The Queen's Head nb-1 Page 4

Further argument was futile. No matter how hard he tried, Fowler could not deflect his friend from his purpose. Nicholas was brought in to add the weight of his persuasion but it was in vain. Samuel Ruff had decided to return to Norwich- It would be a hard life but he would have a softer lodging than the Hope and Anchor.

  Nicholas watched the two men carefully. They were middle-aged actors in a profession which handled its members with callous indifference. Both had met the impossible demands made upon them for a number of years, but one had now been discarded. It was a sobering sight. Will Fowler's exuberance came in such sharp contrast to Ruff's quiet despair. Taken together, the two friends seemed to embody the essence of theatre with its blend of extremes and its death-grapple between love and hate.

  There was something else that Nicholas observed and it made him feel sorry for his friend. Will Fowler had looked forward to the meeting with Samuel Ruff and placed a lot of importance upon it, but it was ending in disappointment. The man he had known in palmier days no longer existed. What was left was a pale reminder of his old friend, a few flashes of the real Samuel Ruff. An actor who had once shared his blind faith in the theatre had now become a heretic. It hurt Fowler and Nicholas shared that pain. 'Can nothing make you change your mind?' pleaded Fowler.

  'Nothing, Will.'

  'So be it.'

  They finished their ale in a desultory way then Nicholas went across to the hostess to pay the reckoning. It was even more rowdy now and the air was charged with a dozen pungent odours.

  Couples groped their way up the narrow stairs to uncertain joy, raucous jeers arose from a game of dice and the old sailor, swaying like a mainmast in a gale, tried to sing a ballad about the defeat of the Armada. The dog barked and someone vomited in the hearth.

  Nicholas was glad that they were about to leave. He sensed trouble. The Hope and Anchor was a tinderbox that could ignite at any moment. Though more than able to take care of himself in a brawl, he did not look for a fight and it worried him that he had come to the tavern with someone who often did. A buoyant Fowler was problem enough but a jaded one was highly volatile. Nicholas paid the bill and turned to go.

  But he was already too late.

  'Away, sir!'

  'Will you bandy words with me!'

  'No, sir. I'll break your crown!'

  'I have something here to split yours asunder!'

  'Stand off!'

  'Draw!'

  Will Fowler was being challenged by a tall, hulking man with a red beard and a sword in his hand. The actor jumped up from the settle and grabbed his own blade. A space immediately cleared in the middle of the room as tables were pushed hurriedly away, then the two men circled each other. Before Nicholas could move, Samuel Ruff interceded.

  'Put up your sword, Will,' he implored.

  'Stand aside, Sam.'

  'There is no occasion for this quarrel.'

  'I mean to have blood here.'

  Ruff swung round to confront the stranger. Unarmed but quite unafraid, he leapt between the two combatants and held out his arms, shielding his friend with his body.

  'Let us settle this over a pint of ale, sir.'

  'No!' snarled the other.

  'Mend your differences,' advised Ruff.

  The stranger was not deterred. He saw the chance to catch his adversary off guard and he took it. With a lightning thrust, his sword passed under Ruffs arm and went deep into Fowler's stomach. The fight was over.

  'Will!' shouted Nicholas, darting forward.

  'I'll...kill him,' threatened Fowler weakly.

  Dropping his sword, he staggered a few steps then collapsed to the floor. Nicholas bent down to enfold him in his arms, shaken by the speed of it all. The hostess screamed, the card players yelled, the old sailor roared and the dog barked madly. In the general confusion, the stranger ran out through the door and vanished down the alley.

  Everyone pressed in upon the fallen man.

  'Stand back!' ordered Nicholas. 'Give him air.'

  'What happened?' mumbled Fowler drowsily.

  'It was my fault,' confessed Ruff, covered in remorse as he knelt beside the wounded man. 'I tried to stop him and he stabbed you under my arm.'

  'Curse him!' groaned Fowler.

  The hostess pushed through the crowd to view the hideous sight. Brawls were common enough in the tavern but they did not usually involve swordplay nor end with someone losing his life-blood all over the floor.

