‘He is equal to it, Nick.’
‘Let us hope so for all our sakes.’
‘What can we do for him?’ asked Ruff.
‘Give him time,’ advised Nicholas. ‘He needs our care and understanding. I have spoken to Master Firethorn and told him not to browbeat the boy if he stumbles. That could be fatal.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You have seen him, Sam. He is in a delicate state and can only take so much. If Dick Honeydew is pushed too far, he will crack.’
Queen Elizabeth was spending Christmas at Richmond that year. For some months now, she had been sad and withdrawn, shattered by the death in September of her old favourite, the Earl of Leicester, and shrinking from public appearances. Instead of rejoicing in the defeat of the Armada, she mourned the loss of a loved one.
The Queen chose the splendid Richmond Palace for the Christmas festivities and it was hoped that they would bring some cheer into a royal life which had narrowed considerably throughout the autumn. A full programme of music, dance and drama had been arranged for her.
The Loyal Subject
was the first play she would see and it was due to be given on the day after Christmas. Its theme had a particular relevance in Armada year.
The rehearsal period approached its climax.
‘Place your head in the middle of the block, lad!’
‘I am trying to, Master Firethorn.’
‘Hurry, you knave, or I will use the axe myself!’
Lawrence Firethorn was working on his own execution.
Nicholas Bracewell had devised the effect and he was there to supervise it. Edmund Hoode watched nervously from the corner of the room. He still had reservations about the whole thing.
The Loyal Subject
opened with the trial scene in which the noble hero, Lorenzo, was condemned to death. Taken
off to await his unjust fate, he delivered his long soliloquy in the prison cell. Gaolers then entered to prepare him for his final hour. Brave to the last, he was led out.
The block was brought on stage and the executioner stood beside it with his axe. When the condemned man reappeared, however, it was not Firethorn. A clever substitution had taken place. John Tallis, much shorter than the actor-manager, came in wearing an identical costume, except that his own head was below the neck of the doublet. A false head had been made, painted and covered with a wig. It bore a striking resemblance to Lorenzo.
When the head was on the block, it was chopped off.
‘Remain quite still, you young rascal!’
‘Will it hurt, Master Firethorn?’ whimpered Tallis.
‘That depends what we decide to cut off!’
‘Take care, sirs!’ wailed the boy.
‘Silence!’
‘Have no fear, John,’ said Nicholas, bending down to position the apprentice behind the block. ‘You will not feel a thing.’
‘But it is a real axe, Master Bracewell!’
‘The weapon is in safe hands, I assure you.’
He turned to the sturdy actor who held the axe ready.
‘I’ll not hurt you, lad,’ promised Ruff.
‘But
I
will!’ threatened Firethorn. ‘If you dare to move.’
‘There is no danger,’ continued Nicholas, trying to calm the boy. ‘Sam has been practising with that axe for days. We chose him because he is so reliable. Stay exactly where you are, John, and it will be over in a matter of seconds.’
Nicholas stood back and gave the signal. Ruff raised the blade high in the air. When it swished down, it sliced clean through the wax neck and embedded itself in the block. The false head went rolling across the floor with stunning effect.
John Tallis howled from inside the doublet.
‘Am I still alive?’
Christmas Day began early in London and all the bells of the city tolled out their message of joy. Margery Firethorn was up well before dawn to take charge of the multifarious chores that fell to her and still find time to accompany her family to church for matins. There was great excitement in the house at Shoreditch. Her children were up to savour the wonder of the special day, and they were soon joined by Martin Yeo, John Tallis and Stephen Judd.
Margery could not understand why Richard Honeydew was so tardy. It was his first Christmas with the company and she had done what she could to ensure that he would enjoy it. Troubled by his absence, she went off to find him herself.
‘Dick! Wake up, boy! It’s Christmas Day!’
Now that the beams in the attic had been replaced, Richard had moved back in there. She puffed up the stairs as fast as she could. Overflowing with seasonal benevolence, she cooed and called all the way to his door.
‘Don’t lie abed in there, Dick! It’s Christmas! Come and see what we have for you! Get up!’
