With this hope in mind, Nicholas turned to him.
‘Who is she, Edmund?’ he asked. ‘Tell me all …’
When Lawrence Firethorn adjourned to his bedchamber, he put the money into his capcase then turned his thoughts to Mistress Judith Grace. Young and untutored, she was desirous of experience and ready to place her education in the hands of a master. Her brief taste of theatre had opened up both mind and heart in a most bewitching way. It would be churlish of Firethorn to deny her the crowning act of pleasure. In the nakedness of their embrace, he would also be her knight in shining armour, jousting with the unwanted attentions of his adversary and knocking the rude fellow from his saddle. Altruism would be truly served.
Twopence in the palm of one of the chamberlains had bought him the location of her bedchamber, and he gave her plenty of time to detach herself from her father and make her preparations. Meanwhile, he addressed himself to his moustache and beard, peering by candlelight into his mirror in order to twist the one and curl the other to the required degree of excellence. When fingers and comb had done their work, he left the room, locked the door then crept along the dark corridor with the noiseless tread of a seasoned lecher. Lawrence Firethorn was equally sure-footed, whether performing at the centre of the stage or going about some backstairs work.
He felt his way to her chamber, tapped lightly on the door and waited. There was no answer. He knocked more loudly but still elicited no reply. Trying the latch, he was pleased to find the door unbolted and was inside the room at once. A lone candle was flickering beside the bed like a gentle invitation. Judith Grace had covered her modesty with white linen and was a timid protuberance between the sheets. He simply had to take his place beside her and wear down her token resistance. Before he could bolt the door behind him, there was another tap, accompanied by a hoarse whisper and the raising of the latch. Lawrence Firethorn leapt back into the shadows as a hefty profile came into view. The newcomer shut the door behind him then gazed at the bed.
‘Judith!’ he called softly. ‘I have come.’
‘Then you may depart again,’ growled Firethorn, stepping out to confront the man who had tried to force himself upon the girl earlier. ‘Away, you rogue!’
‘I say the same to you, sir!’
‘Will you quarrel with me?’
‘I’ll quarrel with anyone who stands between me and my prize. You intrude, Master Firethorn. I am here by right.’
‘You are a walking insult to womanhood!’
‘I was chosen.’
‘A blind hag with a withered arm would not choose you.’
‘Nor you, sir!’
‘She swooned at my feet.’
‘She preferred my wooing.’
‘She squeezed my palm.’
‘She gave me her handkerchief.’
‘Stay further, and I’ll strike you!’ hissed Firethorn then he blinked as he actually heard what the man had just told him. ‘Handkerchief?’
‘What clearer signal could be given?’
‘Handkerchief!’
‘I have it here.’
Even in the gloom, Firethorn could see that it was hers and catch her perfume upon it. This fat and unprepossessing creature did actually have a reason for being in her bedchamber. The actor spun round to accuse Judith Grace but he was talking to some large pillows. Each man had thought himself a favoured lover when both of them were mere gulls. It was Firethorn who reacted most quickly to the situation.
‘We are abused, sir,’ he said.
‘But why?’
‘Return to your chamber.’
‘My chamber?’
‘They mean to rob us.’
‘Heaven forfend!’
They went out, groping their way in opposite directions to their rooms. Firethorn found his unlocked and ran across to his capcase. The night’s takings had vanished along with the rest of the money he carried. While he had been sliding off to deflower a virgin, she and her accomplice had robbed him and his company of over fifteen pounds. Vengeance sent molten lava coursing through his veins and he reached for his rapier. The clatter of hooves on the cobbles below took him quickly to the window where moonlight gave him a glimpse of two figures riding out of the yard before they merged conspiratorially with the darkness. Firethorn slashed the air wildly with his sword in a futile display of rage. What hurt him most was not that the thieves had escaped with his money, that of his supposed rival and, presumably, with additional valuables lifted from other unsuspecting guests. Real mortification came from the affront to his professional pride.
Lawrence Firethorn had been out-acted.
‘Women are all devils, Nick,’ said Edmund Hoode with glazed horror. ‘They flaunt their beauty to drag us down to hell.’
‘That is not the case here,’ observed Nicholas.
‘It is. She held me in thrall.’
‘The fault may lie with you rather than her, Edmund.’
‘Indeed, it does! I confess it. That is the hideous truth of it. I put my head willingly upon the block of disgrace. I am mine own executioner.’
Nicholas disagreed but he was too tactful to explain why. From what he had heard, he was fairly certain that the axe had been held by a familiar headsman. The unexpected return of an irate husband had the ring of stage-management to him, and he guessed at once who had usurped his role. To tell Edmund Hoode that he had been duped by a colleague as well as being deprived of his carnal rewards would be to sew perpetual enmity between playwright and actor-manager. Nicholas was forced to conceal what he would never condone.
His distraught companion detected a pattern.
‘Disaster is triple-tongued,’ he groaned. ‘This is the third time that it has blown its blast in my ears.’
‘You have had ill luck, Edmund, that is all.’
‘I have been punished for meddling with devils.’
‘You do the lady a disservice.’
‘Look back, Nick. You were there on both occasions.’
‘Where?’
‘At the scene of my calamities.’ Hoode counted them off on his fingers. ‘One, my play The Merry Devils. Remember what afflictions that brought in its wake, and how I suffered vile torments. Two, my other venture into hell, The Devil’s Ride Through London. I paid for that rash mockery as well. Our theatre was all but burnt to the ground. Three, Mistress Jane Diamond. The vintner was not her true husband. She was contracted to Satan himself and set me up to suffer the worst pangs of all. I have been well paid for my folly.’
‘It is not so, Edmund.’
‘Where is your proof?’
‘Let me follow your numbers.’ Nicholas held up his finger. ‘One, The Merry Devils was not your play but a work jointly written by you and Ralph Willoughby. He it was who had the kinship with the Devil and who paid for it with his life. You at least survived. Two-’
But Nicholas got no further with his argument. Lawrence Firethorn came hurtling down the stairs with his sword in his hand and his teeth bared. The book holder abandoned one injured party and rushed to the assistance of a more recent one. Firethorn was berserk.