‘Mine is the better,’ asserted Bartholomew.
‘Possibly, sir, but
Gloriana Triumphant
has been contracted.’
‘It has a base title.’
‘Have you thought of offering your play to another company?’
‘I bring it to you first.’
‘It may get a fairer hearing elsewhere.’
‘The leading role was written with Lawrence Firethorn in mind,’ said the poet. ‘It’s the part of a lifetime for him.’
‘Why not try the Queen’s Men?’ suggested Nicholas. ‘They commission more new plays than we can afford. So do Worcester’s. Of course, the most appropriate company would be the Admiral’s Men.’
Roger Bartholomew’s face fell. He had learned much about Greek, Latin, Poesy and Rhetoric at Oxford but nothing whatsoever about the art of dissembling. His countenance was an open book in which Nicholas read the pathetic truth.
An Enemy Routed
had been taken around every dramatic company in London and rejected by them all, including the children’s companies. Far from being at the top of the list, Westfield’s Men were essentially a last resort, a final, desperate bid by a young poet with a burning conviction of the merit of his work.
Nicholas knew that there was not even the slightest possibility that the company would take the play, but he had too much compassion to crush the author’s hopes there and then.
‘I will see what I can do, Master Bartholomew.’
‘Thank you, thank you!’
‘I make no promises, mark you.’
‘I understand that. Just put my work into his hand.’
‘It may be some little while before he reads it.’
‘I can wait.’
Bartholomew squeezed his arm in gratitude then headed quickly for the exit. Nicholas glanced down at the manuscript and saw the list of
dramatis personae
. Those names alone told him that the piece was unactable in its present form. It might be a kindness to protect the author from the kind of searing comments that Firethorn was likely to offer, but Nicholas had given his word and he would hold to it.
He went through into the yard to make sure that everything was in order for the morning rehearsal. The stagekeepers broke off from their chat when they saw him and busied themselves at once. Samuel Ruff was talking in a corner to Benjamin Creech, another of the hired men. Nicholas waved Ruff over to him. Since his visit from Susan Fowler, he had had no chance to speak to the other alone. When he described what had happened, Ruff was as amazed as he had been. There was a tide of regret in his voice.
‘Will Fowler married? I can’t believe it.’
‘Neither could I.’
‘He said nothing.’
‘Not even a hint between old friends?’
‘No,’ replied Ruff. ‘And we drifted apart for so long. Will Fowler! I’d never have thought him serious-minded enough to take a wife. And such a young, untried girl at that.’
‘It has been an ordeal for her.’
‘Is she still at your lodging, Nick?’
‘She travels back to St Albans today,’ explained the
other. ‘Susan is in good hands. A close friend of mine will see her safely on her journey.’
Anne Hendrik had treated the girl like a daughter and helped her through the first difficult days of mourning. A widow herself, she knew at first hand the deep pain and the numbing sense of loss that Susan felt, though she could only guess at how much worse it must be to have a husband violently cut down in a brawl. Nicholas had been touched to see how Anne had opened her heart to their young guest and it had deepened his affection for his landlady. Susan’s visit had also given him paternal feelings that surprised him.
‘Do you know where the girl lives?’ asked Ruff.
‘Why?’
‘I would like to know. One day, I might just find myself in that part of the country. If I stay in this verminous profession, anything can happen.’ A grim smile brushed his lips. ‘The truth is that I’m curious to meet her. Anyone who can take Will Fowler as a husband must have rare qualities.’
‘Oh, she does.’
‘He was not the easiest man to live with.’
‘No. Did Will ever talk to you about his faith?’
‘Only to curse it now and again in his cups.’
‘He was of the Church of Rome.’
‘What?’ Ruff was thunderstruck. ‘That is impossible.’
‘So was his marriage.’
‘But he never showed any inclination that way.’
‘He was an actor, Sam. I think he had been giving us all a very clever performance for some time.’
