absence, you will be free to conduct your investigation and Westfield’s Men will be spared much embarrassment. Will this content you?’
‘It will,’ said Quilter eagerly. ‘That way, both parties are satisfied.’
‘Let me put it to Lawrence Firethorn.’
‘Do not forget to mention the prime benefit. Harp on that, Nick.’
‘On what?’
‘Westfield’s Men will not only be getting rid of me at a time when I might cause them some unease,’ said Quilter. ‘They will have Nicholas Bracewell back at the helm. It will be the finest bargain they ever struck.’
Chapter Three
Margery Firethorn was a motherly woman of generous proportions, with wide hips, a thickening waist and a surging bosom. As befitted the wife of a famous actor, she had a decidedly theatrical air herself and, in the heat of argument, could match her husband for sheer power, strutting and ranting to such effect that she might have been treading the boards at the Queen’s Head before a large audience. In point of fact, Lawrence Firethorn was the sole spectator of her towering rages, stirring performances that he would not inflict on any man, however much he hated him, and which, in the interests of domestic harmony, he did his best to avoid at all costs.
Still handsome, and with an appetite for pleasure equal to his own, Margery was a loyal, long-suffering wife who ran their home in Shoreditch with bustling efficiency, brought up their children in a Christian manner, nurturedthe company’s apprentices and coped with the multiple problems of sharing her life with the wayward genius who led Westfield’s Men. Those unwise enough to cross Margery felt the lacerating sharpness of her tongue, but there was one person who invariably brought out her softer side. When he called at the house that evening, she wrapped him in a warm embrace.
‘Nicholas!’ she said with delight. ‘What brings you to Old Street?’
‘The pleasure of seeing you, Margery,’ he said gallantly.
‘Fetch yourself in. Lawrence did not tell me that you were expected.’
‘I called in hope of a private word with him.’
‘Then your arrival is timely. He has just returned home.’
Closing the door behind her, she led Nicholas Bracewell into the parlour with a girlish giggle of delight. Firethorn was in parental mood for once, balancing a son on each knee while one of them read a passage from the Bible. When he saw his visitor, he ruffled the boys’ hair, told one of them that his reading was improving then sent both lads on their way. Margery followed them into the kitchen to get some refreshments. Firethorn waved Nicholas to a chair then sat on the edge of his own.
‘Thank heaven!’ he said. ‘I need you mightily, Nick.’
‘How did the play fare this afternoon?’
‘It was a disgrace. Owen Elias blundered his way around the stage, James Ingram forgot more lines than he remembered and I was worse than the pair of them put together. The rest of the company was woefully slothful.I tell you, Nick,’ he continued, rolling his eyes, ‘I was ashamed to put such a half-baked dish before an audience. The only person who distinguished himself was Edmund Hoode.’
‘What of George Dart?’
‘A poor substitute for Nicholas Bracewell, but the lad worked well.’
‘I knew that he would.’
‘
Mirth and Madness
was a foolish choice,’ said Firethorn, sitting back in his chair. ‘No man can play comedy with a heavy heart.’
‘It sounds as if Edmund contrived to do so.’
‘We’ll come to him in a moment, Nick. First, tell me your news.’
‘It was as frightful as you would expect,’ said Nicholas. ‘I hope I do not have to see such pitiful sights again, or hear such obscene taunts from a crowd.’
‘We were the ones deserving of obscene taunts today.’
‘They would have been mild beside the scorn and derision at Smithfield.’
Nicholas gave him a brief account of the executions, omitting some of the more gory aspects and playing down the effect
‘It will,’ said Quilter eagerly. ‘That way, both parties are satisfied.’
‘Let me put it to Lawrence Firethorn.’
‘Do not forget to mention the prime benefit. Harp on that, Nick.’
‘On what?’
‘Westfield’s Men will not only be getting rid of me at a time when I might cause them some unease,’ said Quilter. ‘They will have Nicholas Bracewell back at the helm. It will be the finest bargain they ever struck.’
Chapter Three
Margery Firethorn was a motherly woman of generous proportions, with wide hips, a thickening waist and a surging bosom. As befitted the wife of a famous actor, she had a decidedly theatrical air herself and, in the heat of argument, could match her husband for sheer power, strutting and ranting to such effect that she might have been treading the boards at the Queen’s Head before a large audience. In point of fact, Lawrence Firethorn was the sole spectator of her towering rages, stirring performances that he would not inflict on any man, however much he hated him, and which, in the interests of domestic harmony, he did his best to avoid at all costs.
Still handsome, and with an appetite for pleasure equal to his own, Margery was a loyal, long-suffering wife who ran their home in Shoreditch with bustling efficiency, brought up their children in a Christian manner, nurturedthe company’s apprentices and coped with the multiple problems of sharing her life with the wayward genius who led Westfield’s Men. Those unwise enough to cross Margery felt the lacerating sharpness of her tongue, but there was one person who invariably brought out her softer side. When he called at the house that evening, she wrapped him in a warm embrace.
‘Nicholas!’ she said with delight. ‘What brings you to Old Street?’
‘The pleasure of seeing you, Margery,’ he said gallantly.
‘Fetch yourself in. Lawrence did not tell me that you were expected.’
‘I called in hope of a private word with him.’
‘Then your arrival is timely. He has just returned home.’
Closing the door behind her, she led Nicholas Bracewell into the parlour with a girlish giggle of delight. Firethorn was in parental mood for once, balancing a son on each knee while one of them read a passage from the Bible. When he saw his visitor, he ruffled the boys’ hair, told one of them that his reading was improving then sent both lads on their way. Margery followed them into the kitchen to get some refreshments. Firethorn waved Nicholas to a chair then sat on the edge of his own.
‘Thank heaven!’ he said. ‘I need you mightily, Nick.’
‘How did the play fare this afternoon?’
‘It was a disgrace. Owen Elias blundered his way around the stage, James Ingram forgot more lines than he remembered and I was worse than the pair of them put together. The rest of the company was woefully slothful.I tell you, Nick,’ he continued, rolling his eyes, ‘I was ashamed to put such a half-baked dish before an audience. The only person who distinguished himself was Edmund Hoode.’
‘What of George Dart?’
‘A poor substitute for Nicholas Bracewell, but the lad worked well.’
‘I knew that he would.’
‘
Mirth and Madness
was a foolish choice,’ said Firethorn, sitting back in his chair. ‘No man can play comedy with a heavy heart.’
‘It sounds as if Edmund contrived to do so.’
‘We’ll come to him in a moment, Nick. First, tell me your news.’
‘It was as frightful as you would expect,’ said Nicholas. ‘I hope I do not have to see such pitiful sights again, or hear such obscene taunts from a crowd.’
‘We were the ones deserving of obscene taunts today.’
‘They would have been mild beside the scorn and derision at Smithfield.’
Nicholas gave him a brief account of the executions, omitting some of the more gory aspects and playing down the effect
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