he upbraided Hoode for some minor solecism. He dismounted, handed the reinsto George Dart and strode across to the two men without realising the gravity of the situation. Doffing his hat, Gill gave them a mocking bow.
‘Good morrow, gentleman,’ he said. ‘At each other’s throats so soon?’
Firethorn glowered. ‘It is all I can do to hold back from slitting Edmund’s.’
‘Are you still jealous because he outshone you in
Mirth and Madness
?’
‘No, Barnaby. I was the first to acknowledge his superiority in the play. But, having helped to save us on one day, he threatens us with extinction on the next.’
‘You exaggerate, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.
‘Let Barnaby be the judge of that,’ retorted Firethorn, turning to the newcomer. ‘Edmund has been slaving for weeks at his new play and was so enamoured of it that he pronounced it the finest piece he had ever written. It is all but finished, Barnaby, yet he has put down his pen and resolved never to take it up again in our name.’
‘But he must,’ said Gill sharply. ‘Edmund has a contract with us.’
‘Contracts can be revoked,’ argued Hoode.
‘I’ll hear no talk of revocation,’ growled Firethorn. ‘By heavens, Edmund, you’ll finish that accursed play if I have to stand over you with a sword and dagger.’
‘I’ll not be moved, Lawrence.’
‘Can you be serious?’ demanded Gill, seeing the implications.
‘The decision has already been made, Barnaby.’
‘Without even consulting your fellows?’
‘It was the only way.’
‘Are you saying that you’ll never write a play for us again?’
‘That yoke has finally been lifted from my shoulders.’
Gill blenched. ‘But your work – along with my own, of course – is one of the crowning glories of Westfield’s Men.’
‘You waste your breath in praising him, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’ve told him a dozen times how much we rely on his genius and he shrugs the compliment off as if it were without meaning.’
‘It is now, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘I need no compliments from you.’
‘You cannot simply walk out on the company.’
‘I understand that and I will honour some of my obligations. It would be wrong to do otherwise. Count on me to take my role in
Love’s Sacrifice
this afternoon, and in every play we stage from now until the end of next month. That will give you time to seek a replacement for Edmund Hoode.’
‘There
is
no replacement for you!’ howled Firethorn.
‘I agree,’ said Gill. ‘Lose you and we lose the best of our drama.’
Hoode was magnanimous. ‘I bequeath you all my plays.’
‘We need you to write new ones, Edmund. Novelty is ever in request. As one piece drops out of fashion, we must have fresh material at hand.’
‘London is full of eager playwrights.’
‘Eager for success, perhaps,’ said Firethorn, ‘yet lackingthe talent to achieve it. We’ve plenty of authors who can write one, even two, plays of merit but there it stops. No dramatist has your scope and endurance, Edmund. Will you take it from us?’
‘Forever.’
‘But
why
?’ asked Gill in dismay.
Firethorn was sour. ‘Can’t you guess, Barnaby?’
‘Surely not a mere
woman
?’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Hoode proudly. ‘She is much more than that.’
‘You would put a female before the future of the company?’ said Gill with utter disgust. ‘I abhor the whole gender. I cannot understand why any man should let a woman near him. To squander an occupation at the request of one of those undeserving creatures beggars belief. You are bewitched, Edmund.’
‘I am, I am, Barnaby. And happily so.’
‘Then you’d do well to remember what happens to witches.’
‘Well-spoken,’ said Firethorn, taking over once more. ‘Barnaby gives us a timely reminder. Yesterday, at Smithfield, a foul witch was burnt at the stake. Had the decision been in my hands, Edmund, this sorceress of yours would have burnt beside her.’
‘She is no sorceress,’ said
‘Good morrow, gentleman,’ he said. ‘At each other’s throats so soon?’
Firethorn glowered. ‘It is all I can do to hold back from slitting Edmund’s.’
‘Are you still jealous because he outshone you in
Mirth and Madness
?’
‘No, Barnaby. I was the first to acknowledge his superiority in the play. But, having helped to save us on one day, he threatens us with extinction on the next.’
‘You exaggerate, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.
‘Let Barnaby be the judge of that,’ retorted Firethorn, turning to the newcomer. ‘Edmund has been slaving for weeks at his new play and was so enamoured of it that he pronounced it the finest piece he had ever written. It is all but finished, Barnaby, yet he has put down his pen and resolved never to take it up again in our name.’
‘But he must,’ said Gill sharply. ‘Edmund has a contract with us.’
‘Contracts can be revoked,’ argued Hoode.
‘I’ll hear no talk of revocation,’ growled Firethorn. ‘By heavens, Edmund, you’ll finish that accursed play if I have to stand over you with a sword and dagger.’
‘I’ll not be moved, Lawrence.’
‘Can you be serious?’ demanded Gill, seeing the implications.
‘The decision has already been made, Barnaby.’
‘Without even consulting your fellows?’
‘It was the only way.’
‘Are you saying that you’ll never write a play for us again?’
‘That yoke has finally been lifted from my shoulders.’
Gill blenched. ‘But your work – along with my own, of course – is one of the crowning glories of Westfield’s Men.’
‘You waste your breath in praising him, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’ve told him a dozen times how much we rely on his genius and he shrugs the compliment off as if it were without meaning.’
‘It is now, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘I need no compliments from you.’
‘You cannot simply walk out on the company.’
‘I understand that and I will honour some of my obligations. It would be wrong to do otherwise. Count on me to take my role in
Love’s Sacrifice
this afternoon, and in every play we stage from now until the end of next month. That will give you time to seek a replacement for Edmund Hoode.’
‘There
is
no replacement for you!’ howled Firethorn.
‘I agree,’ said Gill. ‘Lose you and we lose the best of our drama.’
Hoode was magnanimous. ‘I bequeath you all my plays.’
‘We need you to write new ones, Edmund. Novelty is ever in request. As one piece drops out of fashion, we must have fresh material at hand.’
‘London is full of eager playwrights.’
‘Eager for success, perhaps,’ said Firethorn, ‘yet lackingthe talent to achieve it. We’ve plenty of authors who can write one, even two, plays of merit but there it stops. No dramatist has your scope and endurance, Edmund. Will you take it from us?’
‘Forever.’
‘But
why
?’ asked Gill in dismay.
Firethorn was sour. ‘Can’t you guess, Barnaby?’
‘Surely not a mere
woman
?’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Hoode proudly. ‘She is much more than that.’
‘You would put a female before the future of the company?’ said Gill with utter disgust. ‘I abhor the whole gender. I cannot understand why any man should let a woman near him. To squander an occupation at the request of one of those undeserving creatures beggars belief. You are bewitched, Edmund.’
‘I am, I am, Barnaby. And happily so.’
‘Then you’d do well to remember what happens to witches.’
‘Well-spoken,’ said Firethorn, taking over once more. ‘Barnaby gives us a timely reminder. Yesterday, at Smithfield, a foul witch was burnt at the stake. Had the decision been in my hands, Edmund, this sorceress of yours would have burnt beside her.’
‘She is no sorceress,’ said
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