‘But the Romish persuasion …’
He shook his head in wonder. Life in the theatre was likely to turn a man to anything but religion, still less to an exiled faith for which its martyrs were still dying the death of traitors. Samuel Ruff was dazed. Having enjoyed a friendship with someone for many years, he was now learning that it was founded on deceit. It hurt him to think that he had been hoodwinked.
‘Nicholas,’ he whispered.
‘Yes?’
‘Who
was
he?’
‘I will let you know when I find out.’
There was only one thing worse than the extended agony of writing
Gloriana Triumphant
and that was waiting for Lawrence Firethorn to read it and pass judgement. He did not mince his words if he had criticisms and Edmund Hoode had suffered many times at his hands. As he waited for his colleague to dine with him at The Queen’s Head, he sipped a glass of malmsey to fortify himself. He was of a different cast from Roger Bartholomew. The latter was an inexperienced playwright who believed that everything he wrote was superb; Hoode was an author of proven worth who became more uncertain of his talent with each play he wrote.
Firethorn made an entrance and posed in the doorway. His brow was troubled and his eyes malevolent. Fearing the inevitable, Hoode drained his cup of malmsey in one urgent gulp.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Edmund,’ muttered Firethorn
as he took his seat at the table. ‘I was delayed.’
‘I’ve not been here long.’
‘It has been a devilish day. I need a drink.’
Hoode sat there in silence while the wine was ordered, served and drunk. His companion was in such a foul mood over the play that he wondered if anything about it had given pleasure. Though he had been forced into developing a romance, it had actually enriched the drama and become an integral part of it. He had at least expected Firethorn to approve of that.
‘Are you in love, Edmund?’ growled the other.
‘In love?’ The question caught him off guard.
‘With a woman.’
‘I have been. Many times.’
‘Have you ever considered marriage?’
‘Often.’
‘Never do so again!’ warned Firethorn, using his hand like a grappling iron on the other’s wrist. ‘It’s a state of continual degradation for a man. The bridal bed is nothing but purgatory with pillows!’
Hoode understood. Margery had found him out.
‘What has your wife said, Lawrence?’
‘What has she not? She called me names that would burn the ears off a master mariner and issued threats that would daunt a regiment of soldiers.’ He brought both hands up to his face. ‘Dear God! It is like lying with a she-tiger!’
More wine helped Firethorn to recover from his wife’s accusations and molestations. The irony was that nothing had so far happened between him and Lady Rosamund
Varley apart from an exchange of glances during his performance on stage. The actor was being drawn and quartered for an offence that had not yet been committed but which, in view of Margery’s venomous attack, he would now advance to the earliest possible moment.
‘I will need you to write some verse for me, Edmund.’
‘Verse?’
‘A dozen lines or so. Perhaps a sonnet.’
‘To your wife?’ teased Hoode.
‘You may compose a funeral dirge for that harridan!’
Food was ordered. Firethorn was ready for the business of the day. His wife had been the cause of the scowling fury which he had brought into the room. Hoode was relieved. He decided to grasp the nettle boldly.
‘Have you read the play, Lawrence?’
‘Enough of it,’ grunted his companion.
‘Oh.’
‘A few scenes, sir. That was all I could stomach.’
‘You did not like it?’ asked Hoode tentatively.
‘I thought it the most damnable and detestable piece ever penned! Dull, stale and meandering without a touch of wit or poetry to redeem it. I tell you, Edmund, had there been a taper nearby, I’d have set fire to the thing!’
‘I felt it had some things to recommend it.’
‘They eluded me, sir. It is one thing to praise the victory over the Armada but you have to sail through the narrow straits of the Revels Office first. That play would founder on the rocks. It would never be allowed through.’
‘It was truly as bad as that?’ said the demoralised author.
‘What can you expect from a scribbler like Bartholomew?’
‘Bartholomew?’
‘Who but he would choose a title like
An Enemy Routed
? That little rogue is the enemy, sir. The enemy of good theatre. He must be routed! I don’t know why Nicholas gave me his miserable play. It was an abomination in rhyming couplets!’
Edmund Hoode had been saved for the second time. Margery Firethorn and Roger Bartholomew had borne the brunt of an attack which he had thought was aimed at him. He did not wish to press his luck again. Patience was his strong suit. He waited until Firethorn had poured further bile upon the Oxford scholar.
