have a mental map as to its whereabouts. Four miles of cantering along rutted tracks brought them to the crest of a hill which presented them with a perfect view of Pomeroy Manor and they reined in their mounts to enjoy the prospect. It was truly impressive.
The property was built on the site of an ancient moated manor house which had belonged to the Church. On the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII, it had been acquired by the Pomeroy family who rebuilt it in Tudor bricks, with eight octagonal chimneys having star tops, rising from crow-stepped gable-ends. The windows were low-mullioned and transomed, formed from moulded bricks that were rendered in a smooth grey clay that had been dredged from a river estuary. A porch added to the overall symmetry and acted as a trellis for an explosion of roses. Ivy had got a finger-hold on the front walls.
'It is just as I imagined,' said Millfield.
'A rare sight in this county,' observed Nicholas.
'What's that, sir?'
'Brick-built houses of this type are only found in East Anglia as a rule. Does Master Neville Pomeroy have connections with that part of the country. '
'So I am led to believe.'
'Where did you glean all your information?'
'From listening in the right places.'
Millfield chuckled and urged his horse on.
After the disappointments in Ware and Royston, they gained adequate recompense. Hearing of their arrival, the master of the house had them brought into the room where he had been going through his accounts with his Steward.
Neville Pomeroy was a stout, solid man of middle years with curling grey hair and slow movements. He gave them a cordial welcome, heard their business then nodded with enthusiasm. They were in luck.
'You come at a timely hour, gentlemen,' he said. 'I am only returned from London myself today and thought to have missed you as you passed through Royston.'
'You knew of our presence here?' said Nicholas.
'From Lord Westfield himself. We have mutual friends in the city. I have seen his company tread the boards and warrant they nave no equal. Master Firethorn will honour me if he plays inside my house.'
'Then we may draw up a contract? '
'Indeed so, Master Bracewell. I will need a day to send out Word and gather in an audience but, if you can bide your time, then 1 can offer you warm applause on the morrow. How large is the company?'
'But fifteen souls, sir.'
'Then must you lodge at the inn nearby. The Pomeroy Arms will give you free board at my request. It is but a small place, I fear, but it should serve your purpose.'
'We thank you heartily, sir.
'The gratitude is all mine. I love the theatre.
'What would you have us play?'
'Tarquin of Rome.'
It was an unexpected choice but Nicholas did not question it. The play was a tragedy on the theme of tyranny and betrayal. It was strange fare for a hot summer evening in the privacy of one's house yet it revealed a serious student of the drama. Tarquin of Rome was an exceptional piece of writing. It furnished its title-role with speeches that could ring the withers and fire the soul. Pomeroy had chosen shrewdly.
Nicholas and Millfield rode back to their fellows. Their news was passed around with glee. Firethorn made decisions at once. Tarquin of Rome was not a play they had planned on staging during the tour, and they had brought neither the costumes nor properties for it, but the actor-manager was in no way discomfited.
'They shall have it, Nick.'
'So I told Master Pomeroy.'
'We have a day to prepare. It is sufficient. Give me twenty-four hours and I'll be Tarquin to the life!'
He launched into the speech at the culmination of the death scene and the verse came out in a torrent. Lawrence Firethorn had the prodigious memory of a real actor who never forgets lines once learned. He carried some fifty parts in his head, each one a leading role of great complexity, yet he could produce them on demand. Swept away on a tide of emotion, he declaimed some more of Tarquin's soliloquies and filled the air with wonder.
Nicholas Bracewell became pensive then he clicked his fingers and nodded to himself. Edmund Hoode was close enough to mark his behaviour.
'Why do you nod so, Nick?'
'I think I have their secret, Edmund.'
'Who?'
'Banbury's Men.'
'Scurvy knaves! They have stolen our plays.'
'I believe I know how.'
Grantham gave them an ovation that lasted for some minutes and Giles Randolph luxuriated in it. There was a sizeable audience, culled both from the town and from the surrounding area of Lincolnshire, and they had never witnessed anything like Pompey the Great. Having come to watch the sort of pastoral romp that touring companies usually brought to them, the spectators were at first a trifle uneasy when they were confronted with a tale of military splendour and political intrigue, but they soon rallied as the drama unfolded with compelling skill. It was one of Edmund Hoode's most stirring achievements and Banbury's Men played it for all it was worth.
Giles Randolph gave them an intelligent and moving account of the central role but he did not have Lawrence Firethorn's martial presence or swelling power. The defects in his performance, however, were happily concealed from both himself and his audience. He was convinced that he had touched heights far beyond the reach of his hated rival, and that he had demonstrated his superiority in the most signal and humiliating way. Rippling applause fed his narcissism. In the theatre of his mind, he had left Firethorn dead and buried.
Celebrations were in order. Pompey the Great dined in style at a local inn with his company fawning avidly around him. After years in the shadow of Westfield's Men, it was heartening to sweep them aside and step out into the full glare of the sun.
Seated beside Giles Randolph was a thoughtful young man with an expression of quiet self-congratulation. The leading actor sought even more applause.
'Was I not inspired upon that stage, sir?'
'You were the very ghost of Pompey.'
'Did I not catch his greatness?'
'In every line and gesture, Master Randolph.'
'The audience loved me.'
'How could they not?'
'I walked in Elysium!'
Mark Scruton gave a smile of agreement. His whole future was vested in the success of Banbury's Men and he yielded to nobody in his appreciation of the talent of its star. All that Giles Randolph lacked was material of the highest calibre. In most of the plays from his own repertoire, he was never less than hypnotic but never more than brilliant. He was held back by the limitations of the a part in which he appeared. Given a drama of true merit, handed
Part into which he could pour himself body and soul, he could indeed approach magnificence.
Giles Randolph was not unaware of this himself.
'It is a well-wrought piece, ' he said grudgingly. 'Master Hoode is a fine poet.'
'That final speech would ring tears from a stone.'
'He has no equal in such scenes.'
'You speak true, sir,' said Randolph. 'Away with the scribbling of apprentice playwrights! Give me men who can write a rolling line. We have good plays but none to live with the magic of this Pompey. The confession is
