‘Yet he might have seen something,’ said Nicholas.
‘Oh, there was no question of that.’
‘Why not?’
‘The beggar was blind.’
Lawrence Firethorn had never before had such sympathy for the blind. Deprived of his sight by the piece of material tied across his eyes, he came to understand their plight and their helplessness. Firethorn had the additional handicaps of being tied up and gagged so he could not use touch and taste by way of guidance. All that he could rely on were his sense of smell and his hearing, and they gave him only limited intelligence. It was night. That much was certain. The tumult of the harbour had given way to a cloying silence that was broken from time to time only by the distant barking of a dog or the cry of a drunken man trying to find his way home. Firethorn could smell fish. Indeed, he could smell little else inside the room where he was locked. He decided that he was incarcerated in a warehouse of some sort. The abiding stink suggested that there was no window to admit any fresh air. As time wore on, the atmosphere became increasingly oppressive.
His captors had left him alone. That meant they had no fear that he could escape from his prison. Firethorn was tied to a stout wooden post and, even though he strained every sinew in an effort to break free, he could not budge the timber. He was there for the whole night. What happened then, he could only conjecture. He could certainly expect no sympathy from the two men who held him. When they moved him to the warehouse, they had been rough to the point of brutality, taking full advantage of his inability to defend himself. Firethorn vowed to take revenge on them a hundred times but he was in no position to exact it. Everything depended on other people. Whether or not he stayed alive depended on his captors. Whether or not he was rescued, depended on Westfield’s Men.
Firethorn was afraid. When he fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion, the same question was repeating itself inside his mind: ‘Nick Bracewell — where are you?’
Any fears that Westfield’s Men would be unequal to the challenge that lay ahead were swiftly dispelled. When they gathered at the Guildhall early on the following morning, they had shaken off their despair and found a new resolution. Nicholas explained to them why he believed that Firethorn was still alive and they were further bolstered. There was also a strong rumour that their patron would arrive in Dover in time to see them perform. It served to make the actors apply themselves more rigorously. As a result, the rehearsal bore no resemblance to the halting performance of the previous day. Mistakes were still made but they were quickly rectified. Owen Elias’s grasp on his character and his lines was now secure. George Dart contrived to prompt audibly at the correct moments. Even Barnaby Gill, normally so peevish at rehearsals, was lulled into a rare state of optimism by the way that the company lifted itself out of its pervading woe. It augured well for the afternoon performance.
While most of the others returned to the Lion for refreshment, Nicholas remained behind with George Dart to put everything in readiness. Scenery was set up for the opening of the play and properties placed on stage. Benches were arranged so that everyone had a good view of the action. Gatherers had to be instructed in their role so that nobody slipped past them without paying an entrance fee. Sunlight streamed in through the windows on both side walls to eliminate any need for candles. When the work was done, Nicholas spared a few minutes to follow up the potential clue that Dart had mentioned. The two of them walked to the exact spot where the blind beggar had sat on the previous day but the man was not there.
‘Are you sure that it was here?’ asked Nicholas.
‘This was the very doorway.’
‘I saw no blind beggar when I passed by with Owen.’
‘Perchance he moved.’
‘Why should he do that?’
‘He had money to spend. I gave it to him.’
‘Look about for him. Try the streets nearby.’
They split up and went down all the adjacent streets and lanes. Their search was thorough but, once again, completely futile. Nicholas was disappointed. A tiny wisp of hope seemed to have vanished the moment that it appeared.
Impressed by the reputation of Westfield’s Men, and lured by the title of the play, a large audience descended on the Guildhall that afternoon. Most paid for a seat but there was also standing room at the rear and a number of sailors had been tempted away from their taverns to watch A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady. The mayor and his wife were there again, as were most of the city worthies. Sebastian Frant brought his daughter this time and they sat near the front so that they would get full value from the performance. Lord Westfield did not arrive in time but John Strood did, mingling with the standees at the back of the hall and wondering what had drawn his former shipmate, Nicholas Bracewell, into a theatre troupe. It struck him as an odd choice of profession.
Behind the scenes, Nicholas took on a role more usually assigned to Firethorn, that of instilling confidence and spirit into the company. While the actor-manager did it with a hortatory speech, declaimed with characteristic zest, the book holder preferred to move quietly from one person to another so that he could speak individually to them. By the time that Nicholas had finished, everyone knew what was expected of him. The musicians took up their places in the gallery and James Ingram was poised to stride out on stage to deliver the Prologue. The customary buzz of anticipation could be heard from the audience. They were there to enjoy themselves and Westfield’s Men were determined not to let them down. Certain that everybody was ready, Nicholas gave the signal. The musicians began to play.
Almost immediately, a lute string snapped with a resounding twang, catching the lutenist on the arm and producing an involuntary yell of surprise. It gained the first unintended laugh. When Ingram swept on stage to deliver the Prologue, his black cloak caught on the edge of the scenery and was badly torn. More laughter followed. It was an inauspicious start but the actors were not distracted. Once the play began, they imposed a degree of control over it that never really slipped. At the same time, however, they failed to inject any of the fire and hilarity that had marked earlier performances of the play. Gill was strangely subdued and it was only Nicholas’s frenetic manipulation of the wheelbarrow that produced any sustained mirth. The apprentices were little more than adequate as the female quartet and Rowland Carr, playing a disreputable hedge-priest, was less than reliable. It was not for want of effort. Everybody committed himself wholeheartedly to the enterprise but that soon became a fault. By trying too hard, they fell short of their high standards. They speeded up the action to an almost bewildering pace, their timing was awry and they lost all the subtleties of the play.
It was Owen Elias who lent the piece its real quality. In the leading role of Lackwit, he was so outstanding that they hardly missed Firethorn. The Welshman seized his opportunity to dazzle like a man who had been waiting a whole lifetime for such a moment. He was both hero and clown, winning the sympathy of the spectators yet earning most of the laughter as well. Elias had always been a fine actor with a commanding presence and a powerful voice but nobody had expected him to blossom in the part of Lackwit. Much to Gill’s disgust, Bedlam was overshadowed and it spurred the clown on to desperate measures. He inserted comic songs that were not even in the play and made such use of his facial contortions that he appeared to be having some kind of fit. None of it challenged Elias’s supremacy. It was he who rescued the play from the mediocrity into which it would otherwise have sunk.
Fortunately, the majority of the audience was unaware of the glaring defects in the performance. Unused to seeing plays on a regular basis, they were not unduly critical and enjoyed every moment. Even with its blemishes, A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady was superior to anything that Conway’s Men, or any other touring company, had offered to the people of Dover and they were highly appreciative. The actors, however, knew only too well how much better the play could have been. During the long and generous applause, they took their bow with a measure of guilt, feeling that they did not entirely deserve it. Elias was again the exception. Having carried much of the play on his broad shoulders, he felt entitled to bask in the ovation and he made the most of it. When he led the cast into the tiring-house, he was congratulated by all and sundry. Even Gill had a word of praise for him.