'I do not like the idea,' affirmed Gill.

'Then you've not fully understood it,' rejoined Firethorn. 'What is there to understand, Lawrence? England defeats the Armada. You seek a play to celebrate it-and every other company in London will be doing the same thing.'

'That is why we must be first, Barnaby.'

'I'm against it.'

'You always are.'

'Unfair, sir!'

'True, nonetheless.'

'Why must we ape everyone else?' demanded Gill, bristling. 'We should try to do something different.'

'My performance as Drake will be unique.'

'Yes, there you have it.'

'What?'

'I see no part in this new play for me.'

Edmund Hoode listened to the argument with the philosophical half-smile of someone who has heard it all before. As resident poet with the company, he was often caught between the rival claims of the two men. Each wished to outshine the other and Hoode usually ended up pleasing neither.

He was a tall, slim man in his early thirties with a round, clean-shaven face that still retained a vestige of youthful innocence. His curly brown hair and pale skin gave him an almost cherubic look. Hoode excelled in writing poems to the latest love in his life. What he found himself doing was producing hasty, if workmanlike, plays at a late that moved him closer to nervous collapse each time. The one consolation was that he was always able to give himself a telling cameo role with romantic interest.

How soon will you have something to show us, Edmund.' 'Christmas.'

'I'm serious about this.'

'So am I, Lawrence.' We ask you as a special favour,' purred Firethorn.