‘Everything good, nothing bad,’ said Hame, blithely.
‘You told him every last detail of my play?’
‘Of course. But Giles is more interested in the next one you write.’
‘That’s the one Banbury’s Men would like,’ said Vavasor. ‘You do have a second play ready, do you not?’
‘I will do,’ replied Hibbert. ‘Very soon.’
‘I hope so. Giles is not a patient man.’
‘How many other playwrights can he call upon?’
‘He does not need to call on any,’ said Hame. ‘They come to him in droves. John and I are fortunate in that few of his supplicants write tragedy. Most favour comedy so you have many rivals, Saul.’
Hibbert was hurt. ‘You said that my play was far above all else.’
‘In some senses, it is.’
‘In what sense is it not?’
‘Well,’ said Vavasor, lighting a clay pipe from the candle, ‘to begin with, it lacks a natural part for Giles Randolph. There’s no doubt that he could play Lord Loveless – Cyrus and I discussed that very point – but it would not make best use of his talents. Change the name of your heroine and you might have something to tempt him.’
‘Change the name?’
‘Yes, Saul. If a Master Malevole created all the mischief, instead of a woman, he would be untouchable in the role. Dark, brooding, sinister characters are what Giles relishes.’
‘Do you have such a character in your next play?’ said Hame.
‘Not at the moment,’ admitted Hibbert.
‘Oh dear!’
‘But that can soon be remedied.’
‘It must be. Giles is to his company what Firethorn is to Westfield’s Men. Both must shine in a leading role or a play has no appeal.’
‘You gave me the impression that Banbury’s Men would buy anything and everything I wrote.’
‘Subject to certain conditions.’
‘You mentioned no conditions, Cyrus.’
Hame beamed at him. ‘They must have slipped my mind.’
‘All that we were empowered to do,’ said Vavasor, taking over, ‘was to sound you out. To see if you were ready to shake the dust of the Queen’s Head from your feet.’
‘I’m more than ready!’ growled Hibbert.
‘Break with them and we can talk further.’
‘I’ve already done so and I need employment.’
‘Can you so soon have used up so much good will?’ taunted Hame. ‘That does not bode well. Actors need to be flattered to keep them in the right humour. John and I take it in turns to stroke Giles’s feathers.’
‘Well, I’ll not do so,’ said Hibbert with a flash of anger.
‘Then bid farewell to your hopes.’
‘Since when have certainties become hopes? When we first talked, you said that I was assured of a cordial welcome.’
‘And so you are – if your next play pleases.’
‘The same holds for us,’ said Vavasor, exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke. ‘Everything rests on the quality of our work. Lamberto gave us our moment at the pinnacle. We can only hope that Pompey the Great does likewise. First, however, it must win over Giles Randolph.’
‘If it fails,’ added Hame, ‘then John and I must take it elsewhere.’
‘How can it fail if it has the same attributes as Lamberto?’
‘How can any play of yours fail if it has the virtues that were seen in such abundance in The Malevolent Comedy? Do not wear such a gloomy face, Saul,’ he went on, reaching out to pat Hibbert gently on the shoulder. ‘You are among friends. We share your ambitions. We want you to join us at the Curtain.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Vavasor, ‘you are building your reputation at the Queen’s Head. As long as your play draws in large audiences, you will always be sought after.’
‘Success breeds success.’
‘Cyrus has summed up the life of a playwright in three words. Success is everything and you’ve achieved it. Tomorrow, I daresay, the name of Saul Hibbert will fill that inn yard again.’
Hibbert was decidedly unsettled. He took a long sip of brandy. Hame traded a glance with Vavasor. The two men were patently enjoying their guest’s obvious discomfort.
‘What did John say to upset you so much?’ asked Hame, casually. ‘There’s no reason why your work will not delight an audience again tomorrow, is there?’
At least, he was in the warm now. Rescued from the stable, Richard Honeydew had been carried into a building, up some stairs and along a passageway. The room into which he was taken had a large cupboard in the corner and the boy was thrust into it with a series of dire warnings. The woman had then taken over, untying his legs so that he had some freedom of movement and giving him a pillow for his head. The cupboard door was then locked. Honeydew felt warmer, safer and more comfortable but he was still a prisoner.
