethorn stands before you now, sir!’
‘Then we are truly honoured,’ said the man with a mixture of delight and humility. ‘My name is Samuel Grace and I travel to London with my daughter, Judith.’ He turned to indicate the attractive young woman who sat at his table. ‘She has never seen a company of actors perform and I would remedy that defect. I beg you, Master Firethorn, let’s have a play here and now.’
Other guests seized on the idea and added their pleas. The landlord was in favour of anything that kept his guests happy and the girl herself, pale, withdrawn and demure, looked up with trembling interest. Firethorn knew better than to comply before any terms had been offered. He held up his hands to quieten the noise then spoke with mock weariness.
‘We thank you all for the compliment of your request,’ he said, resting a hand on the table, ‘but we have travelled well above twenty miles this day. You call for a play that would last two hours and drain us to the very dregs. Our reputation rests on giving of our best and we will not offer your indulgence any less.’
‘Come, come, we must have something!’ insisted Samuel Grace. He appealed to the other guests. ‘Is that not so?’
‘Yes,’ agreed a voice from another corner. ‘Give us a scene or two, Master Firethorn. Speeches to stir our hearts and songs to delight us.’
‘Well said, friend,’ thanked Grace, resuming the task of persuasion. ‘Amuse us with a dance at least. I never saw a play yet that did not end in a fine galliard or a merry jig. My daughter, Judith — God bless the child! — loves the dance. Westfield’s Men surely have enough sprightly legs among them to carry it off. Entertain us, Master Firethorn,’ he instructed, putting a hand into the purse at his belt, ‘and you will be five pounds the richer for it.’
‘I will add half as much again,’ said the man in the corner, ‘if you will put on your costumes and treat this assembly to the wonder of your art.’
Firethorn closed with the offer at once. Seven and a half pounds was considerably more than they would be given at other venues where they might stage a full play, and there was a possibility, if they gave enough pleasure, that the company could coax more money out of other purses. It was a good omen for their tour. Firethorn had a brief consultation with his book holder then he withdrew with his company to acquaint them with the nature of their impromptu performance and to don the appropriate costumes.
Nicholas, meanwhile, aided by George Dart and the other hired men, cleared tables and chairs to create an acting area at the far end of the taproom. Candles and lanterns were set with strategic care to shed light on the arena, and the guests adjusted their seating accordingly. Samuel Grace and his daughter occupied a prime position in the front row. The other sponsor of the entertainment — a rather stout, florid man in his twenties — placed his chair so that he could both view the stage and feast his gaze on the maiden modesty of Judith Grace. He licked his lips in a manner that suggested he had really parted with his money in order to be able to view her reactions to the performance. Judith Grace was to be his night’s entertainment.