Others in the room quickly came over to watch the bout. Benjamin Creech shouted words of encouragement to Ruff but the general feeling was that he had little chance. The three older apprentices lent their support to Barnaby Gill. They wanted to see Richard Honeydew's friend humbled.
'Instruct him, Master Gill,' urged Martin Yeo.
'I'll wager a penny you have the first hit,' said Stephen Judd. 'Tuppence. Will you back your man, Dick?'
'I have no money, Stephen.'
'Owe it to me. The wager stands.'
Barnaby Gill held the light, slender foil and swished it through the air a few times before taking up his stance. His opponent held his weapon ready. The hired man was bigger and sturdier but Gill was much lighter on his feet.
'Come, Samuel,' he invited. 'Let me trim your ruff!'
The three apprentices sniggered but Richard was frightened, sensing that his friend was in real danger. Gill had been involved in a sword fight on stage during the play about Richard the Lionheart and had shown himself to be an expert. The boy quailed. Anxious for the duel to be prevented, his spirits rose when the book holder came striding into the room.
'Stop them, Master Bracewell!' he begged.
'What is going on?' asked Nicholas.
'Keep out of this!' ordered Gill.
'Is this a quarrel?'
'Stand off, Nick,' said Ruff. 'It is only in play.'
Before Nicholas could make any move, the duel had been The foils clashed in a brief passage of thrust, parry and count thrust. They started again. Barnaby Gill forced the pace of the bout, keeping his opponent under constant attack, lunging with vicious intent and using all his tricks to entertain the audience Ruff could do little but defend and he went through all eight parries time and again. Gill circled him, first one way and then the other, baiting him like a dog with a bull.
Yet somehow he could not score a hit to appease his burning resentment of the man. Remise, reprise and flanconade were used but Ruff somehow held him at bay. Gill speeded up his attack and found an opening to slash at his opponent's left arm. The hired man was quick enough to elude injury but the button opened up the sleeve of his shirt and a bandage showed through.
'A hit!' cried Stephen. 'You owe me tuppence, Dick!'
'No hit,' insisted Ruff. 'A touch.'
Gill cackled. 'Here comes your wager, Stephen.'
He attacked again with his wrist flashing, thrusting in quarte and tierce, setting up another opening for himself. Crouching low as he lunged towards his adversary's stomach, he was astonished when his foil was deftly twisted out of his hand and sent spinning through the air. Unable to save himself, Barnaby Gill ended up flat on his back with the point of Ruff's weapon under his chin. It was the hired man's turn to use the well-tried pun.
'You have a Ruff at your throat now, sir.'
A tense silence ensued. The apprentices were non-plussed, Creech and his fellows were astounded, and Nicholas Bracewell was delighted. Barnaby Gill was seething. Instead of humiliating Samuel Ruff, he had been chastened in public himself and his pride had taken a powerful blow. He would not forget or forgive.
It was left to Richard Honeydew to speak first.
'I will claim my wager now, Stephen.'
*
The cardinal's hat presented a sorry sight to the morning sun. Long splinters of wood had been hacked away and much of the paint had been scored. On one side of the tavern sign at least, the hat was very much the worse for wear. No wind disturbed
Bankside. The cardinal's hat hung limp and forlorn. Nicholas Bracewell looked up to assess the damage that Redbeard had caused. There was a window adjacent to the sign and he supposed that it was in the room belonging to Alice. He was soon given confirmation of this. 'She is upstairs now, sir.'
'May I see her?'
The landlord looked even more like a polecat in daylight. His arrowed eyes went to his visitor's purse. Nicholas produced a few coins and tossed them on to the counter. 'Follow me, sir.'
'Is the girl fully recovered now?' said Nicholas, as he went up the winding staircase with the man.
'Alice? No, sir. Not yet.'
'What are her injuries?'
'Nothing much,' replied the landlord callously. 'One of her arms must stay bound up for a week or more and she still limps badly.'
They reached the first landing and walked along a dingy passageway. Nicholas glanced around with misgivings. 'Will the girl get proper rest here?'
