cleared his throat.
'Come in.'
The door opened and Nicholas Bracewell looked in.
'The lady is below, master.'
'Show her up, sir.'
'She will be with you presently.'
Nicholas closed the door behind him and Firethorn moved to the mirror to check his appearance for the last time. Because Lady Rosamund had expressed a wish to see his Hector, he had thought of dressing up in the costume that he had worn while playing the role, but he decided that that would be gilding the lily. Looking spruce and gallant in his doublet and hose, he adjusted his hat slightly then smiled at himself in the mirror.
Footsteps sounded outside. He took up his stance and cleared his throat again. There was another tap on the door, it swung open and she was conducted into him. The whole room was filled with her presence and he swooned as he inhaled her luscious perfume. Nicholas withdrew and closed the door, leaving them alone together for the first time in their lives.
Lady Rosamund Varley stood in the shadows and smiled tenderly at him. A long gown covered her dress, a hood concealed her face. She had come to the assignation with as much eagerness as he had and he sensed her breathless urgency.
Firethorn had the speech to fit the occasion.
''Now shall great Hector lay aside his sword,
Put off the garlands of a warrior,
And, talking terms of love, embrace defeat,
Surrender to his mistress all he hath!''
*
He removed his hat to make his bow. Her gloved hands applauded softly and she stepped forward into the light. It was exactly as he had imagined it would be.
I have waited for this moment a long time,' he said.
With courteous boldness, he moved towards her and gently eased back her hood so that he could taste the honey of her lips. The kiss was brief and light and oddly familiar. He pulled back and looked her in the face. His amorous inclination fell stone dead. It was not Lady Rosamund Varley at all. It was his wife.
And have you done all this for me, Lawrence?' she asked.
For whom else, my clove?'
His actors training saved him once again.
*
It was well past midnight and a sudden downpour was washing the streets of London and carrying away their refuse in busy rivulets. Splashing through the puddles, Benjamin Creech lurched his way home from the tavern and cursed the weather. It had been a bad day for him. His anger had made him walk out of Westfield's Men and he now saw what a mistake it had been. He was no longer of use. Giles Randolph wanted him where he could do harm.
By the time that he reached his lodging, he was soaked to the skin. He let himself in and blundered his way upstairs. Belching loudly, he went into his tiny room and tottered towards the mattress, ready to drop on to it as he was to sleep off his inebriation. As he leaned forwards, however, strong arms grabbed him and thrust him into the only chair.
'Sit down, sir!'
'Who are you?' grunted Creech, totally bewildered.
'An old friend has come calling.'
Too drunk to get up and too weak to protest, Creech had to sit there while the tallow was lighted. The yellow flame helped him to identify his visitor.
'Master Bracewell!'
'You left before we had finished our dealings, Ben.'
'I've no dealings with you, sir!'
'No,' replied Nicholas. 'Your dealings have been with Banbury's Men.' He held up some gloves. 'These were stolen from Hugh Wegges. That music there was taken from Peter Digby. I found John Tallis's cap here and George Dart's shoes and much else that you sneaked off with.' He threw a glance of disgust around the miserable lodging. 'It is a pity you did not bring Thomas Skillen's broom back here and put it to some use.'
'Get out!' said Creech drowsily.
'Not until we have had a talk, Ben.'
'I've nothing to say to you.'
'Did you steal this?' demanded Nicholas, thrusting a tabor at him. When Creech remained silent, he grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. 'Answer me, sir!'
'I cannot...breathe...'
'Did you steal it?' said Nicholas, exerting more pressure.
'Aye.'
'And the rest of the things?'
'Aye.'
'Did you try to cripple Dick Honeydew?'
'You will choke me!'
'Did you, Ben?'
'Aye.'...
'And was it to help Banbury's Men?'
Fearing that he would be strangled, Creech nodded his admission of guilt. Nicholas released him and took a step back to reach for something from the table. Starting to retch, the other man rubbed at his sore neck. When Nicholas put his face in close, he could smell the stink on Creech's breath.
'There is more you have to tell me, Ben.'
'No.'
'You did know Redbeard. You were his accomplice.'
'As God's my witness, I never saw the man before.'
'You set on me that night in Bankside,' said Nicholas with subdued fury. 'The two of you worked together.'
'That is not true!' howled Creech.
'Then how did you come by this?'
Nicholas dropped something into his lap and his companion stared at it with blurred, uncomprehending eyes. The object had been lying with the rest of Creech's spoils.
It was the prompt book for Gloriana Triumphant.
Lord Westfield's Men had grown accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of their leading actor but he could still surprise them from time to time. When Lawrence Firethorn summoned a meeting of the full company, they all expected that it would follow its normal course. He would first harangue them for what he felt were gross lapses in standards then he would commend anything praiseworthy that he had noted in their recent work. Finally, he would remind them of the intense rivalry they faced from other dramatic companies and urge them on to greater efforts to enhance the reputation of Westfield's Men.
It was different that morning. He did not even look like the same man. In place of the usual alert and spirited personality was a rather dull, jaded, weary human being. Jokes immediately circulated about the exhausting effects of his supposed night with Lady Rosamund Varley and many sniggers had to be held back. Barnaby Gill was on hand with a characteristically tart comment.
'No wonder he cannot walk straight,' he said to Edmund Hoode in a whispered aside. 'The lady has broken his middle leg!'
'What is amiss with him?' wondered the other.
'Lust, Edmund. Over-satisfied lust.'
They were gathered in the tiring-house at The Queen's Head. Instead of attacking them with a barrage of words, Firethorn spoke quietly and almost without interest. There was no condemnation, no praise and no
