‘There is something else amiss,’ he said ruminatively.
‘Master Gill’s indisposition affects them all.’
‘No, Ellen. These are cunning actors. They could carry one man and hide his shortcomings but there was another hole in the fabric of their play.’
‘It was much too slow.’
‘Fast enough for the burgesses of Bristol.’
‘Yet half the pace of Marlborough.’
‘Who is to blame for that?’
Gunby realised. ‘They have lost their book holder!’
The play had not only been weakened by a lacklustre actor onstage, it had been seriously hampered by the absence of a controlling hand off it. Entrances had been missed and changes of scenery had been slow. When Barnaby Gill fumbled his words and signalled for a prompt, it came so late and so loud that it seemed to be one more comic touch deliberately inserted to amuse the audience. Israel Gunby had enjoyed the performance which he had commissioned at the Fighting Cocks but it was not only the actors who caught his attention. Nicholas Bracewell had organised everything with laudable expertise. His invisible presence was the scaffolding which held the whole company up. Without him, Westfield’s Men were distinctly rickety.
‘Master Bracewell has gone,’ said Gunby.
‘Why?’
‘That is his business, my love.’
‘Apart from Master Firethorn, he was the handsomest man among them,’ said Ellen. ‘Were I to play that love scene we have just witnessed, I think I would just as soon be seduced by the book holder as by the actor. Master Bracewell was a marvellous proper man.’
‘Yet he has left them.’
‘His deputy is a poor substitute.’
‘Westfield’s Men will suffer.’
‘We have seen that already.’
‘They will suffer offstage as well as on, Ellen,’ he said as an idea formed. ‘Master Bracewell was their sentry. With him gone, their defences may more easily be breached. Do you follow me here?’
‘I do, husband.’
‘Their loss is our gain.’
‘When do we strike?’
‘Give them a day or so,’ he advised. ‘That will make them feel more secure and put more money into their coffers. Death and Darkness filled this Guildhall until it burst and The Happy Malcontent, as you see, has made the coins jingle. If we wait awhile, Firethorn’s capcase will have twenty pounds and more in it.’
‘How will we empty it?’
He gave his wife a sly smile and squeezed her arm. The other spectators had largely drifted away now and they were among the stragglers. Nobody sat in front of them so they had an uninterrupted view of the makeshift platform which Nicholas Bracewell had erected at the end of the hall so that it would catch maximum light through the windows. The stage was still set for the last act of the play.
‘You admired Lawrence Firethorn, I think,’ he said.
‘Every woman here did that.’
‘And you said before, you would like to play that scene with him. Could you do it as well as Richard Honeydew?’
‘Better.’
‘The boy was excellent.’
‘But he remained a boy. His voice and gestures were a clever copy of a young woman but he could not compare with a lady herself.’ Ellen bunched her fists in envy as she looked at the stage. ‘Had I been up there with Lawrence Firethorn, I would have overshadowed the young apprentice quite.’
‘Women are not allowed to act upon the stage, my love.’
‘That is a pity and a crime.’
‘They may still perform in another theatre.’
‘The bedchamber?’
‘You’d oust this apprentice there!’ said Gunby with feeling. ‘I know that to be true! But could you carry it off with Firethorn himself?’
‘No question but that I can.’
‘He is a shrewd man and will not be easily fooled.’
‘I have done it once and may do so again.’
‘There will be danger, Ellen.’
‘I do not give a fig for that,’ she replied. ‘Where danger lies, the best rewards are found. You taught me that. Lawrence Firethorn will never recognise me for a second.’
‘Then let’s about it!’
‘I’ll need some new apparel.’
‘All things will be provided.’
‘Then I’ll show him how a real woman can act!’
Israel Gunby chuckled and put an arm around her. When they got up to walk towards the door of the hall, they saw the distraught figure of George Dart holding out a bowl to the last few spectators. They had already paid an admission fee but the performance had inspired them to part with a few additional coins. Gunby tossed an angel into the collection and Dart gabbled his gratitude. It was a chance to confirm the facts. The assistant stagekeeper was more harassed than ever. He did not connect the fat old merchant with Samuel Grace at the Fighting Cocks. Gunby used a local accent.
‘Master Bracewell is not with you, I hear.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Has he left the company?’
‘I fear me that he has!’ wailed Dart.
‘Where has he gone?’
‘To Barnstaple.’
‘A strange departure when he is needed here.’
‘Even so, sir. He will return one day but it may not be for a week or more and we struggle without him.’
‘That was my observation,’ said Gunby. ‘Westfield’s Men have a fine reputation but it will not be enhanced by the bungling of your present book holder. We have seen many plays performed in this hall but few with such a lack of judgement behind the scenes.’ He leant in close. ‘Tell me, young sir. What poor, fumbling idiot took over from Master Bracewell as the book holder today? Who was that fool?’
George Dart’s hunted face answered the question.
‘That fool stands before you,’ he admitted.
Gunby threw another angel in the bowl and they left.
The Gabriel was a coastal trader that was owned by five Barnstaple merchants who each had an equal share. It had been to Carmarthen and Tenby before putting into Bristol and its cargo included tin, oats, barley and four thousand sheepskins. The Gabriel was a vessel of only fifteen tons and it was one of a number with overtly religious names. Nicholas Bracewell soon learnt that there was nothing angelic about its embittered old captain.
‘A turd in his teeth!’ sneered the sailor.
‘You know him, then?’
‘Everyone in Barnstaple knew Matthew Whetcombe.’
‘Knew?’ echoed Nicholas. ‘He has left the town?’
‘No, sir. He is still there — God rot him!’
‘Then your acquaintance must hold.’
‘It does,’ said the other. ‘I may speak to the good merchant on my own terms now. Whenever I pass his grave, I can spit on it twice and lift a leg to fart on it three times. That’s all the conversation he deserves.’
Nicholas had been fortunate enough to find a vessel that was sailing to Barnstaple. It was not the speediest way to reach the town but it would save him from a long and dangerous journey alone over extremely bad roads. It would also help him to elude any trap that was set for him near Barnstaple. Nicholas had killed off one threat but the man who had employed Lamparde could pay a dozen more to do the same service. It was important to find out as soon as possible who that paymaster was and he could not do that if he was ambushed before he even reached the town.
The Gabriel was a small and ageing vessel but it was good to be under sail again and to feel the wind ripping at his hair and clothing. Nicholas stood in the prow and let the salt spray bathe his face. In the port books, the ship was listed with a flourish as Le Gabryelle de Barnstaple and its gnarled captain was proud of a name he constantly used without ever getting close to an intelligible pronunciation of it. The man was teak-hard and foul-mouthed but Nicholas was more than ready to share his company. Though hailing from Ilfracombe, the sailor had worked out of Barnstaple for the last decade and he knew all the leading merchants there. In the taverns along the wharf, he picked up all the local gossip and it was this which Nicholas now mined.