‘Me?’ asked Hoode, taking the letter.
‘It has the sweetest smell. I think it’s from a lady.’
‘An answer already?’
Nicholas was crisp. ‘Read it later, Edmund, whoever she may be. This is no time for letters,’ he said, leading them out into the street. ‘We have something far more important to do. Dick Honeydew needs us.’
He had never watched the evening shadows fall with such attention before. Still locked in the stable, Richard Honeydew saw the fingers of light grow paler and paler until they vanished altogether. In their place came a darkness that crept slowly under the door before searching out every corner of the stable. He was at length enveloped in a blackness that was deep and impenetrable. Honeydew could still hear voices in the street but they were far fewer in number. The crowds had gone. Horses passed with less frequency. The breeze had stiffened, making him shiver and blowing wisps of straw across the floor. Though he could no longer see the rat, he could still hear him, scampering to and fro.
Fear kept him awake but fatigue nibbled steadily away at him. Sleep eventually came as a blessed release. He slumped to the floor. No sooner had he dozed off, however, than he was awakened again. The sound of the bolts and the creaking of the doors brought him out of his slumber. A candle glowed in the dark. It was set down beside Honeydew then blown out. Firm hands grabbed the boy.
‘Hold still,’ ordered a man, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’
Richard Honeydew had heard the voice before in the churchyard. For the second time that day, he was lifted up and thrown uncaringly over the man’s shoulder.
London was full of inns but some were so ramshackle, or catered for such low company, that they could be discounted at once. Nicholas Bracewell was looking for a place where a lady and gentleman might stay in some degree of comfort. Accompanied by Leonard, he was searching the area to the south of the Queen’s Head while Hoode and Elias went off in the opposite direction. It was painstaking work. Some landlords were helpful, others loath to give away any information about their guests. They encountered several people who were visiting London from the country but none that looked remotely like those they sought. Leonard began to lose heart. Pessimism set in.
‘They are not here, Nick,’ he said.
‘They must be.’
‘Then perhaps they went over the bridge to Bankside.’
‘They’d be less likely to find a good lodging there,’ said Nicholas, ‘and they would not have carried Dick Honeydew all that way.’
‘What if they had a coach?’
‘They followed the boy on foot. That much we can guess.’
‘Then where did they take him?’
‘Where would you take him?’
‘Down to the river,’ said Leonard after a moment’s thought. ‘Put him in a boat moored away from the bank and we’d never find him.’
‘These people are newcomers. They do not know the city.’
‘Then they’d find a room at a respectable inn.’
‘That’s where we have to run them to earth.’
They went into more inns and talked to more landlords. Another hour slipped past but it yielded no result. As they came out of yet another tavern, Leonard’s hopes had virtually disappeared.
‘This will take an age, Nicholas. What can two of us do?’
‘Edmund and Owen take part in the search as well.’
‘It needs a small army,’ said Leonard. ‘One of them should be Master Hibbert. It’s his bounden duty to be of help.’
‘He’s not inclined to discharge such a duty,’ said Nicholas.
‘He should be. Dick was only kidnapped because of his play.’
‘Our author had somewhere else to go.’
Leonard was worried. ‘You do not think he has fled, do you?’ he asked. ‘That’s what the landlord fears. He thinks that Master Hibbert will run up huge bills then steal away without paying them.’
‘He’ll not leave,’ said Nicholas, confidently. ‘He came to London to make his name and will not quit so easily. In any case, Leonard, I’ve made sure that he stays.’
‘How?’
‘By bringing this.’ He tapped his satchel. ‘I have the only copy of The Malevolent Comedy here with me. He’d never leave without that. It’s worth its weight in gold to him because it proves his worth as an author. As long as I have it, our spendthrift playwright is bound to us.’
They were in Tower Street and the night was dark. Though their eyes were used to the gloom, they could not see far ahead of them. Leonard had drunk his share of ale earlier in the evening and needed to relieve himself. When they came to an alleyway, he stepped into it.