  'Carry him to the surgeon!' she urged.

  'He cannot be moved,' said Nicholas, doing what he could to stem the flow of blood. 'Bring the surgeon here. Tell him to hurry!'

  The hostess despatched her boy with a curt command. Nicholas was still cradling his friend in his arms and shuddering with disbelief. Will Fowler had been such a powerful and energetic man yet his life was now draining rapidly away in the miserable setting of a Bankside stew. The sense of waste was overwhelming.

  'Who was he?' murmured Fowler.

  'Save your strength, Will,' cautioned Nicholas.

  'I want to know,' he said with a last show of spirit. 'Who was the rogue?'

  He looked up questioningly but nobody had the answer.

  Nicholas Bracewell was consumed with grief and anger. It was only now that he was about to lose Will Fowler that he realized how much the man's friendship had meant to him. The actor's warmth and effervescence would be sorely missed. Nicholas held the body more tightly to pull him back from death but he knew that it was all to no avail. Will Fowler was doomed.

  Samuel Ruff was in tears, tormenting himself with the thought that he was to blame, muttering endless apologies to the prostrate figure. Nicholas saw the blank horror in his face then he noticed that Ruffs sleeve was dripping with blood that seeped from a wound of his own. The sword thrust had cut his arm before killing Will Fowler.

  The dying man found enough breath to whisper.

  'Nick...'

  'I'm here, Will.'

  'Find him...please...find the rogue!'

  He clutched at his stomach as a new spasm of pain shot through him then his whole body went limp. A final hiss escaped his throat. Will Fowler had no need of a surgeon now.

  Samuel Ruff buried his face in his hands. Nicholas felt his own tears come but his sorrow was edged with cold fury. A dear friend had been viciously cut down. In a flash of temper, a valuable life had been needlessly squandered. Will Fowler had begged him to track down the culprit and Nicholas now took this duty upon himself with iron determination.

  'I'll find him, Will,' he promised.

  (*)Chapter Three

  Bankside was not entirely given over to stews, gambling dens, taverns and ordinaries. Because it was outside the City's jurisdiction, this populous area of Southwark had its share of cockpits and beat gardens and bull-baiting rings to please the appetites of those who flocked to them, but it also had its shops, its places of work and its respectable dwellings. Lined with wharves and warehouses for much of the way, it commanded fine views across the river of St Paul's and the City.

  Anne Hendrik had lived in Bankside for a number of years and she knew its labyrinthine streets well. Born of English stock, she married Jacob Hendrik while she was still in her teens. One of the many Dutch immigrants who poured into London, Jacob was a skilful hatmaker who found that the City Guilds had a vested interest in keeping him and his compatriots out of their exclusive brotherhoods. To make a living, therefore, he had to set up outside the City limits and Southwark was the obvious choice. Hard work and a willingness to adapt helped him to prosper. When he died after fifteen happy years of marriage, he left his widow with a good house, a flourishing business and moderate wealth.

  Other women might have moved away or married again but Anne Hendrik was committed to the house and its associations. Having no children, she lacked company and decided to take in a lodger. He soon became rather more than that.

  'Is that you, Nicholas?' she called.

  'Yes.'

  'You're late.'

  'There was no n
eed for you to wait up.'

  'I was worried about you.'

  Anne came out to the front door as he closed it behind him. When she saw him by the light of the candles, her comely features were distorted with alarm.

  'You're hurt!' she said, rushing to him.

  'No, Anne.'

  'But there's blood on your hands, and on your clothing.'

  'It's not mine,' he soothed.

  'Has there been trouble, Nick?'

  He nodded. 'Will Fowler.'

  'What happened?'

  They adjourned to his chamber. Anne fetched him a bowl of water so that he could clean himself up and Nicholas Bracewell told her what had occurred at the Hope and Anchor. He was still very shaken by it all. Anne was deeply distressed. Though she had only met Will Fowler a few times, she remembered him as a lively and loquacious man with a fund of amusing stories about the world of the playhouse. It seemed perverse that his life should be snuffed out so quickly and cheaply.

  'Have you no idea who the man was?' she asked.

