Allowances had to be made for the fact that Master Roger Bartholomew was a novice, lately come from Oxford, where his tutors held a high opinion of him and where his poetry had won many plaudits. He was clever, if arrogant, and sufficiently well-versed in the drama to be able to craft a play of some competence. The Tragical History of Richard the Lionheart had promise and even some technical merit. What it lacked in finesse, it made up for in simple integrity. It was overwritten in some parts and under-written in others but it was somehow held together by its patriotic impulse.

London was hungry for new plays and the companies were always in search of them. Lawrence Firethorn had accepted the apprentice work because it offered him a superb central role that he could tailor to suit his unique talents. It might be a play that smouldered without ever bursting into flame but it could still entertain an audience for a couple of hours and it would not disgrace the growing reputation of Lord Westfield's Men.

'I expected so much more,' confided the author as the drink turned his fury into wistfulness. 'I had hopes, Nicholas.'

'They'll not be dashed.'

'I felt so betrayed as I sat there this morning.'

'Rehearsals often deceive.'

'Where is my play! '

It was a cry from the heart and Nicholas was touched. Like others before him, Roger Bartholomew was learning the awful truth that an author did not occupy the exalted position that he imagined. Lord Westfield's Men, in fact, consigned him to a fairly humble station. The young Oxford scholar had been paid five pounds for his play and he had seen King Richard make his first entrance in a cloak that cost ten times that amount. It was galling.