‘Go on ahead, Nicholas. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Meet me in the White Hart.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘On the left, no more than a minute away.’
‘I’ll see you there,’ said Leonard, vanishing into the dark.
Nicholas walked on alone, glad of his friend’s company but pleased to be alone, if only briefly, so that he could reflect on what had happened. He felt partly to blame for Honeydew’s disappearance, recalling that it was he who told the boy where Hal Bridger was buried. If he had made no mention of the fact, the apprentice might not have left the Queen’s Head. Another worry lay at the back of his mind. Honeydew’s performance that afternoon had been remarkable for its bite and savagery. It did not sound like Dick Honeydew at all. It was almost as if the boy had been in someone’s grip, forced to take on a personality that was so at odds with his natural tenderness. Honeydew could be regal and even peremptory onstage, but, in Mistress Malevole, he had revealed a spitting hatred and rancour that had always been beyond him before. It was yet another charge to bring against the author. His play was having a corrupting effect on its leading lady.
His thoughts were rudely interrupted. Nicholas had gone no more than twenty or thirty yards when he heard quick footsteps behind him. Before he could even turn round, he received a sharp blow on the back of the head from a cudgel. It sent him pitching forward onto the ground.
Chapter Ten
Nicholas Bracewell reacted instinctively. He had been taken completely by surprise but the blow had been partially softened by his cap, so that he was hurt rather than stunned. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled over and reached for his dagger, ready to defend himself against his assailant. But there were two of them, brawny figures, both armed with cudgels, intent on beating him senseless. Nicholas needed help.
‘Leonard!’ he yelled. ‘Ho, there!’
‘Close his mouth!’ snarled one man.
They tried to belabour him but Nicholas was no harmless victim. Rolling rapidly from side to side, he used one arm to ward off the cudgels and the other hand to wield his dagger. As a blow glanced off his shoulder, he stabbed hard with his blade and opened up a deep wound in a wrist. Shrieking with pain, one of the men dropped his cudgel. The other continued to flail away with his weapon, bruising Nicholas’s arm and knocking the dagger from his grasp. He aimed a vicious strike at the book holder’s eyes but Nicholas jerked back his head just in time. Grazing his temple with searing pain, the cudgel drew blood.
When he tried to kick the fallen man, however, his attacker lost his advantage. Seizing his foot, Nicholas twisted the ankle hard then pulled. His adversary came tumbling down on top of him. Nicholas grappled with him and managed to roll over on top of him, only to feel a hard stamp in the back from the other man. Bent on revenge, and with blood dripping from his injured wrist, he lashed out with his foot at Nicholas. At the same time, the man beneath the book holder tried to bite him on the face. Rage gave Nicholas an upsurge of strength. Subduing the man on the ground with a fierce relay of punches, he rolled over, leapt to his feet and faced the other attacker. He saw a dagger in his hand. Leonard was at last lumbering up the street towards him but would not get there in time to save his friend.
Nicholas used the only weapon available. He lifted the satchel quickly from aroun
d his neck. Before the man could lunge at him with the dagger, Nicholas swung the satchel by its strap with as much force as he could, catching the other across the cheek and making him reel.
‘I’m coming, Nick,’ shouted Leonard. ‘Leave him to me.’
But the attackers had had enough. Seeing that the odds had turned against them, they opted for retreat. The man with the wounded wrist helped his dazed companion to his feet and the two of them limped off into the darkness. Panting heavily, Leonard finally reached his friend.
‘You called at an awkward time,’ he said, apologetically.
‘I managed on my own, Leonard.’
‘Let’s go after them.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, breathing hard and rubbing his bruised arm. ‘I’m in no condition to give chase. They’ll be well away by now.’
‘Did they get your purse?’
‘They were not after money.’
‘Then why attack you?’
‘They were here to give me a beating. We were stalked.’
‘I heard nobody behind us.’
‘They knew their trade. As soon as I was alone, they struck.’
