A tall, broad-shouldered man with long fair hair and a full beard, Nicholas Bracewell remained even-tempered as the stress began to tell on his colleagues. He asserted himself without having to raise his voice and his soft West Country accent was a balm to their ears. Ruffled feathers were smoothed, difficulties soon resolved. Then a familiar sound boomed out.

'Nick, dear heart! Come to me.'

Lawrence Firethorn had made a typically dramatic entrance before moving to his accustomed position at the centre of the stage. After almost three years with the company, Nicholas could still be taken aback by him. Firethorn had tremendous presence. A sturdy, barrel-chested man of medium height, he somehow grew in stature when he trod the boards. The face had a flashy handsomeness that was framed by wavy black hair and set off by an exquisitely pointed beard. There was a true nobility in his bearing which belied the fact that he was the son of a village blacksmith.

'Where have you been, Nick?' he enquired.

'Talking with Master Bartholomew.'

'That scurvy knave!'

'It is his play,' reminded Nicholas.

'He's an unmannerly rogue!' insisted the actor. 'I could run him through as soon as look at him.'

'Why?'

'Why? Why, sir? Because that dog had the gall to scowl at me throughout the entire rehearsal. I'll not put up with it, Nick. I'll not permit scowls and frowns and black looks at my performance. Keep him away from me.'

'He sends his apologies,' said Nicholas tactfully.

'Hang him!'

Firethorn's rage was diverted by a sudden peal of bells from a neighbouring church. Since there were well over a hundred churches in the capital, there always seemed to be bells tolling somewhere and it was a constant menace to open air performance. The high galleries of the inn yard could muffle the pandemonium outside in Gracechurch Street but it could not keep out the chimes from an adjacent belfry. Firethorn thrust his sword arm up towards heaven.