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some London players was expected, he had been awaiting this moment. He had often taken part in the local theatricals, even written some of the speeches for them, but a performance by a company from one of the London theatres was altogether different. His hand went to the book tucked into the pouch at his belt. The leather felt dry to his touch. He closed his eyes and rehearsed the words of introduction he had wrestled with all week. He wished he felt more confident. If he did manage to speak to the man in charge of the company, he might only have a few moments to make a good impression.
    Adam had returned from the trees and now his face was resting on the table amid the dirty trenchers and cups. When Tom shook him, he lifted his head. His skin had a greenish pallor and there were scraps of food entangled in his beard.
    ‘No more ale for you, my friend,’ Tom said. ‘And you’re lucky old Kemp isn’t here to see you. He’d duck your head in the horse trough if he was, and no mistake. Still, you’ve time to sober up. Come on, let’s go and watch the play.’
    The shadows were lengthening across the meadow and the air had cooled. A tent stood at the back of the stage, the flap pinned back where the players would make their entrances and exits. First on was a wiry man in a jester’s yellow-and-red costume. He carried a staff tipped with silver bells. A few people had remained at the tables, guzzling the last of the food and drinking the dregs of the ale, but most of them crowded around the stage to see the fun. Tom saw Ralph Fiddler near the front, Bess hoisted on his back for a better view. Her skirts had ridden up, showing a glimpse of scarlet stockings. Tom recognised the stockings; he was sure they belonged to Meg. He wondered if she had noticed them too.
    When the jester’s jokes and capers were over, the play, Pyramus and Thisbe , commenced. Tom found himself as interested in the reactions of the onlookers as he was in the story, even though the play far exceeded anything Salisbury had to offer. How much he wanted to have this power to move people from laughter to tears, to hold them, even if only for an hour or two, in the palm of his hand.
    The play ended in tragedy – voices around Tom murmured that a tragic end was often best – and the crowd cheered as the hero and his beloved returned miraculously to life and took their bows. Tom’s pulse raced. This was his chance, there might not be another.
    ‘Where you going?’ Adam grasped his arm.
    ‘I need to talk to someone.’
    ‘Doan’ leave me.’
    Tom looked at his bloodshot eyes and swaying body. ‘I’ll walk back with you later. We’ll get you as far as that tree for now and you can wait for me there.’
    He half-dragged the protesting groom through the press of people and propped him up against an alder near the players’ tent. Adam’s head sagged on his chest and he started to snore. Tom straightened up and took a deep breath then walked the last few yards to where one of the players stood.
    ‘Your friend has had a good day, I see,’ the player remarked in an accent unfamiliar to Tom. He still wore the lion’s costume he had sported on stage but he had rubbed off half of the yellow greasepaint on his face, revealing an olive complexion. His wiry, dark hair was plastered to his skull in damp strands and there was a strong smell of sweat and alum about him. He wiped his forehead. ‘I sweat like a pig in this,’ he muttered.
    Tom stood clutching the commonplace book. His mind had suddenly emptied. The player shot him a quizzical look.
    ‘Is there something I can do for you?’ he asked.
    ‘I was hoping to speak to the manager,’ Tom stammered, finding his voice.
    With a mock flourish, the player bowed. ‘You behold him: Alexandre Lamotte – proprietor and manager of the Unicorn.’
    A flush crept up Tom’s neck. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend—’
    ‘It’s all right,’ Lamotte interrupted him with a chuckle. Then, seeing