'Her tavern gave us good food and rest.'
'So would any other where we paid.'
'I like the lady.'
'I took you for a man of finer taste.'
Millfield looked at Firethorn and his companion.
'She keeps him much amused.'
'Any woman can do that.'
'Does his wife raise no objection?'
'A hundred by the minute, sir, but she is back in Shoreditch and he is here. Were Margery to view this scene before us, she would pluck off his stones and wear them as earrings to ward off any other women. Alas, she is not here. She defends his castle in London.'
'Stoutly?'
'As any army under siege. I pity the man who tries to take her fortress, Master Millfield. Though he bring the biggest battering ram in Christendom, it will not suffice. Margery will drown him in boiling oil.'
'Out, you rogue! Away, you rascal, you hedge-bird, you pannier-man's whelp! Do not wave your paltry reckoning at me, you pimp, you dog's-head, you trendle-tail! Marry, look off, sir! Go, snuff after some other prey! Poxed already you are, I can tell by that sheep-biting face, and I hope to see you plagued one day, you snotty nose!'
'I come but for my due, good madam.'
'Hold forth thy mangy head and I will give it thee with this broom! Or bend over, and I will sink a foot of my handle where'll you'll feel it most and remember me as a tidy housewife.'
'Calm down, Mistress Firethorn.'
'Only when your greasy face has gone!'
The tailor was a small, sweating, diffident man who was no match for Margery Firethorn. When he came to present his bill to her, he walked into the same hurricane as his predecessors. Backing away from the threshold of the house in Shoreditch, he summoned up enough courage to issue a threat of legal action.
'I have the law upon my side, Mistress.'
'And you stay, I'll gum your silks with water!'
'Pay up now to stave off a worser fate.'
'Do you want that pate split open with my broom?'
'I'd bring an action of battery against you.' Your widow might for you'd not live to do so.' I am not married,' he confessed.
'What woman would take you?' she jeered. 'I can see it in your visage, you insolent slave! You're a miserable tailor's remnant of a man, a pair of breeches without a codpiece, a dunghill cock with no cause to crow or fright any hen from her modesty. Away, you gelding!'
'Leave off, you shrew!'
'Then go before I snip with your scissors!'
'Tis a cucking-stool you need,' he said. ' That's what they use for ducking scolds.'
'Yaaaaaaaa!'
Margery ran at him with her broom at the ready and he took to his heels and ran for his life. As he raced off down the road, she yelled some more abuse at him to spur him on then relaxed and went back into the house. The tailor was the fifth creditor in the last two days and he came on the heels of a diaper, a hat-maker, a cobbler and a goldsmith. All presented her with reckonings that she simply could not meet, large bills recklessly run up by Lawrence Firethorn in the knowledge that he would be leaving London soon and therefore able to outrun his debts. Margery was left in the line of fire. Five had been dispatched but all five would return again with the law to strengthen their arm. And there would be more. Her husband was nothing if not extravagant. On the eve of his departure, he had run up debts all over London.
Pulsating with fury, she stormed upstairs to their bedchamber and grabbed the cloak. It was the answer to all her problems. Not only would its sale bring in enough money to pay off all outstanding accounts, it would be a severe blow to Firethorn. The second-best cloak was much more than a mere garment. It was a due reward for his artistic endeavour, a seal of approval from his patron. The actor had worn it onstage several times and it was a glittering storehouse of theatrical memories. Though he had left it for her to sell, he had banked on her keeping it for reasons of pride and nostalgia. Those reasons now battled with feelings of outrage.
Margery was betrayed. Struggling along without him was a trial enough but he had made her predicament much more awkward. It was typical of him and she cursed herself for not foreseeing this eventuality. No word had yet come from Firethorn and, when it did, she was sure that no money would accompany it. She was on her own with mouths to feed and tradesmen to stave off.
She fingered the cloak with swirling anger. It would serve him right if he came back to find it gone. Margery crossed to the door with the garment over her arm then stopped in her tracks. Conscience troubled her. She would be meeting one betrayal with a far greater one. Whatever vices her husband had, there was one overriding virtue that drew her to him. He loved the theatre. With a passion that amounted to an obsession, he adored every aspect of his chosen profession and savoured every prize and memento that had come his way. Even at the height of her rage, she did not have the heart to stab Firethorn in the back through the silk of his second-best cloak.
Shaking with frustration, she threw it aside. 'Doll!' she yelled.
'Yes, Mistress?' called a girlish voice.
'Come here at once!'
'In haste!'
The servant girl knew better than to keep Margery waiting. She had watched through a window as each of the five creditors had been sent packing with their ears on fire. Doll lived in the house and had nowhere else to go. Total obedience was the only way to appease her mistress.
She stumbled breathlessly into the bedchamber. 'Hurry, girl!'
'I am here, Mistress.'
'Then go from me again.'
'How now?'
'Fetch me pen and ink.'
'It shall be done directly.'
'And something I may write upon.'
'I fly.'
'Faster, girl!'
Margery Firethorn would grasp another possibility.
She would write a letter.
Nicholas Bracewell was in no position to parley. Greatly outnumbered and clearly in the wrong, his only hope lay in a swift escape. Half-a-dozen brawny gypsies were closing in on him, their scowls hidden by the paint on their faces but their gestures eloquent. The boy himself continued to shout at Nicholas then grabbed a handful of dust to throw up into his face. Blinded for a second, the book holder swung his sword in a wide arc to fend off the gypsies who moved in quickly upon him. As his eyes cleared, he saw another man running towards them with a branding iron in his hand, patently intent on murder. Nicholas rightly identified him as the boy's father and did not linger to discuss the youth's skill as a dancer.
Swishing his sword again to create more space, he then spun around and sprinted off. One of the gypsies had sneaked up behind him and tried to block his way but Nicholas knocked him our of the way with his shoulder. Pursuit was immediate and it was accompanied by all kinds of wild cries. A few dogs joined in the fun of the chase.
Nicholas was running at full pelt but found an extra yard of pace when a long knife embedded itself in a tree only inches from his face. When he reached his horse, he had no time for a leisurely mount with the stirrup. Vaulting
