Edward Marston - The Queens Head

'So does that unfortunate jaw of his,' returned Firethorn with a low moan. 'John has talent but it is seen at its best when he is a witch or a lady-in-waiting. We cannot have a queen with a lantern jaw.'

'That leaves Stephen Judd. I would settle for him.'

'You're forgetting someone, Edmund.'

'Am I?' He sat up in surprise. 'Dick Honeydew?'

'Why not?'

'The boy has not been with us long enough. He still has much to learn. And he is so young.'

'That is exactly why I would choose him. He has a quality of frail innocence that is perfect. It enlists the audience's sympathy at once. They will not see a termagant queen who flings the gauntlet down to her enemies. They will have a vulnerable young woman who will touch the heart.' He snorted aloud. 'If John Tallis addresses the troops at Tilbury with his lantern jaw, he will look like a recruiting sergeant in female attire.'

'We have not talked about Stephen Judd.'

'He always has that knowing look. It was ideal for Love and Fortune but not here. I go for Dick.'

'You really believe he could bring it off?'

'I do. It may be the title role but it does not involve many speeches. Gloriana exists largely as a symbol. It is her grizzly sea captains like myself who carry the burden of the dialogue.'

Edmund Hoode tapped his fingers on the table and pondered.

'The other boys will not like this, Lawrence.'

'I don't care two hoots about them!' said Firethorn. 'It will put them in their place. They've been hounding poor Dick on the sly since he came here. If he lands the title role over them, they will be duly chastised.' He pushed his chair back so that he could stretch himself out. 'Well? What do you think, Edmund?'

'I'm not entirely persuaded.'

'He'll not let us down-I'm certain of it.'

'We'd have to spend a lot of time on him.'

'As much as you wish. You agree, then?'

'I agree.'

'Dick Honeydew as Gloriana!'

The two men lifted their cups in toast.

When Nicholas got back to the house late that night, Anne Hendrik was waiting for him with a smile of welcome. Her pleasure at seeing him home again was mingled with relief that he had come to no harm. Nicholas had been working his way through the Bankside stews once more and she feared for his safety in an area that swarmed with low life. His task was fraught with dangers because it took him to some of the most notorious criminal dens in London.

'How did you fare?' she asked.

'Not well,' he admitted. 'Someone at the Antelope remembered a tall man with a red beard but he was not sure if our sketch bore any likeness to him. The hostess at the Dog and Doublet thought she recognized the face in the drawing but she insists that his beard was black.'

'Did you call at the Cardinal's Hat?'

'Yes,' he said, rallying, 'and there was better news. Alice will be discharged from the hospital soon. She's recovered well and got her wits back, by all accounts. I have great hopes that she will be able to give me more details about Redbeard.'

'What of Samuel Ruff?'

'He continues to search as diligently as me,' he said. 'We will run our man to earth in the end.'

Apprehension flitted across her face and she stepped in close to give him a brief hug. Her eagerness to see the killer brought to justice was tempered by a natural anxiety.

'If you do find him, Nicholas…'

'No question but that we will.' ^!

'You will have the utmost care?' she pleaded.

'Have no fear, Anne,' he soothed. 'I go armed. Redbeard will not have the chance to stab me unawares.'

He took her in his arms and gave her a reassuring kiss.

Susan Fowler was no longer staying in his room but he still did not return to it. He and Anne went upstairs together to her bedchamber at the front of the house. It was a large, low room with solid pieces of furniture, tasteful hangings and a small carpet over the shining oak floorboards. Paintings of Dutch interiors hung on the walls as a memento of her late husband's homeland. Like all parts of the house, it was kept spotlessly clean.

The four-poster was soft and comfortable, and they made love with a languid tenderness under its linen. Afterwards, they lay in the dark with their arms entwined. Nicholas Bracewell and Anne did not share a bed often. Neither of them was ready to commit themselves to any full or permanent relationship. He was far too independent and she was still wedded to memories of a happy marriage with Jacob Hendrik. It suited them both to drift in and out of their moments of intimacy, and to see them as occasional delights rather than as a routine habit. The magic was thus retained.

'Nick…'

'Mm?'

'Are you asleep?'.

'Yes.'

They both laughed. She dug him playfully in the ribs.

'I was thinking about Will Fowler,' she continued.

'So was I.'

'Maybe that is the reason he was drawn to the theatre.'

'Reason?'

'It's a kind of refuge,' she argued. 'Actors have to be seen but only as somebody else. Do you understand me? Will Fowler went into the theatre to hide. Just like you.'

'Is that what I did?' he asked with amusement.

'You tell me, sir.'

But she knew that he would not. Anne Hendrik had enquired about his past life many times but he had yielded only the barest details. Born and bred in the West Country, he was the son of a well-to-do merchant who ensured that Nicholas had a sound education then took him into the business. It gave him the chance to travel and he made many voyages to Europe.

Suddenly, he broke with his family and took service with Drake on his voyage around the world. The experience changed his whole attitude to life and left him a more philosophical man. When he came back to England, his days as a sailor were over. Eventually, he moved to London and began to work in the theatre.

'What exactly did you do, Nick?' she wondered.

'When?'

'In those years between coming home to your own country and joining Lord Westfield's Men. You must have done something.'

'I did. I survived.'

'How?'

He kissed her by way of reply. The missing years in his life had left their mark on him but he would never disclose why. Anne would have to accept him as he was, a quiet, strong-willed person whose self-effacing manner was a form of mask. She might not know everything about him but there was enough to make him very lovable.

'Speak to me,' she whispered.

'What shall I say?'

'Do you agree with me? About Will Fowler?'

'Perhaps.'

'And what about Nicholas Bracewell?'

'Perhaps not.'

'Oh, Nick!' she sighed, as she tightened her grip on him. 'I love this closeness but there are times when I wonder who the man I am holding really is.'

'I wonder that myself,' he confessed.

He kissed her softly on the lips and began to stroke her dark, lustrous hair. Nestling into his chest, she felt at once soothed and aroused. It was several minutes before she broke the silence.

'What are you thinking?' she said.

'It doesn't matter, Anne.' There was a shrug in his voice.

'Please. Tell me.'

'It was not very cheering.'

'I still want to know.'

"Very well,' he explained. ' I was thinking about failure.'

'Failure?'

'High hopes that end in chaos. Noble ambitions that crumble.'

'Is that what happened to your hopes and ambitions?'

'You keep on trying,' he said with a little laugh, then he became more serious. 'No, I was thinking about Susan Fowler, poor creature. Her plans have fallen apart. Then there is Samuel Ruff.

Failure brought him low as well. Even now there is still a deep sadness in the man that I cannot fathom.'

There was a long pause. Her voice was a murmur in the pillow.

'Nick…'

'I know what you're going to say.'