the menu. Even the nature of the lighting was specified. When he had finalized all these arrangements, Nicholas was to return to The Queen's Head and convey a message of confirmation to Lady Rosamund Varley, who would still be with Lord Westfield and his entourage in their private room.
'May I ask one question?' said Nicholas.
'Ask away, dear fellow.'
'Why have you chosen the Bel Savage?'
'Because,' replied the other, letting his chest swell with pride, 'it was there that I first gave the world my Hector!'
He bowed extravagantly to imagined applause then left the room with a flourish. Nicholas gave a man smile. At a time when much more urgent concerns pressed upon him, he was being used to promote Firethorn's adultery. He did not forget Lady Varley's old association with Lord Banbury and his earlier decision stood. He would emulate the play which had been staged that afternoon.
Nicholas would cause mischief in a marriage.
*
The injustice of it all gnawed at the very entrails of Edmund Hoode. A sonnet which achieved its desired objective for another man had signally failed for its author. The mellifluous verse which helped to enchant Lady Rosamund Varley had been wasted on Rose Marwood. The landlord's daughter was beyond the reach of poetry.
The poet was devastated but there was worse to come yet. When he changed out of his costume after the performance, he went to the taproom for some refreshment. Alexander Marwood pounced. The landlord's twitch was in full operation.
'A word with you, Master Hoode.'
'What ails you, sir?'
'A most grave matter. There is lechery abroad.'
'Indeed?'
‘Read the sinful document for yourself.’
He thrust a small scroll at the other and Hoode found himself staring down at his own sonnet. It had not been handled with kindness. The parchment was creased and covered with crude fingerprints. It was symbolic.
‘Well, sir?' demanded Marwood.
‘It is…moderately well-written,' said Hoode, pretending to read the lines for the first time. 'How came this into your hands, sir?'
‘It was given to my daughter by some scoundrel.'
'Who was he?'
'Rose could not say. It happened so quickly.'.
'Then how may I help you?'
'By finding the author of this vile stuff,' insisted the landlord. 'I tried to speak to Master Firethorn about it but he brushed me off. I turn to you instead. We must root out this fiend.'
'Why, sir?'
'Why, sir? Because my daughter's virtue is in danger as long as this lascivious knave remains in your company. My wife is resolved, Master Hoode. The man must go.'
'Go?'
'We will not lie easy in our beds until he is unmasked. The villain means to ravish our daughter.'
'I see nothing of that in the sonnet.'
'It is between the lines,' hissed Marwood. He controlled his twitch long enough to deliver an ultimatum. 'My wife and I are agreed, sir. Unless he is driven out, we must henceforth close our doors to Westfield's Men.'
'But how do you know he belongs to the company?'
'We know,' said the other darkly.
Edmund Hoode felt his heart constrict. Instead of winning the favours of Rose Marwood, his sonnet had brought the full weight of her parents down upon him. The relationship between landlord and company was always uneasy. His poem had thrown it into jeopardy.
'Rose fetched it to us,' explained Marwood. 'She does not read. No more do I with any great skill, but my wife is educated. She read its bold message clear enough. My wife has a quick mind, sir. You may have noticed.'
'Yes, yes,' agreed Hoode.
'She thinks that scroll might have a clue.'
'Clue?'
'At the bottom there,' said the landlord, jabbing a bony finger at the poem. 'Two letters are picked out, sir. 'E' and 'H'. Might they not be his initials?'
'Oh, I think not,' replied the poet, trying to put him off the scent. 'That is too obvious a device for the fellow. He works in deeper ways.' He stared at the sonnet and invention came to his aid. 'I think I have it, Master Marwood!'
'You know the villain's hand?'
'No, bin I can guess at his name. There is a clue here if we can but unravel it. Read the opening lines.'
'Do it for me, sir. I am no scholar.'
''Be mine, sweet creature, come unto thy love,
O rarest rose, wilt not upon thy stem…''
'Lechery in every word!' wailed the landlord.
'You see how the first letter is writ large?' said Hoode, thrusting the scroll under his nose. 'That 'B' stands for Ben, I'll wager.'
'Ben who?'
'Look to that 'sweet creature'. There is our clue. Hidden in that 'creature', I dare swear, is a certain Creech.'
'Ben Creech?'
'One of the hired men in the company.'
'I know him. A surly fellow who cannot hold his ale.'
'He is our man, sir.'
'Could such a man as that write poetry?'
'He paid some scribbler to write it for him,' argued Hoode. 'Creech has been eyeing your daughter, Master Marwood, and it comes as no surprise to me. We had trouble with the fellow when we played at The Saracen's Head in Islington. It was a serving-wench on that occasion. Creech is a hot-blooded rogue.'
'He must be sent on his way!' yelled Marwood vengefully.
'He already has been. Ben Creech is no longer with us.'
‘Is this true?'
‘It is an accident that heaven provides,' said the other easily. Danger has passed and your daughter is safe.'
'This news brings much relief, sir.'
To me as well!' muttered Hoode with feeling. 'Tell me, Master Marwood. Did anyone read the sonnet to your daughter?'
'My wife did,' answered the landlord, twitching merrily. 'That was part of our concern, sir. Rose liked it. She is a fanciful girl and easily led astray. The poem touched her.'
Marwood went off across the room and Edmund Hoode wiped some of the perspiration from his lip. Agility of mind had saved both him and the company. Benjamin Creech had been palmed off as the love- lorn swain. Hoode's own hopes had been dashed for ever but there was one consolation. Rose Marwood did respond to a poet's lute, after all. She would think fondly of her admirer.
Needing some fresh air after the encounter with the landlord Hoode went out into the yard where the stage was being taken down. It was a scene he had witnessed many times but it was to hold a cruel element for him now. George Dart was as busy as always, carrying trestles away under the eaves that ringed the yard. The little stagekeeper paused to catch his breath and caught more. Rose Marwood popped out of her hiding place near the stables and kissed him on the cheek before racing away again. Since he had given her the poem, she clearly thought that he was its author.
