They fell silent as they heard the tread of Richard’s light feet up on the stairs, then they smirked as he creaked his way up to perdition. It was only a question of time now.
Oblivious to their plan, Richard Honeydew went up to his attic room by the light of the moonbeams that peeped in through the windows. Every other night, his first job had been to bolt the door behind him to keep outrage at bay. Lulled into a mood of trust by the others, he did not do so now. He felt safe.
The chill of the night air made him shiver and he got undressed quickly before jumping into bed. Through the narrow window above his head, the moon was drawing intricate patterns on the opposite wall. Richard was able to watch them for only a few minutes before he dozed off to sleep but his slumber was soon disturbed. There was a rustling sound in the thatch and his eyes opened in fear. It would not be the first rat he had heard up in the attic.
He sat up quickly and was just in the nick of time. Something came crashing down on his pillow in a cloud of loam, cobwebs and filth. Richard coughed as the dust got into his throat then he turned around to see what had happened.
The dormer window was set in the steeply pitched roof and small, solid beams formed a rectangle around the frame to keep the thatch away. Richard had often noticed how loose the lower beam was. All four of them had just come falling down with a vengeance. He sat there transfixed by it all.
‘What is it, lad! What happened?’
Margery Firethorn was galloping up the stairs to the attic in her nightgown. Her voice preceded her with ease.
‘Are you there, Dick? What’s amiss?’
Seconds later, she came bursting into the room with a candle in her hand. It illumined a scene of debris. She let out a shriek of horror then clutched Richard to her for safety.
‘Lord save us! You might have been killed!’
Martin Yeo, John Tallis and Stephen Judd now came charging up to the attic to see what had caused the thunderous bang.
‘What is it!’
‘Has something fallen?’
‘Are you all right, Dick?’
The three of them raced into the room and came to a halt. When they saw the extent of the damage, they were all astonished. They looked quickly at Richard to see if he had been hurt.
‘Is this your doing?’ accused Margery.
‘No, mistress!’ replied Yeo.
‘That beam has always been loose,’ added Tallis.
‘We will sort this out later,’ she warned. ‘Meanwhile, I must find this poor creature another place to lay his head. Come, Dick. It is all over now.’
She led the young apprentice out with grave concern.
As soon as the two of them had gone, Martin Yeo bent down to untie the cord that was bound around the lower beam. Fed through a gap in the floorboards, the cord had come down to their own room so that they could create the accident with a sudden jerk. But they had only expected to dislodge the lower beam. A blow on the head from that would have been sufficiently disabling to put Richard out of the play. They had planned nothing more serious.
Stephen Judd examined the dormer with care.
‘Those other beams were quite secure earlier on,’ he said. ‘Someone must have loosened them. They would never have come down otherwise.’
‘Who would do such a thing?’ wondered Tallis.
‘I don’t know,’ said Yeo uneasily. ‘But if Dick had been underneath it when it all came down, he might never have appeared in a play again.’
The three apprentices were completely unnerved.
They stood amid the rubble and tried to puzzle it out. A small accident which they engineered had been turned into something far more dangerous by an unknown hand.
Evidently, someone knew of their plan.
Susan Fowler went to London as a frightened young wife in search of a husband and returned to St Albans as a desolate widow with her life in ruins. The passage of time did not seem to make her loss any easier to bear. It was like a huge bruise which had not yet fully come out and which yielded new areas of ache and blemish each day.
Her mother provided a wealth of sympathy, her elder sister sat with her for hours and kind neighbours were always attentive to her plight, but none of it managed to assuage her pain. Not even the parish priest could bring her comfort. Susan kept being reminded of the day that he had married her to Will Fowler.
Grief inevitably followed her to the bedroom and worked most potently by night. It was a continuous ordeal.
‘Good morning, father.’
‘Heavens, girl! Are you up at this hour?’
‘I could not sleep.’
‘Go back to your bed, Susan. You need the rest.’
