‘Barnaby!’ he called, seeing the other. ‘Come and join us, old friend.’
‘How did the play fare?’ asked Gill.
‘Wonderfully well. We are famous throughout Maidstone.’
‘Yes,’ said James Ingram, ‘and the best news is that the mayor was so pleased with us, he is to pay five pounds for the chaste lady.’
‘Much of that should go to Giddy,’ said Elias, sitting at a table, ‘for he was the chief delight this evening. He even put Lawrence into eclipse.’
‘Giddy was Bedlam to the life.’
‘So was I, James,’ insisted Gill, hitting the floor with his crutch. ‘Edmund wrote that part for me and I am the only actor who can play it properly.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ said Ingram tactfully. ‘You made the role what it is.’
‘I hope that you all remember that.’
‘We do, Barnaby,’ said Elias. ‘You first played the role but Giddy added to what you did. His dances were inspired, his vigour remarkable. Ask anyone who saw him. He was beyond compare.’
‘You speak the truth, Owen,’ said Rowland Carr. ‘I never thought to see the day when someone could match Barnaby.’
Gill sneered. ‘Mussett is but a pale shadow of me.’
‘You did not watch the performance.’
‘Why not?’ asked Ingram. ‘I thought that you were eager to measure yourself against our new clown. What kept you away, Barnaby?’
‘I had more important things to do.’
‘Is anything more important than cheering on your fellows?’
‘Do not look to me to raise a cheer for Mussett. He’s a counterfeit clown, a sham, a mere pretence, a low, dishonest creature that steals from others what he could never achieve by himself, a rogue, a villain, a monster of deceit.’
‘That is not how we find him. After this evening, he is a dear friend.’
‘More to be honoured than vilified,’ said Elias. ‘Sit down with us, Barnaby. Share our joy. Giddy will be here soon. Take him to your bosom as we have done.’
‘I’d sooner roll in a pit of vipers!’
‘He is one of us now.’
‘Then you are fools to think so, Owen, and I’ll not stay to see you fawning upon him.’ He started to move away. ‘I bid you all good night!’
They called him back but he ignored them and hopped out of the room moments before Giddy Mussett entered it with Edmund Hoode. The actors gave their clown a rousing welcome. Ale was ordered and Mussett was the first to seize a tankard.
‘Are you allowed to drink that?’ said Elias.
‘What man here will try to stop me?’ replied Mussett with a cackle.
‘None here, Giddy,’ said Ingram. ‘You’ve earned it.’
‘What kept you back?’ wondered Carr.
Mussett smirked. ‘The mayor wished to introduce me to his wife.’
‘A comely woman, as I recall.’
‘Plump and delicious, Rowland. Did you hear what the mayor said? He told me that I was the finest clown he had ever set eyes upon and he has seen Barnaby as well. That was sweet music in my ears,’ he confided. ‘The town loved me, the mayor worshipped me and his wife was so consumed with lust for me that her marriage vows were in danger.’ He raised his tankard. ‘Here’s to other conquests along the way, my friends.’ They joined in the toast with alacrity. ‘Victories on the stage, victories in the bedchamber and, most of all,’ he added with a malicious glint in his eye, ‘victory over Barnaby Gill.’
The news had been worse than he had anticipated. Having seen the endless mistakes made during the rehearsal, Barnaby Gill could not believe that the play had been such a success. Still less could he accept that a man who had never even heard of the piece until a few days ago could give a performance in it that drew such unstinting praise from the other actors. It was galling. When he reached the safety of his room, he was panting for breath and pulsing with rage. He was also deeply hurt that friends like Elias, Ingram and Carr could forget the long years of service that Gill had given Westfield’s Men as its clown and acclaim instead an unworthy intruder. Hundreds of signal triumphs lay behind him yet they were obliterated by two hours in the Lower Courthouse in Maidstone. An event in a building devoted to justice left Gill squirming with a sense of injustice.
He lowered himself into the wheelbarrow again and brooded in silence. It was too late to turn back now. Having elected to travel with the company, he was doomed to remain with them and watch his rival win more approval with each performance. Mussett had to be stopped in some way. Gill was still trying to work out how when he began to feel drowsy. He tried to shake himself awake. It was too early to retire to bed. He had neither undressed nor closed the shutters. Comfortable as he found it, he did not intend to spend the whole night in a wheelbarrow. Yet somehow he lacked both the strength and the willpower to move. His eyelids became heavy, his body sagged. Even the sound of merriment from the taproom could not keep him from dozing quietly off. The wheelbarrow that he had once derided was now a snug and consoling bed.
Hours later, he was still asleep, snoring up to heaven and dreaming of a time when his art was unrivalled and he was spoken of with awe. The dream did not last. Through the open window came a shape that merged with the darkness until it landed on Gill’s chest. Sharp claws suddenly dug into his flesh and the creature let out a fearsome shriek. Gill came awake to find himself wrestling with a large black cat that seemed to be trying to scratch him to death. It was a desperate encounter. The struggle only ended when he managed to grab the animal by the nape of the neck and hurl it out through the window. As soon as he got his breath back, Gill spat out the name of his tormentor.
‘Giddy Mussett!’
Chapter Eight
Nicholas Bracewell was heartened by the response from the company. Although they had celebrated into the night, the actors were up the next day to eat an early breakfast before helping to erect their stage in the yard of the Star Inn. The scenery and properties needed for rehearsal had to be unloaded from the wagons. Since Cupid’s Folly involved a dance around a maypole, they had to practise setting up the pole in the swiftest and safest way. Even the principal members of the company took their turn with the various duties. Touring with a theatre troupe abolished distinctions between sharers and hired men. All were expected to take on whatever tasks were required of them, however menial they might be. Edmund Hoode, playwright and actor, made no complaint as he set out benches in the galleries. Owen Elias thrived on physical labour. Of the sharers, only Lawrence Firethorn was missing from the work party.
Nicholas was pleased to see the enthusiasm with which Giddy Mussett was going about his tasks. While he had joined the others in the taproom the previous night, he had neither drunk to excess nor become belligerent. A notorious lecher, he confined himself to a teasing remark to a tavern wench. There was no hint of the defiance that he had shown earlier to the book holder. Mussett was as buoyant as ever and his cheerfulness rubbed off on the others. A busy couple of hours seemed to fly past.
When the preparations were complete, Nicholas sent them off to take a rest before the rehearsal began. He was alone in the yard when the visitor arrived.
‘Good morrow, Nick!’ called a voice. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘Sebastian!’ said Nicholas, turning to see a tall, thin, well-dressed man with an air of quiet prosperity about him. ‘How could I forget the finest scrivener we ever had?’
‘My hands are not as deft as they once were, I fear. Age takes its toll.’
‘It has been kind to you.’
‘And even kinder to Nick Bracewell.’
They shook hands warmly then stood back to appraise each other. Sebastian Frant was in his early fifties, slight of build and shy of manner. When he lived in London, he had worked for Westfield’s Men for a number of years, copying out their plays with a meticulous skill so that their prompt books were both accurate and easy to read. Frant was a true friend to the company, supporting them whenever they played. Nicholas and the others were disappointed when he retired to Kent.