'It's very important.'
'Just go away,' she whimpered.
She broke down into frantic sobbing. When Nicholas bent over to comfort her, however, she pushed him away and drew herself the very corner of the room. He watched the waif-like creature until her fear subsided a little then he spoke gently.
'I need to find him, Joan.'
'Leave me be, sir.'
'He killed a friend of mine. I want him.'
She curled herself up into a frightened ball and shook her head vigorously. Nicholas held out his purse to her.
'Keep your money!' she said.
'Listen to me!' he pressed. 'My friend was murdered last night by that man with the red beard. I'll find him no matter how long it takes. Please help me, Joan.'
She stayed in the shadows as she weighed him up, then she uncurled and sat up again. He crouched down beside her and tried once more to enlist her aid.
'There must be something you can tell me.'
'Oh yes!' she said ruefully.
'Had you seen him before?'
'Never! And I don't want to see him again.'
'Did he give you a name?'
'He gave me nothing but rough words, sir. But there is one thing I will always remember about him.' A shudder went through her. 'His back.'
'Why?'
'He told me not to touch it, and I didn't at first. But I like my arms around a man and I couldn't help it. When my fingers touched his back...'
'What was wrong with it?' he asked softly.
'Scars. Dozen of fresh scars all over it. Long, thick, raw wounds that made my flesh creep when I felt them.' A second shudder made her double up. 'He warned me. He did warn me.'
'What did he do to you, Joan?'
'This.'
She pulled the shift over her head and tossed it aside, then she lifted the tallow so that its pallid light fell on her. Nicholas blenched. He felt as if he had been kicked in the pit of the stomach.
The slim, naked, girlish body was covered in hideous bruises. Thick powder was unable to disguise the swollen face, the split lip and the blackened eyes. There was a telltale lump across the bridge of her nose.
He understood her fear all too well now. She could scarcely be much more than sixteen. In a fit of rage, her client had beaten her senseless and put years on her. Joan would bear her own scars for the rest of her life.
Nicholas put the purse into her hands and closed her fingers around it before leaving the room. He had learned something new and revolting about the killer with the red beard. It was not much but it was a start. There had been two victims the previous night. Will Fowler had been killed and Joan had been brutally assaulted. Both of them deserved to be avenged.
(*)Chapter Four
Richard Honeydew was finding that too much talent could be a disadvantage in the theatre. It excited envy. In the few months that he had been with Lord Westfield's Men, he had worked hard and shown exceptional promise but there was a high price to pay. The other three apprentices ganged up against him. Seeing him as a threat, they subjected him to all kinds of hostility, teasing and practical jokes. It was getting worse.
'Aouw!'
'That will cool you down, Dicky!' sneered John Tallis.
'Don't tell on us,' threatened Stephen Judd. 'Or it won't be water next time.'
'Unless its our own!' added Tallis with a snigger.
The two boys scuttled away and left Richard shivering with fright. As he came back from the privy, they had drenched him with a bucket of water. His blond hair was plastered to his head, his shirt was soaked and he was dripping all over the floor. It was as much as he could do to hold back tears.
Richard Honeydew was only eleven. He was small, thin and had the kind of exaggerated prettiness that made him an ideal choice for a female role. John Tallis and Stephen Judd were older, bigger, stronger and much more well-versed in the techniques of persecution. Hitherto, however, Richard had been fairly safe at a rehearsal because Nicholas Bracewell was usually on hand to take care of him. The book holder was his one real friend in the company and it was he who made life tolerable for the boy.
The apprentice's first instinct was to run straight to Nicholas but the warning from Stephen Judd still rang in his ears. He decided to clean himself up and say nothing. At the back of the tiring-house was a room that was used partly for storage and partly as a rest area where actors could sit out lengthy waits during a performance. Richard trotted along there and he was relieved to Find it empty. Pulling off his shirt, he grabbed a piece of hessian and used it to dry his hair and body.
He did not hear Barnaby Gill. The actor stood in the doorway and marvelled at the pale torso with its delicate tracery of blue veins across the chest. There was something so natural and beautiful about the scene that his heart took flame. Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him and caused Richard to spin around in alarm.
'Oh, it's you, Master Gill.'
'Don't be afeard, Dick. I won't harm you.'
'I was just drying myself.'
'I saw.'
Innocence is its own protection. As the actor moved stealthily towards him, Richard had no understanding of the danger he faced. He continued to work away with the hessian.
'That's too rough,' observed Gill. 'You need something softer for a body such as yours.'
'I've finished now.'
'But your breeches are wet as well. Slip them down and dry yourself properly.' As Richard hesitated, his voice coaxed on. 'Nobody will see you. Come, take them down. I'll help to rub you.'
The boy was still reluctant but he was at a disadvantage. Barnaby Gill was a leading member of the company with an influence upon its composition. He was not someone to antagonize. Besides, he had always been kind and considerate. Richard recalled gibes made about Gill by the other boys but he still could not fathom their meaning. As the avuncular smile got closer to him, he was ready to submit trustingly to the actor's touch. But it never came. Even as Gill reached out for him, the door opened and a voice spoke.
'Ah, there you are, Dick!'
'Hello, Master Ruff.'
'What do you want?' growled Barnaby Gill.
'I was looking for the lad,' explained the hired man easily. 'Come, Dick. The best place for you is out in the hot sun. The yard is an Italian piazza today. We'll hang you up to dry with the washing.'
Before Gill could stop him, Samuel Ruff whisked up the shirr and led the boy out of the room. The sharer was left to fume alone. He reached for the hessian which Richard had used and he caressed its surface for a few seconds. Then he threw it violently aside and stalked back into the tiring-house.
Ruff, meanwhile, had taken the boy into the yard to watch some of the rehearsal. Without quite knowing how, Richard had the feeling that he had just been rescued.
'If that ever happens again,' said Ruff, 'you tell me.' Richard nodded happily. He had found a new friend.
Patriotism is a powerful drug. In the wake of the victory against the Armada, it affected almost everyone. There was a surge of self-confidence and a thrill of pride that coursed through the veins of the entire nation. Master Roger Bartholomew also felt the insistent throb of patriotic impulse. He imbibed the details of the Spanish defeat, he listened to the sermons preached at St Paul's Cross and he attended many services of thanksgiving. In the faces all round him, he saw a new spirit, a greater buoyancy, a permissible arrogance. People were conscious as never before of the immense significance of being English.
The drug helped Bartholomew to forget all about his earlier setbacks and vows. Inspiration made him reach
