'Do, do,' encouraged Firethorn. 'Use his knowledge of seamanship. Nicholas could be of great help to us here.'
'We lean on him too much,' said Gill irritably. 'Master Bracewell is only a hired man. We should treat him as such and not deal with him as an equal.'
'Our book holder has rare talents,' countered Firethorn. 'Accept that and be truly grateful.' He turned to Hoode. 'Make full use of Nicholas.'
'I always do,' answered the other. 'I often think that Nicholas Bracewell is the most important person in the company.'
Firethorn and Gill snorted in unison. Truth is no respector of inordinate pride.
*
London by night was the same seething, stinking, clamorous place that it was by day. As the two men made their way down Gracechurch Street, there was pulsing life and pounding noise all around them. They were so accustomed to the turmoil of their city that they did not give it a second thought. Ignoring the constant brush of shoulders against their own, they inhaled the reek of fresh manure without complaint and somehow made their voices heard above the babble.
'Demand a higher wage from them, Nick.'
'It would never be granted.'
'But you deserve it, you bawcock.'
'Few men are used according to their deserts, Will.'
'Aye!' said his companion with feeling. 'Look at this damnable profession of ours. We are foully treated most of the time. They mock us, fear us, revile us, hound us, even imprison us, and when we actually please them with a play for two hours of their whoreson lives, they reward us with a few claps and a few coins before they start to rail at us again. How do we bear such a life?'
'On compulsion.'
'Compulsion?'
'It answers a need within us.'
'A fair fat wench can do that, Nick.'
'I talk of deeper needs, Will. Think on it.'
Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler were close friends as well as colleagues. The book holder had great respect and affection for the actor even though the latter caused him many problems. Will Fowler was a burly, boisterous character of medium height whose many sterling qualities were betrayed by a short temper and a readiness to trade blows. Nicholas loved him for his ebullience, his wicked sense of humour and his generosity. Because he admired Fowler so much as an actor, he defended him and helped him time and again. It was Nicholas who kept Fowler in a job and it strengthened their bond.
'Without you, Westfield's Men would crumble into dust!'
'I doubt that, Will,' said Nicholas easily.
'We all depend upon you entirely.'
'More fool me, for bearing such an unfair load!'
'Seek more money. A labourer is worthy of his hire.'
'I am happy enough with my wage.'
'You are too modest, Nick!' chided the other.
'The same could not be said about you, I fear.'
Will Fowler broke into such irrepressible laughter that he scattered passers-by all round him. Slapping his friend between the shoulder blades, he turned a beaming visage upon him.
'I have tried to hide my light under a bushel,' he explained, 'but I have never been able to find a bushel big enough.'
'You're a born actor, Will. You seek an audience.'
'Applause is my meat and drink. I would starve to death if I was just another Nicholas Bracewell who looks for the shadows. An audience has to know that I am a good actor and so I tell them as loud and as often as I can. Why conceal my excellence?'
'Why indeed?'
Nicholas collected a second slap on the back.
They were crossing the bridge now and had to slow down as traffic thickened at its narrowest point. The massive huddle of houses and shops that made up London Bridge extended itself along the most important street in the city. The buildings stretched out over the river then lurched back in upon each other, closing the thoroughfare down to a width of barely twelve feet. A heavy cart trundled through the press. Nicholas reached forward to lift a young boy out of its path and earned a pale smile by way of thanks.
'You see?' continued Fowler. 'You cannot stop helping others.'
'The lad would have been hit by that wheel,' said Nicholas seriously. 'Too many people are crushed to death in the traffic here. I'm glad to be able to save one victim.'
'One victim? You save dozens every day'
'Do I?'
'Yes!' urged Fowler. 'And they are not just careless lads on London Bridge. How many times have you plucked our apprentices from beneath the wheels of that sodden-headed, sheep-faced sharer called Barnaby Gill? That standing yard between his little legs will do far more damage than a heavy cart. You've saved Dick
Honeydew and the others from being run down. You've saved Westfield's Men no end of times. Most of all, you save me.'
'From Master Gill?' teased Nicholas.
'What!' roared Fowler with jovial rage. 'Just let the fellow thrust his weapon at me. I'll saw it off like a log, so I will, and use it as a club to beat his scurvy head. I'd make him dance a jig, I warrant you!'
'Even I could not save you then, Will.'
They left the bridge, entered Southwark and swung right into Bankside. The Thames was a huge, rippling presence beside them. Nicholas had been invited to a tavern by Fowler in order to meet an old friend of the latter. From the way that his companion had been flattering him, Nicholas knew that he wanted a favour and it was not difficult to guess what that favour was.
'What is your friend's name, Will?'
'Samuel Ruff. As stout a fellow as you could find.'
'How long is it since you last saw him?'
'Too long. The years drift by so fast these days.' He gave a sigh. 'But they have been kinder to me than to Sam.'
'Does he know that I'm coming?' asked Nicholas.
'Not yet.'
'I've no wish to intrude upon an old friendship.'
'It's no intrusion. You're here to help Sam.'
'How?'
'You'll find a way, Nick. You always do.'
They strode on vigorously through the scuffling dark.
*
Even though it lay fairly close to his lodging, the Hope and Anchor was not one of Nicholas's regular haunts. There was something irremediably squalid about the place and its murky interior housed rogues, pimps, punks, thieves, pickpockets, gamblers, cheaters and all manner of masterless men. Ill-lit by a few stinking tallow candles, the tavern ran to rough wooden benches and tables, a settle and a cluster of low stools. Loamed walls were streaked with grime and the rushes on the stone-flagged floor were old and noisome. A dog snuffled for rats in one corner.
The Hope and Anchor was full and the noise deafening. An old sailor was trying to sing a sea shanty above the din. A card game broke up in a fierce argument. Two drunken watermen thumped on their table for service. Prostitutes laughed shrilly as they blandished their customers. A fog of tobacco and dark purpose filled the whole tavern.
Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler sat side by side on the settle and tried to carry on a conversation with
