'Refreshment has been set out.'
'Good. We deal with weighty matters.'
'Nobody will dare to interrupt!'
Her raised voice was a threat which could be heard in every coiner of the house. She glided off to the kitchen and Firethorn was left to conduct his two visitors into the main room. Barnaby Gill puffed at his pipe and took a seat at the table while Edmund Hoode curled up on the settle in a corner. Firethorn remained on his feet so that he could the more easily assert his ascendancy.
It was a business meeting. All three of them were sharers with Westfield's Men, ranked players whose names were listed in the royal patent for the company. They took the leading parts in the plays and had a share in any profits that were made. There were four other sharers but most of the decisions were made by Firethorn, Gill and Hoode, a trio who combined wisdom with experience and who represented a balance of opinion. That, at least, was the theory. In practice, their discussions often degenerated into acrimonious bickering.
Barnaby Gill elected to strike the first blow this time.
'I oppose the notion with every sinew of my being!'
'No less was expected of you,' said Firethorn.
'The idea beggars belief.'
'Remember who suggested it, Barnaby.'
'Tell Lord Westfield that it is out of the question.'
'I have told him that we accede to his request.'
'You might, Lawrence,' said the other testily, but I will never do so, and I speak for the whole company.'
Barnaby Gill was a short, plump, round-faced man who tried to hold middle age at bay by the judicious use of cosmetics. Disaffected and irascible offstage, he became the soul of wit the moment he stepped upon it and his comic routines were legendary. Tobacco and boys were his only sources of private pleasure and he usually required both before he would shed his surliness.
Lawrence Firethorn grasped the nettle of resistance.
'What is the nature of your objection, Barnaby?'
'Fear, sir. Naked, unashamed fear.'
'Of another apparition?'
'Of what else! I am an actor, not a sorcerer. I'll not meddle with the supernatural again. It puts me quite out of countenance.'
'But we survived,' said Firethorn reasonably. 'The devil came and went but we live to boast of our ordeal.'
It might not be so again, Lawrence.'
'Indeed not. The creature might decline to visit us next time.'
'He'll get no invitation from me, that I vow!'
Firethorn reached for the flagon on the table and poured three cups of ale, handing one each to the two men. He quaffed his own drink ruminatively then turned to Edmund Hoode.
You have heard both sides, sir. Which do you choose?'
'Something of each, Lawrence, said the playwright.
'You talk in riddles.'
'I think that The Merry Devils should be seen again.'
'Excellent wretch!'
'An act of madness!' protested Gill.
'Hold still, Barnaby,' said Hoode. 'I agree with you that we must not run the risk of bringing back that real devil.'
Firethorn was perplexed. 'How can you satisfy us both?
'By amending the play. Here's the manner of it.'
Edmund Hoode had given it considerable thought. Instinct urged him to refuse to be involved again in a work that had taken them so close to catastrophe, but the words of Grace Napier echoed in his ears. His performance as Youngthrust had started to win her over. If he were allowed to give it again-replete with all the sighing and suffering that his beloved could wish for-then he would move nearer to the supreme moment of conquest. To make the play safe, he proposed a number of alterations, principally in the scene where Doctor Castrato summoned the merry devils.
'Ralph's magic was too potent,' he said. 'I will get him to cast some new spells that are too blunt to raise anything more than George Dart and Roper Blundell. It is a simple undertaking for Ralph.'
'Not so,' said Firethorn sternly. 'Do it yourself, Edmund.'
'But that scene came from his hand.'
'Which is exactly why it caused so much trouble. Ralph Willoughby has been the bane of this company for long enough.
Ever since be worked with us, we have been plagued by setback. Misfortune attends the fellow. I spoke with him yesterday and severed the connection. We paid him for his share of the play and he has gone. It is up to you now, Edmund.'
'But we were friends and co-authors,' said Hoode defensively.
'That time is past.'
'I never liked him,' admitted Gill sourly, tapping out his pipe on the edge of the table. 'Willoughby was the strangest soul. There was a darkness behind that bright smile of his that I could not abide.'
'Ralph is the finest dramatist in London,' insisted Hoode.
'That is open to dispute,' said Firethorn.
'He has worked with all the best companies, Lawrence.'
'Then why have they not retained his services?'
'Well…'
'Everyone seeks a resident poet, Edmund, which is why you are the envy of our rivals. But none of them has pressed Master Willoughby to stay. He writes well, I grant you, but he brings bad luck-and that is too heavy a burden to bear in the theatre.'
Hoode withdrew into his settle and brooded over his ale. Gill pondered. Firethorn let out a wheeze of satisfaction, feeling that he had carried the day with far less aggravation than he anticipated.
'Thus it stands, then,' he said. 'Lord Westfield will have his entertainment to order. Are we agreed?' He took their silence for consent. It is but a case of striking out one play and inserting The Merry Devils. Weil give it on Tuesday of next week at The Rose.'
'That we will not!' said Gill, exploding into life.
'I have made the decision, Barnaby.'
'Well, I resist it with all my might and main. Cupid's Folly was destined for The Rose. Strike out another play, if you must, but do not tamper with Cupid's Folly.'
'The Rose is most suited to our purposes, Barnaby.'
'You'll not find me there as Doctor Castrate'
'Put the needs of the company above selfish desire.'
'I mean this, Lawrence. I'll leave Westfield's Men before I'll submit to this. That is no idle threat, sir, be assured.'
Barnaby Gill's tantrums were a regular feature of any business meeting and his fellow-sharers learned to humour him. Once he had flared up, he soon burned himself out. This time it was different. He was in earnest. Cupid's Folly was his favourite comedy, the one play in their repertoire that offered him total domination of the stage. His performance in the leading role had been honed to such perfection that he could orchestrate the laughter from start to finish. He was not going to be robbed of his hour o: triumph. Folding his arms and pouting his lips, he turned an aggrieved face to the window.
Firethorn glanced over at Hoode and attempted a compromise.
'I have the answer,' he said guilefully. 'Edmund, did you not say that Doctor Castrato might have a dance or two more?'
'No, Lawrence.'
'Come, sir. You did.'
