Nicholas forgave him the insult and replied with an understanding smile. Words uttered in the heat of the moment were normal fare in the world of theatre and he paid no heed to them. Putting a hand on the author's shoulder, he adopted a soothing tone.

'It's an excellent play, Master Bartholomew.'

'How are the spectators to know that?'

'It will all be very different this afternoon.'

'Ha!'

'Be patient.'

'I have been Patience itself,' retorted the aggrieved poet, 'but I'll be silent no longer. My error lay in believing that Lawrence Firethorn was a good actor.'

'He's a great actor,' said Nicholas loyally. 'He holds over fifty parts in his head.'

'The pity of it is that King Richard is not one of them!'

'Master Bartholomew-'

'I will speak with him presently'

'That's not possible.'

'Take me to him, Nicholas.'

'Out of the question.'

'I wish to resolve this matter with him.'

'Later.'

'I demand it!'

But the howled demand went unsatisfied. Conscious of the disturbance that the author was creating, Nicholas decided to get him away from the courtyard. Before he knew what was happening, Roger Bartholomew was ushered firmly into a private room, lowered into a seat and served with a pint of sack. Nicholas, meanwhile, poured words of praise and consolation into his ear, slowly subduing him and deflecting him from his intended course of action.

Lawrence Firethorn was the manager, chief sharer and leading actor with Lord Westfield's Men. His book holder was not shielding him from an encounter with a disappointed author. Rather was he protecting the latter from an experience that would scar his soul and bring his career in the theatre to a premature conclusion. Roger Bartholomew might be seething with righteous anger but he was no match for the tempest that was Lawrence Firethorn. At all costs, he had to be spared that. Nicholas had seen much stronger characters destroyed by a man who could explode like a powder keg at the slightest criticism of his art. It was distressing to watch.