‘There is no rest for me, father.’
‘Think of the baby, girl.’
She had risen early after another night of torture and come downstairs in the little cottage that she shared with her parents and her sister. Her father was a wheelwright and had to be up early himself. A wagon had overturned in a banked field the previous day and one of its wheels was shattered beyond repair. The wheelwright had promised to make it his first task of the day because the wagon was needed urgently for harvesting.
After a hurried breakfast of bread and milk, he made another vain attempt to send his daughter back to bed. Susan shook her head and adjusted her position in the old wooden chair. The baby was more of a presence now and she often felt it move.
Her father crossed the undulating paving stones to the door and pulled back the thick, iron bolt. He glanced back at Susan and offered her a look of encouragement that went unseen. He could delay no longer. The wagon was waiting for him outside his workshop.
When he opened the door, however, something barred his way and he all but tripped over it.
‘What’s this!’ he exclaimed.
Susan looked up with only the mildest curiosity.
‘Bless my soul!’
He regarded the object with a countryman’s suspicion. It might be a gift from the devil or the work of some benign force. It was some time before he overcame his superstitions enough to pick the object up and bring it into the cottage. He set it down on the table in front of his daughter.
It was a crib. Small, plain and carved out of solid oak, it rocked gently to and fro on its curved base. Susan Fowler stared at it blankly for a few moments then a tiny smile came.
‘It’s a present for the baby,’ she said.
Chapter Eight
Nicholas Bracewell confronted him first thing the next morning.
‘You must be mistaken,’ said Creech bluntly.
‘No, Ben.’
‘I did not go to The Curtain yesterday.’
‘But I saw you with my own eyes.’
‘You saw someone who looked like me.’
‘Stop lying.’
‘I’m not lying,’ maintained the actor hotly. ‘I was nowhere near Shoreditch yesterday afternoon.’
‘Then where were you?’
Creech withdrew into a defiant silence. His mouth was closed tight and his jaw was set. Nicholas pressed him further.
‘You were supposed to be here, Ben.’
‘Nobody told me that,’ argued the other.
‘I told you myself – in front of witnesses, too – so you can’t pretend that that never happened either. The tiremen were expecting you and you failed to turn up.’
‘I … couldn’t get here yesterday.’
‘I know – you were at The Curtain instead.’
‘No!’ denied Creech. ‘I was …’ He glowered at Nicholas then gabbled his story. ‘I was at the Lamb and Flag. I only went in for one drink at noon but I met some old friends. We started talking and had some more ale. The time just flew past. Before I knew what was happening, I fell asleep in my seat.’
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Nicholas firmly.
‘That is your privilege, sir!’
‘We’ll have to fine you for this, Ben.’
‘Do so,’ challenged the hired man.
&n
bsp; ‘One shilling.’
Creech’s defiance turned to shock. One shilling was a steep fine to a person whose weekly wage was only seven times that amount. He had many debts and could not afford to lose such a sum. Nicholas read his thoughts but felt no regret.
‘You’ve brought this upon yourself,’ he stressed. ‘When will you learn? I’ve covered for you in the past, Ben, but it has to stop. You simply must be more responsible. There are dozens of players to be had for hire. If this goes on, one of them may be taking over your place.’
‘It’s not up to you, Nicholas,’ muttered Creech.
‘Would you rather discuss it with Master Firethorn?’
‘No,’ he said after a pause.
‘He would have kicked you out months ago.’
‘I earn my money!’
‘Yes, when you’re here,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘Not when you’re lying in a drunken stupor somewhere or sneaking off to The Curtain.’
‘That was not me!’
‘I’m not blind, Ben.’
Creech bunched his fists and he breathed heavily through his nose. Discretion slowly got the better of him. The book holder might seem quiet but he would not be intimidated. If the occasion demanded it, Nicholas Bracewell could fight as well as the next man and his physique was daunting. Nothing would be served by throwing a punch.
‘One shilling, Ben.’
‘As you wish.’
