Nicholas was appalled. He had to escape somehow.
While most of his companions were frankly garrulous, there was one who never uttered a word. A huge, bearded giant of a man who seemed about to burst out of his clothes, he sat quietly in a corner with a wistful expression on his beefy face. Nicholas saw that the man did not fit in with the others. They were habitual criminals for whom a prison was second home while he was weighted down by the ignominy of his situation. Nicholas moved across to sit beside him and talked to him kindly. He gradually drew the man's tale out of him.
'My name is Leonard, sir. I am a brewer's drayman.'
'What's your offence?' asked Nicholas.
'Too much drink at Hoxton Fair.'
'They arrested you for that?'
'No, sir,' explained the other. 'The ale led to something else that I am ashamed to talk of and yet, God knows, I must for a sin must be admitted before it can be pardoned.'
There was a gentle sadness about the man that touched Nicholas. Here was no son of the underworld who lived on his wits. Leonard was an honest workman who had been led astray by friends when he was in his cups and who was now paying a dreadful price for it.
Have you heard of the Great Mario, sir?' asked the drayman.
'The wrestler who travels the fairs?'
‘He'll wrestle no more, sir,' said the other with sombre guilt. 'Mario came from Italy to try his skill in England. He fought for six years and was never bested until he came to Hoxton.’
'You took up his challenge?'
'Oh no, sir. I'm no brawler. I want a quiet life.' He sighed. 'But God made me strong and my fellows at the brewery know how I can toss the heavy barrels around so they put me up to it. The Great Mario was at Hoxton Fair all week. Younger men and bigger men tried to lower his reputation but he was master of them all. Then I and my fellows went to the fair on Saturday last and took some ale along the way.'
'They talked you into it,' guessed Nicholas.
'I saw no harm in it, sir, so I did it in fun to please them. There was no thought of winning the bout.'
'What happened?'
'He hurt me,' said Leonard simply. 'We wrestled but Mario could not throw me because I was too strong for him, so he uses tricks on me that were no part of a fair fight. He pokes and punches, puts a finger in my eye and another down my throat, stamps on my foot and bites me on the chest as if he would eat me. I still bear the mark.'
'You lost your temper.'
'It was the ale, sir, and the shouting of the crowd and the Great Mario cheating his way to victory. Yes, I lost my temper. When we grappled once more, I was angrier than I've ever been in my life. And there were my fellows urging me on and telling me to break his neck.' He gave a shrug. 'And so I did. I snapped him in two. He died within the hour.'
'Is that why they brought you here?' said Nicholas.
'The Counter is but a place for me to rest, sir. They mean to hang me when they can find a rope strong enough for the task.'
The vast frame shivered involuntarily then lay back against the wall. Nicholas was sufficiently moved by his predicament to forget his own for a moment. It was a cautionary tale. Leonard was the victim of his own body. Had he been a smaller or a weaker man, he would not have been forced into the contest by his friends.
He had led a blameless life yet would go to his death with a shadow across his heart.
As Nicholas reflected on it all, he was halted by a sudden thought.
'Was Hoxton Fair a large one this year?'
'Bigger than ever, sir,' said Leonard with a sad grin. 'They had fools and fire-eaters, ballad singers, a sword- swallower, hobby horses, gingerbread, roasted pig, games for children, a play for those of wiser sort, drums, rattles, trumpets and old Kindheart, the tooth-drawer. They had everything you care to mention at Hoxton, sir.'
'Acrobats?'
'Oh yes! The strangest creatures you ever did see, sir.'
Nicholas listened with total fascination.
*
Vincenlio's Revenge was not just a play which gave Lawrence Firethorn unlimited opportunity to display his art, it was a highly complex drama that required enormous technical expertise. Spectacular effects were used all the way through it. A large cast swirled about a stage that gradually became more and more littered with dead bodies as the ruthless Vincentio began to depopulate the city of Venice. Since actors became properties once they were killed, they had to be lugged away somehow and this called for careful organisation. The vital but unobtrusive work of Nicholas Bracewell was everywhere in the production. He devised the effects and orchestrated the action. Important to every play performed by Westfield's Men, the book holder was absolutely crucial to this one. lo stage it without him was inconceivable.
'Where is Nick?' demanded Firethorn.
'Master Bracewell is not here, sir,' said George Dart.
'Of course, he is here, you ruinous pixie! He is always here. Rather tell me that the Thames is not here or that St Paul's has tip-toed away in the night. Nicholas is here somewhere.'
'I have searched for him in vain.'
'Then search again with your eyes open.'
'No fellow has seen him today, master.'
'You will be the first. Away, sir!' He watched the other trudge slowly away. 'Be more speedy, George. Your legs are made of lead.'
'And my heart, sir.'
'What's that?'
'I miss Roper.'
'So do we all, so do we all.'
Firethorn saw the tears in his eyes and crossed to put a hand of commiseration on his bowed shoulder. For all his bravado, the actor-manager had been shaken by the incident at The Rose.
'Roper died that we may live,' he said softly. 'Cherish his memory and serve the company as honestly as he did.'
George Dart nodded and went off more briskly.
Almost everyone had arrived by now and it was time for the rehearsal to begin. The musicians, the tiremen, the stagekeepers all needed advice from Nicholas Bracewell. The carpenters could not stir without him. The players grew restless at his absence. Barnaby Gill caused another scene and demanded a public reprimand for the book holder. He and Firethorn were still arguing when George Dart returned. He had been diligent in his search. Nicholas was nowhere at the Queen's Head.
'Then run to his lodgings and fetch him from his bed!'
'Me, sir?' asked Dart. 'It is a long way to Bankside.'
'I will kick you every inch of it if you do not move, sir!', 'What am I to say to Master Bracewell?'
'Remind him of the name of Lawrence Firethorn.'
'Anything else, sir?':'That will be sufficient.'
But George Dart's journey was over before it had even begun. As he turned to leave, the figure of a handsome woman swept in through the main gates and crossed the inn yard towards them. Anne Hendrik moved with a natural grace but there was no mistaking her concern. Firethorn gave her an extravagant welcome and bent to kiss her hand.
'Is Nicholas here?' she said.
'We hoped that he would be with you, dear lady.'
'He did not return last night.'
‘This is murky news.’
'I have no idea where he went.'
‘I can answer that,' said Edmund Hoode, stepping forward. 'Nick came with me to my lodging to share some
