The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (12 page)

‘I ordered three-inch ribbons.’

‘Four, Lady Varley,’ he corrected deferentially. ‘But we can shorten them, of course.’

‘I wanted a lawn ruff.’

‘Cambric, Lady Varley. But we can change that.’

‘The gown is cut too full.’

‘My needlewomen are standing by, Lady Varley.’

The dressmaker was a tall, almost debonair man who made himself look much smaller and meaner by his compulsion to bend and bow. His unctuous manner was further supplemented by a nervous washing of his hands. He absorbed all her criticisms and promised that the mistakes would be rectified.

‘I will try it on first,’ she announced.

‘When it falls short of your wishes, Lady Varley.’

‘Wait here.’

She retired to her bedchamber with two of her women, who first undressed her then helped their mistress into her new attire. Over her linen chemise, they put on a whalebone corset and a farthingale, which was fastened round the waist to hold the gown out in a becoming semi-circle at the back. Over this came several petticoats, worn beneath a striking bodice of royal blue velvet with gold figure-work. A gown of the same material, slightly darker for contrast, had hanging sleeves of cambric.

In the fashion of the day, Lady Rosamund’s hair was curled, frizzed and lightened to a golden-red. It was piled high above the forehead and swept away from the sides of her face. A stiff lace cartwheel ruff framed and set off her pale-skinned loveliness. Jewellery, perfume, a hat, gloves,
and shoes were added to complete a picture of devastating beauty. Everything fitted perfectly.

Full-length mirrors allowed her to view herself from all angles. She called for a few adjustments to be made then she was content. As she paraded around the room, the former owner of the house popped back into her mind.

‘Not even a bishop would be safe from me in this!’

Sweeping back downstairs, she let the dressmaker and his assistant cluck their praises at her then she clapped her hands to dismiss them.

‘Leave your account.’

‘Yes, Lady Varley.’

‘My husband will pay you when he has a mind to.’

Alone again, she headed for the nearest mirror. The dress was a sartorial triumph. She could not wait to put it on display at The Curtain for the benefit of Lawrence Firethorn.

Edmund Hoode stood at the window of the rehearsal room and gazed moodily out at the inn yard. The effort of writing the new play had left him with the usual exhaustion and depression nudged at him.
Gloriana Triumphant
was an excellent piece of drama but it was also designed as a vehicle in which Lawrence Firethorn could both extend his reputation and further his love life. All that Hoode was left with was some effusive thanks and a small but telling role in the fourth act.

In such moods as this, he always felt used. His talent had
been manipulated for the use of others. The best sonnet that he had written for years had been appropriated by someone else and it pained him. He spoke the lines softly to himself, and wished that the poem could instigate a romance for him. It dawned on him that he had not been in love for months. He missed the sweet sorrow of it. His soul was withering.

For Edmund Hoode, the thrill of the chase was everything. He was a true idealist who liked nothing better than to commit himself wholeheartedly to a woman and to draw his pleasure from the simple act of being in love. Lawrence Firethorn was very different. To a seasoned voluptuary like him, conquest was all and his standards were high. Hoode was ready to compromise. He would take someone far less grand than Lady Rosamund Varley. In his present despondency, he would take almost anyone.

Even as he brooded, something came into his field of vision that made him start. It was the landlord’s daughter, tripping lightly across the inn yard with her dark hair streaming behind her. Hoode had noticed her several times before and always with pleasure. No more than twenty, she was happily free from the slightest resemblance to her father and her buxom openness was very refreshing.

As he watched her now, he discerned qualities that had eluded him before. She was lithe, graceful, vivacious. She was less like a landlord’s daughter than a princess brought up by a woodcutter. Hoode gasped with joy as he realised something else about her.

Her name was Rose Marwood.

He began to recite his sonnet over again.

Nicholas Bracewell’s earlier visit to The Curtain had been well-spent and he had devised some clever ideas for the staging of
Gloriana Triumphant.
He was anxious to have the chance to put them to the test. The luxury of a full day’s rehearsal at the theatre gave him all the opportunity he needed. Some of his notions had to be scrapped, but the majority – including those for the climactic sea battle – were ingeniously workable. It enabled him to relax. Given the mastery of its technical problems, the play could now take flight. He was confident that there would be no shuffling of feet in the pit this time.

