that he was gibbering wildly. Firethorn took him by the shoulders and shook him into coherence.
'What has happened, man?'
'We have been robbed again.'
'Another apprentice?'
'No, Master. Our costumes have gone.' ,; 'Gone where?'
'Into thin air, sir. The basket has vanished.'
Lawrence Firethorn reached for his neck to throttle him then thought better of it. Charging downstairs to the room where the costume basket had been stored, he was shocked to see that it had, in fact, been taken. Their entire stock had gone. The cost involved was enormous but the consequences of the theft were much more crippling. Without their costumes, they could not stage a single play. Someone was trying to put Westfield's Men right out of business.
Firethorn clutched at his hair in desperation.
'Oh, Nick!' he howled. 'Where are you now!'
A full day in the saddle finally brought its reward. With two horses at his disposal, he could ride much faster and much further afield, changing his mounts to keep them fresh and towing one of them behind him. Nicholas Bracewell was tireless in his pursuit. Endless questioning and riding eventually brought him to Lavery Grange. There was no mistake this time. Banbury's Men were in the act of presenting The Renegade to an attentive audience. Posing as a late arrival, Nicholas gained admission to the Great Hall and lurked at the rear. Giles Randolph dominated the proceedings but the book holder was much more interested in those around him, searching for people who had betrayed Westfield's Men by yielding up the secrets of their repertoire. Nicholas recognized several faces but none had ever been employed by his company. He was mystified.
Who had stolen their major plays?
He did not expect Richard Honeydew to be anywhere on the premises. Banbury's Men were far too clever to be caught red-handed. If they were holding the boy, they would do so in some other place that was not too distant. Nicholas sidled out and chatted to one of the servants. The man spoke of three inns within an easy ride. Nicholas set off at once to check them out. He drew a blank with the first two but his conviction did not waver. He was now certain that he was closing in on Richard Honeydew.
His third call bore fruit. Though there was no sign of the boy inside the place, the landlord told him that the company would be staying there for the night. Most of them had rooms but a few would be sleeping with their luggage in the stables. Nicholas went out to inspect the alternative accommodation and could still find nothing untoward. He was about to give up and move away when he heard the noise.
It was a tapping sound, low but regular, and it seemed to come from a stone outhouse adjoining the stable block. When he got closer, he could hear it clearly enough to identify what it was. Someone was trying to kick against the heavy timber of the door. Nicholas ran forward and threw back the bolt. Opening the door, he stared into the gloom to see the sorry figure of Richard Honeydew, all trussed up and lying in the straw. With the very last of his energy, the boy had been trying to beat a tattoo on the door. Rescue was now at hand.
'Thank God I've found you, Dick!'
The gag in the boy's mouth prevented his reply but his eyes were liquid pools of eloquence. Nicholas read their dreadful message much too late. Something very hard and blunt hit him on the back of the head and he plunged forward into the straw.
(*)Chapter Nine
It was the worst night of his life. A man who had scaled the heights of nocturnal bliss so often and with such joyous confidence now fell backwards through space into the abyss. Lawrence Firethorn was in despair. His book holder was gone, his apprentice was kidnapped, his costume basket was stolen and his company was in disarray. Susan Becket lay upstairs in his bed unsatisfied and Eleanor Budden slept between her sheets untouched. They were so near and yet so tar from him. Firethorn was undone.
Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode shared his panic. 'They have cut off our heads, sirs,' said Firethorn.
'And our pizzles,' said Hoode.
'Mine is still in place,' insisted Gill haughtily.
'I did not think they would stoop so low.'
'Can we be sure this is their work, Lawrence?' asked Hoode. 'Some common thieves may have taken our basket.'
'Why should they take that when there were purses to be cut?' said Firethorn. 'No, Edmund. The footprints of Banbury's Men are stamped all over this enterprise. Only another company would know how best to imperil us. And that is by stealing the very clothes that we wear.'
They were in the taproom of their inn, sitting over cups of sack with collective melancholy, Barnaby Gill suddenly jumped to his feet, tossed his head, folded his arms and stood on his considerable dignity.
'I'll not play without my golden doublet,' he said huffily. 'If they find not my green velvet breeches and my yellow stockings and my shoes with the silver buckles and my hat with the three feathers in it, I'll stir not a step upon the stage!'
'We are all in this together, Barnaby,' said Hoode.
'Where is my suit of blue satin and my green cloak?'
'Be silent, sir!' snarled Firethorn.
'What of my cambric shirts and my lawn ruff?'
'Cease this whining!'
The actor-manager's roar cut short the fit of pique. Gill dropped back into his seat and stared moodily into his drink. At times of crisis, he could be relied upon to put his selfish interests before anything else. Edmund Hoode had far more compassion for his fellows.
'My thoughts are with poor Dick!' he said.
'So are mine upon occasion,' murmured Gill.
'I would surrender every shred of clothing that we own to get the lad safe back again. Where can he be?'
'Nick will find him,' said Firethorn.
'Aye,' agreed Hoode. 'Nick is our one bright hope.'
'How can you think that?' said Gill. 'If it were not for our esteemed book holder, we would not now be in such a case as this. I lay the guilt on him.' He spoke on over their protests. 'Defend him all you can, sirs, but this I declare. Nicholas Bracewell must bear the guilt. He it is who was most responsible for the safety of the apprentices yet one of them was taken from under his nose.'
'Nick cannot be everywhere,' defended Hoode.
'That is plain, Edmund. Were he not now gallivanting around the whole county, then our costumes would have been secure. He would have been here to do his duty and defend them properly.' Gill sat up sulkily. 'And I would still have my golden doublet!
'Someone had to go after Dick Honeydew,' said Hoode.
'And the only man fit for the task was Nick,' added Firethorn. 'He may yet extract us from this morass. I'll not hear one word of carping about him.'
'Then I'll hold my tongue,' said Gill sarcastically.
Firethorn drank deep from his cup and moaned aloud.
'What a world of pain is this touring! I do nor like it, sirs, and I fear it does not like me. Nothing but dire calamity has conic of it. We have faced rain, robbery and ruin. And the worst of it is that I am far from home and can draw no comfort from the soft bosom of my wife.'
Gill and Hoode traded a glance of tired amusement. With one woman upstairs in his bed and another featuring prominently in his fantasies, Lawrence Firethorn could still indulge in a bout of marital sentimentality with every sign of complete sincerity. Happiness was his ability to expel Margery entirely from his thoughts. It was only at moments of stress that she reappeared in his considerations and reminded him that he was her husband.
His colleagues listened to his maudlin reminiscences with a measure of cynicism. Their situation was drastic but there was yet some humour to be drawn from it. As Firethorn reached a crescendo of uxoriousness, he was interrupted by the arrival of the tentative George Dart.
'What is it?' growled Firethorn.
