The Malevolent Comedy (14 page)

‘Not today.’

‘But everyone will expect you there.’

‘I’d feel a little uneasy,’ confessed Nicholas, ‘because I was not really part of the company this afternoon. I’d be an outsider. Besides, there’s always the chance that Master Hibbert will be there as well to soak up praise from any spectators. For a number of reasons, I prefer to keep out of his way.’

‘So do the rest of us,’ said Dart, sharply.

Nicholas clicked his tongue. ‘Now then, George.’

‘We hate the man.’

‘Show a proper respect for a talented author.’

‘I do that for Edmund Hoode. He truly deserves it.’

‘I agree with you there.’

‘Master Hibbert does not. He bullies us. In any case,’ Dart went on, ‘you should not dare to talk of respect. You showed him little of it yourself when you set about him the other day.’

‘I’ll not deny it,’ said Nicholas. ‘My temper was frayed and I hit out. But that’s all in the past.’

‘Not if he stays. Master Hibbert will never forgive you.’

‘That’s his business.’

‘He wants you out of Westfield’s Men for good.’

‘I mean to remain,’ declared Nicholas.

‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.’

‘Thank you, George. Now get the book so that I can take it home and lock it up securely.’

‘I’ll about it straight.’

Dart raced off and Nicholas smiled. As a result of his success as book holder, there was a spring in Dart’s step and confidence that oozed out of his spare frame. In the course of the afternoon, he had come through a time of trial. Nicholas was glad for him, hoping that it might liberate him from the mockery that was his usual lot. The new-found confidence did not last long, however. When he reappeared minutes later, Dart was the same worried, woebegone, timorous little creature he had always been. Nicholas felt sudden alarm.

‘Where is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s not there. I’ve searched high and low.’

‘Where did you leave it?’

‘On a bench in the corner.’

‘Could one of the actors have taken it?’

‘No,’ said Dart. ‘As soon as the play was over, they rushed off to the taproom. The book was there when we took the stage to pieces. I saw it before I came out to speak to you.’

‘That’s the only complete copy of
The Malevolent Comedy
,’ said Nicholas. ‘Without it, the play cannot be staged. Think, George. Are you
sure
that you left it on the bench?’

‘I’d swear to it on the Holy Bible.’

‘Then there’s only one conclusion – it’s been stolen.’

Lawrence Firethorn was in despair. Battered by circumstance and bruised by marital confrontation, he had led his company with less than his accustomed gusto that afternoon. To his utter chagrin he had been compelled to give Saul Hibbert an abject apology then stand there while the author denounced the performance in forthright language and had especial words of censure for Lord Loveless. Reeling from the encounter, all that Firethorn wanted to do was to drink himself into a stupor. Instead, he found Nicholas Bracewell waiting for him at the door to the taproom with bad tidings. The actor was apoplectic.

‘The book was
stolen
?’ he cried.

‘So it appears,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Are you certain that nobody took it in jest?’

‘This is no jest, Lawrence. Everyone knows how
sacrosanct the book of a play is. That’s why I guard it so carefully.’

‘But you were not there this afternoon, Nick. In my folly, I let George Dart take your place. He’s to blame for all this. I’ll crucify him!’

‘George served you well this afternoon,’ said Nicholas, coming to his defence, ‘and worked just as hard after the play was over. He could not watch the book every second. The real fault lies with the thief, not with George.’

‘What am I to do?’ groaned Firethorn, clutching at his hair. ‘I’ve already worn sackcloth and ashes for Saul Hibbert once. Am I to don the robe of shame again?’

‘Send me in your stead.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘I’ll try to reason with our author.’

‘You’d find a charging elephant more inclined to reason. No, Nick,’ said Firethorn, ‘it falls to me to face his ire again. I’ll tell Saul what’s befallen us. Stay here to learn the outcome.’

‘I will,’ said Nicholas. ‘We need a quick decision on the matter.’

Leaving his book holder at the bottom of the staircase, Firethorn ascended the steps again and went along the passageway. He tapped on the door of Hibbert’s but elicited no response. He knocked harder.

‘Go away!’ yelled Hibbert from inside the room.

‘This is Lawrence again.’

‘I don’t care if it’s the King of Mesopotamia – go away!’

‘But I need to speak to you on urgent business.’

