‘I do not have men enough for the task.’
‘This girl died in my house. I am involved.’
‘Then you should have attended her funeral, mistress.’
Anne gaped. ‘Funeral?’
‘The girl was buried earlier this morning.’
‘Where? How? By whose authority?’
‘Master Bracewell gave order for it.’
‘But he did not know the young woman.’
The coroner gave a wan smile. ‘He cared enough to pay for a proper burial. The poor creature was not just tossed into a hole in the ground with nobody to mourn her, like so many unknown persons. Master Bracewell is a true Christian and considerate to a fault. Because he could not be present himself, he arranged for a friend to take his place and pray for her soul.’
‘A friend? Do you know the name?’
‘He did not give it, mistress.’
‘Was it a man or a woman?’
‘A man.’
‘A member of the company who was left behind?’
‘All I remember is the name of an inn.’
‘The Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street?’
‘Yes, that was it. This friend worked there.’
Anne Hendrik had an answer. It was not the one she either expected or wanted but it pointed her in a direction that might yield a fuller reply. An upsurge of emotion warmed her. The body may have been buried but Anne’s love for Nicholas Bracewell had come back emphatically to life. He had shown kindness and concern for the murdered girl. In paying for her funeral — he earned only eight shillings a week from Westfield’s Men — he was making a real financial sacrifice. There was another factor that weighed heavily with Anne. The coroner spoke of Nicholas with the respect he would only accord to a gentleman. The surgeon made slighting remarks about Nicholas and dismissed him out of hand, but the coroner, an older and more perceptive judge of character, took the book holder at his true value. That pleased her.
She asked where the funeral had taken place, thanked the coroner profusely for his help then went off to pay her last respects to the dead girl.
Bright sunshine and beautiful landscapes were completely wasted on Westfield’s Men. Lawrence Firethorn was forcing such a pace upon them and spreading such an atmosphere of gloom that they had no chance to enjoy any of the pleasures of travel. Actors were contentious individuals at the best of times and they now began to bicker in earnest. Nicholas Bracewell expended much of his energy intervening in quarrels with good-humoured firmness and trying to lift the company out of its Marwoodian mood of triumphant unhappiness. It was a very long and punishing journey to Oxford.
Barnaby Gill was at the forefront of the cavalcade and the carping. He heaped ridicule on Firethorn for being tricked so easily out of the money they had won with their extempore performance at the Fighting Cocks, and he insisted that he should take charge of any income in future, since he would never be enticed away from it by a devious woman. The actor-manager endured the vicious criticism for as long as he could then launched a counter-attack. Both men lapsed back into a sullen restraint. It was another five miles before Gill felt able to speak again.
‘The Queen has visited Oxford on two occasions,’ he said knowledgeably. ‘The first time was long ago and the second but last year.’
‘What care I for Her Majesty’s perambulations?’ said Firethorn grumpily. ‘They have no bearing on us.’
‘But they do, Lawrence. Oxford is a university town and it was university theatre that they thrust upon her. True players were passed over for callow undergraduates.’ He pulled his horse in close to that of his colleague. ‘Will you hear more of this?’
‘Do I have any choice?’ moaned the other.
‘Let me begin …’
Barnaby Gill was not just an outstanding actor with comic flair, he was also the self-appointed archivist of Westfield’s Men and of the wider world of theatre. His mind was an encyclopaedia of plays and players, and he could call up with astonishing clarity every performance in which he had ever appeared. Other companies were not ignored and he could list the entire repertoires of troupes such as the Queen’s Men, Worcester’s Men, Pembroke’s Men, the Chamberlain’s Men, Strange’s Men, now amalgamated with Admiral’s Men, having already merged with Leicester’s Men on the death of the latter’s patron in Armada year, and — since they were the major thorn in the flesh of his own company — he knew every detail of the work of Banbury’s Men. For other reasons, Gill also kept abreast of the activity of the boy players attached to the choir schools of St Paul’s and the Chapel Royal at Windsor, as well as at such schools as Merchant Taylors’. If a play had been staged during his extensive lifetime, he knew when, where and by whom.
‘Our dear Queen,’ he said with reverential familiarity, ‘first visited Oxford in the year of our lord 1566 and lodged at Christ Church. It was there she witnessed a performance of Palamon and Arcyte.’
‘I have played in such a piece,’ boasted Firethorn.
‘That was by another hand, Lawrence. It is an old tale and told by many a playwright. At Oxford, it was the work of Richard Edwardes that the Queen witnessed in Christ Church Hall.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Unhappily, that is not all Her Majesty saw on that fateful night.’
‘What else, Barnaby?’
‘Tragedy, misfortune, chaos!’
‘You must have been a member of the cast.’
‘I was not in the play!’ returned Gill. ‘Nor yet of an age when drama had claimed me for its own. To return to my story about the Queen … Her courtiers occupied balconies that had been built onto a wall and she herself sat in a canopied chair on a platform with scenic decoration around it. Now we come to the disaster-’
‘Enter Barnaby Gill!’
‘Enter a large crowd from university and town. They came in with such force that they breached a wall protecting a staircase and brought it down upon them. Three persons were killed and five injured. The Queen was mightily upset.’
‘Had she hoped for more slaughter than that?’
‘She sent her own surgeons to attend to the injured.’
‘What of Palamon?’
‘It was well played, by all accounts, and made the Queen laugh heartily. She was very pleased with the author and gave him thanks for his pains.’
‘Actors create plays,’ boomed Firethorn, ‘not authors!’
‘Give a poet his due.’
‘Keep the scribbling rascals in their place.’
‘This Richard Edwardes had left the university to become Master of the Children of the Chapel, but he returned to present the first part of his play. The Queen was also favoured with the second part of Palamon days later, when no mishap occurred.’ He wagged an admonitory finger. ‘You have heard a cautionary tale, Lawrence.’
‘I marked its warning.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘Do not invite the Queen to our plays.’
‘Beware of wild behaviour. Control our spectators.’
‘My performance will keep them in strict order.’
‘Yes, they will fall asleep together.’
‘I can captivate any audience.’
Gill sniggered. ‘As you did at the Fighting Cocks, named after you and your fat rival.’
Firethorn turned to strike him but the mocking clown had already pulled on the reins of his horse and sent it trotting to the rear of the party. While the actor-manager fumed alone, his colleague struck up a conversation with the apprentices, who lolled on the waggon. Richard Honeydew had an enquiring mind and a natural respect for his elders.
‘Have you been to Oxford before, Master Gill?’ he said.
‘I have been everywhere, Dicky.’
‘What manner of place is it?’
‘A comely town, set in lovely countryside, and bounded by a wall. It has fine colleges, large churches and excellent hostelries. Let us hope it will be kind to Westfield’s Men.’
‘They say that Cambridge is prettier.’
‘What do you know of prettiness?’ asked Gill with a twinkle in his eye. A shrewd glance from Owen Elias in the driver’s seat made the horseman amend his tone. ‘Cambridge? No, boy. It does not hold a candle to Oxford. If you have a mind to listen, I’ll tell you why …’