‘And no more of your nonsense, sir.’
Benjamin Creech risked one more glare then he withdrew to the other side of the tiring-house. The talk had sobered him in every sense. Samuel Ruff had watched the exchange from the other side of the room and he now came across to the book holder.
‘What was all that about, Nick?’
‘The usual.’
‘Too much ale?’
‘And too little honesty, Samuel. I saw the fellow at The Curtain yesterday in broad daylight – yet he denies it!’
‘He may have good cause.’
‘In what way?’
‘Where did you see him, Nick?’
‘Talking with a couple of the hired men.’
‘There’s your answer. He does not wish to admit it.’
‘Admit what?’
‘I never thought to mention this because I assumed that you knew. Obviously you do not,’ Ruff looked across at the man. ‘Ben Creech was with Banbury’s Men for a time.’
‘Is this true?’ asked Nicholas in astonishment.
‘Oh, yes. I was there with him.’
While the future of one hired man was being discussed in the tiring-house, the future of another was under dire threat in an upstairs room. No rehearsal period of Westfield’s Men was complete without a fit of pique from Barnaby Gill and he was supplying one of his best. Edmund Hoode bore it with equanimity but Lawrence Firethorn was becoming progressively more irritated. Pacing the room madly, the anguished sharer worked up a real froth.
‘He is not fit to belong to Lord Westfield’s Men!’
‘Why not?’ asked Hoode.
‘Because I say so, sir!’
‘We need more than that, Barnaby.’
‘The man has the wrong attitude.’
‘I disagree,’ said Hoode. ‘Samuel Ruff is probably the only hired man we have with the right attitude. He takes his work seriously and fits in well with the company.’
‘Not with me, Edmund.’
‘He’s an experienced actor.’
‘London is full of experienced players.’
‘Not all of them are as reliable as Ruff.’
‘He must leave us.’
‘On what pretext?’
‘I do not like the man!’
‘He will be relieved to hear that,’ said Firethorn with a wicked chuckle. ‘Come, Barnaby, this is too small a matter to waste any more breath on.’
‘I want him dismissed,’ said Gill, holding firm.
‘This is a mere whim.’
‘I mean it, Lawrence. He has crossed me and he must suffer.’
‘Why not challenge him to a duel?’ suggested Hoode.
Gill cut short their mirth by lifting a chair and banging it down hard on the floor. His nostrils were flaring now and his eyes were rolling like those of a mare caught in a stable fire.
‘I would remind you of just how much this company owes to me,’ he began. ‘In the face of constant temptation, I have remained faithful to Lord Westfield’s Men. Others have approached me with lucrative offers many times but I always refused them, believing – in error, it now seems – that I was needed and appreciated here.’
‘We have heard this speech before,’ said Firethorn petulantly, ‘and it does not grow more palatable.’
‘I am serious, Lawrence! He has to go.’
‘Why? Because he mastered you in a bout with foils?’
‘Because he unsettles me.’
‘We all do that to you, Barnaby,’ joked Hoode. ‘Are we to be put out as well?’
‘Do not mock, sir. This is in earnest.’
‘Then let me be in earnest as well,’ decided Firethorn, putting his hands on his hips as he confronted the smaller man. ‘We both know what lies behind all this. Young Dicky Honeydew.’
‘Have care, Lawrence.’
‘I do – for the boy.’ He wagged a warning finger. ‘I am not one to pry into a man’s private affairs. Live and let live, say I. But there is one rule that must always hold in this company, Barnaby, and you know it as well as I do. You understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not with the apprentices.’
‘This has nothing to do with the matter, Lawrence.’
‘I have said my piece, sir.’
‘And I must support it,’ said Hoode. ‘As for Samuel Ruff, you are out on your own. Everyone else is happy with the fellow. We have fared much worse with our hired men.’
Barnaby Gill was profoundly offended. He walked slowly to the door, opened it, drew himself up to his full height, and put every ounce of disdain into his tone.