The meal was served, they began to eat, then the verdict was at last pronounced. Firethorn held up his fork like a sceptre and beamed with royal condescension.
‘It’s magnificent, Edmund!’
‘You think so?’ stuttered Hoode.
‘Your best work without a shadow of a doubt.’
‘That is very heartening, Lawrence.’
‘The action drives on, the poetry soars, the love scenes are divinely pretty. If Nicholas can devise a way to bring those ships on and off the stage, we will be the talk of London!’
They fell to discussing the finer points of the drama and an hour sneaked past without their noticing its departure. Firethorn suggested a few alterations but they were so minor that Hoode was glad to agree to them. Long days and even longer nights had gone into the creation of
Gloriana
Triumphant
but the comments it was now receiving made all the suffering worth it.
‘There is just one small thing …’
Edmund Hoode tensed as the familiar phrase sounded. Was there to be a total reworking of the play, after all? His fears proved groundless.
‘Who will play the part of Gloriana?’
‘I assumed that it would be Martin Yeo.’
‘So did I until I read it.’
‘Martin has the maturity for the role.’
‘I am wondering if that is enough, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘He is our senior apprentice, yes, and brings a wealth of experience but … well, he does have a hardness of feature that is more suited to an older woman.’
‘Gloriana is in her fifties,’ reminded Hoode.
‘Only in your play. Not when she sits upon the throne of England.’ An affectionate chuckle came. ‘All women are the same, Edmund. They try to defy time. In her heart, Elizabeth is still the young woman she was when she was first crowned.’
‘What are you saying, Lawrence?’
‘I think we should alter her age. Let her shed some twenty or thirty years. A Virgin Queen with the glow of youth still hanging upon her. It will strengthen the role immeasurably and make her love scenes with me much more convincing.’
‘You have a point. It might work to our advantage.’
‘It will, sir.’
‘In that case, we must cast John Tallis in the part.’
‘Indeed we must not.’
‘But he has such presence.’
‘So does that unfortunate jaw of his,’ returned Firethorn with a low moan. ‘John has talent but it is seen at its best when he is a witch or a lady-in-waiting. We cannot have a queen with a lantern jaw.’
‘That leaves Stephen Judd. I would settle for him.’
‘You’re forgetting someone, Edmund.’
‘Am I?’ He sat up in surprise. ‘Dick Honeydew?’
‘Why not?’
‘The boy has not been with us long enough. He still has much to learn. And he is so young.’
‘That is exactly why I would choose him. He has a quality of frail innocence that is perfect. It enlists the audience’s sympathy at once. They will not see a termagant queen who flings the gauntlet down to her enemies. They will have a vulnerable young woman who will touch the heart.’ He snorted aloud. ‘If John Tallis addresses the troops at Tilbury with his lantern jaw, he will look like a recruiting sergeant in female attire.’
‘We have not talked about Stephen Judd.’
‘He always has that knowing look. It was ideal for
Love and Fortune
but not here. I go for Dick.’
‘You really believe he could bring it off?’
‘I do. It may be the title role but it does not involve many speeches. Gloriana exists largely as a symbol. It is her grizzly sea captains like myself who carry the burden of the dialogue.’
Edmund Hoode tapped his fingers on the table and pondered.
‘The other boys will not like this, Lawrence.’
‘I don’t care two hoots about them!’ said Firethorn. ‘It will put them in their place. They’ve been hounding poor Dick on the sly since he came here. If he lands the title role over them, they will be duly chastised.’ He pushed his chair back so that he could stretch himself out. ‘Well? What do you think, Edmund?’
‘I’m not entirely persuaded.’
‘He’ll not let us down – I’m certain of it.’
‘We’d have to spend a lot of time on him.’
‘As much as you wish. You agree, then?’
‘I agree.’
‘Dick Honeydew as Gloriana!’
The two men lifted their cups in toast.