He tried hard to hear what was being said in the bedchamber, hoping that it might give him some clue as to the identity and purpose of his captors. But their conversation was too short and muted. He had seen enough of the young woman to be able to recognise her again but the man had been careful to hide his face from the boy. All that Honeydew had caught was a glimpse of fair hair and beard, and of a blue doublet.
The man had not stayed long in the room. After telling the woman to watch their prisoner with care, he let himself out. The woman fell silent for a long while but Honeydew sensed that she was still the other side of the cupboard door. Had he been left alone, escape was at last a possibility. The boy could have kicked his way out of the cupboard, hauled himself up to his feet then tried to break the lock on the door of the bedchamber by hurling himself at the timber. Even if he had failed, he would have made enough noise to summon help.
As it was, he could do nothing but lie there in the dark and listen to the floorboards creaking whenever the woman moved. Honeydew kept shifting his position to ease the pain. The ache in his back and arms was constant. The gag was hurting his mouth. He was also very hungry. Instead of being given his usual healthy supper by Margery Firethorn, he was deprived of food and water. It was another source of pain.
Yet there were compensations. He did not fear for his life so much now. The fact that they had taken him indoors suggested that they would look after him, albeit still as their prisoner. Honeydew was not so much a murder victim as a hostage. He was being held so that his captors could get what they wanted, and that was to stop a play from being performed again. The boy could only guess at their reasons for doing so.
When the cupboard was suddenly unlocked and thrown open, he blinked in the candlelight. The young woman was holding a piece of bread and a cup of water. Her expression was still stern but there was a faint hint of softness in her voice.
‘Are you more comfortable here?’ He nodded. ‘I’m going to take the gag away again but be warned. Call out and I’ll tie it back again. Then you’ll spend the whole night in the stable.’ His eyes widened in horror and he shook his head. ‘Make sure that you behave yourself, Mistress Malevole, and say nothing at all.’
She removed his gag and fed him some bread. He chewed it gratefully. Another mouthful followed then he was allowed to sip the water. The meal was over in minutes and she wiped the crumbs from his lips before replacing the gag more gently than before. Honeydew was touched by what he perceived as her kindness. She looked at him for a long time as if weighing something in her mind. At length, she blurted out her statement.
‘Nobody was meant to die onstage like that boy,’ she said with regret. ‘It was a mistake.’
The door was promptly closed. Honeydew was in the dark again.
Alexander Marwood needed no persuasion to yield up the spare key. He was so affronted by his guest’s behaviour that he had thought of searching the bedchamber himself for money to pay the outstanding bills. In the event, it was Nicholas Bracewell who let himself into the room belonging to the man he knew as Saul Hibbert. He took no chances. In case the playwright returned to the inn, Nicholas had stationed Owen Elias
near the gate. A warning whistle from the Welshman would give the book holder ample time to get clear.
Nicholas worked quickly. Entering with a lighted candle, he scoured the room in one sweep, noting how many suits Hibbert owned and how many empty bottles of wine stood beside the bed. On the table lay a few pages of a new play but it was clear, from the number of lines that were crossed out then changed, that the author was struggling to make any progress with it. The play was called A Woman Killed with Tenderness. It was another comedy.
A leather bag then caught Nicholas’s attention. When he undid the strap, he found that it was filled with letters, documents and bills that seemed to relate to a number of different towns. The playwright had been ubiquitous. In addition to Norwich and Oxford, he had spent time in Lincoln, Nottingham, Chester, Lichfield, Worcester, Bristol and even in Nicholas’s hometown of Barnstaple in Devon. The most valuable item in the collection, however, was a letter written in Hibbert’s own looping hand. Nicholas was astonished at what he read:
Sweet wife,
As ever there was any good will or friendship
between me and thee, see this bearer (my host)
satisfied of his debt, I owe him twenty pound, and
but for him I had perished in the streets. Forget and
forgive my wrongs done unto thee, and Almighty
God have mercy on my soul. Farewell till we meet
in heaven, for on earth thou shalt never see me
more. This 2nd of September, 1595.
