It was Firethorn, however, who dominated the stage as Lorenzo. Brave, honest and glowing with integrity, he was a hero whose tragedy touched all who watched. His prompt action saved the Duchess from an assassin’s dagger. Yet it was his loyalty that eventually betrayed him and led to his execution. Firethorn used a particular couplet to give the fullest expression to his grief. Manacled by his gaolers and left alone in his cell, he spoke words that were a howl of pain.
‘Fidelity has always been my cry
And constant will I be until I die!’
At the close of the play, when the executioner held up the head that he appeared to have struck from Lorenzo’s shoulders, there was an outburst of protest from the hall and several of the ladies began to weep. Relief was mixed with gratitude when Firethorn led out his troupe to take their bow and it was seen that the actor was still very much alive. The applause was deafening. After their disappointing performance at the Guildhall, the company had vindicated its reputation in the most striking way.
It was while they were in his apartment with their patron that the whole story began to emerge. Lord Westfield had invited Firethorn, Gill and Hoode to join him as the leading sharers and, because of his involvement in the rescue, Nicholas Bracewell was also there. All five of them were sipping Canary wine of the finest quality. Having been kept at the outer margin of events by his disability, it was Gill who felt that he had missed everything. He pressed for details.
‘Sebastian was a friend of ours,’ he said. ‘Why did he let us down?’
‘He served another master,’ explained Nicholas, ‘and that was the Roman Catholic Church. In time, it made him lose all affection for us.’
‘Why was that, Nicholas?’
‘You’ve seen one of the reasons this very afternoon. The Loyal Subject is a play that’s anathema to those who follow the Old Religion. So was The Foolish Friar. In their different ways, both laid bare the iniquities of Popery. When we performed harmless comedies or dark tragedies about revenge, Sebastian Frant was happy enough to act as our scrivener and watch us at the Queen’s Head. Then we presented a play that he found so repulsive that he could not bear to stay in our employ.’
‘Which play was that, Nick?’ asked Firethorn.
‘Not one of mine, I hope,’ said Hoode.
‘No, Edmund,’ replied Nicholas. ‘the author was Jonas Applegarth.’
‘Then it must have been The Misfortunes of Marriage.’
‘The very same.’
Lord Westfield stirred. ‘But I thought it no more than a simple comedy.’
‘It had a deeper meaning, my lord,’ said Nicholas tactfully, ‘and it was not lost on someone like Sebastian. He told me that it was an ordeal to copy out lines that abused the religion to which he had dedicated his life. That was the point at which he left us but it was not to go into retirement. He continued the work that he had always been doing.’
‘As a spy,’ said Firethorn with disgust. ‘We harboured a Catholic spy.’
‘He confessed the truth as we sailed back to Dover. It all began when he was secretary to the Clerk of the Privy Council. Secret documents passed before his eyes every day. Sebastian was only required to copy them out but his keen memory retained them so that he could pass on intelligence to French and Spanish accomplices.’
‘Thank heaven you caught him, Nick!’ exclaimed Hoode.
Gill was puzzled. ‘Why choose to act as our scrivener?’
‘Because the work interested him,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it was a convenient mask behind which he could hide. When he quit his post, he needed to remain in London for a time. Westfield’s Men were only one of a number who employed him.’
‘I wish that we’d never met the rogue,’ growled Firethorn. ‘Although, I have to admit that he was not entirely without finer qualities. When that ruffian of his beat me aboard the ship, it was Sebastian who bathed my wounds. I thank him for that.’ His voice hardened again. ‘But it will not stop me cheering when he and Armiger are hanged.’
‘Their confederates will also suffer,’ noted Nicholas. ‘Both have been arrested. One was the messenger who led you astray with that forged letter.’
‘I was too easily fooled by that.’
‘Sebastian has a cunning hand.’
‘Too cunning,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘When he told us that he was to retire, I wrote to thank him for all the work he had done. He would have kept the letter to copy both my hand and seal.’
‘His days as spy and forger are over,’ said Nicholas.
‘What of his daughter?’ asked Gill. ‘Was she caught up in his nefarious work?’
‘To this extent only. Like her father, she kept alive the flame of the Old Religion. They bought furniture that had once belonged in Catholic churches and sold it in France. Sebastian told me that they sometimes brought back Catholic bibles in exchange. That’s what led them to use the Mermaid as their merchant ship. It was old and decayed but it was known to carry anything for money. When they searched the hold,’ said Nicholas, ‘they found that church furniture was not the only thing being smuggled. The captain will not be sailing a ship for a very long time.’
‘What will happen to Thomasina?’ said Hoode.
‘That’s for the court to decide.’
‘So lovely yet so seasoned in deceit.’
‘Thomasina had no part in the murders or the kidnap,’ Nicholas reminded him.
‘Her father did. He instigated all three. Why pick on Fortunatus Hope?’
‘That’s my question,’ said Lord Westfield, leaning forward.
‘Then I’ll give you Sebastian’s answer,’ replied Nicholas. ‘He and Master Hope were partners in treachery, passing secrets to our enemies abroad. At least, so it seemed to Sebastian. Then he realised that Fortunatus Hope was playing a deeper game as a counterspy. That discovery sealed his fate. Sebastian had him killed to avoid being exposed himself.’
‘But why arrange the murder at the Queen’s Head?’ said Firethorn.
Gill tapped his chest with an indignant finger. ‘And why choose my dance as the moment to halt the performance? It was unforgivable.’
‘It was pure chance,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sebastian’s orders were to cause sufficient disturbance to distract everyone but the lads he employed went beyond that. They were too drunk to care. Once the affray started, it got completely out of hand. Sebastian wanted it to be a public murder so that it would embarrass us. From the moment that we began to stage plays like The Misfortunes of Marriage that ridiculed the Roman Catholic faith, he wanted to get his revenge on us.’
‘Is that why he had Giddy Mussett stabbed?’ said Hoode.
‘It was an attempt to stop us, Edmund. In driving us out of the Queen’s Head, Sebastian did the last thing that he intended. He set us out on the road to Dover. When he learnt where we were headed, he did all in his power to bring the tour to a halt, even if it meant killing our clown or kidnapping our manager.’