Though acutely busy throughout the day, he tried to keep an eye on Richard Honeydew. The incident with the horse had rocked him and he was convinced that it had been set up by the other apprentices. They had been in disgrace ever since and no further attacks had been made on Richard. With the supportive vigilance of Samuel Ruff and Margery Firethorn, Nicholas felt he could keep the boy from harm.

‘Let us try the end of the battle scene!’ ordered Firethorn.

‘Positions!’ called Nicholas.

‘We will not fire our cannon,’ decided the actor. ‘We will keep our powder dry.’

‘And the sail, master?’

‘Oh, we must have that.’

Where Banbury’s Men had simply used a thick pole to
suggest a mast, the other company had constructed a much more elaborate property with a full sail that could be raised and lowered. It was set into a circular wooden base which was self-standing. As the wind picked up, however, the sail began to billow.

‘Hold it, Ben!’ directed Nicholas.

‘Aye.’

‘Stand beside him just in case, Gregory.’

‘Yes, Master Bracewell,’ said a strapping journeyman, the author of
God Speed the Fleet.
Where the earlier play had spent itself in the naval engagement,
Gloriana Triumphant
ended with a scene on the deck of the flagship which brought together all the main characters in the drama. The Queen of Albion herself came on board and, with a spontaneous gesture of gratitude, she borrowed a sword to knight her magnificent sea dog.

Everyone took up their positions then Nicholas cued the musicians. Peter Digby led his men in a stately march as the royal personage came on to the vessel. With back erect and voice expressive, Richard Honeydew delivered his longest speech of the play, trying to ignore the flapping havoc that the wind was now causing to his costume. Firethorn went down on one knee to accept his knighthood then kissed the hand of his monarch and went into his monologue.

He was not destined to reach the end of it. A sudden gust of wind hit the sail and wrenched it out of Benjamin Creech’s grasp. Before Gregory could grab it, the whole mast keeled over across the middle of the stage.

‘Look out!’

‘Help!’

‘Jump, Dick!’

The Queen of Albion had only a split second to take the advice that Samuel Ruff bawled out. As the mast lunged down at him, Nicholas leapt instinctively off the stage altogether. There was a tremendous crash as the timber hit the deck but at least it had not hit anyone. The cast were in a state of shock but nobody seemed to be hurt.

‘Aouw!’

‘Are you hurt, Dick?’

‘I think so.’

‘Stay there!’ advised Nicholas.

He bounded across the stage and leaped down beside the prone figure of the young apprentice. Richard was in pain. Landing awkwardly after his own jump, he had twisted his ankle so badly that he could put no weight on it. When Nicholas examined the injury, the joint was already beginning to swell.

The miracle was that the boy had eluded the falling mast. If he had been hampered by his costume, he would never have got out of the way in time and the extravagant finery of the Queen of Albion would now be lying crushed beneath the heavy timber. As it was, Richard had leaped from the deck of the flagship for good. He would never be able to perform next day.

It was ironic. The other three boys had tried to disable him and failed. Chance contrived what design could not. A gust of wind had just recast the part of Gloriana. 

Nicholas Bracewell lifted the boy up in his arms and turned back to the stage. Looking down at them was Benjamin Creech, who had been holding the mast when it fell. The hired man was impassive but his eyes were slits of pleasure.

R
ejection had wrought deep changes in Master Roger Bartholomew. He felt defiled. When he saw his play about Richard the Lionheart performed at The Queen’s Head, he thought that he had finished with the theatre for ever but his Muse had other ideas. Directed back to the playhouse, he had now suffered such comprehensive rejection that it turned his brain. He discovered a vengeful streak in himself that he had never even suspected before. They had hurt him; he wanted to strike back.

Lord Westfield’s Men became the target for his obsessive hatred. Other companies had turned him down but Lawrence Firethorn had done far worse than that. He had ruined one play by the young poet then reviled another. To make matters worse, he was playing the leading role
in a new drama on exactly the same subject as
An Enemy Routed.
In his feverish state, Bartholomew wondered if his play had been plundered to fill out the other. It would not be the first time that an author’s work had been pillaged.

As he stood outside The Curtain, he could hear the voices booming away inside during the rehearsal. He could not make out the words or identify the speakers, but he knew one thing.
Gloriana Triumphant
had dispossessed him. He reached out to snatch another playbill from its post. If talent and justice meant anything in the theatre, it was
his
play that should be advertised all over London, and his words that should now be ringing out behind the high walls of the playhouse.