Blood was trickling down the side of his face from the cut on his temple. Nicholas pulled out the handkerchief that had been dropped in the churchyard and used it to stem the flow. With his other hand, he rubbed the back of his head gingerly.
‘Are you hurt, Nick?’
‘I’ve lost some blood and gained some painful bruises in return, but nothing is broken.’ He retrieved his dagger and slipped it back in its sheath. ‘I was lucky. I survived.’
‘Why did they pick on you?’
‘Because that’s what they were paid to do.’
Leonard was aghast. ‘Someone hired them?’
‘I think so, Leonard.’
‘To kill you?’
‘To give me a beating I’d remember. That’s why they used cudgels. When I stabbed one of them in the wrist, he lost his temper and pulled his dagger on me. He meant to use it.’
‘I should have been here to help you.’
‘They’d not have shown their hand with you here, Leonard.’
‘I’ll not leave your side again, Nick.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Who set these bullies on to you?’
‘I mean to find out,’ said Nicholas, slinging the satchel around his neck again. ‘This is what saved me,’ he went on, patting the leather. ‘After bringing so much misery, The Malevolent Comedy has finally done us some good. I told you that it was worth its weight in gold.’
Owen Elias and Edmund Hoode fared no better in their search. After futile visits to a whole variety of inns, they ended up halfway down Cheapside. By mutual agreement, they decided to abandon the hunt for the night. Elias was full of remorse.
‘This has been like a penance to me, Edmund,’ he said.
‘A penance?’
‘Yes. We’ve been to over thirty alehouses and I’ve not been able to take a drink in any of them. I’m like a sultan in a harem, who looks upon his array of gorgeous wives but is unable to touch any of them.’
‘Searching for Dick Honeydew has kept both of us sober.’
‘If we could get him back safe, I’d not drink for a month.’
‘I may remind you of that,’ said Hoode with a weary smile. ‘I hope that Nick and Leonard have had more success. If not, we’ll search again in the morning.’
‘I’ll go back to the Queen’s Head. I said I’d meet Nick there.’
‘Then I’ll off to my lodging.’
‘One moment,’ said Elias, detaining him with a hand. ‘You’ve not told me who sent that letter yet. I know that you’ve been dying to read it all night, but held off doing so.’
‘That was my penance.’
‘It must be from a lady, then.’
‘I’m indebted to you for that, Owen. Until you brought her into my life, I did not know that such a paragon existed.’ He clapped Elias on the shoulder. ‘Farewell – and a thousand thanks.’
They parted company and Hoode hurried back to his lodging. It was too dark to read the letter in the street and, in any case, he felt that it deserved the utmost privacy. Hoode was convinced that it was a response to his sonnet and would therefore offer encouragement. Had his declaration been rejected, he would have been met by a stony silence yet he been favoured with an instant reply. Ursula had spoken. It was more than he had dared to expect.
When he got back to his room, he lit the candle on the table and sat down to read his letter, first inhaling the bewitching aroma that the paper gave off. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the missive and studied the contents, written in a neat, modest, feminine hand that, to him, symbolised the character of the young lady who had sent it. The message was short and unsigned but it was enough to make him let out a cry of joy. Hoode was not only thanked for the gift of his sonnet, he was invited to meet its recipient. Time and place were specified. His heart began to pound. He had never dreamt that Ursula would be so bold and so ready to meet him alone. Her letter was a poem in its own right. He kissed the paper softly then read the words again. Hoode almost swooned.
A tryst had been arranged.
‘God’s mercy!’ exclaimed Lawrence Firethorn. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I met with trouble.’
‘Serious trouble, by the look of you.’
‘They came off worse than me, Lawrence.’
‘They?’ said Owen Elias
‘There were two of them,’ explained Nicholas Bracewell. ‘Both armed with cudgels. They surprised me in the dark.’
‘Then where was Leonard? He kept you company. Two against two puts the matter beyond doubt. You and Leonard could see off half a dozen ruffians between you.’
