‘Come, lad. A drop of ale will revive you.’
‘No, sir. I will not tarry.’
‘A dusty ride leaves a dry throat. Swill away the taste of the journey before you go your way.’
‘There is no need, sir.’
‘I’ll not be denied. You’ll share a pint with me in the name of friendship. It is the least you can do.’
‘Indeed it is,’ conceded the youth. ‘I thank you for your help and I will drink to you but I may not stay long.’ He glanced nervously around the taproom. ‘I must be about my business.’
They were seated on stools beside a low wooden table. The youth was distinctly uncomfortable but his companion was very much at home in such surroundings. A waved hand brought a serving wench over and two tankards of ale were soon set in front of them. Pewter struck pewter in a toast then the man quaffed half of his pint in one thirsty gulp. The youth merely sipped at his drink. Having left his horse with an ostler, their shadow now stole into the taproom and sidled up so that he was within earshot. He took something from the pouch at his belt, waited for the youth to speak again then moved quickly in with an ingratiating smile.
‘I know that voice!’ he said with a soft West Country burr. ‘It has a Tiverton ring to it, I’ll be bound!’
‘Not Tiverton, sir,’ said the youth. ‘But from that part of the country, it is true.’
‘Well met, lad!’ The black beard came close to the young face as the man clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Devon is a sweeter place than London. What brings you here?’
An embarrassed stutter. ‘An … an errand, sir.’
The youth was quite unable to cope with this sudden acquaintance thrust upon him and his travelling companion rose to come to his defence but his help was superfluous.
‘Welcome, young friend!’ said the newcomer, backing away with a farewell grin. ‘Enjoy your stay here.’
As he moved swiftly away they lost sight of him among the shifting patterns of humanity beneath the low beams. Both had resented the intrusion and were glad that they were now alone again. Neither had noticed that something was slipped deftly into the boy’s ale as his fellow Devonian leant across to him. The older man now raised his tankard once more.
‘Drink up, lad!’ he insisted.
‘Very well, sir.’
The youth supped more deeply this time. To please his kind friend, he even pretended to enjoy the bitter taste. The man finished his own ale and licked his lips while beaming across at his companion. There was no better way to mark the end of a long journey than to celebrate good fellowship in a hostelry. He chuckled happily. It never occurred to him that he had just become an accomplice in a murder.
Chapter Two
The meeting was held at Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch because it was imperative to keep well clear of the fulminating landlord at the Queen’s Head. On that point, at least, there was general agreement. On a more pressing issue, however, there was deep dissension, and it came from a most unlikely person.
‘No, no, no!’ said Edmund Hoode firmly. ‘I will not.’
‘Leave off these jests,’ cooed his host.
‘I speak in earnest, Lawrence. I will not quit London.’
‘Stay here and we starve,’ said Barnaby Gill with utter distaste for the notion. ‘Westfield’s Men must tour. I quiver at the thought of wasting my God-given genius on the heathen swine of the provinces, but there is no help for it. Actors who lose a theatre must seek elsewhere for another.’
‘Edmund will join us in that quest,’ said Firethorn with assurance. ‘He would never desert us in our hour of need. Betrayal is foreign to his nature. He would sooner die than see his company struggle off into the wilderness. The name of Hoode is a seal of loyalty and comradeship.’
‘You’ll not persuade me, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.
‘I merely remind you of your reputation and honour.’
‘They are needed here at home.’
‘Home is where the company is,’ chanted Gill with a petulant flick of his hand. ‘It is your duty to come.’
‘Duty and obligation,’ reinforced Firethorn.
‘I do not give a fig for either.’
‘Edmund!’
‘Pray excuse me, gentlemen. I am wanted elsewhere.’
‘Stay!’
Firethorn barked a command that would have stopped a cavalry charge in its tracks then he placed his ample frame in the doorway to block his friend’s departure. Hoode met his steely gaze with equanimity. They stood there for some minutes, locked in a trial of brute strength. Firethorn went through his full repertoire of glaring, eyebrow raising, lip curling and teeth grinding, but all to no avail. Barnaby Gill threw in an occasional flaring of the nostril and stamping of the foot but even this additional parade of displeasure failed to bring the miscreant to his senses.
The three men were all sharers with the company, ranked players who were listed in the royal patent for Westfield’s Men and who were thus among the privileged few in the profession to be accorded legal recognition. Being sharers entitled them to first choice of the major parts in all plays that were performed as well as a portion of any profits made by the company. There were a number of other sharers but policy was effectively controlled by this trio. To be more exact, it was devised by Lawrence Firethorn and then placed before his two colleagues for their comment and approval. Barnaby Gill, conceited and temperamental, always challenged Firethorn’s authority as a matter of course, and the house in Shoreditch had frequently echoed with the sound of their acrimonious exchanges. Edmund Hoode’s accustomed role was that of peacemaker and he had reconciled the squabbling rivals more times than he chose to recall, yet here was this same gentle, inoffensive man, this moon-faced romantic, this poet and dreamer, this voice of calm and moderation, this apostle of friendship, daring to abandon his fellows at a time of acute crisis. It was unthinkable.
Firethorn shattered the tense silence with a bellow.
‘Obey me, man! Or, by this hand, I’ll tie you to a hurdle and drag you along with us.’
Hoode was unmoved by the threat. ‘I will not go.’
‘You will.’
‘Take another in my place.’
‘God’s tits, Edmund! You must come!’
He attacked the renegade with a burst of expletives that turned the air blue and dislodged clouds of dust from the overhead beams. Hoode winced but he did not weaken. It was time for Barnaby Gill to take over and to replace apoplectic bluster with cool reasoning. Edmund Hoode was the resident actor-playwright, the creative source of the company, the only true begetter of that gallery of characters immortalised on the stage by the sheer flair of Firethorn and Gill. The way to appeal to him was through his work.
‘We will perform your new play, Edmund,’ he said.
‘It is not yet finished.’
‘Use the time out of London to complete it.’ Gill took his arm and guided him across the parlour to the bow window. ‘The Merchant of Calais will be your masterpiece. We may try it out on tour and polish it until it dazzles like the sun. Anything penned by Edmund Hoode commands attention but this play will lift you high above your peers.’ Personal interest intruded. ‘Is my part written yet? Does it have true passion? Are there songs for me? And I must have a dance.’ He squeezed Hoode’s arm as he offered further flattery. ‘The Merchant of Calais will take the stage by storm. Does that prospect not entice you?’
‘No,’ said the playwright angrily. ‘I do not wish to take the stage by storm in front of farting country bumpkins in some draughty village hall. Is that the only carrot you can dangle, Barnaby?’ He turned to face his colleague and brushed away his hand. ‘The Merchant of Calais was to have been performed at The Rose in Bankside before the cream of London. I’ll not let it be played in a barn to please the vulgar taste of rustics with a piece of straw in their mouths. Find some other argument. This one falters.’