‘I’ve urgent business of my own!’ rejoined Hibbert, angrily.

Firethorn heard the rhythmical creaking of the bed and understood what that business might be. He waited until the sound reached its peak then faded slowly away. The actor-manager banged on the door again.

‘I’m still here, Saul,’ he called out.

‘Then you can stay there all night.’

‘I came to warn you that we may not be able to stage your play tomorrow. Or any other day this week, for that matter.’

‘Why not?’

‘When you are ready to listen, I’ll tell you.’

A long pause was followed by the sound of movement. When the door was finally inched open, a sullen Hibbert peered out. But for the shirt he had hurriedly put on, the author was naked.

‘Your timing was poor enough onstage today,’ he said, nastily, ‘but it’s deserted you altogether now. You knew that I was entertaining a lady and should have kept your distance.’

‘This news will brook no delay.’

‘What news?’

‘The book has been stolen.’

‘What book?’

‘The prompt copy of your play,’ explained Firethorn. ‘When George Dart’s back was turned, someone sneaked into the tiring-house and took it.
The Malevolent Comedy
has vanished.’

‘Damnation!’

‘There may yet be a remedy.’

‘Yes,’ snarled Hibbert. ‘I’ll hire a brace of lawyers to sue you for the wilful loss of my property. This is a disaster.’

‘Do you still have your foul papers?’

‘What?’

‘Your early draught of the play,’ said Firethorn. ‘The one from which the fair copy was made by the scrivener.’

‘No, it was covered in blots and scribbles. I threw it away,’

‘Then we are lost.’

‘What of your own copies?’ asked Hibbert. ‘Sides were written out for the actors. Put them all together and we have a complete play.’

‘Only if we had all kept our roles. Most of us have not. When we commit a part to memory, it stays lodged in the brain. We toss the written record of it away.’

‘That’s idiocy.’

‘It’s practicality. I’ve played thirty-six different roles this season, dozens more in the past. By my troth, if I kept a copy of every part I played, the house would be filled to the rooftops with paper.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell is behind all this,’ said Hibbert, vindictively. ‘I’ll wager that he stole the play in order to get revenge.’

‘He’d never dream of hurting the company in any way.’

‘His quarrel is with me.’

‘Then he’ll settle it in his own way,’ said Firethorn, ‘but not like this. Nick is the only person who can save us from this sorry plight.’

‘I’ll not have him involved.’

‘Then resign yourself to seeing another play at the Queen’s Head tomorrow. And hire as many lawyers as you like,’ he went on. ‘Look to our contract and you’ll find that the book is the legal property of Westfield’s Men. We bought it from you.’

‘I still have moral ownership.’

‘That’s a poor argument in a court of law.’

‘The book must be found forthwith,’ ordered Hibbert. ‘Instead of bickering with me, you should be out looking for it.’

‘And where would you suggest we start?’ asked Firethorn. ‘We’re still trying to find the man who poisoned Hal Bridger then paid for a dog to be unleashed upon us.’

‘I’ll warrant he’s behind this latest crime as well.’

‘A moment ago, you accused Nick Bracewell.’

‘He’ll be gloating over this terrible loss of mine.’

‘You mistake him badly. Nick is more upset than anyone. The book of any play is like a precious jewel to him. He’d defend it with his life.’

‘Pah!’

‘It’s true, Saul,’ said Firethorn. ‘Had he been in his place today, a whole army would not have been able to wrest the prompt book from him. In pushing Nick aside, you took away your play’s protection.’

‘I still abide by that decision.’

‘Even though you saw the effect upon us? That was the main reason we lacked any spirit today. We missed our book holder.’

‘Can one man make such a difference?’

‘Judge for yourself.’

‘Saul,’ purred a woman’s voice in the background.

‘One moment,’ Hibbert said to her.

‘Come back to bed now.’

‘Go to her,’ encouraged Firethorn, waving him away. ‘I can see you’d rather sport with your mistress than save your reputation.’

‘My reputation is everything to me, Lawrence.’

‘Then watch it wither on the vine. It rests on three performances of a play that no longer exists. Success entails keeping yourself in the public eye, Saul. A month off the stage and you’ll be forgotten.’

Hibbert was rocked. ‘Is there no way we can redeem ourselves?’

‘Only one.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Turn to Nick Bracewell. Let him work his magic.’

