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welcome.
    Seated at a table, three of the leading members ofthe company picked away desultorily at their food and discussed their prospects. They looked bleak. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode were not the only sharers but it was they who customarily made all the major decisions affecting Westfield’s Men. Hoode, playwright and actor, felt that, in this case, the decision had been made for them.
    ‘We must disband until next year,’ he said gloomily.
    ‘That would be fatal, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘We must stick together at all costs or the company will lose heart. Who knows? There may be room for us at The Rose from time to time, and we may even have the opportunity to perform at court in due course.’
    ‘Neither outcome is likely,’ said Gill with a dismissive flick of his hand. ‘The Rose already has its resident company and we will hardly be invited to play at court if we disappear from sight. We have to be seen on stage in order to catch the eye.’
    ‘Barnaby is right,’ agreed Hoode. ‘To all intents and purposes, Westfield’s Men have ceased to exist.’
    ‘No,’ said Firethorn, banging the table.
    ‘We have nowhere to perform, Lawrence.’
    ‘There may be another inn ready to help us out.’
    ‘We’ve never managed to find one before. The Queen’s Head is our home. When people hear the name, they think of us.’
    ‘And so they should,’ said Firethorn, thrusting out his jaw. ‘I’ve given some of my finest performances on the boards there. And you have helped me to do so, Edmund. Your plays have inspired me to reach the very peak of my art.’
    ‘What about me?’ asked Gill peevishly.
    ‘You frolic down in the foothills.’
    ‘I surpass you in everything I do, Lawrence.’
    ‘You surpass me in pulling faces, dancing jigs and singing bawdy songs, that much I grant you. As a tragedian, however, I cannot be matched in the whole of Christendom.’
    ‘Your modesty becomes you,’ said Gill waspishly.
    ‘Where would the company be without me?’
    ‘Better off in every way.’
    ‘It could certainly spare
your
meagre talents, Barnaby.’
    ‘Stop this argument,’ said Hoode, taking his usual role as the peacemaker. ‘You two never agree but you fall to quarrelling. The truth is that all of us – whatever our talents – have been put out of work by this fire.’ He chewed the last of his meal meditatively. ‘What does Nick say?’
    ‘What does it matter?’ countered Gill sharply. ‘You seem to forget that Nicholas is merely a hired man with no real standing in the company. It is
we
who decide policy, not the book holder.’
    ‘Nevertheless, his advice is always sound.’
    ‘Not in this case,’ said Firethorn with a sigh. ‘Nick thought that we should take to the road and hawk our plays around England.’
    ‘I’ll not turn peddler for anyone,’ said Gill defiantly.
    ‘You’ve done so before.’
    ‘Only under duress – and only in spring or summer.’
    ‘Strolling players are on tour throughout the year,’ noted Hoode. ‘They take no account of bad weather.’
    Gill was insulted. ‘We are not strolling players, Edmund,’ he said huffily. ‘We are members of a licensed company. Wehave a patron and wear his livery. That sets us worlds apart from the ragamuffins who call themselves strolling players.’
    ‘For once, I agree with Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have high standards and we must never fall below them. As for touring, it’s the wrong time of the year to walk at the cart’s arse.’
    ‘I dispute that,’ said Hoode. ‘If we have no audience in London, we must go in search of one. We can brave a little rain for the sake of keeping our art in good repair.’
    ‘I refuse to stir an inch from London,’ declared Gill with finality.
    ‘Then we’ll have to go without you.’
    ‘I’ll not allow it.’
    ‘I side with Barnaby on this,’ said Firethorn. ‘In another month, it will not only be rain that will harass us. Frost, fog and