‘That was my invention,’ said Nicholas. ‘I hoped he might come to appreciate its worth if he could see it properly. My stratagem may have worked.’
Elias was grateful. ‘At least, it kept Barnaby from crowing over us out there. He warned us that something like this would happen.’
Firethorn gritted his teeth. ‘Let’s not delay the anguish, Nick,’ he decided. ‘Go out on stage and find as pretty an excuse as you can to explain why we are unable to play here this evening. We were fools to trust a proven rascal like Giddy.’
Nicholas took a deep breath and headed for the door, blaming himself for foisting Mussett on to the company and vowing to track the man down. Before he could step out on stage, however, there was an outburst of laughter from the audience. Peeping around the tree that covered the entrance, Nicholas saw what had caused the noise. Giddy Mussett, dressed in the costume he would wear as Bedlam, was turning cartwheels down the length of the room before stopping in front of the mayor and somersaulting backwards on to the stage. He acknowledged the applause before scuttling towards the exit. Nicholas grabbed him and took him into the tiring-house. Mussett gazed happily around the startled faces of the actors.
‘Well?’ he said jocularly. ‘Shall we teach them A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady?’
The performance surpassed all expectations. Horrified at the thought that they would have to abandon the play and sneak ignominiously away, Westfield’s Men were so delighted at the appearance of the missing clown that they put more zest and bite into their work. A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady took flight in a way that had never quite happened before. Firethorn was supreme as Lackwit, Elias ranted magnificently as his rival, Hoode introduced a quieter humour with his portrayal of a dithering parson and Richard Honeydew was so convincing as the heroine of the play’s title that half the audience firmly believed that the company had broken with tradition and employed a young woman as their chaste lady. Even George Dart, impressed against his will into a minor role, managed to get a laugh in the correct place.
Giddy Mussett began slowly, feeling his way into the part. When he forgot lines or missed cues, other actors covered for him so expertly that none of the spectators noticed the slight mistakes. Throughout the play, his performance grew until it even threatened to overshadow Firethorn’s brilliant Lackwit. It was when he came to his jig that Bedlam really took command, dancing with comic verve and keeping the audience in a state of helpless laughter. Nobody appreciated his comic genius more than Lucas Broome. As the play surged on to its climax, he had forgotten all about Barnaby Gill. The name on his lips — and on those of countless others — was Giddy Mussett, a clown whose mobile features and sprightly antics were a positive joy to behold.
When the play was over, Firethorn was the first to congratulate the newcomer, slapping him on the back and telling him that he had saved their reputation. It was a different matter when he led out his troupe to take their bow. The applause was long and loud but it was not directed largely at Firethorn this time. Accustomed to being the centre of attention, he was dismayed when most pairs of eyes were fixed on Mussett. Even the young women in the hall seemed to prefer Bedlam to Lackwit. It made Firethorn resolve to make certain changes to the play before it was staged again. He was too vain an actor to allow a complete newcomer to steal the plaudits away from him. Instead of being the company’s saviour, Mussett could turn out to be Firethorn’s personal nemesis.
Back in the tiring-house, the other actors crowded around their clown to shake his hand in admiration. The sight made Firethorn seethe even more. But it was Nicholas Bracewell who took a more considered view of the performance. Biding his time until the general excitement had died down, he took Mussett aside for a private word.
‘You did well, Giddy,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Nick.’
‘Better than we could have hoped.’
‘It is a wonderful part,’ said Mussett, ‘and I mean to make it my own.’
‘You’ll not do that if we have any more of your cunning tricks.’
‘Tricks?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas sharply. ‘You went missing on purpose. You kept us waiting until the very last moment before you deigned to appear. That was both cruel and unnecessary. You made us suffer, Giddy, and that was unforgivable.’
‘The others have forgiven me,’ said Mussett blithely.
‘I have not.’
‘Come, Nick, you must. My performance made amends for everything.’
‘Nothing can excuse the way you treated your fellows, Giddy. I thought better of you. When I came to you in prison,’ Nicholas reminded him, ‘you swore to abide by any contract that we could devise. You broke it on the very day of departure, making us think that you would not turn up then falling from that window to gain a few easy laughs. You did not impress me then and you did so less this evening.’
‘The play was a success. What more do you ask?’
‘Loyalty from every member of the company. I’ve yet to see it in you.’
‘I’ve worked hard for Westfield’s Men,’ said Mussett with a disarming smile, ‘and I deserve some reward. Leave off this carping, Nick. We have a triumph to celebrate.’
‘Remember the terms of your contract.’
‘Can we not forget them for one night?’
‘Keep the celebrations within the bounds of reason.’
‘I always do.’
‘And no more of your tricks,’ warned Nicholas. ‘Show some respect for the feelings of others. Turn up when you are told and stop seizing all the attention for yourself. I’ll not tell you again, Giddy.’
Mussett’s smile vanished. Hands on hips, he stood in an attitude of defiance.
‘I rescued Westfield’s Men this evening,’ he asserted.
‘Only after you’d first caused us fear and upset.’
‘I did that for a reason, Nick.’
‘To have another laugh at our expense.’
‘No,’ said Mussett. ‘To show you how much you missed me. Without your clown, the play would have been cancelled and you would have been humiliated. I taught you a lesson this evening. You need me, Nick. Take Giddy Mussett out of the company and see what calamity follows. I’ll hear no more threats from you,’ he went on, thrusting out his chin. ‘Westfield’s Men would not survive without me. That gives me power.’
When Barnaby Gill awoke in his room, he was utterly bewildered. What was he doing in a wheelbarrow that was filled with cushions? It took him a full minute to gather his thoughts. Fatigue had clearly got the better of him. Wearied by a night without much sleep and taxed by the effort of using a crutch, he had succumbed to tiredness in the comfort of the wheelbarrow. His body had made the decision that he had been unable to reach and kept him away from the performance. Torn between relief and exasperation, he vowed to berate George Dart for not waking him up and at least offering him the chance to return to the Lower Courthouse. Gill had no idea how long he had dozed but, when he glanced though the open window, he could see that the sky was just beginning to darken. The play might well be over already. He longed to know how it had been received.
It took some effort to haul himself out of the wheelbarrow but he eventually succeeded. Reaching for his crutch, he looked back at the place where he had enjoyed such undisturbed slumber. It was softer and more easeful than either the bed in his lodging or the mattress with which the landlord had provided him. In spite of himself, he felt an upsurge of gratitude towards Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder had gone to great trouble to convert the wheelbarrow so that it met Gill’s particular needs. It might yet have wider uses for the invalid. Summoning up his strength, he hopped his way towards the taproom to see if the others had returned yet. His timing could not have been better. As he entered the room by one door, three of the actors came bursting in through another. Owen Elias was in the lead.