There was further bounty that night. Other guests were staying at the Fighting Cocks, wealthy merchants who were breaking their journey on their way home to Kent and who wanted to celebrate their business successes with some entertainment. Westfield's Men obliged with an extempore recital. Lawrence Firethorn declaimed speeches from his favourite plays, Barnaby Gill danced his famous comic jigs and Richard Honeydew sang country airs to the accompaniment of a lute. Fine wine and admiration helped the merchants to part with ten shillings between them, a rich gift that went straight into the company coffers.
Fortune favoured them next morning as well. The weather was fine and the landlord gave them free beer and victuals to carry with them on their journey. They set out with a rising step. In Hertfordshire, they had every expectation of a welcome. Lord Westfield's name was known throughout the county of his birth and it was bound to purchase them special indulgence.
Nicholas Bracewell was sent on ahead to prepare the way. Borrowing the dapple grey from Edmund Hoode, he set off at a canter in the direction of Ware. It was not only because the book holder was such a fine horseman that he was given the responsibility. His ability to look after himself was also paramount. Lone travellers were easy game on some stretches of the road but even the most desperate villains would think twice about taking on someone as solid and capable as Nicholas Bracewell. He exuded a strength that was its own safeguard.
One of the smallest counties, Hertfordshire was the watershed for several rivers and Nicholas was often within earshot of running water. Beef cattle grazed on the pastures and the last of the hay was being gathered in by bending figures with swinging sickles. He rode on past a wood and a deer park until he came to a market garden that specialized in watercress beds. The county was renowned, for the excellence of its watercress which was used as an antidote to the scurvy which afflicted so many Londoners. Nicholas took directions from a helpful gardener and then spurred the grey on.
He arrived in Ware to find, a small, amiable community going about its daily business without undue complaint. Theatre companies could not just appear in a town and perform at will. Permission had to be sought first and a licence granted. In larger towns, the Mayor was the person to grant such a licence but Ware was too small to support such an august personage. Nicholas instead sought out one of its local council.
Tom Hawthornden was known for His bluntness.
'You may not play here, sir.'
'But we are Westfield's Men.'
'It matters not if you were the Queen's own company of actors, Master Bracewell. We have but small appetite for entertainment and it has been truly satisfied.'
'By whom, Master Hawthornden?'
'Such another troupe as yours.'
'When was this?'
'But two days since. The memory is fresh.'
'Ours will be the better offering,' argued Nicholas. 'We are no wandering band of players, sir. Master Lawrence Firethorn is the toast of his profession. Westfield's Men are the finest company in London.'
'Your rivals were so entitled as well.'
'Do but judge our work against theirs.'
'It will not suffice,' said Hawthornden, hands upon his hips. 'Move on, sir. Ware has witnessed as merry a comedy as we are ever likely to see. It will keep us in good humour for weeks. We need no further diversion.'
Nicholas stopped him as he tried to walk away.
'Hear me out, Master. We offer you a play that has enough laughter, dancing, singing and swordplay to last the people of Ware for a year. It is a lively comedy that only Westfield's Men may stage.'
'Too late, sir. Far too late.'
'Do but see Cupid's Folly and you will not rue it.'
'What did you call the play?'
'Cupid's Folly.'
'Then is your journey really in vain.'
'How so?'
'We have seen this country tale, sir.'
'That cannot be, Master Hawthornden,' said Nicholas confidently. 'We hold the licence of that play. I have the book under lock and key. What you saw, perchance, was another play with the same title. Our comedy tells the story of one Rigormortis, an old man who is pierced by Cupid's arrow.'
'Aye,' said Hawthornden. 'He falls in love with every wench he sees yet spurns the one who loves him. Her name was Ursula and she did make us laugh most heartily.'
Nicholas gaped. It sounded like the same play. When Tom Hawthornden furnished more details of the action, the case was certain. Ware had definitely seen a performance of Cupid's Folly even though the play was the exclusive property of Westfield's Men. It was baffling.
Tom Hawthornden resorted to a rude dismissal.
'Go your way, sir. There's nothing for you here.'
Nicholas grabbed him by the shoulders and held him.
'What was the name of this other company?'
Within twenty-four hours of his departure, remorse set in. Margery Firethorn began to wish that she had given her husband a more joyful farewell. They would not then have parted in such a strained manner. Had she not repelled his advances, they could have spent their last night together in a state of married bliss that would have kept her heart warm and put her mind at ease. As it was, she now felt hurt, fractious and unsettled. Long, lonely months would pass before she saw her husband again.
The house in Shoreditch already felt cold and empty. Pour apprentices and two hired men had lodged there and she had mothered them all with her brisk affection. Now she was left with only a part of her extended family. The most painful loss was that of Lawrence Firethorn. As man and actor, he was a glorious presence who left a gap in nature when he was not there. He had his faults and no one knew them as intimately as his wife. But they faded into insignificance when she thought of the life and noise and colour that he brought to the house, and when she recalled the thousand impetuous acts of love he had bestowed upon her in the fullness of his ardour.
Caught up in a mood of sadness, she tripped upstairs to the bedchamber she shared with a man she now saw as a species of paragon. What other husband could retain her interest and excite her passions for so many years? What other member of such an insecure profession could take such fond care of his wife and children? That he was loved and desired by other women was no secret to her but even that could be a source of pride. She was the object of intense envy. Where notorious beauties had failed to possess him even for a night, she had secured him for a lifetime. Their pursuit of him only served her purpose.
As she reviewed their last few hours together, she saw how unkind she had been to him. Lawrence Firethorn was unique and it was her place to respect and foster that uniqueness. He was not the callous father she accused him of being, nor yet the selfish husband or the compulsive libertine. He was a great man and, taken all in all, he deserved better from her.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Margery used gentle fingers to stroke the garment he had so considerately left behind for her. It was his second-best cloak, worn during his performance in the title-role of Vincentio's Revenge and redolent with memories of that triumph. Knowing what it had cost him in emotional and spiritual terms to part with the cloak, she had slept all night with it lying across her. It was her one real memento of him.
Apart from the ruby.
Margery sat up with a start. She had chosen to forget all about the ring. It had been the cause of their bitter disputation and she had put it out of sight and out of mind. Now it took on a new significance. It was a love token from her husband, a reaffirmation of their marriage at a time when it would be put under immense strain. Scolding herself for being so ungrateful, she ran to the drawer where she had hidden the present. She would wear it proudly until he came back home again.
Burning with passion, she opened the drawer. But the ring had vanished. In its place was a tiny scroll. When she unrolled it, she saw a brief message from her husband.
'Farewell, dear love. Since the ruby is not welcome in Shore-ditch, I will wear it myself in Arcadia.'
