Westfield’s Men had taken time to appreciate Sylvester Pryde’s good qualities. When he first became a sharer with the company, he aroused both envy and hostility. Actors of far greater talent and experience were jealous of a man who was straightway elevated above them by dint of his financial investment and his fellow sharers resented what they saw as his easy arrogance, but, with a combination of industry and persuasion, Pryde soon brought both parties around to a more favourable view of him. Elias, one of his sternest critics at first, was now his closest friend in the company. The Welshman was cheerfully resigned to the fact that the handsome Pryde enjoyed far more success among the ladies than he himself.
Lucius Kindell was dazzled by the new sharer. It was not just the man’s wit and intelligence which appealed to him. He was also impressed by Pryde’s aristocratic mien and by the whiff of audacity which hung about him. Tall, slim and elegant, Sylvester Pryde was a traveller and a talker, a free spirit, a roving adventurer. His deficiencies as an actor were offset by a striking appearance which enabled him to decorate the stage superbly and by an irresistible charm. The cost and cut of his apparel suggested private wealth and this had estranged some of his colleagues at the outset until they saw how generous he was with his money. It won him universal acceptance.
Stroking a neatly trimmed beard, Pryde winked at Kindell.
‘Are you content, Lucius?’
‘Very content.’
‘You are crowned with laurels today.’
‘The play owes more to Edmund than to me.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Elias. ‘It is Edmund who is beholden to you, Lucius. Had you not created the role of Cardinal Boccherini, we would not have known what a brilliant actor Edmund really is. And, fine playwright though he may be, I am not sure that he would have tackled a theme as serious and weighty as this without your collaboration.’
‘Enjoy your success,’ advised Pryde.
‘Savour each second of it, Lucius.’
‘That is what I am doing,’ said the playwright. ‘This is truly the happiest day of my life.’
‘Greater triumphs lie ahead,’ predicted Elias.
‘Far greater,’ said Pryde with beaming certainty. ‘A glittering career stands before you, my friend. We have chosen well, Lucius, you and I. Westfield’s Men is the finest company in London and hence in the whole of Europe. My own poor skills as an actor have improved with each day I have spent in the company and your genius has found a true home.’
‘I know, Sylvester,’ said Kindell. ‘Truly, I have been blessed. Westfield’s Men are supreme.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ asked Elias.
‘Yes, Owen!’
‘Then buy us more ale and we will toast the company!’ He let out a guffaw which rose above the tumult around him. The arrival of a familiar figure jerked him up from his bench. ‘At last, Edmund! Where have you been? We have had to fight to keep you a place at the table. Sit here with us, man.’
‘I am not sure that I may,’ said Hoode nervously.
‘May and must,’ insisted the Welshman. ‘Here is Lucius Kindell, your co-conspirator in brilliant invention, flushed with triumph and anxious to have you beside him to share in his joy. Sit, drink and surrender yourself.’
‘I wish that I could.’
‘Why, what is there to stop you?’
‘A wailing landlord.’
‘That maggoty Marwood?’
‘Yes,’ said Hoode, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting a fearsome blow to fall. ‘He has cast a black shadow over our celebrations.’
‘From what I hear,’ said Pryde, ‘that is nothing new. This hangdog landlord is the sworn enemy of pleasure. That hideous face of his was fashioned for Doomsday. Ignore him, Edmund.’
‘If only I could.’
‘What is his complaint against us now?’ asked Kindell.
‘I do not know, Lucius but I am sore troubled.’
Elias was baffled. When they left the stage after the performance, Edmund Hoode was glowing with joy and with a sense of fulfilment. They had never seen him so elated. A changed man now stood before them. Gone was the wide grin, the shining face and the sparkling eyes. Hoode was now in the grip of a melancholy of almost Marwoodian depth.
‘Did you not renew our contract?’ said Elias.
‘Yes,’ replied Hoode.
‘And will we not play here for another six months?’
‘A year, Owen.’
‘Then why this moon-faced moping?’
‘It was the ambush.’
‘Ambush?’
‘Yes,’ said Hoode, flicking another apprehensive glance over his shoulder. ‘Our landlord has changed his mind, it seems. No sooner had we bought wine to celebrate our triumph than he jumps out of the crowd and informs us that the contract is void and that we must quit the Queen’s Head at once.’
‘This does not make sense,’ observed Pryde. ‘The landlord needs the company here. It adds lustre and draws in custom. How many of these people would be here if they had not just witnessed a play in the yard?’
‘Very few,’ decided Elias. ‘This is some jest, Edmund. Practised on you by that misery-monger, Alexander Marwood.’
‘He is incapable of a jest.’
‘What, then, does this portend?’ said a worried Kindell.
Hoode rolled his eyes in despair and sighed dramatically.
‘Disaster,’ he concluded. ‘It was bound to come sooner or later. I knew that my happiness could not last. I knew that I would have to pay dearly for the folly of imagining that fortune had at last smiled on me. It has happened. I sense disaster in the wind. Brace yourselves, lads. Unless I am greatly mistaken, we are about to be struck by a veritable thunderbolt.’
‘Out, out, out!’ demanded Alexander Marwood, stamping a foot.
‘We will not budge an inch,’ said Firethorn defiantly. ‘We have every right to be here and here we will remain.’
‘Then I will summon officers to have you evicted.’
‘On what grounds?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Trespass!’
‘This is a public hostelry, Master Marwood.’
‘I may turn away interlopers if I choose.’
‘Interlopers!’ exclaimed Firethorn. ‘You dare to call us interlopers when we have filled your coffers and kept your customers entertained all these years without a word of thanks from you or your wife? Interlopers, indeed!’
‘Aye,’ said Marwood. ‘Interlopers and lechers!’
‘Silence!’
Lawrence Firethorn’s command was like the blast of a cannon and it left Marwood’s ears ringing. Nicholas stepped between actor and landlord before the former began to rain blows down on the latter’s head. They were in the yard of the Queen’s Head and the stage was still being dismantled behind them. The book holder was as befuddled as Firethorn by the unexpected turn of events. Why had Marwood pounced on them so vengefully? Nicholas was grateful that he had brought the argument out into the fresh air. An unseemly row in the middle of the taproom would have advantaged nobody. Even in the yard the raised voices were arousing immense curiosity.
‘Let us discuss the matter calmly,’ suggested Nicholas.
‘How can I be calm in front of this death’s head?’ said Firethorn, jabbing a finger at the landlord. ‘The very sight of him puts me to choler. Away, you walking pestilence!’
‘It is you who must leave, sir!’ insisted Marwood.
‘Make us!’
‘Constables will do the office for me.’
‘But why?’ asked Nicholas reasonably.
‘Because I want you off my property.’
‘For what reason?’
‘The worst kind, Master Bracewell.’
‘We are still none the wiser.’
‘I am too ashamed even to speak the words.’
‘Then at least give us some hint of how we have caused you such displeasure. Not ten minutes ago, we were agreeing terms and parting as friends. What killed that friendship so soon?’
‘Ask among your fellows,’ said Marwood darkly.