Margery knocked, entered and reacted with horror.
‘Lord help us!’ she exclaimed.
The bed was empty and the window was wide open.
Richmond Place was a sumptuous Gothic residence that was well situated between Richmond Green and the River Thames. Its skyline of turrets and gilded weather-vanes gave it a romantic image, and it was flanked by gardens and orchards that were painted with hundreds of fruit trees. The palace covered some ten acres in all and had a regular layout round a series of spacious courtyards.
The birthplace of her father, it had not been one of Elizabeth’s favourite homes in the early part of her reign. Now, however, she was coming to appreciate the singular charms of a place that she called her warm winterbox. Descending upon it with her household, the Queen filled it with light and noise and colour. She even began to look forward to the Christmas festivities.
Lawrence Firethorn did not share her anticipatory pleasure. Deserted by his female lead on the day before the performance, he rushed around in a frenzy to try to repair the damage. Martin Yeo was once again promoted to royal status in place of the youngest apprentice and Hugh Wegges had to make hasty alterations to the costumes to accommodate Yeo’s greater bulk. A dark shadow had been cast over the long-awaited appearance at Court. The early carefree excitement had now gone out of the event.
The afternoon of December 26
th
found the company at Richmond for a last rehearsal. There was much anger over Richard Honeydew’s disappearance and the upheaval it
had caused. But one person at least tried to see it from the boy’s point of view.
‘I feel sorry for him,’ said Ruff sadly.
‘So do I,’ agreed Nicholas.
‘He must have been very unhappy to do this.’
‘He was.’
‘Yet I never thought he would run away like that.’
‘I am not sure that he has, Sam.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at the evidence,’ said Nicholas. ‘His room was empty. Dick and his belongings had gone. There was a ladder outside the open window.’
‘How else can you explain it?’
‘People go up ladders as well as down them.’
‘So?’
‘Dick may have fled,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but it is equally possible that someone came in through the window to take him away. I think that he has been abducted.’
‘By whom?’
‘Redbeard’s accomplice. The man who has dogged us for months now. I said he would strike when least expected. What better way to hurt us than by kidnapping Dick on the eve of performance?’
Samuel Ruff was bewildered but he had no time to speculate on what might have happened. Lawrence Firethorn called them to order. They were in a crisis once more. It was time to assert his leadership and lift sagging spirits.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I do not need to remind you
how important this occasion is for Westfield’s Men. We have the honour to play before our beloved Queen and the opportunity to enhance our reputation with the highest in the realm. What occurs here this evening will have a bearing on our whole future so we must not be distracted by a minor upset. The loss of Dick Honeydew is unfortunate but it is no more than that. It is but a trifle. With hard work this afternoon, we will make up any leeway and give our new play the performance it deserves!’ He raised a fist in a gesture of pride. ‘Let us show our true mettle here. Let us prove we are lusty fellows, loyal subjects and the finest actors in London!’
Amid the hubbub, they all raced to their positions.
The play was being presented in the hall, which was a hundred feet long and some forty feet wide. It had an elaborate timber roof with hanging pendants. There was a lantern in the roof over a charcoal fire. The upper parts of the walls had large perpendicular windows with paintings in between of those kings of England who had distinguished themselves on the battlefield. If they had been able to study it, they would have seen that the whole apartment was an architectural wonder.
As it was, they were so preoccupied with their rehearsal that they took little stock of their luxurious surroundings. They performed on a raised platform at one end of the hall. Seating was arranged in tiers on three sides and the royal throne was set up on a dais in front of the stage.
The rehearsal was an amalgam of professional calm and frantic improvisation. Several mistakes were made but
they were quickly retrieved. Martin Yeo was not as fine a Duchess as Richard Honeydew but he was more than competent. The other players adapted their performances around his. Morale was slowly boosted. The play achieved its own momentum and carried them along.
When it was all over, they rested in the adjacent room that was being used as their tiring-house. The tensions of the last twenty-four hours had sapped them mentally and physically but recovery was imminent. With Firethorn at the helm, they now believed that they could distinguish themselves with
The Loyal Subject
. A wounded optimism spread.
