He offered the claymore ceremoniously to Dougal, who took it and heaved it up into a salute.

‘Good! We progress. One moment.’

He went to the gramophone and altered the timing. ‘Listen,’ he said, and switched it on. Out came the Anvil Chorus, remorselessly truthful as if rejoicing in its own restoration. Gaston switched it off. ‘That is our timing.’ He turned to Simon Morten. ‘Ready, Mr Morten?’

‘Quite ready.’

‘The cue, if you please.’

‘“Thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out.”’

And the fight was a fight. There was rhythm and there was timing. For a minute and a quarter all went well and at the end the two men, pouring sweat, leaning on their weapons, breathless, waited for his comment.

‘Good. There were mistakes but they were comparatively small. Now, while we are warm and limbered up we do it once more but without the music. Yes. You are recovered? Good.’

‘We are not recovered,’ Dougal panted.

‘This is the last effort for today. Come. I count the beats. Without music. The cue.’

‘“Thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out.”’

Bang. Pause. Bang. Pause. And Bangle-bangle-bang. Pause. They got through it but only just and they were really cooked at the end.

‘Good,’ said Gaston. ‘Tomorrow. Same time. I thank you, gentlemen.’

He bowed and left.

Morten, his black curls damp and the tangled mat of hair on his chest gleaming, vigorously towelled himself. Sir Dougal, tawny, fair-skinned, drenched in sweat and breathing hard, reached for his own towel and feebly dabbed at his chest.

‘We did it,’ he said. ‘I’m flattened but we did it.’

Morten grunted and pulled on his shirt and sweater.

‘You’d better get something warm on,’ he said. ‘Way to catch cold.’

‘Night after night after night. Have you thought of that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do I do it! Why do I submit myself! I ask myself: Why?’

Morten grunted.

‘I’ll speak to Perry about it. I’ll demand insurance.’

‘For which bit of you?’

‘For all of me. The thing’s ridiculous. A good fake and we’d have them breathless.’

‘Instead of which we’re breathless ourselves,’ said Morten and took himself off. It was the nearest approach to a conversation that they had enjoyed.

So ended the first week of rehearsals.

CHAPTER 2
Second Week

Peregrine had blocked the play up to the aftermath following the murder of King Duncan. The only break in the performance would come here.

Rehearsals went well. The short opening scene with the witches scavenging on the gallows worked. Rangi, perched on the gibbet arm, was terribly busy with the head of the corpse. Blondie, on Wendy’s back, ravaged its feet. A flash of lightning. Pause. Thunder. They hopped down, like birds of prey. Dialogue. Then their leap. The flash caught them in mid-air. Blackout and down.