'Rest!' The polecat drew back his teeth in a harsh laugh. 'Alice came back to work, sir, not to rest. She was as busy as ever in the service last night.'
The sleeping figure of an old man now blocked their way. Kicking him awake with the toe of his shoe, the landlord stepped over him and went on to a door. He banged hard on it. 'Alice!'
There was no sound from within so he peered through the keyhole. He used his fist to beat a tattoo on the timber. Are you alone in there, Alice?'
with a shrug of his shoulders, he grabbed the latch of the door and lifted it. Nicholas was led into a small, filthy, cobwebbed room with peeling walls and a rising stench that hit his nostrils. A mattress lay on the floor with a ragged blanket over it. Under the blanket was a small head that the landlord nudged with his foot.
'Wake up, girl. You've a visitor.'
'Perhaps this was not a good time to call,' suggested Nicholas. 'She plainly needs her sleep.'
'I'll rouse her, sir, have no fear,' said the landlord.
After shaking her roughly by the shoulder, he took hold of the blanket and pulled it right away from her. The sight which met them made Nicholas quake. Lying on the mattress at a distorted angle was the naked body of a young woman in her early twenties. One arm was heavily strapped, one ankle covered with a grimy bandage. Eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. The mouth was wide open to issue a silent scream for mercy.
Alice would not be able to tell Nicholas Bracewell anything. Her throat had been cut and the blood had gushed in a torrent down her body. The stink of death was already upon her.
(*)Chapter Seven
Lawrence Firethorn slowly began to make headway against his domestic oppression. His wife continued to watch him like a hawk and abuse him at every turn but he bore it all with Stoic mien and never struck back. Even the nightly horror of the bedchamber failed to break him. His studied patience at last had its effect. Margery listened to--if she did not believe--his protestations. She permitted his little acts of kindness and concern. She allowed herself to think of him once more as her husband.
Her suspicions did not vanish but they were gradually smothered beneath the pillow of his subtlety. Firethorn smiled, flattered, promised and pretended until he had insinuated his way back into the outer suburbs of her affections. With a skill born of long practice, he chose his moment carefully.
'Lawrence!'
'Open it, my sweet.'
'But why have you bought me a present, sir?'
'Why else, my angel? To show you that I love you.'
Margery Firethorn could not contain her almost girlish curiosity and excitement. She opened the little box and let out a gasp of wonder. Her husband had just given her a pendant that hung from a gold chain.
'This is for me?'
I had been saving it for your birthday, my dove,' he lied, 'but it seemed a more appropriate moment. I wanted you to know how deep my feelings are for you in spite of your cruelty to me.
Remorse surfaced. 'Have I been cruel?' she asked.
'Unbearably so.'
'Have I been unjust?'
'With regularity.'
'I felt I had cause, Lawrence.'
'Show it me.'
'There were...indications.'
'Produce them against me,' he challenged. 'No, I have been maligned here. Someone turned you against me. I have been a model of fidelity to you and that gift shows it.'
She bestowed a kiss of gratitude on his lips then looked into the box once more and marvelled. The pendant was small, oval and studded with semipreciou
s stones. Sunshine was slanting in through the chamber window to make them dance and sparkle,
'May I try it on, sir?'
'I will hold it for you, Margery.'
'It will go best with my taffeta dress,' she decided.
'It will become you whatever you wear,' he said, then collected a second kiss. 'Hold still now.'
Margery Firethorn stood in front of the mirror while he dangled the pendant around her neck. She was thrilled with the present, all the more so because it was so unexpected and--she now began to imagine--completely undeserved. A husband who had been reviled as much as hers had of late could only buy her an expensive present like that if he was besotted on her.
He nestled into her back and rubbed his beard against her hair. His eyes met hers in the mirror.
'Will it suit, madam?'
'It will suit, sir.'
'It is only a trifle,' he apologized. 'If I was a richer man, it would have been edged with pearls and encrusted with diamonds.' He squeezed her again. 'Are you pleased?'
