Edmund Hoode's misery was complete. He went home.
*
The Bel Savage Inn supplied all his needs. He was given a large, low, well-furnished room with an adjacent bed-chamber which featured rich hangings around its four-poster. Nicholas Bracewell had been as reliable as always. Walking around the room, Lawrence Firethorn gave silent thanks for his book holder. Everything was as it should be, even down to the number and positioning of the candles. As night began to draw its curtains, the whole place was bathed in a soft, bewitching glow.
His patience was at last rewarded. When Lady Rosamund arrived, they would share an exquisite repast and drink the finest Canary wine. Musicians had been hired to play for them. He would then woo her ardently and they would glide together into the bed-chamber to consummate their love on a four- postered paradise. Life could hold nothing sweeter for him.
He heard a sound on the landing outside and came out of his reverie. There was a tap on the door. He cleared his throat.
'Come in.'
The door opened and Nicholas Bracewell looked in.
'The lady is below, master.'
'Show her up, sir.'
'She will be with you presently.'
Nicholas closed the door behind him and Firethorn moved to the mirror to check his appearance for the last time. Because Lady Rosamund had expressed a wish to see his Hector, he had thought of dressing up in the costume that he had worn while playing the role, but he decided that that would be gilding the lily. Looking spruce and gallant in his doublet and hose, he adjusted his hat slightly then smiled at himself in the mirror.
Footsteps sounded outside. He took up his stance and cleared his throat again. There was another tap on the door, it swung open and she was conducted into him. The whole room was filled with her presence and he swooned as he inhaled her luscious perfume. Nicholas withdrew and closed the door, leaving them alone together for the first time in their lives.
Lady Rosamund Varley stood in the shadows and smiled tenderly at him. A long gown covered her dress, a hood concealed her face. She had come to the assignation with as much eagerness as he had and he sensed her breathless urgency.
Firethorn had the speech to fit the occasion.
''Now shall great Hector lay aside his sword,
Put off the garlands of a warrior,
And, talking terms of love, embrace defeat,
Surrender to his mistress all he hath!''
*
He removed his hat to make his bow. Her gloved hands applauded softly and she stepped forward into the light. It was exactly as he had imagined it would be.
I have waited for this moment a long time,' he said.
With courteous boldness, he moved towards her and gently eased back her hood so that he could taste the honey of her lips. The kiss was brief and light and oddly familiar. He pulled back and looked her in the face. His amorous inclination fell stone dead. It was not Lady Rosamund Varley at all. It was his wife.
And have you done all this for me, Lawrence?' she asked.
For whom else, my clove?'
His actors training saved him once again.
*
It was well past midnight and a sudden downpour was washing the streets of London and carrying away their refuse in busy rivulets. Splashing through the puddles, Benjamin Creech lurched his way home from the tavern and cursed the weather. It had been a bad day for him. His anger had made him walk out of Westfield's Men and he now saw what a mistake it had been. He was no longer of use. Giles Randolph wanted him where he could do harm.
By the time that he reached his lodging, he was soaked to the skin. He let himself in and blundered his way upstairs. Belching loudly, he went into his tiny room and tottered towards the mattress, ready to drop on to it as he was to sleep off his inebriation. As he leaned forwards, however, strong arms grabbed him and thrust him into the only chair.
'Sit down, sir!'
'Who are you?' grunted Creech, totally bewildered.
'An old friend has come calling.'
Too drunk to get up and too weak to protest, Creech had to sit there while the tallow was lighted. The yellow flame helped him to identify his visitor.
'Master Bracewell!'
'You left before we had finished our dealings, Ben.'
'I've no dealings with you, sir!'
'No,' replied Nicholas. 'Your dealings have been with Banbury's Men.' He held up some gloves. 'These were stolen from Hugh Wegges. That music there was taken from Peter Digby. I found John Tallis's cap here and George Dart's shoes and much else that you sneaked off with.' He threw a glance of disgust around the miserable lodging. 'It is a pity you did not bring Thomas Skillen's broom back here and put it to some use.'
'Get out!' said Creech drowsily.
'Not until we have had a talk, Ben.'
'I've nothing to say to you.'
'Did you steal this?' demanded Nicholas, thrusting a tabor at him. When Creech remained silent, he grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. 'Answer me, sir!'
'I cannot…breathe…'
'Did you steal it?' said Nicholas, exerting more pressure.
'Aye.'
'And the rest of the things?'
'Aye.'
'Did you try to cripple Dick Honeydew?'
'You will choke me!'
'Did you, Ben?'
'Aye.'…
'And was it to help Banbury's Men?'
Fearing that he would be strangled, Creech nodded his admission of guilt. Nicholas released him and took a step back to reach for something from the table. Starting to retch, the other man rubbed at his sore neck. When Nicholas put his face in close, he could smell the stink on Creech's breath.
'There is more you have to tell me, Ben.'
'No.'
'You did know Redbeard. You were his accomplice.'
'As God's my witness, I never saw the man before.'
'You set on me that night in Bankside,' said Nicholas with subdued fury. 'The two of you worked together.'
'That is not true!' howled Creech.
'Then how did you come by this?'
Nicholas dropped something into his lap and his companion stared at it with blurred, uncomprehending eyes. The object had been lying with the rest of Creech's spoils.
It was the prompt book for Gloriana Triumphant.
Lord Westfield's Men had grown accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of their leading actor but he could still