John Tallis did not share it. Nothing could quiet his urgent pessimism. He was still highly apprehensive about the execution scene. Though it went exactly to plan, with the axe doing its work some inches away from the top of his skull, the boy was not reassured. What if Samuel Ruff’s aim was wayward during the performance? How could the lad defend himself?
Execution was not a precise art. The most famous headsman of the day, Bull, was notorious for his errors. When he officiated in the grim tragedy at Fotheringhay Castle, he needed three attempts to behead Mary Queen of Scots. Yet Bull was heralded as a master of his trade. Why should Ruff be any more reliable? He was an untrained novice with a murderous weapon in his hands.
Tallis took his problem to Firethorn once more.
‘Find someone else to double as Lorenzo,’ he pleaded.
‘There
is
nobody else,’ replied the actor-manager.
‘What about George Dart? He is short enough.’
‘Short enough, yes,’ conceded the other. ‘But is he brave enough? Is he clever enough? Is he good enough? Never, sir! He is no actor. George Dart is a willing imbecile. He does simple things well in his own simple way. Lorenzo is a heroic figure in the ancient mould. I will not be doubled by a half-wit!’
‘Release me from this ordeal!’ implored Tallis.
‘It will help to form your character.’
‘But I am afraid, master.’
‘Control your fears like every other player.’
‘
Please
!’
‘You will honour your commitment.’
‘It grieves me, sir.’
‘Cease this complaint.’
‘But why
me
?’
Lawrence Firethorn produced his most disarming grin.
‘Because you do it so well, John,’ he flattered.
He moved away before the boy could protest any further. Tallis was trapped in the matching doublet. He looked across at Samuel Ruff. The latter was as relaxed and composed as ever but the boy’s qualms remained. If the executioner’s hand slipped, the career of John Tallis could be sliced in two. It was a devastating thought.
A muted excitement pervaded the room. Everyone else was savouring the experience of playing at Court. What the play offered them was a brief moment at the very pinnacle of their profession.
The Loyal Subject
was about duty and patriotism and love. It was the perfect Christmas gift for their Queen.
John Tallis viewed it differently. The execution scene was paramount for him. He had no concern for the themes of the drama or for its wider values. Only one thing mattered.
Where would the axe fall?
It was a pertinent question.
Queen Elizabeth and her Court supped in splendour that night. Fresh from their banquet and mellowed by their wine, the lords and ladies took up their appointed places in the hall at Richmond Palace. Caught in the flickering light of a thousand candles, they were an august and colourful assembly. A good-humoured atmosphere prevailed. Behind the posing and the posturing and the brittle repartee was a fund of genuine warmth. They were a receptive audience.
Every one of the tiered seats was taken but the throne stayed empty. While her guests waited for the entertainment, the Queen herself caused a delay. It was unaccountable. The longer she stayed away, the greater became the speculation. In no time at all, the whole place was a buzz of rumour.
The delay brought grave disquiet backstage. Keyed up for their performance, the actors were distressed by the unexpected wait. They were all on edge. Lawrence Firethorn paced uneasily up and down. Edmund Hoode’s throat went dry and Barnaby Gill fidgeted nervously with his costume. Martin Yeo’s bladder seemed to be on the point of bursting and John Tallis felt a prickly sensation around his neck. As he stood ready to set the furniture for the opening scene, George Dart was shaking like an aspen.
Even Samuel Ruff was disconcerted. His anxiety steadily
increased. Perspiration broke out all over him and his naked arms and shoulders were glistening. As the delay stretched on and on, he fondled the handle of the axe with sweaty palms.
‘Where is her Majesty?’ whispered Gill.
‘Exercising the privilege of royalty,’ returned Firethorn.
‘Making her players suffer?’
‘Taking her time, Barnaby.’
A trumpet fanfare told them that the Queen had at last arrived. The comfortable din in the hall fell to a murmur. The tension among the players increased. Their moment was at hand.
Lawrence Firethorn applied his eye to a narrow gap in the curtain at the rear of the stage. He described what he saw in a low, reverential voice.