‘Leonard was busy elsewhere.’
Nicholas had got back to the Queen’s Head to find both his friends awaiting him. They were alarmed to see the extent of his injuries. By the light of the candles, they saw the bruised face, the swollen lips and the dried blood on his temple. His buff jerkin had been badly scuffed in the course of the fight and his hose torn. Both sets of knuckles were raw. Nicholas gave them a shortened account of what had befallen him, not wishing to let his problems deflect them from the fate of the missing boy.
Firethorn’s sympathies, however, were with his book holder.
‘These are grim tidings, Nick. You might have been killed.’
‘I think their orders were to break a few bones.’
‘And they’d have done so if you’d not fought back,’ said Firethorn. ‘And where was Leonard all this while – pissing against a wall!’
Nicholas was tolerant. ‘The call of nature had to be answered.’
‘My concern is with the wants of Westfield’s Men.’
‘So are mine,’ said Elias, bitterly. ‘We’ve lost Dick Honeydew. We could not bear to lose you as well, Nick.’
‘I’ll make sure that it never happens,’ said Nicholas.
He was disappointed that Elias had returned empty-handed, but he resolved to widen the hunt on the following day. After helping in the early stages of the search, Firethorn had turned his mind to the question of what the company could stage in place of The Malevolent Comedy. An audience needed entertainment and, whatever straits the troupe was in, the actor-manager would never consider turning spectators away. After going through the available costumes and scenery in their store-room at the inn, he had reached a decision.
‘We play Cupid’s Folly tomorrow,’ he announced.
‘Why not Black Antonio again?’ asked Elias. ‘I have a leading role in that. In Cupid’s Folly, all eyes will be on Barnaby.’
‘This is no time to put yourself first, Owen. For my own part, I’d sooner play the tragedy but I feel that we should substitute a comedy for a comedy. All that we lack is a maypole.’
‘That’s easily made,’ said Nicholas. ‘You’ve chosen well, Lawrence. It’s not only a rustic caper for a hot afternoon, it’s a play we’ve done so often that it needs n
o rehearsal. George Dart can hold the book and I’ll be free to carry on the search.’
‘That was my reasoning.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve spoken to the printer, George will collect the playbills first thing in the morning. Those anxious to see The Malevolent Comedy will be displeased but at least we have something to set before them.’
‘And at least we know the real name of the author,’ said Elias. ‘We cannot say that of Saul Hibbert or Paul Hatfield or whatever he chooses to call himself today.’
‘His name no longer matters,’ said Firethorn, harshly. ‘His play has done for us. We’ll never perform it again.’
‘Then he’ll want it back,’ said Nicholas, ‘to take elsewhere.’
‘It’s our property now, Nick. We have a contract.’
‘No, you only have a contract with Saul Hibbert and he, it appears, did not write the play. Paul Hatfield is the author. The contract is void. On the other hand,’ he said with a grin of satisfaction, ‘it was signed in the presence of a lawyer so the playwright committed a crime. We were the victims of wilful deception. That entitles us to keep the play.’
‘Possession is everything in law,’ said Firethorn, ‘and it will stay in our possession to stop anyone else from gaining profit from it. There is no way that the author can get his hands on it.’
A thought struck Nicholas. ‘Yes, there is,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Elias.
‘Those men were not simply there to give me a beating tonight.’
‘Why else?’
‘They were after our copy of the play.’
Saul Hibbert, as he still preferred to be known, had enjoyed his meal at the Green Man, all the more so since John Vavasor had paid for it. What worried Hibbert, however, was that neither Vavasor nor Cyrus Hame were as lavish in their praise of him as they had been earlier, and, whenever he raised the subject of Banbury’s Men, his companions hinted at possible doubts. When they ended the supper with a glass of brandy, Hibbert probed for reassurance.
‘What exactly did you tell Master Randolph about me?’
The Malevolent Comedy Page 21