Written by thy dying husband
Saul Hibbert
Nicholas put everything back in the leather bag and strapped it up again. He went around the room once more, making sure that everything was exactly where he had found it. The letter answered many questions about its author but it posed even more. It set Nicholas’s mind racing. He stepped outside the door and locked it behind him. When he turned to leave, he almost walked into Alexander Marwood. The landlord thrust his face close enough for Nicholas to smell his foul breath.
‘Did you find any money?’ asked the landlord.
‘No,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Well, when you do, it’s mine.’
Saul Hibbert was disturbed. Though he had eaten well and drunk deeply, he had not enjoyed the supper with his friends as much as he had anticipated. Their manner towards him had subtly changed and he could not understand why. While John Vavasor had been as bland and generous as before, he was not as encouraging to the new playwright as he had been. And, while Cyrus Hame was his usual jocund self, there were moments when he seemed to be teasing Hibbert. It was as if the two men knew something that their guest did not. Since they were not prepared to share it with him, Hibbert was bound to conclude that it was something to his disadvantage.
His position had become precarious. Estranged from one company, he simply had to find a home for his talent or his hopes of earning renown as a playwright in London would vanish. His two earlier plays had enjoyed only a few performances each with minor theatre companies, whose limited resources and lack of repute doomed them to an incessant tour of the country. Now that he had finally reached the capital, Hibbert had to find a way to stay there. The Malevolent Comedy was not the passport he had assumed it would be. Its undoubted quality was not enough to commend it. Repeated attempts to keep it off the stage had left Westfield’s Men in uproar against the play, and no other London company would touch it.
At the same time, it was the only clear evidence of his genius, of the spark of magic that set him apart from the general run of authors. It had to be repossessed. If all else failed, it could be offered to one of the companies that toured the provinces and at least bring in some much-needed funds for Hibbert. Though the play was contracted to Westfield’s Men, he would have no compunction about letting it be performed elsewhere, far away from London and from the beady eyes of Lawrence Firethorn and his lawyer.
Hope of being taken up by Banbury’s Men had weakened slightly but had not been relinquished. All that Hibbert had to do was to complete A Woman Killed with Tenderness and offer it to Giles Randoph. Work on the play had been extremely slow because its author had been too preoccupied with enjoying the trappings of success. As he strolled back to the Queen’s Head, he vowed that he would return to the play in earnest on the following day. In prospect, it was an ever better comedy than one that had introduced his name to the city. All that he had to do was to convert the ideas that buzzed in his brain into words on a page.
It was dark when he turned into Gracechurch Street then a blaze of light appeared on the opposite side of the road as two watchmen came towards him with lanterns. They plodded on past Hibbert and the light soon faded away. Immersed in thought, he hurried on until he could see candles burning in the windows of the Queen’s Head. A hooded figure stepped out of the shadows and thrust something into his hands.
‘This is what you wanted, sir,’ said a gruff voice.
‘Excellent!’ replied Hibbert, knowing that he had the prompt book of his play even though he could not see it properly in the dark. ‘Did you beat him well?’
‘Very well. He’ll not wake until morning.’
‘Here’s payment for you.’
Opening his purse, Hibbert thrust some coins into the man’s hand, only to be grabbed by the shoulders and dragged swiftly into the inn yard. The hooded figure was Owen Elias, disguising his voice to sound like one of the ruffians who had attacked the book holder. Nicholas himself was waiting in the yard, hands on his hips.
‘Send more men next time,’ he suggested, ‘for those two gave me nothing more than gentle exercise.’
‘I have no notion of what you mean,’ gabbled Hibbert.
‘You’ve been discovered,’ said Elias, giving him a shove. ‘You set men onto Nicholas to steal his satchel and give him a sound hiding.’
‘No, no, why should I do that?’
‘We heard you loud and clear,’ said Nicholas. ‘When you took the play from Owen, you made a full confession. Let me have the book back.’
‘It’s mine,’ insisted Hibbert, hugging it to him. ‘I need it.’