Bartholomew stood above all things for the primacy of the word, for the natural ascendancy of the poet. Firethorn and his company worked to other rules. They promoted the actor as the central figure in the theatre. A play to them was just a fine garment that they could wear once or twice for effect before discarding.
An Enemy Routed
had been discarded before it was even worn. No consideration at all had been shown for its author’s feelings.

Lord Westfield’s Men deserved to be punished for their arrogance. He elected himself to administer that punishment. All that he had to decide was its exact nature.

Adversity was a rope that bound them more tightly together. In the face of their setbacks, Westfield’s Men responded with speedy resolution. The injured apprentice was taken home and his deputy, Martin Yeo, started to
rehearse at once. Even as he was working out on stage, the tiremen were altering Gloriana’s costume to fit him and redressing the red wig that he was to wear. Yeo had already learned the role in readiness and so the eleventh hour substitution was less of a problem than it might have been, but there were still movements to master, entrances and exits to memorise, due note to be taken of the performances of those around the Queen so that he could play off them.

Nicholas Bracewell, meanwhile, had taken steps to stabilise the mast and sail. When it was set up now, a series of ropes led down from its top to different parts of the stage and tied off on hooks or cleats. The mast was so solid that it was possible for someone to climb it. Ever the opportunist, Firethorn cast the smallest of the journeymen as a ship boy and told him to shin up the mast. It would be a good effect in performance.

A bewildering variety of chores kept George Dart on the move throughout the play. At Nicholas’s suggestion, he was given another job as well. Because they could not guarantee that a wind would blow the next afternoon, Dart was handed a long piece of rope that was attached to the heart of the sail. Concealed on the balcony above the stage, he was to tug violently on cue to give the impression that the ship was being blown along by a gale. It was the first time in his young career that he had ever taken on the role of the west wind.

Even Barnaby Gill pitched in to help with the emergency. He suspended his ultimatum about Samuel Ruff until after the performance, and did what he could to keep
up everyone’s spirit. Against all the odds, the play began to come together. Frantic rewriting by Edmund Hoode eliminated the part that Martin Yeo had played before and smoothed out one or two other lumps. Morale was high at the end of an interminable rehearsal.

‘Well, Nick. What do you think?’

‘I think we’ll get through.’

‘We’ll do more than that, dear heart. Dicky may have gone but there are still many other sublime performances. I wager that we’ll hold them in the palm of our hands.’

‘It never does to tempt fate,’ warned Nicholas.

They were standing together on the now almost empty stage at The Curtain, reviewing the day and its vicissitudes. Firethorn suddenly declaimed his first speech, aiming it at the galleries and taking up various positions to do so. Nicholas soon realised what he was doing. The actor was trying to work out precisely where Lady Rosamund Varley would be sitting.

‘We’ll show ’em, Nick.’

‘Who, master?’

‘Giles Randolph and his ilk.’

‘Ah.’

‘You saw the fellow here last. How did he fare?’

‘Indifferently. It was a poor play.’

‘A poor play with a poor player. I will act him off the stage, sir!’

‘You are without compare,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

‘Tomorrow is an important day for us,’ continued the other. ‘We must prove ourselves once and for all. Our dear
patron will rely on us to increase his lustre. We must use this new play to stake our claim to the highest honour – an invitation to play at court.’

‘It’s long overdue.’

Firethorn made a deep bow to acknowledge non-existent applause that reverberated in his ears. He was already at court, performing before the Queen and her entourage, receiving royal favour, achieving yet another success in the auditorium of his mind. Nicholas saw that his ambition had another side to it than mere glory. Performance at court would be in front of a small, exclusive, private audience that would include Lady Rosamund Varley. She ruled on the throne of his heart at the moment.

‘I would be in Elysium,’ confided Firethorn.

‘It will come.’

‘Let us ensure it, Nick.’

When everything had been cleared away and locked up ready for the morrow, they all departed. There was sadness for Richard Honeydew that he had been robbed of his first taste of stardom but the performance had to continue and everyone had bent themselves to that end. Company rivalry was paramount. Banbury’s Men had done themselves less than credit at The Curtain. Lawrence Firethorn and his fellows could dazzle by comparison.

It was a long, lonely walk back to Bishopsgate and Nicholas still had more than a mile to go when he entered the City. But he was too preoccupied to notice the extent of his journey or the stiff breeze that swept through the
dark night. Will Fowler still haunted him as did the actor’s young widow. Two battered prostitutes, one of whom had been subsequently murdered, also had a strong claim on his sympathy. He feared for Samuel Ruff whose place with the company was now in jeopardy. He worried for Richard Honeydew. There was even a vestigial concern for Roger Bartholomew, who had been ousted from the theatre almost before he had got into it. The book holder puzzled over the ruined playbills that George Dart had reported with such trepidation. They had enemies enough without that.

