'Will she so?'
'Speak to her!'
It was a cry from the heart and Miles Melhuish could not ignore it. Part of him wanted to shrug the problem off his own shoulders but another part of him wanted to take the full weight of the burden. The vision flashed through his mind again. Long fair hair. Round, trembling buttocks. Joyous breasts. Satin skin. Succulent lips. Total surrender in its most beautiful human form.
The answer to a prayer.
'Very well,' he said. 'I'll speak to her.'
Lawrence Firethorn pawed the ground like an angry bull. When he began his charge, nobody within striking distance was safe. It was a terrifying spectacle.
'What did you say, Nick?' he bellowed.
'They will not suffer us to play there.'
'Not suffer us! In Lord Westfield's own country? Where the writ of our patron runs wide? And they will not suffer us, indeed? I'll teach them what suffering is, call me rogue if I do not!'
'Another company got there first, Master,'
'With our play! Stolen without compunction.'
'They would not hear Cupid's Folly again,' explained Nicholas.; 'Nor would they countenance any other play from us. They have eaten their fill.'
'Then will I make them spew it up again!' raged Firethorn. 'By heaven, I'll make their stomachs burn, the unmannerly rogues, the scurvy, lousy, beggarly knaves, the foul, ungrateful rascals, the stinking, rotting carcasses of men that live in that God-forsaken hole! Keep me from them, Nick, or I'll carve 'em all to shreds with my sword, I will, and hang the strips on a line for kites to peck at.'
Lawrence Firethorn unsheathed his weapon and hacked at a bush to vent his spleen. The rest of the company looked on with trepidation. Nicholas had met them a mile south of Ware to break the bad news. Predictably, it had thrown the actor-manager info a fury. As be reduced the bush to a forlorn pile of twigs and leaves, they began to fear for the safety of all vegetation in the country. He was armed and dangerous.
It was Edmund Hoode who calmed him down.
'That bush is not the enemy, Lawrence.'
'Stand off, sir.'
'Sheath your sword and listen to reason.'
'Reason? What care I for reason?'
'We are all losers in this escapade.'
'Indeed we are,' said Barnaby Gill loftily from his saddle. 'Cupid's Folly was to have been my triumph. I never play Rigormortis without I leave the audience in a state of helpless mirth.'
'It is those absurd breeches,' sneered Firethorn.
'My success does not lie in my breeches.'
That we all can confirm!'
Laughter from the others helped to ease the tension. Gill spluttered impotently then turned his horse away in a huff. Hoode took the sword from Firethorn and put it back into its sheath.
Nicholas Bracewell addressed the real problem.
How did they get hold of the play?'
It was taken from you privily,' said Firethorn.
'That is not possible, Master. The books of all our plays are locked in a chest that I keep hidden away from prying eyes. Nobody is allowed near it, least of all our rivals. Cupid's Revenge was not stolen.'
'It was pirated in some way,' said Hoode grimly. 'And if it can be done with one play, it can be done again with others. Who can assure the safety of my own plays?'
There's but one answer for it,' said Nicholas.
'Revenge!' declared Firethorn.
'Only after we learn the truth, Master.'
'We know it full well, Nick. This is the work of Banbury's Men, those shambling caterpillars that call themselves a company of players. They mean to spike our guns but we will turn our cannon round and give them such a broadside as will blow them back to London.'
But how was it done?' insisted Nicholas.
Marry, that's the important point,' agreed Hoode.
'Not to me,' said Firethorn, striking a heroic pose with one arm outstretched towards the sky. 'Only one thing serves us here. Swift and bloody revenge! If those liveried lice belonging to the Earl of Banbury will dare to take on the might of Westfield's Men, so be it! Let them beware the consequences.'
He ranted on in fine style for several minutes. Banbury's Men were their arch-rivals, a talented company that strove to equal them but always fell short of their stature. Led by the wily Giles Randolph, they had made attempts to damage the reputation of Westfield's Men before but they had never stooped to this device. In London, they would not have dared to be so bold but the anonymity of the provinces gave them a useful shield. Banbury's Men had struck the first telling blow.
Firethorn intended to strike the last.
'Let us pursue them with all speed, gentlemen. They deserve no quarter. Banbury's Men have shown how low they will sink into the mire of self-advancement. There's no room in our profession for such dishonourable wags. We must expel them once and for all.' The sword came out to make a graphic gesture. 'Onwards to battle, my lads! Let us fight for our lives and our good names.'
With a practised flick of the wrist, he sent the point of his rapier some inches into the ground so that the blade rocked to and fro with mesmeric power. They were still watching the weapon vibrate as he growled his final, fatal words.
'Gentlemen-this is war!'
Giles Randolph reclined in a wooden armchair in the corner of the tavern and toyed with his glass of Canary wine. Tall, slim and dark, he had a Mediterranean cast of feature which set him apart from the average man and which made him irresistible to the feminine sections of his audiences. He had a Satanic quality that excited. Randolph was the acknowledged star of Banbury's Men and he was a shrewd businessman as well as a superb actor. Trapped in the vanity of his profession, he could not accept that any man could strut a stage with more assurance or squeeze the life-blood out of any role with more devastating effect. His feud with Lawrence Firethorn, therefore, went fathoms deeper than mere professional jealousy. It was a vendetta, at once reinforced and given more dimension by the fact that the Earl of Banbury and Lord Westfield were sworn enemies. In mortifying his rival, Giles Randolph could please his patron.
He smiled complacently at his companion.
'We have made good speed.'
'Banbury's Men are ahead in every sense.'
'It must remain that way. I like not these wearisome tours but at least we can have some sport for our pains.'
'They will have reached Ware by now.'
And found the coldest welcome.
Randolph sipped his wine then toyed with his glass. As befitted a leading actor, he was attired with all due ostentation in a doublet of blue satin with elaborate gold patterning down the front and green hose. His hat swept down over one eye to give him a conspiratorial air and its ostrich feather trembled as he spoke.
'Firethorn must be wounded to the quick.'
'We have drawn blood enough already.'
'I want to hack off his limbs,' said Randolph with sudden intensity. 'I want to leave his gore all over the