'I will treasure it for ever.'
The third kiss was longer and more ardent. It gave him time to rehearse an excuse for the fact that he would not be able to leave the gift with her because it would be worn around the neck of Gloriana, Queen of Albion, in the forthcoming play.
'Fix the catch, Lawrence. I will wear it now.'
'You cannot, I fear.'
'Why not?'
'The catch is faulty. It will need to be repaired by the jeweller. No matter,' he said, whisking the pendant away and replacing it in its box. 'I will take it to his shop this very morning and set the fellow to work on it.'
'I am loathe to part with it.'
'It will be but a short absence.'
'Take the chain, sir. Let me keep the pendant at least.'
'Alas!' he replied, snapping the lid of the box shut. 'That is not possible. The pendant is attached to the chain for safety's sake. It cannot be removed.'
A last small cloud of suspicion drifted across her mind.
'Lawrence...'
'My love?'
'You did buy that gift for me?'
He looked so stricken at the very suggestion that she immediately took back the question and showered him with apologies. In a marriage as crazily erratic as theirs, reconciliation was always the most prized moment. It was an hour before he was able to get dressed and take his leave. The gift of the pendant had been a happy inspiration. He had been keeping it by him for just such an emergency.
Margery waved him off and addressed herself to the management of the household with increased vigour. After the storm came the blissful calm. She had been through a period of turmoil, only to emerge with a new and devoted husband.
The old and wandering husband, meanwhile, went straight to Edmund Hoode's lodging to see if another gift for a lady was ready yet. He studied the fourteen lines with rapt attention.
'It seemed to work better as a sonnet,' said Hoode.
'You've surpassed yourself, Edmund.'
'Have I?'
'This will wing its way to her heart.'
The sonnet was in praise of Lady Rosamund Varney and it punned on the words 'lady' and 'rose' with bewitching skill. Lawrence Firethorn did not believe in the lone pursuit of his prey. He cheerfully enlisted the aid of those around him. Hoode had provided the sonnet and the message now needed a bearer.
'I must find Nicholas Bracewell at once.'
*
The Curtain was situated to the south of Holywell Lane, off Shoreditch, on land that had once been part of Holywell Priory To the Puritans, who railed against the playhouses for their filth and lewdness, the Curtain was an act of sacrilege on what had once been consecrated ground. To Nicholas Bracewell, who took a more philosophical view, it was a pleasing amalgam of the sacred and the profane, in short, the stuff of theatre.
On a rare afternoon of freedom, Nicholas had come along to The Curtain to watch a performance by the Earl of Banbury's Men. He was not so much interested in the rival company as in the new play they were giving, God Speed the Fleet. This was yet another eulogy of the English navy, thinly disguised by a time shift to the previous century and a geographical shift to Venice. Nicholas was keen to see how they mounted their sea battle, hoping that he might glean some ideas that could be used when his own company staged Gloriana Triumphant.
Fine weather brought a full house to The Curtain and they were crammed into the pit and the galleries. The playhouse was a tall, circular structure of timber which resembled a bull-ring. Three storeys of seating galleries projected into the circle from the outer walls and this perimeter area was roofed with thatch, leaving the central arena open to the sky.
The stage projected out like an apron into the pit. It was high, rectangular and contained a large trap door. Over part of the acting area was a large canopy, supported on heavy pillars that descended to and through the stage. A flat wall behind the stage broke the smooth inner curve of the arena. At each end of the wall was a door through which entrances and exits could be made. The tiring-house was directly behind the wall.
Halfway up the tiring-house wall was a recess, showing some more galleries. This space was curtained over for use as an acting area and Nicholas guessed rightly that it would bemused as the deck of a warship. At the top of the tiring-house were the huts, pitched-roof gabled attic rooms, where the musicians sat. Above these was a small balcony from which the trumpeter would start the performance and run up the flag to signal it was under way.