W
hen Nicholas got back to the house late that night, Anne Hendrik was waiting for him with a smile of welcome. Her pleasure at seeing him home again was mingled with relief that he had come to no harm. Nicholas had been working his way through the Bankside stews once more and she feared for his safety in an area that swarmed with low life. His task was fraught with dangers because it took him to some of the most notorious criminal dens in London.
‘How did you fare?’ she asked.
‘Not well,’ he admitted. ‘Someone at the Antelope remembered a tall man with a red beard but he was not sure if our sketch bore any likeness to him. The hostess at the Dog and Doublet thought she recognised the face in the
drawing but she insists that his beard was black.’
‘Did you call at the Cardinal’s Hat?’
‘Yes,’ he said, rallying, ‘and there was better news. Alice will be discharged from the hospital soon. She’s recovered well and got her wits back, by all accounts. I have great hopes that she will be able to give me more details about Redbeard.’
‘What of Samuel Ruff?’
‘He continues to search as diligently as me,’ he said. ‘We will run our man to earth in the end.’
Apprehension flitted across her face and she stepped in close to give him a brief hug. Her eagerness to see the killer brought to justice was tempered by a natural anxiety.
‘If you
do
find him, Nicholas …’
‘No question but that we will.’
‘You will have the utmost care?’ she pleaded.
‘Have no fear, Anne,’ he soothed. ‘I go armed. Redbeard will not have the chance to stab me unawares.’
He took her in his arms and gave her a reassuring kiss.
Susan Fowler was no longer staying in his room but he still did not return to it. He and Anne went upstairs together to her bedchamber at the front of the house. It was a large, low room with solid pieces of furniture, tasteful hangings and a small carpet over the shining oak floorboards. Paintings of Dutch interiors hung on the walls as a memento of her late husband’s homeland. Like all parts of the house, it was kept spotlessly clean.
The four-poster was soft and comfortable, and they made love with a languid tenderness under its linen. Afterwards,
they lay in the dark with their arms entwined. Nicholas Bracewell and Anne did not share a bed often. Neither of them was ready to commit themselves to any full or permanent relationship. He was far too independent and she was still wedded to memories of a happy marriage with Jacob Hendrik. It suited them both to drift in and out of their moments of intimacy, and to see them as occasional delights rather than as a routine habit. The magic was thus retained.
‘Nick …’
‘Mm?’
‘Are you asleep?’
‘Yes.’
They both laughed. She dug him playfully in the ribs.
‘I was thinking about Will Fowler,’ she continued.
‘So was I.’
‘Maybe that is the reason he was drawn to the theatre.’
‘Reason?’
‘It’s a kind of refuge,’ she argued. ‘Actors have to be seen but only as somebody else. Do you understand me? Will Fowler went into the theatre to hide. Just like you.’
‘Is that what I did?’ he asked with amusement.
‘You tell me, sir.’
But she knew that he would not. Anne Hendrik had enquired about his past life many times but he had yielded only the barest details. Born and bred in the West Country, he was the son of a well-to-do merchant who ensured that Nicholas had a sound education then took him into the business. It gave him the chance to travel and he made many voyages to Europe.
Suddenly, he broke with his family and took service with Drake on his voyage around the world. The experience changed his whole attitude to life and left him a more philosophical man. When he came back to England, his days as a sailor were over. Eventually, he moved to London and began to work in the theatre.
‘What exactly did you do, Nick?’ she wondered.
‘When?’
‘In those years between coming home to your own country and joining Lord Westfield’s Men. You must have done
something
.’
‘I did. I survived.’
‘How?’
He kissed her by way of reply. The missing years in his life had left their mark on him but he would never disclose why. Anne would have to accept him as he was, a quiet, strong-willed person whose self-effacing manner was a form of mask. She might not know everything about him but there was enough to make him very lovable.
‘Speak to me,’ she whispered.
‘What shall I say?’
‘Do you agree with me? About Will Fowler?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And what about Nicholas Bracewell?’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘Oh, Nick!’ she sighed, as she tightened her grip on him. ‘I love this closeness but there are times when I wonder who the man I am holding really is.’
