Firethorn bristled. ‘They are demands not whims.’
‘And complaints,’ added Gill. ‘The tiring-house stinks.’
‘Only when your players are in there,’ said Marwood.
Gill struck a pose. ‘The place is never swept from one year’s end to another. Cleanliness is next to godliness. If I did not have my pomander beside me, I would die of the stench. Let it be entered in the contract that the landlord undertakes to make his premises more wholesome.’
‘They are wholesome!’ wailed Marwood.
‘Barnaby spoke only in jest,’ soothed Hoode.
‘No, I did not!’ said Gill.
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said the lawyer, waving the contract in the air. ‘We are here to examine an important document, not to worry about some phantom smell.’
‘Stink,’ said Gill. ‘A positive reek of decay.’
‘You merely caught a whiff of your own performance,’ said Firethorn with a chuckle.
Gill flared up, Firethorn baited him afresh and Hoode did his best to calm them down. It was left to Nicholas Bracewell to introduce a serious note into the proceedings.
‘If I may be allowed to say a word,’ he began, ‘then I would ask you to first to consider the limitation of time in the new contract. Six months is not acceptable to us. It gives us no security of tenure. A year is the least that Westfield’s Men deserve, bearing in mind that we do not play at all for some months and are therefore paying rent for premises we are unable to use. But if we know that we have a home for at least one year, it enables Master Firethorn and the other sharers to make decisions about the company in the longer term.’
‘Well spoken, Nick!’ said Firethorn.
‘Why stop at one year when we might nominate two?’ said Nicholas, ‘Or even three? It would save the expense on a lawyer if the contract no longer comes up for such regular renewal and it would show good faith on both sides. Would you at least consider two years?’
‘Three!’ boomed Firethorn.
‘Never!’ said Marwood. ‘It is like a life sentence.’
‘We could never agree to three years,’ said Stonnard. ‘Nor could I condone any action impelled by the base motive of avoiding a lawyer’s legitimate fees.’
‘Yet they are exorbitant,’ said his client.
‘Ezekiel Stonnard always gives value for money, sir.’
‘We believe that Westfield’s Men do likewise,’ said Nicholas, persuasively, ‘and the Queen’s Head has proved an excellent venue for our work. Permit me to explain why.’
Lawyer and landlord were treated to a long but cogent description of the company’s achievements and the benefits which they brought to all parties. Firethorn and Hoode were happy to let their book holder act as their advocate and even Gill, a brilliant clown on stage but a carping critic of everyone and everything when off it, came to admire the skill with which Nicholas was marshalling his arguments. Marwood writhed in discomfort throughout and Ezekiel Stonnard made several failed attempts to interrupt but Nicholas had hit his stride and the words flowed in a continuous stream.
Concessions were slowly wrung from Stonnard who, in turn, advised Marwood to accept them. To the agonised landlord, each concession was a tooth being drawn from his mouth by red-hot pincers and he groaned accordingly but the contract was finally agreed upon, signed and witnessed. Marwood fled in terror, Ezekiel Stonnard went after him in pursuit of his fee and the others were left to celebrate. Firethorn threw his arms around Nicholas and hugged him gratefully.
‘Well done, dear heart! You are our salvation.’
‘I simply reasoned with them,’ said Nicholas, modestly.
‘But with such skill and passion, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘You should have been a lawyer. You could haggle with the best.’
‘I was trained as a merchant, remember. Haggling is in my blood. The contract has been amended to suit your demands. I just wish I could have brought them around to the notion of extending it for longer than a year.’
‘A year is double what they first offered, Nick,’ said Firethorn, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. ‘It is such a relief to know that Westfield’s Men have a home for another twelve months. The Queen’s Head is a verminous inn with an even more verminous landlord but I love the place!’
‘So do we all, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.
‘Yes,’ added Gill. ‘I have scaled the heights of my art on the stage in that yard and I will do so again and again.’
‘Thanks to Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Come, lads. To the taproom. We have so much to celebrate. Marwood has been routed once again. Nothing can shift us from here now. Westfield’s Men are safe for another whole year.’
Alexander Marwood’s misery was compounded by the sight of the commotion in the taproom. Rowdiness was threatening to tip over into a certain affray and his wife was not there to quell the riotous behaviour. Shaking off the pursuing lawyer, he ran on spindly legs through the entire inn until he eventually found Sybil. She was in her daughter’s bedchamber, standing over the tearful girl with an expression that combined sorrow, apprehension and a naked lust for revenge.
When Marwood burst in, his wife silenced him with an icy glare and the landlord became a standing statue.
Sybil closed and locked the door before she spoke.
‘Have you signed that contract yet?’ she asked.
‘Just now.’
‘Tear it up!’
‘What?’
‘Tear the contract to pieces!’
‘But it is a legal document.’
‘I do not care it is a royal proclamation,’ growled his wife, giving full vent to her rage. ‘I’ll not have Westfield’s Men trespassing on our property a moment longer. Destroy the contract, Alexander. Throw them out. They have ruined us.’
‘How, Sybil?’
His eye fell on his weeping daughter and his heart missed a beat. Rose looked up at him with a mixture of penitence and despair. Her father’s worst fear was finally confirmed. His wife hissed in his ear with the force of the West Wind.
‘Get them out of our inn — today!’
Chapter Two
Lucius Kindell was mystified by the amiable clamour in the taproom of the Queen’s Head. He shook his head in disbelief.
‘It is perverse,’ he said.
‘What is?’ asked Owen Elias.
‘This merriment. This unwonted revelry. How can they possibly laugh so after such a dark tragedy?’
‘It is the laughter of relief,’ said the Welshman before emptying the remains of his ale in one loud gulp. ‘Confronted with so much death in The Insatiate Duke, they want to remind themselves that they are still alive.’
Kindell was unconvinced. ‘Unless it be that our play had no real hold on the audience. It amused them for a couple of hours then they shrugged it off like a garment for which they no longer have any use.’
‘It held them, Lucius,’ said Elias. ‘By the throat.’
‘Yes,’ added Sylvester Pryde earnestly. ‘This jollity is no criticism of your play but a tribute to it.’
‘I would like to think so,’ said Kindell.
‘You heard that applause,’ said Pryde. ‘You saw how both play and players were hailed. Our audience recognises quality. That is what The Insatiate Duke had in abundance. It is a tragedy with considerable power, is it not, Owen?’
‘Indeed, it is, Sylvester.’
‘Power and depth of feeling. It provokes thought.’
‘And the urge to get drunk,’ said a smiling Kindell.
‘That is human nature.’
Sylvester Pryde gave him a friendly pat on the back and the young playwright was reassured. The two men had lifted his spirits, which, having soared to such heights during the performance, were bound to plunge somewhat in its wake. Owen Elias was an established member of the company and a sound judge of new plays yet it was Pryde’s commendation which Kindell valued most even though the former was a relative newcomer to Westfield’s Men. There was a supreme poise and confidence about the man which invested all he said with an instant veracity.