'How, sir? The young fellow will see me.'
'Distract him in some way'
'By what device?'
'Do your office and be quick about it.'
'I will try, sir.'
'You will succeed, George,' warned Hoode ominously. 'That missive is for her eyes only. Away!'
'Yes, master.'
Hoode stepped into the taproom and loitered near the door. Keeping one eye on the girl's parents, he watched the diminutive stagekeeper skip across the yard. George Dart excelled himself. He reached the couple, stepped between them and relayed a message to the boy before guiding him firmly away. Rose Marwood was left alone, wondering how the scroll had got into her hand.
When she studied the seal, a look of pleasant surprise lit up her whole face. Edmund Hoode positively glowed.
'Open it, my love,' he whispered. ' Open it.'
She obeyed his command as if she had heard it, breaking the seal and unrolling the parchment. Her surprise now gave way to bewilderment. With a frown of concentration, she stared at the sonnet for a few moments then turned it upside down to regard it anew from a different angle.
Hoode was aghast. He had expected his fourteen lines to wing their way straight to her heart and make her melt with passion. It had never even crossed his mind that this paragon, this ethereal beauty, this image of perfection could have any flaw. The truth was forced upon him with brutal suddenness. Rose Marwood could not read.
*
It had been going on for several days before a pattern began to emerge. Hugh Wegges noted that a few small items were missing from the tiring-house, Peter Digby was irritated by the disappearance of some sheet music, Thomas Skillen lost his favourite broom and John Tallis could not find his cap. Other instances of petty pilfering went unreported. The next victim was Samuel Ruff.
He and Nicholas Bracewell had enjoyed a drink together after a day's rehearsal at The Queen's Head. They were seated in the taproom and Ruff made to pay the reckoning. When he opened his purse, however, it was empty.
'My money has been stolen!'
'How much was in the purse?' asked Nicholas.
'No more than a few groats but they were honestly earned.'
'And dishonestly taken, it would seem.'
When could it have happened?' said Ruff, as baffled as he was annoyed. 'I've not been in crowds where pickpockets could easily set on me. My whole day has been spent here among my fellows.
Nicholas sighed. 'We have a thief in our midst.'
'Here?'
'You are not the only victim, Sam. I have had complaints all week. Someone has a wandering hand.'
'Hunt the villain down!'
'We will. But do not trouble yourself about the reckoning. I will settle it this time.'
'Only until I am paid,' insisted Ruff. 'I will owe you the money until then, Nick. I always pay my debts.'
'It is such a small amount, Sam. Hardly a debt.'
'I felt nothing,' admitted Ruff, staring in dismay at his empty purse. 'He is a light-fingered rascal, whosoever he is.'
'When did you last take coins out yourself?'
'At noon. To pay for my food and drink.'
'And since then?'
'The purse has been at my waist ever since.' A memory nudged him. 'Except for a few minutes when Hugh Wegges made me try on a new costume. There were a dozen or more of us in the tiring-house'
'Can you recall who they were?'
'No. I had no call to pay heed. Why?'
'One of them is the thief.'
Samuel Ruff was deeply upset by it all. It had been some time since he had earned a regular wage and he had learned to husband his money carefully. The thought that one of his own fellows might have robbed him hurt badly. He plunged into gloom.
'This is an omen,' he decided.
'Of what?'
'The tide is turning against me. It had to come.' A sigh of regret was followed by a helpless shrug. 'I was happy to belong to the company until this.'
'We are happy to have you, Sam.'
'It has meant everything to me, Nick, and I cannot thank you enough for your part in it all.' Embarrassment made him lower his head. 'You met me at…a difficult time…when I was…'
'You do not have to explain,' said Nicholas kindly to spare him any further discomfort. 'I understand.'
Samuel Ruff had been brought back from the dead as an actor. Having resigned himself to leaving the profession, he had been given one last chance to redeem himself and had done so admirably. The tiny spark inside him had been fanned into flame again and he had revelled in the world that he loved. Nicholas had watched it with pleasure. Samuel Ruff had been given back his dignity.
'And now it is all over,' said the actor sadly.
'That is not so, Sam.'
'But Master Gill is adamant. He will not tolerate me.'
'He is only one of the sharers,' Nicholas pointed out. 'The others know your true value, Sam.'
'They would still rather let me go than Master Gill.'
'It may not come to that.'
'Please try to help me!' begged Ruff, clutching at the other's wrist. 'I am desperate to stay with Westfield's Men. No other company would take me now. Please, Nick, use what influence you have on my behalf.’
‘I will,' promised Nicholas. 'Take heart.'
'And what of Master Gill?'
'We must study to persuade him.'
'Will he submit, think you?'
'Every man can have his mind changed.'
'I truly hope so!' He released Nicholas's wrist and sat back with a tired smile. 'Such a change in my life! When we two first met in that tavern, I was minded to go home.'
'You did go home, Sam.'
'I did?'
'To the theatre.'
Ruff acknowledged the remark with a nod then his smile became more confidential. He leaned across the table.
'Shall I make confession to you, Nick?'
'Of what?'
'I hate cows. I cannot abide the beasts.'
'We saved you from that,' said Nicholas with a grin.
'Oh, you did so much more, my friend!'
When Marwood had been paid for the ale, they went out together into the yard. Evening was starting to close in on what had been a fine, clear day. They reached the main gate and paused at the archway. Ruffs emotion showed through again.
'I could not bear to lose this, Nick!'
He shook the book holder's hand warmly then strode off through the archway to head towards his lodging. Nicholas cast one more glance around the yard and would have gone out into Gracechurch Street himself if his attention had not been caught by a sign of movement at a window. It was the tiring-house.