‘I wonder that myself,’ he confessed.
He kissed her softly on the lips and began to stroke her dark, lustrous hair. Nestling into his chest, she felt at once soothed and aroused. It was several minutes before she broke the silence.
‘What are you thinking?’ she said.
‘It doesn’t matter, Anne.’ There was a shrug in his voice.
‘Please. Tell me.’
‘It was not very cheering.’
‘I still want to know.’
‘Very well,’ he explained. ‘I was thinking about failure.’
‘Failure?’
‘High hopes that end in chaos. Noble ambitions that crumble.’
‘Is that what happened to your hopes and ambitions?’
‘You keep on trying,’ he said with a little laugh, then he became more serious. ‘No, I was thinking about Susan Fowler, poor creature. Her plans have fallen apart. Then there is Samuel Ruff. Failure brought him low as well. Even now there is still a deep sadness in the man that I cannot fathom.’
There was a long pause. Her voice was a murmur in the pillow.
‘Nick …’
‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘You might go back to your own room tomorrow.’
‘I will, Anne.’
But she was his for some luscious hours yet. His need made him tighten his grip on her and it did not slacken until he at last fell asleep from a lapping fatigue.
Richard Honeydew was overwhelmed at the news that he was to be cast in the title role of the new play. Performing for the first time at The Curtain would have been thrill enough for him, but to make his debut there as Gloriana, Queen of England, filled him with a blend of excitement and terror. They evidently had great faith in him and that thought helped to steady his nerves and still his
self-doubts
.
The other apprentices were outraged and Firethorn had to slap down their complaints ruthlessly. Martin Yeo was wounded the most. A tall, slim, assured boy of fourteen, he had played most of the leading female roles for the company over the past couple of years, and he had come to look upon them as his by right. To be deprived of an outstanding part by a novice was more than his pride could take, and he withdrew into a sullen, watchful silence.
John Tallis and Stephen Judd did the same. If they had disliked Richard before, they now hated him with vengeful intensity. Every morning, as they sat around the table with him for breakfast, they glared their anger at Richard and were only restrained from attacking him by the vigilance of Margery Firethorn. As a punishment for the way they had tied their victim up, she had put the three of them on reduced rations, so that they had half-empty bellies while the youngest of their number ate from a full plate. In every way, Richard Honeydew was getting more than them.
‘I could have killed him!’ asserted John Tallis.
‘Yes,’ added Stephen Judd. ‘The worst thing is the way he tries to be friendly with us – as if we could ever be friends with him now!’
‘It’s not fair,’ said Martin Yeo simply.
They had gone back up to their room and they fell easily into a conspiratorial chat. The three boys often had differences among themselves but they had now been united against a common enemy. Tallis was livid, Judd was aching with envy, and Yeo took it as a personal insult. They came together in a solid lump of resentment.
Some companies actually paid their apprentices a wage, but Lord Westfield’s Men did not. In return for their commitment to the company, the boys were given board, lodging, clothing and regular training in all the arts of the playhouse. The arrangement had been satisfactory until Richard Honeydew appeared. He had unwittingly upset the balance of power within the Firethorn household, and within the company, and he had to pay for it.
‘What are we going to do about it?’ asked Tallis.
‘There’s nothing much we can do,’ admitted Judd. ‘He’s got Samuel Ruff and Nick Bracewell on his side now.’
‘He’ll need more than them,’ warned Yeo.
‘You should have that part, Martin,’ said Tallis.
‘I know – and I will.’
‘How?’ asked Judd eagerly.
‘We’ll have to work that out.’
‘Can we get rid of him altogether?’ urged Tallis.
‘Why not?’ said Yeo.
The conspirators shared a cosy snigger. Richard Honeydew
was riding high at the moment but they would bring him down with a bump when he least expected it. All that they had to do was to devise a plan.
Back in his own room, Nicholas Bracewell reached under the bed and pulled out a large battered leather chest. As well as being the book holder he was, literally, the book keeper. It was his function to keep the books of all the plays that the company used, new, old or renovated. The play chest was an invaluable item that had to be kept safe at all times. With so much piracy of plays going on, it behoved every company to guard its property with the utmost care.
