earring that Gabriel Hawkes used to wear. It sparkled in the grubby hand of its thief. Nicholas took the earring and stood up to examine it. Neither he nor Hoode made any move when the man gathered up the rest of his haul and scampered away like an old sheep dog.
The two friends exchanged a glance. Gabriel had at least been spared this final indignity. He owned little enough in life and did not deserve to have it snatched from him in death. They walked back towards the pit and saw that the bodies were now being heaved into it before being covered with spadefuls of lime. The stink was overpowering but they did not turn back. As they looked down into the gaping tomb, they saw dozens of tormented bodies lying across each other at angles. It was now impossible to tell them apart.
Nicholas tossed the earring into the pit then offered up a silent prayer. Edmund Hoode was horrified by the callous anonymity of the mass burial.
'Which one is Gabriel?' he asked.
'God will know,' said Nicholas.
They lingered until the busy spades hid the shameful sight with layers of earth. It was all so functional and impersonal. Both of them were deeply affected. When they finally turned and strolled away, neither was able to speak for several minutes. Edmund Hoode eventually came out of his brooding solemnity.
'Why, what a foul contagion it is!'
'A devilish pestilence,' agreed Nicholas.
'I speak not of the plague.'
'Then what?'
'That other fatal disease. It struck down Gabriel Hawkes and, in time, it will account for us as well.'
'How say you?'
'I talk of the theatre, Nick. That fever of the blood which drives us to madness all our lives and hurries us towards our graves.' Hoode gave a mirthless laugh. 'Who else would take up this profession but a sick man? We are both infected beyond cure. We have caught the germs of false hope and empty fame. The theatre will kill us all.'
'No,' said Nicholas. 'It keeps us alive.'
'Only so that we may suffer gross affliction.'
'The loss of our friend has hurt you badly.'
'He was destroyed by his profession.'
'Or by someone in it.' Nicholas stopped. 'Gabriel Hawkes did not simply die of the plague. The disease would not have carried him off that quickly without some help from another source.'
'Help?'
'He was murdered, Edmund.'
Like a true man of the theatre, Lawrence Firethorn could not resist the opportunity to deliver a speech in front of a captive audience. Westfield's Men were summoned to the Queen's Head that morning. Since the inn was their London home, it was also the most appropriate point of departure. The company gathered in the room that was used as the tiring-house during performance. A great adventure was now in the offing.
They were all there, including Barnaby Gill, Rowland Carr, Simon Dowsett, Walter Fenby, the beaming George Dart and Richard Honeydew with the other boy apprentices. Edmund
Hoode sat pale and wan in the window. Christopher Millfield lounged in cavalier fashion against a beam. Nicholas Bracewell stood at the back so that he was out of range of the full blast of Firethorn's lecture and well- placed to gauge its effect on individual members of the company.
Also in the room, like a spectre at the feast, was the hollow-cheeked Alexander Marwood, the luckless landlord of the Queen's Head. Short, skinny and losing his hair by the week, Marwood had an uneasy relationship with Westfield's Men and only ever renewed their contract as an essay in self-torture. With no love for drama itself, he found the regular invasion by plays and players an ordeal that kept his nervous twitch in full employment. Westfield's Men brought danger to his property, to his reputation, to his serving wenches and to his sanity. He was better off without them. Yet now that they were going, now that they were quitting his hostelry for the open road, now that his yard would no longer be packed with thirsty patrons on most afternoons, now that he envisaged empty spaces and unsold beer and falling profits, he came round to the idea that they were the foundation of his livelihood.
'Do not leave me,' he said wistfully.
'We will return, Master Marwood,' promised Nicholas.
'The company will be much missed.'
'We do not leave of our own accord.'
'This plague is a curse upon us!'
'It may yet bestow some blessings.'
One of them was to shake off the gloomy landlord and escape his endless litany of complaints. Nicholas had been quick to spot that compensation. As the person who dealt most often with Alexander Marwood, he bore the brunt of the other's sustained melancholy. It was just one of the duties that Firethorn had cunningly assigned to him.
The actor-manager now got to his feet and raised up a hand. Silence fell. He held it for a full minute.
'Gentlemen,' he began, 'this is an auspicious moment in the history of our company. After conquering London and having the whole city at our feet, we will now make a triumphal tour of the kingdom to distribute our bounty more widely. Westfield's Men have a sacred mission.'
'What about me?' wailed Marwood.
'You have a mission of your own, dear sir.'
'Name it.'
'To sell bad beer at good prices.'
There was general laughter in the room. Now that they were leaving the inn, they could afford to ridicule its mean-spirited landlord. He was not a popular man. Apart from the buoyant hostility he displayed towards the players, he had another besetting sin. He guarded the chastity of his nubile daughter far too assiduously.
'Our departure from here is not without regret,' said Firethorn. 'We have been welcome guests at the Queen's Head this long time and our thanks must go to Master Marwood there for his unstinting hospitality.'
Muted laughter. They would be back one day.
'It is only when we leave something behind that we come to recognize its true value. And so it is with this fine theatre of ours.' Firethorn described the inn with a sweep of his hand. 'We shall miss it for its warmth, its magic and its several memories. By the same token, Master Marwood, I trust that you will miss Westfield's Men and hear the ghostly echoes of our work here whenever you cross the yard outside.'
Lawrence Firethorn was achieving the impossible. He was all but coaxing a tear from the landlord's eye. It was now time to put heart into his company.
'Gentlemen,' he continued, 'when we quit London, we do so as ambassadors. We take our art along the highways and byways of England, and we do so under the banner of Lord Westfield. His name is our badge of honour and we must do nothing to besmirch it.' Firethorn pointed at an invisible map in front of him. 'We ride north, sirs. We visit many towns along the way but our real destination is York. We have special business there in the name of our patron. York beckons.'
'Then let us go,' said Gill impatiently.
'Not in that mood of resignation, Barnaby.'
'My smile is not at home today.'
'It is spirit that I talk about, man. We must not set out as a band of stragglers with no firm purpose. It is there if only we will see it. This tour is a pilgrimage. We are palmers bearing our gifts towards the Holy Land. Think of York by another name mid it will raise your minds to our higher calling. I spoke of the Holy Land. York is our Jerusalem.'
George Dart was so transported by the speech that he clapped in appreciation. Barnaby Gill yawned, Edmund Hoode gazed out of the window and Christopher Millfield had to suppress a grin but the majority of the company were enthused by what they had heard. All of them had grave misgivings about the tour. It was a journey into the unknown that could be fraught with perils yet Firethorn had made it sound quite inspiring. Stirred by his words and needing the balm of an illusion, they tried to view their progress to York in a new light.