  'None,' said Nicholas grimly. 'But I will catch up with the fellow one day.'

  'What of this Master Ruff?'

  'He was as stricken as I was, Anne. I helped him to find a new lodging for the night. He could not bear to stay in the place where Will had been murdered.'

  'You should have brought him back here,' she offered.

  Nicholas looked up at her and his affection for Anne Hendrik surged. Her oval face, so lovely and contented in repose, was now pitted with anxious frowns. Kindness and compassion oozed from her. In any crisis, her first instinct was always to give what practical help she could. It was a trait that Nicholas shared and it was one of the reasons that bonded them together.

  'Thank you, Anne,' he said quietly.

  'We could have found him something better than a room in some low tavern. Did you not think to invite him here?'

  'He would not have come,' Nicholas replied. 'Samuel Ruff is a very proud and independent sort of man. His friendship with Will goes back many years and it was something that both of them treasured. Samuel wants to keep his own counsel and mourn alone. I can respect that, Anne.'

  While he dried his hands, she took away the clouded water. Nicholas was exhausted. It was hours past midnight and the events at the Hope and Anchor had taxed him. Officers had been sent for and the whole matter was now in the hands of a magistrate. The dead body had been removed and there was nothing that Nicholas could do until the morrow. Yet his mind would not let him rest.

  Anne Hendrik came back. She was a tall, well-kept woman with graceful movements and a lightness of touch in all she did. Her tone was soft and concerned.

  'You need your sleep, Nick. Can you manage?'

  'I think so.'

  'If you want anything, you have only to call me.'

  'I know.'

  She gazed fondly at him then a sudden thought made her reach out and clasp him to her bosom for a few moments. When she released him, she caressed his hair with long, delicate fingers.

  'I'm sorry about Will Fowler,' she whispered, 'but it could so easily have been you who was killed. I could not have borne that.'

  She kissed him tenderly on the forehead then went out.

  *

  It was typical of Lawrence Firethorn that he took the tragedy as a personal insult. Without a twinge of conscience, he turned the death of a hired man into a direct attack upon his reputation. On the following afternoon, Will Fowler was due to appear in the company's latest offering at The Queen's Head, playing the most important of the secondary roles. Since the other hired men were already doubling strenuously, it was impossible to replace him. The whole performance was threatened and Firethorn worked himself up into a fine frenzy as he contemplated it.

  'Shameful!' he boomed. 'Utterly shameful!'

  'Regrettable,' conceded Nicholas.

  Westfield's Men have never cancelled before. We would set a dreadful precedent. The audience would be robbed of a chance to see me! You must take some blame for this, Nicholas.'

  'Why, master?'

  'It was you who kept Will Fowler employed.'

  'He was a good actor.'

  'You stopped me tearing up his contract a dozen times.'

  'Will was a valuable member of the company.'

  'He was too quarrelsome. Sooner or later, he was bound to pick a fight with the wrong person. God's blood! If only I'd followed my own instincts and not yours!'

  They were in the main bedchamber at Firethorn's house and the actor was rampaging in a white shirt. After a sleepless night, Nicholas had repaired to Shoreditch soon after dawn to break the sad news. His report was not well received.

  'It's so unfair on me!' stressed Firethorn.

  'My thoughts are with Will,' said Nicholas pointedly.

  'One of my hired men stabbed in a tavern brawl--a pretty tale! It will stain the whole company. Did you not think of that when you took him to that vile place last night?'

  'He took me.'

  'It makes no difference, I am the one to suffer. Heavens, Nick, we take risks enough flouting the City regulations. The last thing we need is a brush with the authorities.'

  'I've done all that is needful,' assured the other. 'You will not be involved at all.'

  'I am involved in anything that touches Westfield's Men,' asserted Firethorn, striking a favourite pose. 'Besides, how are you to hold the book for us if you are hauled off to answer magistrates? Do you see how it all comes back on me? It will severely injure my reputation as a great actor.'

  Nicholas Bracewell heaved a sigh. He was mourning the death of a friend but Firethorn was riding roughshod over his feelings. There were times when even he found it hard to accommodate his master's tantrums. He addressed the immediate problem.

