‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘The work, it is fery gut.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anne has carried on where her husband left off. They never lack for customers. People from all over London wear hats made by one of her men. Preben van Loew is a master at his trade.’
‘Preben, I know,’ said Hendrik, folding up the letter. ‘A gut man. I not sin him since Jacob’s funeral. Jacob, my cussin, I miss. Togither, we grow up. Loffly man.’
‘Anne has told me all about him.’
‘She write nice litter. You tek what I write bek?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ll be in the town for a few days yet. If you want to reply, I’ll carry the letter with me though it may be some time before I can put it into Anne’s hands. She’ll be delighted to hear from you.’
‘Gut, gut.’ He looked quizzically at Nicholas. ‘So why you to Medstun come?’
‘I travel with a theatre company called Westfield’s Men. We stay at the Star Inn and mean to perform two plays in the town. I hope that you will come to see us.’
Hendrik’s face clouded. ‘Mebbe, Niklaus, we see.’
‘Do you object to plays?’
‘No, no. That not risson.’
‘I know that some of your countrymen do.’
‘Not me. I like.’
‘Then why were you so uneasy when I mentioned the theatre company?’
‘It nothing. No fault from you.’
‘Fault?’
‘I haf little trouble, that all.’
‘With a theatre company?’
‘Yis.’
‘Then it must have been Conway’s Men,’ said Nicholas, his curiosity aroused. ‘They were here not long ago, were they not?’
Hendrik nodded. ‘Conway’s Men,’ he said ruefully. ‘They here.’
‘Did you see them play?’
‘Yis. Fery gut. I laugh a lot.’
‘Then why are you so wary of theatre companies?’
‘I deal with menegar. You know the fillow?’
‘Only by reputation. His name is Tobias Fitzgeoffrey.’
‘That him.’
‘What kind of dealings did you have with Master Fitzgeoffrey?’
‘Bad ones, Niklaus.’
‘Oh?’
‘We mek fustian, grogram and other cloth. Best in Medstun. This man, Fissjiffry, he come to buy from us.’
‘He probably wanted it to make new costumes or repair old ones.’
‘This what he say.’
‘How much did he have from you?’
‘Lot, Nicklaus. But no money. Fissjiffry, he say he pay me nixt day. When I call at Star Inn for money, they gone. It no mistake. They liff at dawn with my cloth. No pay,’ said Hendrik, wounded by the memory, ‘Conway’s Men, thieves.’
‘It sounds a fine play,’ said Giddy Mussett with admiration. ‘Yet another worthy piece from Edmund Hoode?’
‘A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady did not come from Edmund’s pen,’ said Lawrence Firethorn. ‘It’s the work of a younger playwright, Lucius Kindell.’
‘I do not know the name.’
‘You soon will, Giddy. He gets better with each play. Lucius came to us to write tragedies but he tried his hand at comedy as well.’
‘And a clever hand, it is. If the other scenes are as rich as the ones in which I appear, then the play is a certain success.’
‘It worked well at the Queen’s Head until this last performance. The piece was never allowed to run its course then. When we reached the point where the clown does his jig, the hounds of hell were unleashed upon us.’
‘We’ll not have that vexation again.’
‘I hope so, Giddy. With all my heart, I do.’
The two men were in an upstairs room that overlooked the yard of the Star Inn. Firethorn was taking his new clown through the plays that they would perform in Maidstone, explaining the plot of both in detail so that Mussett had some grasp of how his part related to the whole drama. It was when he handed the clown a scene to read aloud that Firethorn encountered an unexpected problem. Mussett was almost illiterate. He pleaded poor eyesight but it was evident that he could make out only one word in four and he could hardly get his tongue around that. To his credit, however, he had a quick and retentive brain. When Firethorn read the lines out to him, Mussett memorised a number of them instantly. At one point, he repeated an eight-line speech without a fault.
‘Which play do we stage first?’ asked Mussett.
‘That depends on where we perform it,’ explained Firethorn. ‘If it is to be here, then Cupid’s Folly is the better choice. If we play indoors, then we’ll introduce them to the chaste lady. We must wait for Nick to come back.’ He looked down through the open window and saw the book holder entering the yard. ‘Talk of the devil! There he is.’
‘Nick promised to school me in my roles.’
‘And he’ll do it better than me, Giddy.’
‘Am I free to go now?’
‘As long as you do not join the others in the taproom,’ warned Firethorn sternly. ‘Remember your contract. No drunkenness, no women, no fighting.’
‘Would you have me become a monk?’
‘I would have you aim higher than that — at sainthood.’
Mussett cackled. ‘My hopes of that have already been lost,’ he said. ‘But I’ll not go astray. You have my word on that. I mean to take a walk to remind myself what sort of town Maidstone is.’
‘You’ve been here before, then?’
‘Some years ago, when I was with the Earl of Rutland’s Men.’
‘Why did you part with them?’
‘To become a holy anchorite.’
Mussett cackled again and let himself out of the room. Watching him go, Firethorn gave an indulgent smile. It was hard to dislike a man so relentlessly cheerful as the clown. He might lack Barnaby Gill’s education but he had other gifts to bring to his work. Firethorn turned to the window again and noticed that Nicholas Bracewell was looking at something through the door to the stables.
‘Nick, dear heart!’ called Firethorn.
Nicholas saw him at the window. ‘All is well,’ he said, waving a hand.
‘Wait there until I come down.’
Firethorn went through the door and down a rickety staircase. When he came out into the yard, he saw that Nicholas was still peeping into the stables. Firethorn strode quickly across to him.
‘What have you found, Nick?’
‘Something that may turn out to be a blessing.’
‘Where’s the blessing in horse dung?’ asked Firethorn, seeing the manure that was piled in a corner. ‘Is that what caught your attention?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, pointing. ‘Look there.’
Firethorn’s gaze fell on a wooden wheelbarrow that had been dumped against the side of a stall. Its wheel was missing and one of its handles had been snapped off. The timber was stained by years of usage. Firethorn was bewildered.
‘I think that I’d rather look at the horse dung,’ he said.
‘The wheelbarrow has been abandoned.’
‘It deserves to be, Nick. It’s outlived its time.’
‘Not if it’s repaired with care,’ said Nicholas.
‘And why should anyone bother to do that? The only use is has now is to serve as firewood. I’m surprised it has not already gone up in smoke.’
‘That may be to our advantage. Find a new wheel, make a new handle, wash it out thoroughly and we bring it back to life.’
‘To what possible end?’
‘A certain person might be able to move about with less pain.’
‘Barnaby?’ said Firethorn with a laugh. ‘Sitting in a wheelbarrow? Moved around like so much dung? He’d never countenance it.’
‘He might if we used some clever carpentry,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I’d undertake that. I need to make it more comfortable and build something to support his back. We could surely woo him with the notion then. Walking is a trial for him. George Dart could push him around with more speed and far less pain.’
‘You may be right, Nick,’ conceded Firethorn, taking the idea seriously at last. ‘Let’s speak to the landlord first and see if we can have the wheelbarrow. If you can mend it, as you say, we’ll tell Barnaby he travels on an imperial couch from now on.’
‘I’ll leave you to coax him into it.’
‘I may need to hitch up two of the horses to do that.’ They shared a laugh then Firethorn rubbed his hands together. ‘How are we received?’