‘How could he come to our rescue?’

‘The way he did once before,’ said Firethorn, ‘when a play of Edmund Hoode’s went astray, stolen by a disaffected actor. Within the space of twelve hours, Nick had conjured another copy out of the air.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Then ask Edmund. The play was called
Gloriana Triumphant
. We played it to celebrate the victory over the Spanish Armada.’

Hibbert’s resolve weakened. ‘Is there no other solution here?’

‘None.’

‘Could nobody else do what Nicholas would do?’

‘They would not have the knack of it, Saul.’

‘I’d rather it be
any
man but him.’

‘Nick may say the same about you, I fear.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’d come to the aid of other playwrights without hesitation. With you, alas, he’s more likely to drag his feet.’

‘He’d dare to refuse?’ asked Hibbert, aghast.

‘I’ve no means to compel him.’

‘Hold him to his contract.’

‘You abrogated that, Saul. He was contracted to stay in place for every play we staged but you disbarred him from yours.’ Seizing the advantage, Firethorn twisted the knife gently. ‘It might be the one way to win him back,’ he suggested, floating the idea. ‘The one way to soothe his injured pride.’

‘The one way?’

‘Let him occupy his rightful position again.’

‘He’ll not touch my play!’

‘Without him, you may
have
no play.’

‘Saul,’ cooed the woman. ‘How long are you going to be?’

‘Just wait!’ he snapped at her.

‘Is that how you treat a lady?’ she complained.

‘Be quiet, please. I need to think.’

‘You’ve already made your feelings clear,’ said Firethorn, pretending to withdraw. ‘I’ll tell the company we play
Black Antonio
again tomorrow and send George off to the printer for some new playbills.’

‘Wait, Lawrence!’

‘Go to the lady. She sounds impatient.’

‘I’ll need time to meditate on this.’

‘Time is not on our side, Saul. The whole five acts of your play will have to be copied out again. Can you imagine how long
that
will take?’

‘It took me months to write it.’

‘Then why throw all that effort away in a fit of pique?’

‘I need to have my work back on the stage.’

‘Then make your peace with Nicholas.’

‘You talk of a man who assaulted me.’

‘Let him make amends by snatching your career from the fire.’

‘You are sure he’ll do it?’

‘Only at the price I named,’ said Firethorn, exploiting the other’s uncertainty. ‘Even then, I’ll have to use all the persuasion at my command. Which is it to be?’ he asked, adjusting his position so that he got a tantalising glimpse of the naked woman on the bed. ‘Will you swallow your pride and call Nick back? Or would you rather watch your star fall down from the sky after only three performances?’

Hibbert pondered. ‘Seek his help,’ he said at length.

‘Wisdom at last.’

‘Be sure to put
The Malevolent Comedy
back onstage tomorrow, but do something else for me. Find me the man who stole it in the first place,’ he demanded. ‘Who on earth can the rogue be?’

John Vavasor let himself into his house and received a token kiss from his wife. He went straight to the room where Cyrus Hame was poring over a manuscript on the table. His co-author looked up.

‘I’ve been working on that Prologue you requested,’ he said.

‘Does it roast Lawrence Firethorn?’

‘Like a chestnut in hot coals.’

‘I long to see it,’ said Vavasor, taking the sheet of parchment from him. ‘The more poniards it inserts into his carcass, the more I’ll like it.’

‘How did you fare at the Queen’s Head?’

‘The play was good, the performance rather tepid.’

‘Saul Hibbert would not have liked that.’

‘He’ll soon be ripe for more conference with us.’

Hame smirked. ‘Have we so soon won him over?’

‘No, Cyrus,’ said the other, complacently. ‘Our silver tongues have helped but I fancy the real damage was done at the Queen’s Head. Saul will not be running towards Banbury’s Men as much as running away from the troupe that let him down.’ He burst out laughing. ‘Oh, my word!’ he said, waving the Prologue in the air. ‘This is worth its weight in rubies. First, we rob him of his playwright. Then we steal his vaunted role as Pompey the Great and finally – best of all – we take away his reputation with this buzzing swarm of rhyming couplets. We are
made
, Cyrus,’ he exclaimed, ‘and Westfield’s Men are doomed at last.’

