‘What ails you, Barnaby?’ he said, kneeling beside him.
‘My leg,’ replied Gill through gritted teeth. ‘God’s blood, Lawrence! How could you let this happen? They’ve broken my leg.’
‘How do you know?’
‘How do you think I know, man?’
Nicholas turned to the stage. ‘Fetch a doctor!’ he called and one of the actors ran off immediately. There were still many bodies milling about in the yard. ‘Let’s move him to a place of safety,’ he suggested. ‘We can use that table.’
Calling two more actors to assist him, Nicholas righted the upturned table that had been thrown from the stage. The powerful Firethorn, showing an affection for his fallen colleague that surprised them both, lifted Gill as gently as he could and lowered him onto the table. Four of them bore it slowly away with its passenger still writhing in pain. Only when they had manoeuvred the table into the tiring-house did they feel that he was out of danger. Gill was surrounded by the sympathetic faces of his fellows. They saw the implications at once. A clown with a broken leg would not be able to dance for a very long time. It was a bitter blow to a company that relied so much on the talents of the inimitable Barnaby Gill. Everyone tried to soothe him with kind words.
When they least needed him, Alexander Marwood came bursting in. There was no compassion from the landlord. He ignored Gill completely. His gnarled face was puce with fury and the remaining wisps of hair stood up like tufts of grass on his gleaming pate. He pointed an accusatory finger at Firethorn.
‘See the mischief you have done, sir?’ he howled. ‘You’ve brought ruin down upon me. You and your knavish company have turned my yard into the pit of Hell.’
‘Away, you rogue!’ yelled Firethorn, rounding on him. ‘Can you not see that Barnaby lies injured here? What are a few damaged pieces of timber to a broken leg? Take that ugly face of yours out of here before it makes me puke.’
‘I demand recompense, Master Firethorn.’
‘You shall have it with the point of my sword.’
‘I’ll not be browbeaten, sir.’
‘No,’ warned Firethorn, bunching a fist. ‘You’ll be hand-beaten, foot-beaten, cudgel-beaten, stone-beaten and axe-beaten until you look even more hideous than you are now. By heaven, if I were not so fond of dumb animals, I’d beat you into a pulp and feed you to the mangiest curs in London.’ He raised an arm to strike. ‘Begone, you foul wretch! You offend our sight.’
Marwood backed away in fear. ‘Stand off, sir, or I’ll set the law on you.’
‘Not before I set my toe against your vile buttocks.’
Nicholas moved in swiftly to prevent Firethorn from carrying out his threat. Taking the landlord by the shoulder, he ushered him out of the room and onto the stage. He disliked Marwood as much as any of them but he knew the importance of trying to placate the egregious little man who, when all was said and done, provided them with their inn yard theatre. Westfield’s Men enjoyed a precarious relationship with Alexander Marwood at the best of times. That relationship would not be improved by a violent assault upon him.
‘I’ll turn you out,’ said Marwood, still pulsing with impotent rage. ‘I’ll not have Westfield’s Men on my premises a moment longer.’
‘Calm down,’ said Nicholas. ‘You are too hasty.’
‘I was certainly too hasty when I let my yard to your troupe.’
‘We’ve both gained from the arrangement.’
‘I should have expelled you years ago, Master Bracewell.’
‘And what would have happened to all the income that we have brought you?’ asked Nicholas, appealing to his pocket. ‘We not only pay you a rent, we fill the Queen’s Head with happy people who are only too ready to drink your ale and eat your food. Come, sir, you have turned a handsome profit out of the company.’
Marwood looked balefully around the yard. ‘Do you call this profit, sir? My benches damaged, my balustrades cracked, my shutters torn off their hinges. I dare not think what horrors that mob visited on my stables. This is a calamity!’ he cried. ‘I am surprised that my inn is still standing.’
‘We regret what happened as much as you.’
‘But you and your fellows are to blame, Master Bracewell.’
‘Not so,’ said Nicholas. ‘We are victims of this affray, not progenitors.’
‘Westfield’s Men attract rogues and vagabonds into my yard.’
‘We appeal to anyone who wishes to enjoy a play. Our spectators were filled with your ale, remember. Hot weather and strong drink worked against us this afternoon. Think how rarely it has done that,’ argued Nicholas. ‘No matter how rough and unruly an audience, our plays usually please them so much that their behaviour is above reproach. A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady has always found favour before. Set this one bad experience against the hundreds of good ones that have taken place at the Queen’s Head.’
‘My mind is resolved, sir. We must part forthwith.’
‘You forget our contract.’
‘Its terms stipulate that my yard may be hired for the sole purpose of presenting a play. Not for encouraging the sweepings of the city to run riot. The contract is revoked.’
‘Would you lose the income that it gives you?’
‘I’d rather lose that than the inn itself.’
‘The damage may not be as great as you fear.’
‘No,’ moaned Marwood, running his eye over the debris. ‘It’s likely to be far worse. Get your fellows off my property, Master Bracewell.’
‘Not until we help to clear up the mess.’
‘Westfield’s Men will be the death of me!’
Clutching his head in despair, the landlord turned on his heel and scurried off to the taproom. Nicholas let him go. There was no reasoning with Marwood in a crisis. A confirmed pessimist, he preferred to luxuriate in misery. Nicholas took a quick inventory of the yard. Most of the spectators had fled now, leaving only the stragglers and the wounded behind. They limped out of the Queen’s Head as best they could, glad to get away from the scene of devastation. Items from the play lay scattered on the ground alongside food, vomit, discarded tankards and a selection of hats that had been plucked from their owners’ heads. Dick Honeydew’s stolen wig floated in a pool of blood. Doors, shutters and balustrades had all been damaged. Some of the benches in the galleries had been upended and snapped in two during the headlong flight. It was a depressing sight.
Nicholas was about to call the others to help him clear up the yard when he noticed someone still up in the gallery. Slumped in his seat, the man was young, well-built and exquisitely well-dressed. What interested Nicholas was the fact that the last surviving member of the audience had been part of Lord Westfield’s entourage, the exclusive coterie that occupied a privileged position in the gallery. The man’s eyes were closed as if he had drifted off to sleep. Nicholas wondered if he had somehow been knocked unconscious as the spectators struggled to escape. Crossing to the nearest staircase, he went up the steps and made his way along the gallery to the lone figure. He shook him by the shoulder to see if he could rouse him. The man suddenly fell forward and the book holder grabbed him before he hit his head on the balustrade. It was only then that Nicholas saw the handle of a dagger protruding from his back. The man’s days as a playgoer were over.