'Soon,' promised Nicholas with more confidence than he felt. He knew only too well the difficulty of prising any money out of Lawrence Firethorn and spent a lot of his time explaining away his employer's meanness. 'Very soon, Master Marwood.'

'My wife thinks that I should put the rent up.'

'Wives are like that.'

Marwood gave a hollow laugh. The landlord of The Queen's Head was a short, thin, balding man in his fifties with a nervous twitch. His eager pessimism had etched deep lines in his forehead and put dark pouches under his eyes. Anxiety informed everything that he did or said.

Nicholas always took pains to be pleasant to Marwood. Lord Westfield's Men were trying to persuade the landlord to let them use the inn on a permanent basis and there were sound financial reasons why he might convert his premises to a playhouse. But Marwood had several doubts about the project, not least the fact that a City regulation had been passed in 1574 to forbid the staging of plays at inns. He was terrified that the authorities would descend upon him at any moment. There was another consideration.

'We had more scuffles in the yard.'

'Good humoured fun, that's all,' said Nicholas. 'You always get that during a play.'

'One day it will be much worse,' feared Marwood. 'I don't want an affray at The Queen's Head. I don't want a riot. My whole livelihood could be at stake.' The nervous twitch got to work on his cheek. 'If I still have a livelihood, that is.'

'What do you mean, Master Marwood?'

'The Armada! It could be the end for us all.'

'Oh, I don't think so,' returned Nicholas easily.

'It's ready to set sail.'

'So is the English fleet.'

'But the Spaniards have bigger and better ships,' moaned the landlord. 'They completely outnumber us. Yes, and they have a great army in the Netherlands waiting to invade us.'

'We have an army, too.'