‘Dick mentioned a spectator who was killed.’
‘Murdered where he sat.’
‘Who was the poor man?’
‘Part of Lord Westfield’s circle. A harmless fellow, by all accounts.’
‘Dick Honeydew did not know his name.’
‘There’s no reason why he should,’ said Nicholas, dropping his voice so that the apprentices behind could not hear him. ‘The lads were shaken enough, as it is. I saw no point in upsetting them again with details of a killing.’
‘So what was he called?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Simple curiosity,’ said Mussett. ‘I’m grateful to him. His death helped to give me life. If it had not been for the riot at the Queen’s Head, I’d still be in that torture chamber of a prison. I’ll not forget it in a hurry, Nick. While Barnaby and this other fellow suffered, I was the benefactor.’
‘The name will mean nothing to you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because even our patron could tell us little about it. Master Hope had not been in London long enough to win a place among Lord Westfield’s closest friends.’
‘Master Hope?’ asked Mussett, his interest quickening.
‘Yes, Giddy.’
‘Would that be Fortunatus Hope, by any chance?’
Nicholas was surprised. ‘The very same. You’ve heard of him?’
‘Heard of him and met him, Nick.’
‘When?’
‘Less than a year ago.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘More than Lord Westfield, I suspect.’
‘And you actually met Master Hope?’
‘Three or four times,’ said Mussett. ‘It must be the same man because there cannot be two with that name. Besides, nothing pleased him more than to watch a play. That’s when our paths crossed, you see. During my time with Conway’s Men.’
Maidstone was the shire town, built at an attractive point on the River Medway and containing something close to two and a half thousand inhabitants. Its bustling market drew in people from a wide area, swelling its population and bringing a noise and vibrancy to the heart of the community. Its long main street consisted largely of inns, shops and houses, all well maintained and giving the impression of neatness and civic pride. As Westfield’s Men came down the hill towards High Town, the first sight that greeted them was the prison, where the quarters of some traitors were set up on poles to act as a warning. Giddy Mussett looked over his shoulder at the apprentices.
‘Mark them well, lads,’ he said. ‘Those belong to actors who gave a bad performance and were executed for it. You’ll have to be on your mettle.’
Following Lawrence Firethorn, who now led the way alone, he drove the first wagon along the High Street until they came to the Star Inn, a large and commodious hostelry with more than a faint resemblance to their home in London. It had the same shape and disposition as the Queen’s Head with each storey jutting out above the one below and with its shutters daubed with the same paint. What set it apart from the inn that they had left was that this one had no melancholy landlord with an intense dislike of actors. Jonathan Jowlett, their host, a beaming barrel of a man in his fifties, came into the yard to give them a cordial welcome. Alive to the benefits of having a theatre company in town, he was also fond of plays and had an almost reverential attitude towards those who presented them. Jowlett identified the leading actor at once.
‘You can be none other than Lawrence Firethorn, sir,’ he said.
‘I answer to that name,’ replied Firethorn grandly.
‘Your reputation precedes you.’
‘Is that why you have locked your womenfolk away?’ asked Owen Elias.
Jowlett rubbed his flabby hands nervously together. ‘The Star is at your disposal, sir. Let us know your needs and they will be satisfied at once.’
‘Thank you,’ said Firethorn.
Ostlers and servants were summoned to take care of the horses and to help to unload the wagons. The visitors were glad to stretch their legs. It was only mid-afternoon but they seemed to have been travelling for days. Having lain in the same position for hours, Barnaby Gill was especially stiff and it made him fractious. George Dart had to endure constant criticism as he tried to assist the older man out of his wagon. Nicholas Bracewell made sure that Mussett was kept well away from his rival. When he saw how Gill hopped across the yard, Jowlett showed his compassion.
‘Can he put no weight on the other leg?’ he asked.
‘Not for some weeks,’ said Firethorn.
‘Then it would be a cruelty to give him a bedchamber at the top of the inn. Here’s my suggestion, Master Firethorn. We have a room on the ground floor that we use for storage. It could easily be cleared so that your friend could lay his head there.’
‘Barnaby would be most grateful.’
‘The room is small, I fear, not fit for more than one person.’
Firethorn grinned. ‘This gets better and better,’ he said. ‘None of us will have to put up with his bad temper and his snoring.’
‘My wife has a cure for snoring, sir,’ confided Jowlett.
‘Does she?’
‘Every time I snore, she tips me out of bed. Nan would soon cure your friend.’
‘Barnaby has a complaint that no woman can remedy,’ said Firethorn, winking at Nicholas. ‘Let’s go inside and inspect the rest of the accommodation.’
‘Follow me, good sirs.’
Jowlett guided them into the building and along a narrow, twisting passageway until they came to the taproom. The welcoming smell of strong ale lifted the spirits of the newcomers. Several customers were enjoying a drink and there was an atmosphere of jollity. Mussett looked round in wonder as if he had just stumbled on his spiritual home. Firethorn was more interested in the buxom wench who was carrying a tray of food across the room. Gill was too busy complaining at Dart for trying to hustle him along too fast. It was left to Nicholas to discuss prices with the landlord. Rooms were then chosen and Nicholas selected the groups who would occupy them, ensuring that Mussett and the apprentices shared their accommodation with him.
When the actors went upstairs to leave baggage in their respective rooms, Nicholas and the landlord escorted Gill to a tiny chamber at the rear of the premises. An assortment of small barrels stood on the floor while poultry hung in hooks from the low ceiling. Gill was not enamoured of his temporary home.
‘God have mercy!’ he cried. ‘I’ll not sleep in a storeroom.’
‘It will be emptied at once,’ promised Jowlett.
‘What am I supposed to do — lie on the floor or hang from a hook like a dead duck? A pox on the place! I’ll have none of it.’
‘A mattress can easily be brought in, sir,’ said the landlord.
‘Save yourself the trouble.’
‘Would you rather climb three flights of stairs to the attic?’ asked Nicholas. ‘This spares you that labour. Most of us would relish the notion of a room alone. It would be a rare treat. And something else should recommend it to you.’
‘The stink of beer?’ said Gill sardonically.
‘An open window will soon dispel that. No,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the door. ‘There is a stout bolt. That will keep out any unwelcome visitor.’
It was an argument that weighed heavily with Gill. In his present condition, he was a sitting target for Mussett and feared an outrage like the one that had been perpetrated at the Shepherd and Shepherdess. He still believed that the other clown was somehow involved in his earlier incarceration. Safety was paramount.
‘If the rascal so much as shows his face in here, I’ll crown him with my crutch.’
‘You’ll take the room, then, sir?’ asked Jowlett hopefully.
‘Empty and clean it first before I decide.’
‘Yes, yes. At once.’
Gill hopped off with the aid of his crutch and left the two men alone. Nicholas felt obliged to apologise for the ill-tempered behaviour of his colleague.
‘Forgive him, sir,’ he said. ‘The broken leg has taken his good humour away.’
‘We’ll do our best to recover it for him.’