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Westfield’s Men at the moment, the better. I would be most grateful if you could do my errand.’
    ‘I’ll about it straight.’
    ‘Thank you, Leonard.’
    It was five minutes before he came back and the serving wench he brought with him was not at all willing to come. Fearing that she was being lured into the cellar for some nefarious purpose, she chided and protested at every step. The sight of Nicholas reassured her slightly and her smudged button of a face even smiled when he slipped a few coins into her hand. She brushed back her lank hair so that she could study him properly. Nicholas asked her about the two travellers who came in at noon and she was able to give a reasonable description of both but she had heard nothing that passed between them and saw nobody else joining them at their table. What she did notice was how ill at ease the younger patron had been in the tavern.
    ‘You’d have thought it his first visit to a taproom.’
    ‘First and last,’ muttered Nicholas to himself.
    With nothing more to be gleaned at the inn, he thanked them for their help and collected his horse. He was soon making his way along the ever-populous Gracechurch Street until it became Bishopsgate Street. When he came to the gate itself and rode out beneath the heads of the traitors who had been set on spikes there, he was able to coax a steady canter out of the roan, and the journey to Shoreditch was over fairly quickly. Reaching his employer’s house, he tethered his mount and ducked under the eaves. Lawrence Firethorn answered the door himself and whisked his book holder straight into the parlour.
    ‘You come most promptly upon your hour!’
    ‘It is needful.’
    ‘We must have urgent conference, Nick.’
    ‘That is why I am here.’
    ‘Sit down, man, sit down,’ said Firethorn, ushering himto a chair and pushing him into it. ‘Take your ease while you yet may for there is little hope of rest ahead of us.’
    ‘I must speak with you on that subject.’
    ‘Only when you have first listened.’
    Firethorn punched his guest playfully on the shoulder and stood back to appraise him with a fond smile. A theatrical career was a precarious one at the best of times and few sustained it with any consistency over a long period of time. Lawrence Firethorn was one of those exceptions, a durable talent that never seemed to fade, an actor of infinite variety and bravado. Admirers spoke of his superb voice, gesture and movement while others were swept away by his commanding presence. Supreme when he was on stage, he knew full well how much he owed to the controlling figure of his book holder behind the arras. With Nicholas Bracewell at his back, he could lead his company to triumph after triumph.
    ‘Ah, Nick!’ he sighed. ‘What would I do without you!’
    ‘I fear that you may have to find out.’
    ‘Our theatre may burn down, our landlord may oust us and London may drive us on to the open road but I am not in the least troubled. As long as I have you, I have hope.’
    ‘With regard to the tour—’
    ‘It is all arranged,’ interrupted Firethorn, moving around the room. ‘Barnaby and I have laboured long and hard today to stitch it all together like tidy seamsters. Our esteemed patron, Lord Westfield, has shown his usual concern and offered money and guidance to send us on our way.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘The money, alas, will never appear because our dear patron is more adept at borrowing than loaning, but the advice came in abundance. It has determined ouritinerary and given us promise of certain welcome along the way.’ He snatched up a sheet of parchment from the table and handed it to Nicholas. ‘This is our company. Small it may be in number but it is large enough in talent to present a wide repertoire of plays. See that each man is informed of our purpose. We will set forth tomorrow.’
    ‘You will do so without me, I fear, Master Firethorn.’
    His host gulped. ‘What is that you say?’
    ‘I beg leave to