‘In a month’s time, all this will be forgotten,’ he said.
‘Never! This day is graven on my heart in perpetuity.’
‘New triumphs lie ahead of you, Barnaby.’
‘What use is a one-legged dancer?’
‘I foresee a complete recovery.’
‘Then you are a poor prophet, Edmund. How can I recover from such ignominy?’ he cried, tears beginning to roll. ‘It was torture out there on that stage today. I was in the middle of my jig when the rogues set upon me. In front of all those people, I was torn to shreds. When they had finished their sport, they tossed me into the pit like a child’s doll. The wonder is that I’ve lived to tell the tale.’
‘Nothing can keep you down, Barnaby.’
‘It can, it has, it will.’
Gill wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and went off into a reverie. Hoode felt a surge of sympathy for him. The broken leg would not simply interrupt a brilliant career on stage. It would have a disastrous effect on Gill’s private life. Most of the actors in the company seized their opportunity to impress and attract female admiration among the spectators. Following the example of Lawrence Firethorn, seasoned in that particular art, they learnt how to catch the eye and set a heart aflame. Gill, too, relied on his performances to excite an audience but, in his case, young men were the intended target. Alone among Westfield’s Men, he preferred male company and his performances were his chief means of winning new friends and gaining new conquests. Exiled from the stage while his broken leg slowly mended, he would hardly be in a fit state to seek consolation in certain discreet London taverns. He was also inordinately proud of his appearance, dressing in flamboyant attire and continuously preening himself. Such vanity was now superfluous. Gill would not dare even to look in a mirror.
Hoode did not approve of his friend’s private life but that did not stop him from understanding how deprived he must feel. At a stroke, Gill had lost the two sources of pleasure in his life. He was cruelly separated both from his profession and his recreation. Hoode made one last attempt to offer him comfort.
‘All is not lost, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘Though you may no longer prance about a stage, you can still earn money with your songs. You can still raise a laugh.’
Gill was sour. ‘Yes, everyone will laugh at me now.’
‘You have given song recitals before.’
‘Only when I wanted to sing, Edmund. The case is altered. All that I wish to do now is to curl up in a corner and die of shame. How do you think I will feel when the rest of you strut boldly at the Queen’s Head while I suffer here?’
‘We shall never know.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’ll be no strutting at the Queen’s Head for a long while,’ explained Hoode. ‘It was badly damaged during the affray and renovations will be needed. But our main enemy, as ever, is that morose landlord of ours. Alexander Marwood vows that we’ll never set foot across his threshold again.’
‘Hold him to his contract.’
‘He claims that it was revoked by what happened today.’
‘What does Lawrence say?’ asked Gill.
Hoode gave a wry smile. ‘If it was left to Lawrence, the landlord would be hanged from the roof of his inn and set alight until he burnt to a cinder. Fortunately, wiser counsels have prevailed. Nick Bracewell has come to our rescue yet again.’
‘Oh?’
‘As you know,’ Hoode went on, ‘we were due to quit the city in ten days’ time on a tour of Kent. Nick has suggested that we leave almost immediately. It will have the virtue of keeping us employed and putting distance between us and the landlord of the Queen’s Head. The hope is that he will soften towards us while we are away and be more subject to reason by the time that we return.’ Hoode saw the other’s face darken. ‘Is this not the solution to our predicament?’
‘No,’ growled Gill.
‘But it’s our salvation.’
‘And what about me? At a time when I most need my fellows, they will be cavorting around Kent without me. How can you desert a friend like this?’
‘It’s not desertion, Barnaby. It’s a means of survival.’
‘Your survival — not mine.’
‘The company takes precedence over any individual.’
‘Even when I suffered grievously on its behalf?’ urged Gill. ‘I was the one who was attacked. I was the one who was flung to the ground and stamped on. It was an ordeal. Show me one person who endured more than I did.’
‘I will,’ said Hoode softly, ‘though I have no name to put to him.’
‘No name?’
‘In the heat of the affray this afternoon, a man was stabbed to death in the gallery. He came to see a play and forfeited his life. We all regret your injuries, Barnaby, but we must reserve some sympathy for a murder victim.’
Gill was cowed. ‘Who was the man?’ he murmured.
‘That remains to be seen.’
Nicholas Bracewell finally tracked down Lord Westfield early that evening. Their patron was about to leave his house on his way to visit friends. Nicholas caught him as he was in the act of stepping into his carriage. Lord Westfield was still shaken by the events of the afternoon and he was even more disturbed when he heard of the murder that had taken place at the Queen’s Head. He gave an involuntary shiver.
‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed. ‘And he was sitting so close to me. That dagger could have finished up in any of our backs. Even mine!’
‘Happily, my lord,’ said Nicholas, ‘that was not the case.’
‘This is disgraceful. A play is supposed to provide pleasure, not endanger life.’
‘It was a most unusual occurrence.’
‘So I should hope.’
‘But I’m surprised that this is the first you heard of it, my lord,’ said Nicholas. ‘The man was in your party. Were you not aware of his absence when you fled?’
‘No,’ replied the other with irritation. ‘We were trying to escape an affray. In those circumstances, you do not pause to count heads. Once outside the inn, we went our several ways. I assumed that Fortunatus was safe.’
‘Fortunatus?’
‘That is his name. Fortunatus Hope. An ill-favoured christening, if ever there was one, for the fellow had appalling fortune and but little hope.’ He stepped down from his carriage. ‘Yes, from what you tell me about his appearance, it has to be Fortunatus.’
‘Did you know him well, Lord Westfield?’
‘No,’ said the patron. ‘He was a newcomer to my circle, a lively fellow with a turn of phrase that amused me. I looked to become better acquainted with him but that, alas, it will not now be possible.’
‘Is there anything you can tell me about him?’ asked Nicholas.
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Did this Master Hope have any enemies?’
Lord Westfield became pensive. He was a short, plump, red-faced man of middle years in a doublet of peach-coloured satin that was trimmed with gold lace. His tall green hat sported an ostrich feather that curled down mischievously over his right temple. Though Nicholas was unfailingly polite to their patron, he was more than aware of his shortcomings. Lord Westfield was an epicurean, a man whose whole life was devoted to idle pleasures, usually at someone else’s expense. His love of the theatre encouraged him to retain his own troupe but it existed as much to add lustre to his name as to achieve any success on its own account. Lord Westfield liked nothing better than to loll in his chair in the lower gallery at the Queen’s Head and bask in the praise of his hangers-on as he showed off his company to them. That joy had been taken summarily from him during the afternoon’s performance and the memory of it still made him bristle with disapproval.
‘It was an appalling scene,’ he recalled. ‘Utterly appalling!’
‘I agree, my lord.’
‘There were ladies in my party. They might have been injured.’
‘Luckily, they were not,’ said Nicholas. ‘Others did not escape, I fear. There were a number of casualties, Barnaby Gill among them.’