After the makeshift facilities of The Queen's Head, it was good to be in a real playhouse again and Nicholas felt his heart lift. He paid pence for an uncushioned seat in the second gallery and settled down to enjoy the performance. Food and drink were being sold by noisy, ubiquitous vendors. The standees in the pit were already restive. The whole place was bubbling with an anticipatory delight.
Nicholas noted that the Earl of Banbury was present. Surrounded by his entourage of gallants and ladies, he occupied one of the lords' rooms closest to the stage. The Earl was a venal old lecher with a florid complexion and a tufted beard that sorted well with his goatish inclinations. A self-styled dandy, he had been heavily-corseted then dressed in doublet and hose of the most arresting colours. His tall crowned hat was festooned with feathers that were held in place by jewels. His gloved hand held a silver-topped cane which he used for pointing or prodding as the spirit moved him.
God Speed the Fleet was not deathless drama. It was full of good ideas that had been badly strung together and the overriding impression was one of wanton prodigality. Banbury's Men played it with plenty of attack but rowdiness was developing in the pit before the end of the first act. Only the duels and dances held their interest.
Giles Randolph dominated the proceedings with effortless ease. He was a tall, slim, moodily handsome man with a commanding presence and a voice that was just a little too conscious of its own beauty. His attire was magnificent and worthy to compete with that worn by his patron in the gallery, but he did not entirely convince as an English sea captain under the Venetian flag.
There was something faintly sinister about Giles Randolph. It may have been to do with his Italianate cast of feature or it may have emanated from his sly lope, but it robbed him of true heroic status. Wicked cardinals and duplicitous politicians were his forte. As a beard-stroking revenger in a recent play, he had been supreme, Today, it was different. While he had the barked authority of a sea dog, he looked as if he would be more adept at poisoning his enemies with a drugged chalice than bombarding them with broadsides.
The ladies in the audience, however, clearly adored him. Those in Banbury's entourage were particularly struck with his brooding magnificence and they almost swooned when he directed one of his soliloquies up at them. Nicholas Bracewell was less persuaded He felt that Randolph was miscast. The actor had none of Lawrence Firethorn's storming passion and that is what the part required.
The sea battle almost worked. Controlled by the book holder with real skil
l, it involved a small army of stage-keepers and journeymen. Giles Randolph stood on the poop deck--the balcony above the stage--with a telescope to his eye, so that he could give a commentary on the engagement in which his fleet was involved. The stage itself was used as the gun deck and a small cannon was brought into play.
Alarums and excursions went on indefinitely as drums were banged, cymbals struck, trumpets were blown, explosions were set off and fireworks were used. The mariners on the gun deck were thrown to and fro as their vessel pitched in the swell and absorbed the broadsides of its adversaries. Barrels of water swished offstage to suggest a turbulent sea and someone pounded on stout timber with a blacksmith's hammer.
Nicholas liked the three final touches. Cannon balls were rolled on stage with thunderous effect as if they had just come hurtling through the rigging. The small mast which was held up by a beefy journeyman at the front of the acting area suddenly collapsed and pinned a few groaning sailors to the deck. Then--to the loudest cheer of the afternoon--the cannon itself was fired to deafen the audience and bring the battle to a close.
There was warm applause as Randolph led out his company for their bow but several catcalls emerged from the pit. The mixed reception did not disconcert the leading actor, who waved grandly in acknowledgement, but some of the other players looked very uncomfortable as they viewed the grumbling standees around them. God Speed the Fleet would not be retained in the repertory of Banbury's Men.
It took a long time for the big audience to disperse and Nicholas lingered to avoid the crush of bodies. As he sat on a now deserted bench, he gazed down at the stage and went through the battle again in his mind, listing the effects and making a note to incorporate the trap door into his own version of the defeat of the Armada.
His attention was then seized by something below and the play was forgotten. Stagekeepers were busy clearing away the debris of battle and sweeping the boards. One of them was chatting with a thickset member of the audience in a way that showed they were old friends. Nicholas recognized the standee at once. It was Benjamin Creech from Lord Westfield's Men.
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