'Contemplate your greatness.'
The circle of vellum on which Quilley worked was barely two inches in diameter. Lawrence Firethorn's personality had to be caught and concentrated in that tiny area and it required the utmost care and skill. When the artist tried to explain this, his subject was diverted by another thought.
'What card have you chosen?'
'Card, sir?'
'Stuck to the vellum. The playing card.'
'Oh, that. I chose the two of hearts.'
'So low a number?'
'It betokens love, Master Firethorn,' explained the other. 'Most of my subjects want their portrait to be a gift to their beloved. Hearts is the favourite suit. I did not think you would prefer the Jack of Clubs.'
'Indeed, no, sir,' said Firethorn, warming to the idea at once. 'Two hearts entwined will be ideal. It will be the badge of my sentiments when I bestow the gift.'
'Your wife will be enchanted.'
'What does she have to do here!'
Firethorn went back to his seat and struck a pose. The artist came across to adjust it slightly before he went back to his table. Quilley changed his tack. As the actor froze into a statue before him, he heaped praise upon his performance as Robin Hood and Firethorn hardly moved. Flattery succeeded where outright abuse had not. The artist actually began to take strides forward. It did not last. Firethorn was quiescent but others were not.
Someone banged plaintively on the door.
'Are you within, sir?' called George Dart.
'Go away!' bellowed his employer.
'We must not be disturbed!' added Quilley.
'But I bring important news, Master Firethorn.'
'Good or bad?'
'Disastrous.'
'How now?'
'Send him away,' urged Quilley.
'We'll hear this first, sir.'
Firethorn dived for the door and flung it open. Dart was so scared to be the bearer of bad tidings once more that he was gibbering wildly. Firethorn took him by the shoulders and shook him into coherence.
'What has happened, man?'
'We have been robbed again.'
'Another apprentice?'
'No, Master. Our costumes have gone.',; 'Gone where?'
'Into thin air, sir. The basket has vanished.'
Lawrence Firethorn reached for his neck to throttle him then thought better of it. Charging downstairs to the room where the costume basket had been stored, he was shocked to see that it had, in fact, been taken. Their entire stock had gone. The cost involved was enormous but the consequences of the theft were much more crippling. Without their costumes, they could not stage a single play. Someone was trying to put Westfield's Men right out of business.
Firethorn clutched at his hair in desperation.
'Oh, Nick!' he howled. 'Where are you now!'
A full day in the saddle finally brought its reward. With two horses at his disposal, he could ride much faster and much further afield, changing his mounts to keep them fresh and towing one of them behind him. Nicholas Bracewell was tireless in his pursuit. Endless questioning and riding eventually brought him to Lavery Grange. There was no mistake this time. Banbury's Men were in the act of presenting The Renegade to an attentive audience. Posing as a late arrival, Nicholas gained admission to the Great Hall and lurked at the rear. Giles Randolph dominated the proceedings but the book holder was much more interested in those around him, searching for people who had betrayed Westfield's Men by yielding up the secrets of their repertoire. Nicholas recognized several faces but none had ever been employed by his company. He was mystified.
Who had stolen their major plays?
He did not expect Richard Honeydew to be anywhere on the premises. Banbury's Men were far too clever to be caught red-handed. If they were holding the boy, they would do so in some other place that was not too distant. Nicholas sidled out and chatted to one of the servants. The man spoke of three inns within an easy ride. Nicholas set off at once to check them out. He drew a blank with the first two but his conviction did not waver. He was now certain that he was closing in on Richard Honeydew.
His third call bore fruit. Though there was no sign of the boy inside the place, the landlord told him that the company would be staying there for the night. Most of them had rooms but a few would be sleeping with their luggage in the stables. Nicholas went out to inspect the alternative accommodation and could still find nothing untoward. He was about to give up and move away when he heard the noise.
It was a tapping sound, low but regular, and it seemed to come from a stone outhouse adjoining the stable block. When he got closer, he could hear it clearly enough to identify what it was. Someone was trying to kick against the heavy timber of the door. Nicholas ran forward and threw back the bolt. Opening the door, he stared into the gloom to see the sorry figure of Richard Honeydew, all trussed up and lying in the straw. With the very last of his energy, the boy had been trying to beat a tattoo on the door. Rescue was now at hand.
'Thank God I've found you, Dick!'
The gag in the boy's mouth prevented his reply but his eyes were liquid pools of eloquence. Nicholas read their dreadful message much too late. Something very hard and blunt hit him on the back of the head and he plunged forward into the straw.
Chapter Nine
It was the worst night of his life. A man who had scaled the heights of nocturnal bliss so often and with such joyous confidence now fell backwards through space into the abyss. Lawrence Firethorn was in despair. His book holder was gone, his apprentice was kidnapped, his costume basket was stolen and his company was in disarray. Susan Becket lay upstairs in his bed unsatisfied and Eleanor Budden slept between her sheets untouched. They were so near and yet so tar from him. Firethorn was undone.
Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode shared his panic. 'They have cut off our heads, sirs,' said Firethorn.
'And our pizzles,' said Hoode.
'Mine is still in place,' insisted Gill haughtily.
'I did not think they would stoop so low.'
'Can we be sure this is their work, Lawrence?' asked Hoode. 'Some common thieves may have taken our basket.'
'Why should they take that when there were purses to be cut?' said Firethorn. 'No, Edmund. The footprints of Banbury's Men are stamped all over this enterprise. Only another company would know how best to imperil us. And that is by stealing the very clothes that we wear.'
They were in the taproom of their inn, sitting over cups of sack with collective melancholy, Barnaby Gill suddenly jumped to his feet, tossed his head, folded his arms and stood on his considerable dignity.
'I'll not play without my golden doublet,' he said huffily. 'If they find not my green velvet breeches and my yellow stockings and my shoes with the silver buckles and my hat with the three feathers in it, I'll stir not a step upon the stage!'
'We are all in this together, Barnaby,' said Hoode.
'Where is my suit of blue satin and my green cloak?'