  'Let us consider Love and Fortune?' he suggested.

  'Indeed, sir. An audience is expecting to see the play this very afternoon. It has always been popular with them.'

  'And so it shall be again.'

  'Without Will Fowler?'

  'There is a solution.'

  'There's no time to rewrite the piece,' said Firethorn dismissively. 'We could never unravel that plot at a morning's rehearsal. In any case, Edmund is in no condition to wrestle with such a task. The Armada play is putting him under great strain.'

  'Edmund will not be needed.'

  'Yet you say there is a solution?'

  'Yes, master.'

  'Will you raise Will Fowler from the dead, sir?'

  'In a manner of speaking.'

  'What riddle is this?'

  'His name is Samuel Ruff.'

  'Ruff!' bellowed Firethorn. 'That wretch who enticed you both into the Hope and Anchor?'

  'He's an experienced player,' argued Nicholas. 'The equal of our own man in every way.'

  'He could never learn the part in a couple of hours.'

  'Samuel believes that he can. He is studying the role even now. I copied out the sides for him myself from the prompt book.'

  'You take liberties, Nick,' warned Firethorn. 'Love and Fortune is our property. It is not for the eyes of strangers.'

  'Do you wish the performance to take place today?'

  'Of course!'

  'Then this is the only remedy' I will not hire a man I've never met.'

  'With your permission, I'll invite him to the rehearsal. You'll soon be able to judge if he can carry the part. We'll not find a better man at such short notice.'

  But the fellow was injured last night.'

  A flesh wound in the left arm,' explained Nicholas. 'The surgeon dressed it for him and it's not serious. Lorenzo wears a cloak in every scene. It will hide the injury completely. As for the rest of the costume, Samuel is almost of Will's height and weight so no alternations will be necessary.'

  'Stop thrusting the man at me!' protested Firethorn.

  'He is anxious to help.'

  'But for him, we would not need help.'

  Samuel accepts that. He feels guilty about what happened.

 
'That's why he wishes to make amends in some small way. Taking over his friend's role would mean so much to him.'

  'The idea does not appeal.'

  'Will Fowler would have approved.'

  'I make the decisions in this company--not Will Fowler.'

  'Maybe I should raise the matter with the other sharers,' said Nicholas artlessly. 'They might take a different view.'

  'Mine is the view that matters!' snarled the actor.

  Lawrence Firethorn prowled his lair like a tiger. When there was an explosion of boyish laughter from next door where the apprentices shared a room, he banged the wall and roared them to silence. When his wife sent word that breakfast was ready, he frightened the servant away simply by baring his fangs. At length, he began to come around.

  'Experienced, you say?'

  'Several years with good companies, Leicester's among them.'

  'He can con lines quickly?'

  'It was his trademark.'

  'Is he quarrelsome?' demanded Firethorn. 'Like Will?'

  'No, master. He's a very peaceful citizen.'

  'And why does this worthy fellow lack work?'

  'I don't know.'

  'He must have some defects.'

  'None that I could see. Will vouched for him.'

  'Where did Ruff play last?'

  'With Banbury's Men,' said Nicholas. . 'Banbury's Men!'

  Firethorn's exclamation rang through the whole house. His interest in Samuel Ruff had just come to an end. The Earl of Banbury and Lord Westfield were sworn enemies who lost no opportunity to score off each other. Their respective dramatic companies were major weapons in the feud and they regarded each other with cold hatred. Banbury's Men had been in the ascendant at first but they had now been displaced by Westfield's Men. In the shifting world of London theatre, it was Lawrence Firethorn and his company who now held the upper hand and they were not willing to relinquish it.

  'Meet him, at least,' pressed Nicholas.

  'He is not the man for us.'

  'But he fell foul of Banbury's Men through no fault of his own. He was forced to leave.'

  'I will not employ him, Nick. It's unthinkable.'

  'Then we must cancel the performance as soon as may be.'

  'Hold! I will not gallop into this.'

  'The others will be shocked by your decision.'