‘I will contend no further!’
‘Then what have you been doing all this while?’ asked Firethorn. ‘You have argued for argument’s sake.’
‘The choice is simple, gentlemen,’ said Gill.
‘Choice?’
‘Either he goes – or I do!’
He slammed the door behind him with dramatic force.
George Dart was much given to reflections upon the misery of his lot. As the youngest and smallest of the stagekeepers, he was always saddled with the most menial jobs, and everyone in the company had authority over him. One of the tasks he hated most was being sent out with a sheaf of playbills to put up around the City. It was exhausting work. He would be chased by dogs, jeered at by children, jostled by pedestrians, harangued by tradesmen, frowned on by Puritans, menaced by thieves, solicited by punks and generally made to feel that he was at the mercy of others.
His latest errand introduced him to a new indignity. With the playbills of Gloriana Triumphant fresh from the printers, he set off on a tortuous route through Cheapside, using every post and fence he could find along the way as a place of advertisement. With the market sprawled all around him, he had to push almost every inch of the way and his size was a real disadvantage. Hours of persistence, however, finally paid off as he posted up his last playbill outside the Maid and Magpie.
George Dart slowly began to retrace his short steps, wondering, as he did so, if anyone led such a pitiable existence as he did. They were always sending him somewhere. He was continually on the move, shuttling between this place and that, for ever heading towards or away from somewhere, never settling, never being allowed to dwell at the centre of action. He was one of nature’s intercessaries. Every arrival was a departure, every halt was merely to pick up instructions for the next journey. He was nothing but a carrier pigeon, doomed to fly in perpetuity.
His reverie was rudely checked when he turned a corner and walked along a street where he had put up a number of his playbills. Most of
them had gone and those that remained had been defaced. He shuddered at the prospect of having to report the outrage. They would send him out again with fresh bills to endure fresh torments.
When he looked around the crowded street, he saw dozens of suspects. Any one of them could have ruined his work. As he studied a playbill that had been scribbled upon, he decided that it was the work of a drunken ruffian who wanted a morning’s sport.
George Dart wept copiously. Watching him from a shop doorway on the opposite side of the street was a young man with a complacent smile. It was Roger Bartholomew.
The apprentices were still mystified. They had no idea who could have loosened the other beams in the attic chamber, nor could they understand the motive that lay behind it all. Was it some malign joke? Had the intention been to cripple Richard Honeydew permanently? Or were they themselves the target? Could someone have tried to implicate them in a much more serious business than the one they devised? If the apprentice had been badly injured – even killed – suspicion would naturally have fallen on them.
As it was, the luck which had saved Richard worked to their advantage as well. Margery Firethorn railed at them but they were able to swear, with the light of truth in their eyes, that they had not been responsible for loosening the beams around the dormer. Martin Yeo, John Tallis and Stephen Judd were off the hook but one fact remained. Richard Honeydew would still play Gloriana.
Shedding their fears about the person who had exploited their first plan, they set about concocting another. This one was foolproof. It would be put into operation the next day and the venue was the yard at The Queen’s Head.
‘Here’s a fine chestnut,’ admired Yeo, leaning over the stable door. ‘Come and see, Dick.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Richard, looking at the horse. ‘He is a fine animal. See how his coat shines!’
‘Would you like to ride him?’ asked Tallis.
‘I’d love to, John, but I am no horseman. Who owns him?’
‘We have no notion,’ said Tallis with an artful glance at Yeo. ‘He must have arrived last night.’
They had come into the yard when the stage had been taken down to make way for a coach and a couple of wagons. The horses had been stabled. Knowing Richard’s fondness for the animals, Yeo and Tallis had invited him over to inspect them all, casually stopping at the last of the loose boxes to inspect the chestnut stallion. It was a mettlesome beast some seventeen hands high, and Yeo had watched it trot into the yard the previous afternoon. He had also overheard the instructions which the rider had given to the ostler.
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 12