Nicholas unlocked the chest with a key then lifted up the lid to reveal a confused welter of parchment and scrolls. The history of his involvement with Lord Westfield’s Men was all there, written out in various hands then annotated by himself. As he ran his eye over the myriad prompt copies, a hundred memories came surging back at him from his past. He quickly reached for the manuscripts that lay on the very top of the pile then closed the lid firmly. When the chest had been locked, he pushed it back to its home beneath the bed.
After taking his leave of Anne, he walked across to the nearby wharf to be ferried by boat across the river. The Thames was thronged by craft of all sizes and they zigzagged their way across the busiest and oldest thoroughfare in London. Nicholas loved the exuberance of it all, the hectic bustle, the flapping sails, the surging colour, the distinctive tang and the continuous din that was punctuated by cries
of ‘Westward Ho!’ and ‘Eastward Ho!’ from vociferous boatmen advertising their routes.
He had seen many astonishing sights in his travels but he could still be impressed anew by the single bridge that spanned the Thames. Supported by twenty arches, it was a miniature city in itself, a glorious jumble of timber-framed buildings that jutted out perilously over the river below. A huge water wheel of Dutch construction stood beneath the first arch, harnessing the fierce current that raced through the narrow opening and pumping water to nearby dwellings.
On the Bridge itself, it was Nonesuch House that dominated, a vast, ornate and highly expensive wooden building which had been shipped from Holland and reassembled on its stone foundations. A more grisly feature could be seen above the gatehouse tower where the heads of executed traitors were displayed on poles. Nicholas counted almost twenty of them, rotting in the morning sun as scavenger kites wheeled down to peck hungrily at the mouldering flesh. London Bridge was truly one of the sights of Europe but it embodied warning as well as wonder.
When he alighted on the other bank, Nicholas paid and tipped his boatman then made his way to the teeming Gracechurch Street. Roger Bartholomew was waiting for him outside The Queen’s Head in a state of high anxiety.
‘I got your message, Nicholas.’
‘Good.’
‘Did he read my play?’
‘Yes, Master Bartholomew. So did I.’
‘Well?’ The poet was on tenterhooks.
‘It’s a fine piece,’ praised Nicholas, trying to find something positive to say that would cushion the disappointment. ‘It has memorable speeches and stirring moments. The account of the battle itself is very striking.’
‘Thank you. But what of Lawrence Firethorn?’
Everything hung on the decision. For Roger Bartholomew, it was the last hope of a career as a playwright. Acceptance would nourish him and rejection would destroy. Nicholas hated to be the one to deal the blow. What he could do was to conceal the virulence of Firethorn’s attack on the play.
‘I believe that he … saw its promise as well.’
‘And the leading role?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Did it captivate him as I foretold?’
‘To a degree, sir. He recognised the extent of your talent.’
‘Then he wishes to present it?’ asked the poet with a wild laugh. ‘Lord Westfield’s Men will offer me another contract?’
‘Unhappily, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it does not fit in with our plans, sir.’
Roger Bartholomew was stunned.
An Enemy Routed
had become his obsession and he thought of nothing but the day when it would first be staged. He had put his whole being into the play. If his work was rejected then he himself was being cast aside as well.
‘Are you sure that he
read
it?’ he demanded.
‘I can vouch for it.’
‘Make him reconsider.’
‘He will not, sir.’
‘But he must!’
‘There’s no point, Master Bartholomew.’
‘There’s every point!’ howled the other. ‘He does not realise what is at stake here. My play is a work of art. It’s his sacred duty to bring it before the public.’
Nicholas reached into the leather bag he was carrying. Taking out one of the manuscripts that lay inside, he held it out to the scholar.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said firmly. ‘Thank you for offering it to us but I’ve been told to return it herewith.’
‘Let
me
see Master Firethorn.’
‘That would not be wise.’
‘Is the man hiding from me?’
‘Indeed not, sir.’
‘Then I’ll hear this from his own lips.’