Lucy surveyed the collection with pride and affection. It had taken them a long time to make all the dolls. Her whole world now lay before her in microcosm but it contained two errors. Matthew Whetcombe was no longer part of it. His severe face with its disapproval of his only child could be wrapped away in the cloth. When they first began to make the dolls, Lucy kept them in her own bedchamber so that she could play with them there, but her father had discovered the unflattering likenesses of himself and his wife and broken them to pieces. Lucy and Susan had both been punished and forbidden to indulge in any more mockery of their elders. Matthew Whetcombe was enraged by their lack of respect and gratitude. He ignored both girls for weeks afterwards. They made the new dolls in secret and hid them from him.
With her father now in his winding sheet, Lucy used softer fingers to pick up Susan. She had fallen out of the collection as well. The girl kissed the strands of cat fur that served for her friend’s hair, then pulled Susan to her breast. She used her free hand to arrange all the other dolls in a circle then stood in the middle of it. She was surrounded by enemies. One of them had died but the others were still constricting her freedom. A surge of rebellion made her want to escape, and she lifted Susan up to her ear to listen to her advice. The crude doll with its plain and grubby dress broke through a silence that nobody else could penetrate. Lucy heard the words and trembled with joy.
She now knew how to get out of the house.
Bristol gave them such a cordial welcome that they felt like prodigal sons returning home to the fatted calf. Westfield’s Men had spent a restful night at Chippenham before rising early to continue their journey. By pressing their horses hard, they reached Bristol in the afternoon and were given instant proof of its bounty. Nicholas Bracewell went off to seek official permission for the company to stage their work in the city and came back with thirty shillings and the promise of at least three performances. As in Barnstaple, the government of the town was almost entirely in the hands of merchants, and they rejoiced at the thought of bringing their wives and friends to watch a London theatre company at work. The first performance — attended by the mayor and the entire corporation — was due to take place in the Guildhall in Broad Street on the following afternoon, and the thirty shillings that the treasurer had already paid would be enlarged by admission money charged at the doors.
Westfield’s Men were delighted. There was no sign of plague in the city and no sense of being rushed on. In size and commercial importance, Bristol was second only to London among British seaports, and its bustling streets kindled fond reminiscences for the visitors of the clamour of the capital. Lawrence Firethorn liked the feel of the place and the magnitude of his potential audience. Bristol had a population of fifteen thousand people. While many were not playgoers, enough of them could be coaxed along to the Guildhall on successive days to guarantee Westfield’s Men a profitable stay. Three performances had been agreed, but Firethorn believed they could sustain enough interest to keep them there for a week.
The company lodged at the Jolly Sailor in St Nicholas Street on the west side of the city. Lawrence Firethorn seized playfully on the name.
‘St Nicholas Street for our own St Nicholas,’ he said.
‘I am no saint,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Mistress Anne Hendrik can vouch for that!’
Nicholas winced slightly. ‘This is a comfortable inn,’ he said. ‘That is the only reason I chose it.’
‘Beshrew this modesty, Nick. You guided us here as you have guided us all along. We are but children in your hands and you have been a true patron saint to us.’
They were in the courtyard at the Jolly Sailor and the hired men were singing happily as they unloaded the waggon. Lawrence Firethorn turned to practicalities.
‘When must you leave?’ he asked.
‘As soon as possible.’
‘We need you mightily for tomorrow’s performance.’
‘I will hold the book for Death and Darkness,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I will instruct my deputy in his duties while I am away. Then I must leave for Barnstaple.’
‘How long will we be without you?’
‘I will not know until I reach the town.’
‘Let us make sure that you do reach it,’ said Firethorn grimly. ‘Westfield’s Men cannot afford to lose its book holder to that murderous villain with the black beard. Take care, Nick. We are half the company without you.’
Nicholas was oddly unsettled by the compliment. Having worked so hard over the years to make himself indispensable to the company, he now felt the weight of responsibility a little oppressive. Though he was not looking forward to the journey to Barnstaple, it would buy him an appealing release from his onerous duties. Nicholas still had to negotiate the major obstacle that stood between himself and his former home. The man who had used his name at a Marlborough inn had been mocking the book holder. He had stayed his hand at Chippenham but would almost certainly strike in Bristol. Nicholas had taken the precaution of showing Anne Hendrik’s portrait of the man to his friends. Lawrence Firethorn, Edmund Hoode and Owen Elias would also know whom to guard against now. Four pairs of eyes could scour the streets of Bristol for danger.
The waggon was emptied and its cargo stowed securely away until it was required next day at the Guildhall. Work was over. Westfield’s Men had a whole evening of pleasure in front of them. Firethorn watched them roll off into the inn.
‘Cakes and ale, Nick. Cakes and ale.’
‘They deserve some jollity.’
‘And so do we, dear heart. What more could I want now than a plate of eels and a pint of sack to wash them down?’ His voice darkened. ‘One thing more to please my appetite.’
‘What is that?’
‘The head of Israel Gunby on a silver platter.’
Barnaby Gill was a vital element in the success of any performance by Westfield’s Men, and he blended perfectly with the rest of the cast when he was onstage. As soon as he stepped off it, however, he felt completely detached from his colleagues and treated them with lordly disdain. Their world was not his. Bristol impressed this strongly upon him. With an evening of freedom at their disposal, the members of the company responded in ways that were all too predictable, and this gave Gill even further cause for remaining aloof.
Lawrence Firethorn drank heavily in the taproom and flirted with female guests and staff alike. A few of the sharers joined him but others had gone off to the stews in search of wilder women and noisier company. The hired men found the prices in the taproom a little too high for their leaner purses and they were dicing and drinking in a nearby alehouse. The apprentices watched their elders with patent envy and longed for the time when broken voices and manly bodies would help them to break out of the dresses they wore onstage and entitle them to take their full due of sinful pleasure. Richard Honeydew was the exception, and Gill missed his contemplation of the boy’s naive beauty, but the youngest of the four apprentices had left with Edmund Hoode on a tour of the city. Nicholas Bracewell was their guide because he had known Bristol intimately since his youth and had promised to show them all the sights. There were some places in the city, however, that even the book holder could never find, and it was to one of these haunts that Barnaby Gill set off as the light began to fade over the port.