Margery Firethorn had an iron determination that the passage of time only served to reinforce. Enraged by her husband when he was in the house, she was even more furious with him now that he was absent. While she did her daily chores, she turned over in her mind the many kindnesses that Nicholas Bracewell had shown to her and the countless favours he had done for Westfield’s Men. Money could not repay the efforts and sacrifices he had made on the company’s behalf. And yet Lawrence Firethorn, her once beloved husband, the actor-manager of the troupe and its commanding presence, had humiliated his book holder by making him step down on the whim of a tetchy playwright. In Margery’s eyes, it was a hideous betrayal of someone she cherished. She could not have been more appalled if the cruelty had been meted out to one of her own children.

Sensing her mood, the servants kept out of her way in
the house in Shoreditch. When they heard her talking to herself, they knew that Margery was working herself up into frenzy that would be released when her husband dared to return home. As befitted an actor’s wife, she was rehearsing her lines, but they were far too raw and unchristian to be allowed on a public stage without incurring protest. The day wore on and her temper glowed redder with every minute. When she chopped meat in the kitchen, she did so with such force and viciousness that she might have been beheading her spouse. Margery was primed for action.

Expecting her husband to come home late, drunk and with his tail between his legs, she was surprised to hear the familiar gait of his horse, trotting up Old Street early that evening. When she watched him through the window as he dismounted, she saw no sign of remorse in his face. It made her simmer even more. Having stabled his mount, Firethorn came into the house with something of his old swagger and braggadocio.

‘All is well, my dove,’ he announced. ‘I’ve moved mountains.’

‘You can move yourself back out that door if you try to woo me with pet names,’ she warned him. ‘I’m no dove, angel, pigeon, peacock, bear, honeycomb, sweet chuck, little rabbit or light of your life.’

‘No, my dearest darling. You are all of them rolled into one. You are my apple of desire, Margery.’

‘Dare to bite me and I’ll choke you to death.’

Firethorn laughed. ‘You know so well how to court your husband.’

‘No husband of mine would play false with Nick Bracewell.’

‘That’s why I have set all right,’ he boasted. ‘I not only insisted that he be brought back, I put Saul Hibbert in his place and won the applause of the whole company. You see before you a conqueror.’

Margery was suspicious. ‘Is this some trick of yours, Lawrence?’

‘Since when have I descended to trickery?’

‘Whenever it suits the occasion.’

‘Well, this is an occasion for honesty and atonement.’

‘You wish to apologise to me?’ she said, slightly mollified.

‘No,’ he replied with a grand gesture, ‘but I’m prepared to accept
your
apology.’

‘For what?’

‘Misjudging your husband. Calling me names that should never have been uttered on the Sabbath, and raising your voice to such a pitch that my disgrace was spread far and wide.’

‘You deserved every vile syllable.’

‘Did I deserve to be made a stranger to your bed?’

‘Yes,’ said Margery, ‘and you’ll remain so.’

‘But I’ve made amends. Nick is back and Saul chastised.’

‘So you say.’

Firethorn was dismayed. ‘Do you doubt your husband’s word?’

‘Frankly, I do.’

‘Then you’ll hear it from Nick’s own mouth. He’s on his way here with other members of company. I galloped ahead
to warn you, Margery, and to bury our differences.’

‘Coming here?’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Thus it stands. The performance this afternoon was jaded but at least we suffered no setback. Until, that is, we had all moved off to the taproom. George Dart, who acted as Nick’s deputy, did not, alas, have Nick’s common sense. In short,’ he said, ‘he let his attention wander and the book of
The Malevolent Comedy
was stolen.’

‘By whom?’ she gasped.

‘The villain who has dogged this play from the start.’

‘How can you perform again without the prompt copy?’

‘That’s why they are all heading for Shoreditch. If our memories are good enough, we can recall the words and have them set down by our scrivener. Westfield’s Men will create a new play.’

‘It’s a pity you cannot create a new author as well.’

‘Saul has been duly humbled by me.’

‘Not before time.’

‘When I told him of the theft,’ said Firethorn, ‘he ranted wildly and threatened to set a pack of lawyers on us. But I soon imposed my authority on him when I pointed out that only Nick Bracewell could save us and brought him – by my own cunning, Margery – as close to begging for Nick’s help as could be expected. All is therefore well.’

‘You’ve still got five acts of a play to pluck out of your memories.’

‘We’ll do it somehow.’

