'This wound needs a surgeon.'
'I have no time to stay.'
'Let me send for one, Nick.'
'The pain is easing now,' he lied.
They were at the house in Bankside and Nicholas Bracewell was sitting on a chair while his landlady dressed the gash on the back of his head. As soon as he had recovered consciousness in the street, he had dragged himself up from the ground and staggered on as far as his front door. His hat was sodden with blood, his mind blurred and his whole body was one pounding ache.
When the servant answered his knock on the door, she let out a scream of fright at the condition he was in. Anne Hendrik had rushed out and the two women had carried Nicholas to a chair. Left alone with him, Anne now tended his wound with the utmost care and sympathy. She was almost overwhelmed by apprehension.
'You believe it was the same man?' she asked.
'I know it was.'
'It was dark, Nick. How can you be certain?'
'I would recognize him anywhere. It was Redbeard.'
'A murderous villain, lying in wait for you!' she said with trembling anxiety. 'It does not bear thinking about!'
'I survived, Anne,' he reminded her.
'Only by the grace of God! You are lucky to be alive!'
'They were not after me,' decided Nicholas, trying to make sense of what had happened. 'I would be lying dead in that street now if they had wanted to kill me. No, they were after something else.'
'Your purse?'
'They left that, Anne. What they stole was my satchel.'
'With your prompt book in it?' she gasped.
'Yes. That is what they wanted-Gloriana Triumphant.'
Anne Hendrik saw the implications at once and she blenched. The one complete copy of the play had now disappeared and there was no way that Nicholas could control the performance without it.
'This is terrible!' she exclaimed. 'You will have to cancel the play tomorrow.'
'That is their intention, Anne.'
'But why?'
'I can only guess,' he said. 'Malice, spite, envy, revenge…There are many possible reasons. We work in a jealous profession.'
'Who would do such a thing?'
'I will not rest until I have found out,' he pledged. 'One thing is clear. Redbeard has an accomplice. I could not understand how he could have gained entry to The Cardinal's Hat without being recognized. The answer must be that he did not go back there after that poor creature. It was the other man who slit Alice's throat.'
'To prevent her helping you?'
'I believe so. Redbeard knows that I am after him.'
Anne Hendrik gave a little shiver and finished tying the bandage around his head. The blood had discoloured his fair hair and there was an ugly bruise on his temple from his fall on to the cobbles. Tears of love and compassion trickled down her cheeks. She grabbed at his arm as he stood up.
'You are in no condition to go out again, Nick.'
'I have no choice.'
‘Let me come with you,' she volunteered.
No, Anne. I can manage alone. Besides, it will be a long night. Do hot expect me back until morning.'
'Where will you be?' she said, following him to the door.
'Writing a play.'
*
Edmund Hoode had an author's gift for happy invention. Desperate to fall in love again, he had settled on Rose Marwood and he persuaded himself that she was the most divine member of her sex. Her deficiencies were quickly remedied by his burgeoning imagination and she emerged as the girl of his dreams-a magical compound of beauty, wit, charm and understanding. Without realizing it, Rose Marwood had tripped across the innyard and been transformed. Hoode made no allowance for the fact that he had hardly spoken to her. He was in love and romance knows no reason.
An hour of reflection upon her virtues confirmed him in his plan to send her the sonnet. Having written it out again in a fail-hand, he appended the phrase 'Every Happiness', picking out the 'E' and the 'H' with such flourishes of his pen that he felt sure she would identify the initials of her swain.
Further indulgence was cut short by a banging on the door Nicholas Bracewell was soon invited in to explain his head wound and tell his story. Panic all but throttled Hoode when he heard that his play had been stolen. It was like losing a child.
'What can we do, Nicholas?' he wailed.
'Start again.'
'From what? You had the only complete copy.'
'We will patch it together somehow,' promised the other. 'I have roused George Dart and sent him to fetch what sides he can get from the players. I have been back to The Curtain and retrieved my copy of the Plot. Then there is your knowledge of writing the play and my memory of rehearsing it. If we put all that together, we should be part of the way towards making another prompt book.'
'It will take us all night, Nicholas!'
'Would you rather cancel the performance?'
The thought of it was enough to make Hoode tremble. He needed only a few seconds to come to his decision. Fourteen lines to Rose Marwood were put aside in favour of a few thousand for the audience at The Curtain.
As soon as the scrivener arrived, they got to work as fast as was compatible with accuracy. The copious detail of the Plot which Nicholas had prepared was an enormous help and it stimulated Hoode's memory at once.
Lawrence Firethorn was the next to appear, fulminating against the Earl of Banbury's Men whom he had already identified as the villains. His towering rage, however, was tinged with relief Appalling as the theft of the prompt book was, it had rescued him from interrogation by Margery.
Since his own part was the leading one, the copy which he^ brought gave the scrivener ample material to work on. Most or the gaps were filled in when the panting George Dart came on the scene with the individual sides from some of the players. While the stagekeeper got his breath back, Nicholas sifted through them and put them in order. One particular copy was missing.
'Did you call on Creech?' asked Nicholas.
‘He was not at his lodging, Master Bracewell,' said Dart.
'The nearest tavern is his lodging!' sighed Firethorn.
'I tried there as well, sir.'
'Thank you, George,' said Nicholas.
'Can I go now?'
'Yes,' ordered Firethorn. 'Find Creech. There is one scene involving him and two mariners that we do not seem to have here. Root him out from his drinking hole, George.'
'Must I, sir?' moaned Dart.
'Indeed, you must!'
'But I've been running about for hours.'
'Run some more, sir. This is the theatre!'
Cowed into submission, George Dart went off into the night in search of the hired man. Hoode, Firethorn and Nicholas carried on reassembling the play while the scrivener's quill fluttered busily. Shortly before midnight, the first stoup of wine was served. They would need plenty more to get them through their arduous task.
Dawn was plucking at the windows by the time that a fair copy was ready. Matthew Upton, the scrivener, was groaning with exhaustion and his writing arm lay limp across his lap. Nicholas now took over. Using his Plot and
