‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘because Nick has never let us down. He can read the character of a man at a glance and see into his virtues and his defects.’
‘He did not read Israel Gunby at a glance.’
‘No more did you, Barnaby. Nor I, nor Edmund here.’
‘Nicholas is there to protect us.’
‘Even he has limitations.’
‘This tour has revealed them,’ continued Gill. ‘He has served us well in the past, I grant you, but he is now the symbol of our misfortune. Without him, there would have been no Israel Gunby to abuse us, no plague in Oxford to vex us and no second visitation from Gunby to tantalise us.’
‘Do not forget this drizzle,’ said Hoode sarcastically. ‘Without Nick, we would be basking in bright sunshine and filling our pockets with the money that grew on every bush that we passed. This is arrant nonsense, Barnaby!’
‘And is that injury to Owen Elias arrant nonsense?’
‘That is another matter,’ muttered Firethorn.
‘Another matter for which our revered book holder must be held responsible,’ persisted Gill. ‘He was attacked at the Dog and Bear last night. The gallant Welshman came to his rescue and almost lost an arm. Will you absolve Nicholas there as well?’
‘I will,’ replied Hoode fiercely. ‘You cannot blame a man because he is set upon by some drunken reveller.’
‘That drunken reveller was as sober as a pine needle.’
‘Owen will recover,’ said Firethorn, trying to deflect his colleague from a disagreeable topic. ‘That is all that matters as far as Westfield’s Men are concerned.’
‘Until this villain strikes again.’
‘What villain?’
‘The one who is stalking Nicholas.’
‘There is no such person,’ said Hoode weakly.
‘Leave off this talk,’ added Firethorn uncomfortably.
‘Tell me who caused that disturbance at the Fighting Cocks and I will,’ challenged Gill. His companions traded an uneasy glance. ‘I am not blind, gentleman. Nicholas went out to the stables and came back dishevelled. A horse was heard galloping away from the inn. Who rode it?’
‘Israel Gunby’s fat accomplice,’ said Hoode.
‘He would not dare to measure his strength against our book holder. An impudent rascal he may have been, but he was no fighting man. I believe that Nicholas was set on by the same person who came back again last night and maimed Owen. Deny it, if you will.’ He paused. ‘Well?’
Lawrence Firethorn and Edmund Hoode maintained a shifty silence. They had both been told by Nicholas Bracewell why he had to go to Barnstaple, and danger was implicit in that journey. Barnaby Gill had worked out for himself what they already knew and he drew a conclusion that heightened their discomfort considerably.
‘We are marked men,’ said Gill. ‘As long as we carry Nicholas Bracewell with us, we are all at risk. When and where will this rogue launch his next assault? Which of us will be wounded on that occasion?’ He nudged Firethorn. ‘Get rid of him, Lawrence. Put the safety of the company first and send him off to Barnstaple. Or this fellow who pursues him will murder us all, one by one!’
Marriage to an actor was always a hazardous undertaking and when that actor was Lawrence Firethorn, the relationship could never even approximate to conventional notions of holy matrimony. Solemn vows made before the altar could not bind a couple in perpetuity. In the interests of survival, they had to be continuously rearranged to meet each new situation as it arose. Margery Firethorn was a potent woman with a single-minded commitment to getting her own way, but even she could not impose a rigid structure upon her connubial bliss. Her husband could be guided but never wholly controlled. It would be easier to stitch the Lord’s Prayer onto a soap bubble than to fit Lawrence Firethorn into anything that resembled normal married life, and Margery’s own tempestuous nature could never be contained within a wifely role. Their love had been tested many a time, and although it had acquired layers of cynicism on her side and a few startling blemishes on his, it had never been found wanting. They might wrangle and accuse but they were always working together and the sense of a common vision kept them immoveably in each other’s arms and minds.
The common vision took her to the Queen’s Head.
‘They have started in earnest.’
‘I see that, Leonard.’
‘The carpenters will be here for a fortnight or more,’ he said, ‘then the plasterers and painters will come, too.’
‘There’s thatch to be replaced as well,’ she noted, looking up at the part of the roof where Nicholas Bracewell had prostrated himself. ‘You’ll need fresh reeds up there to keep out the wind and rain.’
‘It will all be done in time, mistress.’
They were in the courtyard of the inn amid the rasp of saws and the din of hammers. Carpentry was a deafening occupation. The problem with the work of restoration was that the Queen’s Head had to look worse before it could look better. A section of the balconies had been cut away entirely to leave a yawning hole in the corner of the yard. Wooden scaffolding held up the remaining part of the structure. Where supports had burnt through, props had been temporarily inserted to prevent any further subsidence. They would be replaced in time by the stout oak of ship’s timbers that were finding a useful purpose in life now that their sailing days were over. The work was slow, hard and expensive but it conformed to a definite plan.
‘Did you find the courier?’ asked Leonard.
‘He left the city at dawn,’ said Margery. ‘With God’s speed, he should reach Marlborough some time tomorrow. We must pray that the warning is in time to be of use.’
‘Did you tell Master Bracewell that I saw the man?’
‘It has not been forgotten, Leonard.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘That portrait was largely your work.’
‘I am glad to be of service.’
Margery gave him a gracious smile. ‘Do not let me detain you from your duties,’ she said, gazing around the yard, ‘for I must be about mine. Where is that whining innkeeper who pays your wages?’
‘He is in the taproom. Do you wish to speak with him?’
‘No, I wish to know that he is occupied so that I may place my argument where it will have more influence. It is too soon to reason with Alexander Marwood.’
‘It is,’ agreed Leonard. ‘He has a fit of the ague every time the name Westfield’s Men is heard. I will hold back my plea until he is more settled in his mind.’
‘Tread with care.’
‘I go on tiptoe.’
‘Choose your moment to woo the wretch back to us.’
‘I will. And you?’
‘Leave me to work upon his wife.’
They bade their farewells and parted. Leonard went off to unload some more barrels from the dray while Margery took a first small step towards repairing the shattered relations between the Queen’s Head and Westfield’s Men. She had come at the express request of her husband. While the company was on the road, she and Lord Westfield were its representatives in London. The aristocrat would be brought into the scheme of things later on when the pontification of a patron might have more impact. At this stage, Margery Firethorn was a much more effective advocate for the exiled troupe. She could insinuate herself into places where no sane man would ever dare to venture.
Sybil Marwood was in the room at the rear of the inn, which was used as a parlour during the rare moments when she and her husband could actually pause for rest. She was a plump, severe and unlovely woman who was spending her middle years bitterly regretting the follies of her youth. What had once been pleasant features had now congealed into a mask of deep disappointment. Sybil Marwood had so much iron in her soul that a team of miners would be kept busy for a month trying to extract it and several picks would be broken in the process.