‘And this is all due to you, Lawrence?’

‘You would have been proud of your husband.’

‘I always am,’ she said, fondly.

‘Does that mean I’ll not sleep on the floor tonight?’

‘I’ll join you there, if you do.’

‘Come here, my songbird!’ he said, throwing his arms around her and planting a kiss of reconciliation on her lips. ‘As I rode out of the city, I thought so much about this moment.’

‘How much time have we got?’ she asked, wickedly.

‘Enough.’

And sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her swiftly to their bedchamber and flung her down on the pillows like an eager bridegroom.

Nicholas Bracewell had been to Hoode’s lodging so many times that he did not need the landlady to conduct him to the room. Instead, he knocked on the door, waited for the summons then went in. Edmund Hoode was surprised to see him. He stood up from his table.

‘Nick,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to collect you.’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘All the way to Old Street,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and we must pick up Matthew Lipton on the way.’

‘Our scrivener?’

‘We’ve work that needs his flowing hand.’

Anxious to get back to his lodging, Hoode had left the Queen’s Head before the theft of the prompt copy had been discovered. Nicholas therefore gave him a brief account of what had taken place. Hoode was dumbfounded. A
playwright himself, he knew that nothing could distress an author as much as the theft of his work. Plagiarism was one thing, but the removal of the one complete copy of a drama was a heinous crime. On the occasion when it had happened to him, Hoode had been mortified. Fortunately, he had been able to retrieve the situation with the help of Nicholas and the company’s regular scrivener. Other heads would be used to reconstruct a missing play this time.

‘How did Saul Hibbert receive the news?’ asked Hoode.

‘Badly.’

‘At least he could not lay the blame on you this time.’

‘He tried hard to do so,’ said Nicholas. ‘From what I can gather, he first pointed the finger at me as the thief. Lawrence spoke up for me.’

‘His show of loyalty is long overdue.’

‘But no less appreciated for that.’

‘And you’re back with us?’

‘Happily, yes. That was the concession that Lawrence demanded of him,’ said Nicholas, ‘though I daresay it was made with reluctance.’

‘Some good has yet come out of this reversal, then.’

‘We still face a problem, Edmund.’

‘Do we?’

‘The man who stole the book thinks that he’s made it impossible for us to perform the play again. When he sees
The Malevolent Comedy
back onstage tomorrow, he’ll be very angry.’

‘We’ll have confounded him.’

‘Only for a while,’ Nicholas pointed out. ‘He’s still free
to maim us in some other way. Next time, his measures may be more desperate.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

‘Then let’s go to Matthew’s Lipton’s house.’

Nicholas glanced at the table. ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from your work, Edmund,’ he said. ‘Is this the new play you’ve mentioned?’

‘I’d have moved on to that in due course.’

‘What were you penning when I came in?’

Hoode gave a wan smile. ‘A sonnet.’

‘Ah, you’ve felt the warm glow of passion again.’

‘What I feel are the pangs of unrequited love. And the worst of it is, they seem to have dulled my brain. Tell me, Nick,’ he said, opening the door, ‘can you think of a clever rhyme for Ursula?’

Ursula Opie believed in the dictum that practice makes perfect. Seated at the keyboard, she studied the music in front of her and tapped out the notes with care and precision. She was so absorbed in her work that she did not hear the sound of her sister’s footsteps, coming up behind her in the hall. Bernice recognised the solemn music at once.

‘Why are you so attached to William Byrd?’ she asked with a note of complaint. ‘The house is filled with him all day long.’

‘Master Byrd is the finest composer alive,’ said Ursula, serenely.

‘Father tells me that he’s a devout Roman Catholic.’

‘Music is above denomination, Bernice.’

‘How can it be?’

‘You only have to listen.’

‘I’d rather hear something more lively,’ said Bernice, clapping her hands together. ‘Play a galliard so that I may dance.’

‘I’d never do anything so vulgar.’

‘Then let me hear a stately pavane. Anything is better than church music all the time. Oh, if only we had a house in the country!’

‘Why?’

‘Because there is so much more merriment there, Ursula. Country people know how to enjoy themselves. Do you remember that first play we saw at the Queen’s Head?’

‘It was
The Faithful Shepherd,
written by Edmund Hoode.’

