'I have no knowledge of the matter.'
'Then your memory is leaking. You urged it only yesterday.'
Unseen by Gill, he gestured wildly to Hoode for his support. The latter gave a resigned nod and went along with the lie, but his voice lacked any conviction.
'Now I bethink me, you are right. Another jig, f said.'
'Two, Edmund.'
'Oh, at least.'
'And a new song for the Doctor. His role must be extended.'
'At the expense of Justice Wildboare?'
'We need not go to that length,' said Firethorn hastily.
'Dances and a song, then. I will see to it.'
'Not on my account,' said Gill. 'I want Cupid's Folly.'
'But your new Castrato will dazzle the galleries at The Rose,' urged Firethorn. 'This is fair recompense for the change of play.'
'No, Lawrence. I am immoveable.'
And he turned his back on them in a spectacular sulk.
Firethorn exploded. He bullied, he badgered, he threatened, he aimed a torrent of abuse at his colleague. His voice was so loud and his language so florid that he made the whole room shake and dislodged four spiders from the beams above his head. It was the towering rage of a great actor in full flight and it would have brought a lesser man to his knees but Barnaby Gill was proof against the tirade. He simply refused to be a one-man audience to the extraordinary performance.
Impasse was reached. In the bruised silence that followed, Gill held his pose and Firethorn glared vengefully across at him. There seemed to be no way around the problem until Edmund Hoode intervened.
'We do not have to cancel Cupid's Folly' he said.
'Indeed, we do, sir!' snarled Firethorn. ' The Merry Devils must be our offering at The Rose.'
'And so it shall be.'
'Have you lost your wits, Edmund? We cannot stage both plays in the same afternoon. One must give way to the other.'
'That was not my meaning,' said Hoode quietly. 'The Merry Devils will be presented at The Rose and Cupid's Folly will take its turn on Friday at The Curtain.'
Firethorn was momentarily dumbfounded but Gill bubbled with joy.
'There you have it, Edmund!'
'The play we strike out is Vincentio's Revenge.'
'Have a care what you suggest, sir!' growled Firethorn.
'Vincentio's Revenge is a tedious piece,' said Gill airily. 'It will not be missed. Oh, we know that you touch the heights in the title role, Lawrence, and it is one of your most assured successes, but is it not time to ask-I put this to you in the spirit of friendship-if you are not a trifle long in the tooth to be a young Italian hero?'
Firethorn bared his teeth for Gill to assess their length.
'Is not this the best answer?' asked Hoode cheerily.
'Yes, sir!' said Gill.
'No, sir!' countered Firethorn.
'Edmund shows the wisdom of Solomon.'
'Then why does he talk like the village idiot?' The actor-manager stalked the room. 'I have fifteen special moments in Vincentio's Revenge and I'll not be denied one of them. It stays.'
'And so does Cupid's Folly,' said Gill petulantly.
It was stalemate again. While the two of them withdrew once more into a hurt silence, Edmund Hoode tried to sound impartial as he proffered his advice. But the removal of Vincentio's Revenge suited his purposes very well. Losing the part of a decrepit old lecher, he instead became a lovelorn shepherd in the pastoral comedy of Cupid's Folly. It would give him the chance to impress Grace Napier with his readiness to bear the cross of unrequited passion. Hoode worked hard to soothe Firethorn, telling him how incomparable his performance as Vincentio was, yet reminding him of his dazzling role as a prince in the other play. Siding imperceptibly with Gill, he slowly brought Firethorn to the realisation that there was no alternative. Without Cupid's Folly, they would have no Doctor Castrato. Vincentio would have to forgo his revenge.
'Put the company before yourself for once,' said Gill spitefully. Lawrence always does that,' said Hoode. 'And I am sure that he will make this supreme sacrifice for the sake of Westfield's Men and our esteemed patron.'
Firethorn showed one last flash of surging arrogance.
'But for me, there would be no company. I am Westfield's Men.'
'Right, sir,' sniped Gill. 'Play Doctor Castrato yourself, then.'
'Gentlemen, gentlemen…' calmed Hoode.
'Play Droopwell. Play Youngthrust. Play the merry devils themselves.' Gill's tone was cruelly sarcastic. 'Since you have such an appetite for solo performance, carry a fan to hide your beard and play Lucy Hembrow into the bargain.' Enough, sir!'
Firethorn's exclamation was like the roar of a cannon. Circling the room in a frenzy, he kicked a chair, pounded the table, spat into the empty fireplace and sent a warming pan clattering from its nail on the wall. He came to rest before a window and stared out unseeing at the small but well-tended garden.
Hoode waited a full minute before he dared to speak.
'Is it agreed, Lawrence?'
There was an even longer pause before the hissed reply came. Castrato is to have no new songs or dances!'
'It's agreed!' shouted Gill in exultation, then lie expressed his gratitude to Hoode by kissing him on the lips. 'God bless all poets!'
Yet another meeting thus reached its amicable conclusion.
*
Anne Hendrik was not a typical resident of Bankside. In an area that was notorious for its brothels, bear gardens and bull rings, for its cockpits, carousing and cutpurses, she was a symbol of respectability. She was the widow of Jacob Hendrik, who had fled from his native Holland and settled in Southwark because the City Guilds did not welcome immigrants into their exclusive fraternities. Overcoming initial problems, Jacob slowly prospered. By the time he married a buxom English girl of nineteen, he could offer her the comfort of a neat house in one of the twisting lanes. Though childless, it was a happy marriage and it left Anne Hendrik with many fond memories. It also gave her a liking for male company.
'Ralph Willoughby has gone?', 'Banished from the company.'… 'What does Master Firethorn have against him?' ' 'Everything, Anne.'
'It seems so unfair.'
'Unfair, unwarranted and unnecessary.'
'Can Edmund Hoode revise the play on his own?'
'I have my doubts.'
They were sitting over the remains of supper at the Bankside house. The mood was relaxed and informal. Nicholas Bracewell had lodged there for some time now and had come to appreciate all of his landlady's finer qualities. Anne Hendrik was a tall, graceful woman in her thirties with attractive features of the kind that improved with the passage of time. She was a widow who never settled back into widowhood, and there was nothing homely or complacent about her. Intelligent and perceptive, she had a fund of compassion for people in distress and a practical streak that urged her to help them. Her apparel was always immaculate, her manner pleasant and her interest genuine.
'What will Master Willoughby do?' she asked.
'I have no idea.'
'Poor man! To be hounded out like that.'
'Master Firethorn can be brutal at times.'
'Yet he wants the play staged again?'
