She gave Margery a gruff welcome and invited her in.
‘We have met before,’ reminded Margery.
‘Yes,’ came the tight-lipped reply.
‘I gave you sound advice. On that occasion, too, I was able to show you the error of your ways and point out where true profit and advancement lay.’
‘What do you want?’ hissed Sybil.
‘To speak with you, woman to woman.’
‘Wife to wife, more like!’
‘That, too.’
‘I know your game, Mistress Firethorn,’ said Sybil with a derisive sneer. ‘My husband has broken with your husband and you seek to use me to join them together again.’
‘That is quite false.’
‘Why else would you deign to visit me?’
‘To keep them apart.’
Sybil Marwood was taken aback. She had been extremely displeased to see her visitor and to be reminded of the man whose company had all but burnt her home and workplace to the ground. Her immediate assumption was that Margery had come on behalf of Westfield’s Men to sue for reinstatement at the Queen’s Head. What other motive would bring her there? Sybil turned on the basilisk gaze she usually reserved for her husband but Margery did not wilt. Calm and poised, she waited for her cue to offer a full explanation. Her husband had taught her the importance of dressing for the occasion, so Margery had put on her smartest attire and her most spectacular hat. Shoes, gloves and all accessories combined to give a stunning effect. Sybil Marwood was in the presence of a lady, and it made her self-conscious about her own drab clothes and greasy mob cap. She became fractionally more respectful.
‘Would you care to sit down, mistress?’ she said.
‘I may not stay long,’ said Margery, glancing at the dust on every surface in the room and vowing not to soil her dress by contact with it. ‘I have too much to do.’
‘You spoke of keeping them apart.’
‘So I did.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘Westfield’s Men must never return here.’
‘Nor will they,’ promised Sybil. ‘My husband has sworn that they will never cross our threshold again and I will keep him to that decision.’
‘I pray that you do, mistress.’
‘Why?’
‘Because our good fortune collapses else.’
‘Good fortune?’
Margery took a step towards her and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. The basilisk glare had now been diluted to a look of open-eyed wonder.
‘May I trust you never to repeat this?’ said Margery.
‘On my honour!’
‘Most of all, you must not tell your husband.’
‘Alexander is a fool. I tell him nothing.’
‘A sound rule for any marriage.’
‘What is this good fortune?’
‘Westfield’s Men have been approached.’
‘By whom?’
‘Another innkeeper. Hearing that their contract here had been torn up, he straightway stepped in to offer a home for the company. Is not this wonderful news?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Sybil, uncertainly, feeling the first itch of envy. ‘Who is this innkeeper?’
‘That is a secret I must keep locked in my bosom. But I tell you this, though his inn be smaller than yours, he looks to make a larger profit out of his new tenants.’
‘Profit?’ The word was a talisman.
‘He cannot understand why the Queen’s Head would let such a rich source of income go.’
‘That rich source of income set fire to our premises!’
‘It was the wind that did that, mistress,’ said Margery. ‘Westfield’s Men saved your inn from complete destruction. That ballad says it all. Nicholas Bracewell and the others put their lives at risk for you and your husband. It is one of the reasons that persuaded this other interested party to step forward. He admires men of such quality.’
‘Where is this hostelry?’ said Sybil.
Margery clapped her hands in glee. ‘That is a further boon,’ she explained. ‘It is outside the city walls and therefore free from the jurisdiction of the authorities. They hate the theatre and do all they can to suppress it. If Westfield’s Men leave here, they leave behind interference and disapproval. Nothing will hinder them from now on.’
Sybil was mystified. ‘So why do you come to me?’
‘To ensure the safety of the new contract.’
‘In what way?’
‘The innkeeper is a possessive man. He wants the company to be solely his. My husband has assured him that the Queen’s Head has repudiated its contract with the company. Is that not so?’
‘It is, it is.’
‘Then it must be seen to be so,’ stressed Margery. ‘If your husband were even to consider renewing that contract, I fear it will frighten our new landlord away. He is very jealous and prone to impulsive action. You know how men are when they set their minds on something.’
‘Only too well!’
‘May we count on your help here?’
‘Indeed,’ said Sybil. ‘I will ensure that Alexander has no further contact with Westfield’s Men. What did the actors do except fill our yard with people of the lower sort?’
‘They filled your balconies with gallants and their ladies,’ reminded Margery. ‘And they also filled your pockets with money. How much beer and ale did you sell when a play brought the crowds to the Queen’s Head?’ She rammed home another argument. ‘How much fame did the company bestow upon your inn? Why did so many visitors to London flock to Gracechurch Street for their entertainment instead of to Southwark or Shoreditch? Westfield’s Men gave you a noble reputation.’
‘That is true,’ conceded the other then hardened. ‘But it is a reputation for licentious behaviour. Actors are born lechers. Our daughter, Rose, barely escaped with her virginity twice a day when we harboured those lusty gentlemen.’
‘Come, come,’ said Margery roguishly, ‘we were young ourselves at one time. Think back. Lusty gentlemen were not so unwelcome then.’
A distant gleam of pleasure lit up Sybil’s face, but it was extinguished immediately as she spat out an accusation.
‘One of the players kept sending Rose some verses.’
‘A rhyming couplet will not get you with child.’
‘My daughter cannot read.’
‘Then she is safe from corruption.’
‘We are glad to see the last of Westfield’s Men.’
‘Then you see the last of the profits they brought in.’
Sybil snorted. ‘Where is the profit in a raging fire? How much money do we make from fighting apprentices?’
‘Fire is an act of God,’ said Margery, ‘and every inn and dwelling in London lives in fear of it. As for affrays among apprentices, they are caused by your ale and not by any play. Besides, no performance by Westfield’s Men has ever been stopped because of a riot. Drama imposes order on the unruly. It is only afterwards that the drunkards fight.’
‘Not any more. We have Leonard to quell any brawls.’
‘And who brought Leonard to the Queen’s Head?’
Sybil paused. ‘Master Bracewell.’
‘It was only one of many favours he did you.’
Margery had sewed the seeds of self-interest and given them enough water to promote growth. She could now let Sybil Marwood loose on her long-suffering husband. The notion of handing over a lucrative contract to another landlord would at least make Alexander Marwood think again, and the fact that their rival had been plucked out of the air by Margery would never occur to them. An abode that thrived on marital discord had now been given fruitful source of conflict.
Pausing at the door, Margery threw in a last argument.
‘You have another reason to thank Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘How so?’
‘A messenger, sent to him from Devon, took refreshment here at the Queen’s Head and died before the message could be delivered.’
‘Died? From what cause?’
‘Poisoned ale.’
‘Our drink is the purest in London.’
‘That is what everyone believes,’ said Margery. ‘I am sure you would not have them think otherwise.’
‘How could they?’
‘By mischievous report. Nicholas Bracewell says that poison was put into the ale in the taproom by one of your patrons. Murder occurred under this very roof.’