‘It contained a whole host of dances,’ recalled Bernice. ‘The names alone were a delight to hear. There was Mopsy’s Tune, Dusty My Dear and the Bishop of Chester’s Jig.’

‘They were amusing enough in their place,’ said Ursula, primly.

‘When I saw the actors dance and frolic with such gaiety, I wanted to leap onstage and join them.’ Bernice twirled around a few times. ‘
The Faithful Shepherd
was a delight. I never thought we’d be allowed to meet the author.’

‘Master Hoode was a proper gentleman.’

‘And a handsome at that. Is it not so, Ursula?’

‘I did not notice.’

‘Come, even you must observe if a man is well or ill favoured.’

‘I admire Master Hoode for his intellect, not his appearance.’

‘I take pleasure in both. He looked so fine at the concert.’

‘The concert?’ said Ursula, glancing up. ‘I did not even know that he was here. I hope that he did not think it rude of me to ignore him.’

‘I paid him enough attention for both of us.’

‘As long as he did not feel neglected in our house.’

‘No, Ursula,’ said her sister, dreamily. ‘There was no danger of that. When I could not speak to him, I watched him every moment. Such a noble countenance, such a modest manner.’

‘True enough.’

‘Such a kind and thoughtful being.’

‘I liked him more than Master Firethorn.’

‘Oh, he was too fond of himself – not so Edmund.’

‘I liked him more than Owen Elias as well.’

‘I like him more than
any
man.’

‘Bernice!’

‘Why try to hide it from you?’ She gave a brittle laugh and hugged her sister. ‘Oh, Ursula, I think that I’m in love!’

And she pirouetted around the hall by way of celebration.

Basking once more in the love of his wife, Lawrence Firethorn was a portrait of contentment. Nobody would have guessed that his company was assailed from within by a demanding playwright and attacked from without by
a mysterious enemy. As a result of the latest exigency, he was forced to participate in an act of collective repair.
The Malevolent Comedy
had to be forged anew. Firethorn sat in the middle of his parlour as if he did not have a care in the world, beaming at his friends and showing excessive courtesy to Matthew Lipton, their scrivener. Twenty minutes in Margery’s capacious arms had transformed him. Reading the telltale signs, the other members of Westfield’s Men were grateful to her.

‘Let’s move on to the second act,’ decided Firethorn.

‘But we haven’t mentioned my jig yet,’ said Barnaby Gill.

‘We can take that for granted.’

‘Indeed, you will not.’

‘
Here the Clown dances
– that’s all that it said in the play.’

‘Then let that be set down,’ said Gill, nodding to the scrivener. ‘The first act is not complete until I’ve brought it to a conclusion.’

Gill’s argumentative streak was slowing them up. Everyone else was resolved to bring the play back to life as quickly and painlessly as possible, but Gill’s pedantry hampered them. Not content with recalling his own lines, he was disputing the accuracy of those remembered by others. There were seven co-authors. Firethorn had invited Edmund Hoode, Frank Quilter, Owen Elias, Barnaby Gill, Richard Honeydew and the book holder to join him. While their host was nominally in charge, it was, in fact, Nicholas Bracewell who controlled the exercise. The actors knew their own lines and cues, but he was the only one who
was familiar with the play in its totality and his prodigious memory came into its own.

‘What do I say next?’ asked Quilter, groping for his line.

‘Nothing,’ said Elias, ‘for the speech is mine.’

‘Mine, surely,’ contended Hoode, ‘for the priest must speak first.’

‘Wait your turn, Edmund.’

‘I could say the same to you.’

‘Nick,’ invited Firethorn with a smile, ‘give us instruction here.’

‘You are all wrong,’ said Nicholas, patiently. ‘The speech falls to Mistress Malevole.’

‘I thought so,’ agreed Richard Honeydew.

‘Why did you not say so?’ asked Gill, irritably.

‘I was not given the chance.’

Honeydew was the only one of the boy apprentices there but the other three were in the kitchen, being fed and mothered by Margery. From time to time, she brought drink and refreshment into the parlour, always pausing to give Nicholas a warm hug and her husband a kiss. The busiest person there was Matthew Lipton, a rangy individual of middle years with a habit of sucking his few remaining teeth. Copying out the words as they were dictated to him, he had difficulty in keeping up with Firethorn, who insisted on giving a performance rather than a simple, slow recitation.