costume swish. He had no doubt what was happening. The thief was at work again.
Lifting the latch with painful slowness, he eased the door wide enough open to look into the tiring-house. He was so startled by what he saw that he had to blink. It was the most unexpected discovery of all and he could not at first believe it.
In the corner of the room, Barnaby Gill was kissing a young woman. They were locked in a tender embrace and the actor was behaving with almost knightly courtesy, taking his pleasure softly and with evident respect for his lady. If it had not been so astonishing, the sight would have touched Nicholas.
He opened the door further and it creaked on its hinges. The couple immediately sprang guiltily apart and swung round to face him. He was given another severe jolt. The woman wore the costume and auburn wig that would be used in the next play.
It was Stephen Judd.
The apprentice turned red and Barnaby Gill blustered.
'What business have you here, sir?' he demanded.
'I saw something through the window.'
'It is nothing that need concern you. I was giving the boy some instruction, that is all. We are done now.'
'Yes, Master Gill,' said Nicholas evenly.
'You may leave us,' added the other loftily.
'I will see Stephen safe home first.'
'Get out!'
There was an expressive venom in the command but Nicholas held his ground and met the other's glare. Barnaby Gill gradually backed off as cold reason searched him out. If the book holder reported what he had witnessed, the sharer would be placed in a very awkward predicament. Firethorn and the others wore well aware of Gill's preference for boys but it was mutually understood that he would not pursue or corrupt the apprentices. His brief moment with Stephen Judd could be fatal.
Nicholas stared him out. In those long, silent minutes, a bargain was struck between the two men. In return for saying nothing of what he had seen, Nicholas would keep Samuel Ruff in the company. It was an uneasy compromise but Gill yielded to it.
Stephen Judd was still flushed with guilt, which suggested that this had been the first time that he had succumbed to the actor's blandishments. Nicholas was determined that it would also be the last time. A serious talk with the boy was now due.
'Get changed, Stephen,' he said.
Nervous and confused, the apprentice turned to Gill for guidance. The actor made a vain attempt to take control of the situation and waved a dismissive hand at the book holder.
You need not wait for him, sir,' he said fussily, 'I will take the lad back to his lodging. We bid you adieu.'
'Get changed,' repeated Nicholas quietly.
After a long pause, Gill gave the boy a curt nod and the latter began to remove the costume and wig. Nicholas opened the door fully and stepped to one side. Barnaby Gill took his cue. Without a backward glance, he marched quickly away from the scene of his latest disappointment. Another conquest had been lost.
Sunday morning found Lawrence Firethorn in his accustomed place in the parish church of St Leonard's, Shoreditch, with his wife, children, apprentices and servants. He sang lustily, prayed zealously and stayed awake throughout a long and wayward sermon on a text from the Gospel According to St Mark. To all outward appearances, he was a contented family man at his regular devotions, and nobody in the full pews would have guessed that the matronly woman who stood, sat or knelt beside him was harbouring such murderous thoughts about her husband.
The Spanish Armada had served to strengthen the Protestant church immeasurably and to extend its hold over some of its less devout souls. Fear of invasion sent everyone hurrying to matins and vespers to pray for deliverance, and the English victory was celebrated in every pulpit in the land before a packed and grateful congregation. During that summer and autumn of 1588, churchwardens in town and country alike had far less cause to tax any feckless parishioners with poor attendance. Armada fever and its association with Rome swelled the flocks of even the most undeserving shepherds, and banished any nostalgia for the glories of the old religion.
Lawrence Firethorn had never been lax in attending to his spiritual needs. Old enough to remember the Latin liturgy that was restored during Mary's reign, he had been pleased when Elizabeth's accession brought a return to the Protestant service. He had quickly fallen under the spell of the Book of Common Prayer and the beauty of its language was a gift to an actor of his stature. The colour and ritual of the church had a theatricality which appealed to him and he was always ready to learn something from a priest who brought histrionic skills into the pulpit.
As he went down on his knees once more at the end of the service, his eyes did not close in prayer. They were fixed on the altar and a beatific smile covered his face. Margery Firethorn took a sidelong glance at him and wondered if he had been transfigured, such was the light that shone from him. But her husband was not suffused with the joy of Christian worship. What mesmerized him was the colour of the altar cloth--a royal blue embroidered with gold. It precisely matched the hue of the bodice that Lady Rosamund Varley had worn to The Curtain.
The text of the sermon wafted back into his ears.
'Behold, I send my messenger before thy face...'
*
Nicholas Bracewell wasted no time in passing on the good news to Samuel Ruff. Though concealing the circumstances in which it had occurred, he told the actor about Barnaby Gill's change of mind. Ruff was so delighted that he gave the book holder a spontaneous hug that crushed the breath out of him. 'This gladdens my heart, Nick!'
'They are happy tidings for us all.'
'You must have a persuasive tongue in your head.'
'I used reason and art. No more.'
'Should I speak with Master Gill on the matter?'
'That would not be wise,' said Nicholas hurriedly. 'Put your past differences behind you, Sam. I am sure that Master Gill will not wish to raise the issue again.'
They had arrived at The Queen's Head to start a morning rehearsal and they were standing outside the tiring-house. Nicholas could not have given his friend a more welcome present than the intelligence that he would remain with Westfield's Men. Ruffs normally serious face was alive with pleasure.
A booming voice interrupted their conversation.
'Nicholas, dear heart!'
'Good morning, master.'
'Good morning, sir,' muttered Ruff, withdrawing a few paces.
Lawrence Firethorn bestowed an amiable grin on the hired man then turned to Nicholas. The latter knew exactly what to expect.
'You wish me to carry a message for you?'
'Without delay, Nick.'
'Could not George Dart do the office?'
'No!' thundered Firethorn. 'I could not insult the recipient of my missive by sending such a mean bearer. This is man's work, Nick, and must not be left to some squirrel-faced youth.'
'But I am needed here,' argued the other.
'Someone else will hold the book in your absence, dear fellow. You are called to a higher duty.'
Firethorn took a letter from beneath his doublet and planted a resounding kiss on it before handing it over.
'See it delivered.'
'Yes, master.'
'Wait for an answer.'
'I will.'
The actor adopted the pose which the vicar of St Leonard's had favoured in the pulpit on the previous day, and he spoke with holy resonance.
''Behold, I send my messenger before thy face...''