‘What you need is a spell in prison to contemplate your crimes. You are a liar, a villain and a fraud,’ Nicholas told him. ‘You signed a legal contract with a name that was not your own. You’ve lived like a lord here without any intention of paying your bills. Ever since you joined us, you’ve been a menace to the company. And worst of all, Master Hatfield,’ said Nicholas, closing on him, ‘you paid to have me cudgelled by two ruffians. One of them pulled a dagger on me and meant to use it.’
‘Then I’ll finish what he started,’ said Hibbert, tossing the play into Nicholas’s face and drawing his sword. ‘You’ve been a thorn in my side since we met, Nicholas, and it’s time I plucked it out.’
‘Not while I’m here,’ said Elias, drawing his own weapon.
Nicholas was adamant. ‘This is my quarrel, Owen,’ he said, putting the play on the ground. ‘Lend me your sword and I’ll give this rogue satisfaction.’
‘I’ll not be satisfied until I kill you,’ said Hibbert, removing his hat and flicking it away. ‘Come on, sir.’
‘Leave some meat on him for me to carve,’ asked Elias, handing his rapier to Nicholas. ‘I’ve my own grudge against this knave.’ Hibbert thrust wildly at him and the Welshman had to jump back quickly out of range. ‘God’s blood!’ he protested. ‘Can you not even fight like a man?’
‘Let’s find out,’ said Nicholas, circling his opponent.
‘I’m ready for you,’ goaded Hibbert.
‘How ready?’
‘I’ll show you.’
Hibbert thrust hard but Nicholas parried with ease. A second thrust and six fierce slashes of the blade were also harmlessly deflected. Hibbert came at him again. Light on his feet and well balanced, he was no mean swordsman. When he launched another ferocious attack, his rapier flashed murderously in the air but each stroke was deftly parried. Nicholas was happy to give ground, testing him out, lulling the
man into false confidence, even giving a grunt of pain as if he had been wounded.
But the winner was never in doubt. Nicholas had studied the finer points of swordsmanship. He was stronger, faster and more nimble. He had had far more experience with a weapon in his hand than Hibbert. When he had taken everything that his opponent could throw at him, he retaliated with a dazzling series of cuts and thrusts that forced Hibbert backwards until he was up against a wall. Nicholas feinted, moved swiftly to the side, thrust again and twisted his wrist. Hibbert cried out as blood gushed from his hand. His sword went spinning in the air.
Nicholas rested the point of his blade against Hibbert’s throat.
‘Now, then,’ he said, ‘let’s have some honest answers.’
‘Run him through, Nick,’ urged Elias. ‘I’ll swear you killed him in self-defence for that’s the truth. He drew first when you had no weapon.’
‘No, no,’ begged Hibbert. ‘Spare my life – please!’
‘He’d not have spared yours, Nick.’
‘Peace, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Leave this to me.’ He flicked his sword so that the point drew blood from Hibbert’s throat. The playwright emitted a gasp of fear. ‘A young woman lured Dick Honeydew away in that churchyard. Who was she?’
‘In truth, I do not know,’ replied Hibbert.
‘Give me her name.’
‘I would, if I knew what it was.’
‘You know it only too well,’ said Nicholas, remembering the letter he had seen, ‘for you lived with her at one time. I think that she has learnt of your ruse. The woman is your wife.’
Hibbert gave a shudder and pulled himself back against the wall in a vain attempt to escape the pressure of the sword point. There was terror in his eyes and sweat dribbled freely down his face. All his hopes had been vanquished. He was caught.
‘Admit it,’ said Nicholas. ‘Is she your wife?’
‘Probably,’ confessed Hibbert, ‘but I cannot say which one.’
Richard Honeydew was mystified. From the various sounds he could hear from below and in the adjoining rooms, he was being held in a busy inn but he could not tell in which part of the city it might be. What puzzled him was that the woman who had fed him seemed to be alone. Since carrying him upstairs, the man had departed and stayed away all evening. The boy had heard a bolt being pushed home after his departure. When he picked up clear sounds that the woman was going to bed, he wondered why the man had not returned. The candle was blown out in the room and the tiny filter of light that came through the crack in the cupboard door was extinguished.
The Malevolent Comedy Page 22
