for his pen and a play seemed to fall ready-made from his fertile brain. It was a celebration of England's finest hour and it contained speeches which, he believed, in all modesty, would thunder down the centuries. The verse bounded from the page, the characters were moulded to stake their claim to immortality.
As he blotted the last line and sat back in his chair, Bartholomew allowed himself a smirk of congratulation. His first play was juvenilia. With An Enemy Routed, he had come of age in the most signal way. The success of the piece would wipe away any lingering memories of his disappointment and disillusion. Only one problem remained. Master Roger Bartholomew had to make the crucial decision as to which dramatic company he would favour with his masterpiece. He luxuriated in the possibilities.
*
Two weeks wrought many changes among Lord Westfield's Men. As soon as Will Fowler's funeral was over, the general gloom began to lift. Samuel Ruff was an able deputy for his friend and, in spite of occasional remarks about leaving for Norwich soon, he settled in very well. Richard Honeydew was glad to have someone else to look out for him and he revelled in the fatherly concern that the hired man showed him. Lawrence Firethorn moved about in a cloud of ecstasy. Each day, he was convinced, brought him closer to the promised tryst with Lady Rosamund Varley; each performance gave him a fresh opportunity to woo her from the stage. Barnaby Gill's acid comments on the romance were largely unheard and totally unregarded. The company was grateful to the lady. When Firethorn was in love, everyone stood to gain.
The punishing round of the book holder's life gave Nicholas Bracewell less time than he would have wished to pursue his investigation of Will Fowler's murder, but his resolve did not slacken. After a fortnight, the casual brutality of it all still rattled him. Time after time, he went over the events that had taken place at the Hope and Anchor that night.
'And Redbeard was carrying a bottle in his hand?'
'Yes, Nick,' said Samuel Ruff.
'You're sure of that?'
'Completely. When he got close, I could smell the ale on his breath. The man had taken too much and could not hold his drink.'
'Then what happened?'
Ruff had been through the details a score of times but he did not complain. He was just as committed to finding the man who had murdered his old friend.
'Redbeard lurched against the settle on which Will was sitting and pushed it a good foot backwards. Some of his ale was spilled over Will.'
'So he took exception?'
'The row flared up in a matter of seconds, Nicholas.'
The book holder sighed. Will Fowler's short temper had caught up with him at last. Nicholas saw the familiar image of his friend, roused in argument, eyes blazing, cheeks aglow, voice howling and brawny arms ready to exact stern punishment. When he was in such a choleric mood, Will Fowler could not easily be calmed down. It had taken a cunning thrust from a sword to bleed all the rage out of him.
'I will never forgive myself,' said Ruff sadly.
'You tried to protect him.'
'I gave that ruffian his chance,' admitted the other. 'I would rather he had run me through than dear Will!'
'In some ways, I think he did,' observed Nicholas.
The two men had just come out of The Queen's Head at the end of another full day. Redbeard preyed on their minds. Nicholas reasoned that a man with a fondness for whores would not keep away from the brothels for long and he was visiting them all in turn. He was carrying a rough sketch of the stranger which Ruff had helped him to draw. They felt it was a good likeness of the man they sought but it had so far failed to jog any memories.
Samuel Ruff was eager to do his share of the work and he had taken the sketch around the stews in Eastcheap. Nicholas was concentrating on the more numerous brothels of Bankside, certain that their quarry would surface sooner or later.
'I think Redbeard is lying low,' said Ruff.
'He'll come out to play at night,' added Nicholas. 'The smell of a bawd will tempt him back.'
'I've been thinking about those wounds of his.'
'The scars on his back?'
'They might have cost Will his life.'
'In what way?'
Redbeard must have taken a severe beating from someone and his wounds still smarted. He wanted revenge. First of all, he attacks that poor girl and makes her pay for it, then he comes rolling downstairs in a drunken fury. Those scars were still on fire.'
'Did Will touch his back at all?'
A glancing blow as he lashed out at the man. No wonder Redbeard drew his sword. He'd been caught on the raw.'
'That's no excuse for murder, Sam,' reminded Nicholas.
'Of course not, but you take my point? If that villain had not been given such a beating. Will might be alive today.'
Nicholas thought it through carefully before speaking.
'There's truth in what you say but I must disagree about those scars on his back. He was not given a beating.'
'Then what?'
'I think he was whipped through the streets.'
'A malefactor?' said Ruff in surprise.
'I will ask him when I finally catch up with him.'
Nicholas waved aside Ruffs offer of company on his search and set off into the night. His mind played endlessly with the possibilities as he walked over the Bridge and swung into Bankside. It was late but he had promised himself he would make three calls. The first two visits were fruitless but he was not dismayed. He went on to the third name on his list.
The Cardinal's Hat was situated in a narrow, twisting, fetid lane which had an open drain running down its middle. There was no declaration of papacy in the tavern's name. To advertise the wares of the house, the cardinal's hat on the sign outside had been painted with such lewd skill that its crown resembled in shape and colour the dimpled tip of the male sexual organ.
As Nicholas turned into the dark lane, a figure swung out of the shadows and bumped into him. After a grunted apology, the man tried to move off but Nicholas gripped him firmly by the throat. Slipping a hand into the man's jerkin, he retrieved his newly-stolen purse then flung the pickpocket against a wall. With groans and curses, the man limped off into the night.
The Cardinal's Hat was so grimy and sordid that it made the Hope and Anchor look like a church vestry. Bare-breasted whores lolled about, drink and tobacco stoked up an inferno of noise, and all the dregs of the London streets seemed to have fetched up within. Tables were jammed so close together that any movement across the room was almost impossible. The reek that greeted him was overwhelming.
Nicholas lowered his head to duck under the main beam and one of the prostitutes jumped up to plant a guzzling kiss on his lips. He eased her away and sought out the surly landlord. The man was small and sinewy, a watchful polecat with its claws at the ready. He gave Nicholas no help at all until the sketch was produced. Holding it up to the tallow, the landlord squinted at it then let our a yell of rage.
'That's him! I know the rogue!'
'He was here?'
'Last week. Monday. Tuesday, maybe.'
'You're certain he's the same man?'
'He's no man,' snarled the other, thrusting the sketch back at Nicholas. 'That's a vile beast you have there.'
'What did he do?'
'Alice would tell you if she was here--God help her!'