What kept pushing itself to the forefront of his mind, however, was the surly face of Benjamin Creech. Why had the man denied being at The Curtain and concealed his old association with Banbury’s Men? What had been the real cause of his fight with Will Fowler? Had the injury to Richard Honeydew really been an accident? Did Nicholas truly see a glint of relish in Creech’s eyes or had he imagined it?

Speculation and recrimination carried him all the way back to Bankside. He was almost home when the trouble came. Turning into a side-street, he suddenly had the feeling that he was being followed. His years at sea had helped him to develop a sixth sense for self-preservation and his hand stole quickly to his dagger. He listened for a footfall behind him but heard none. When he spun around, there was nobody there. He continued on his way, ready to dismiss it as a trick of his imagination, when a tall, hulking figure stepped out of an alley ahead of him to block his way. The man was some fifteen yards away and seen only in hazy
outline through the gloom, but Nicholas knew at once who he was. They had met before at the Hope and Anchor when a friend had been murdered. There had been more evidence of his handiwork at The Cardinal’s Hat.

Pulling out his dagger, Nicholas bunched himself to charge but he did not get far. Before he had moved a yard or so, something hard and solid struck him on the back of the head and sent him down into a black whirlpool of pain. The last thing he remembered was the sound of footsteps running away over the cobblestones. The rest was cold void.

Lawrence Firethorn was at his best in a crisis. The threat of resignation by Barnaby Gill and the sudden loss of Richard Honeydew had imposed pressure which he had surmounted with bravery. Pulling the company together in its hour of need, he fired them with the possibilities of the morrow and infected them with his unassailable self-confidence. The play would be another afternoon of glory for him and it would be followed – in time – by a whole night of magic.
Gloriana Triumphant
and fourteen lines of poetry would win him the favours of Lady Rosamund Varley.

After all the setbacks of the day, therefore, he returned home with a light step to receive a kiss of welcome from his trusting wife. But the kiss did not come and the trust seemed to have gone. Frost had settled on Margery’s ample brow.

‘What ails you, my love?’ he asked blithely.

‘I’ve been talking with Dicky.’

‘Poor lad! Where is he?’

‘He has gone to bed to rest that swollen ankle.’

‘It was a dreadful accident,’ said Firethorn. ‘We must thank God that no serious injury resulted.’

‘There
is
a more serious injury,’ she added grimly.

‘What’s that you say, my sweet?’

‘Sit down, Lawrence.’

‘Why?’

‘Sit down!’

The force of her request could not be denied and he sank into a chair. Margery Firethorn stood directly in front of him so that there was no possibility of escape. Her anger was banked down but ready to blaze up at any moment.

‘The boy is heart-broken,’ she began.

‘Who would not be? It is his first leading role – and such a role at that! All his hard work has gone for nothing.’

‘He talked about you, Lawrence.’

‘Did he?’

‘He told me how wonderful it was to play opposite such a superb actor as you.’ She waited as he gave a dismissive laugh. ‘The boy worships you.’

‘Every apprentice should choose a good model.’

‘Oh, I am sure that you are an excellent model, sir,’ she said crisply. ‘As an actor, that is. As a husband, of course, you have your faults and it is not so wonderful to play opposite them.’

‘Margery …’ he soothed.

‘Spare me your ruses, Lawrence.’

‘What ruse?’

‘I spent hours listening to Dick Honeydew,’ she said. ‘That accident at the playhouse cost him dear. It cost me dear as well.’

‘You, my angel?’

‘He lost a role in a play but I have lost far more.’

‘I do not understand you, sweeting.’

‘Then let me speak more plain, sir,’ she asserted with a crackle of menace. ‘Dicky told me everything. He talked of his speeches and dances and magnificent costumes. He also mentioned the jewellery he was to have worn as Gloriana – including a beautiful pendant which had nothing at all wrong with its catch …’

Lawrence Firethorn had been caught out. The mast which had fallen on the stage of The Curtain now landed squarely on him. Margery had learned the unkind truth. Far from being a gift that was bought specifically for her, the pendant was a theatrical prop that had been used to mollify her. Reconciliation was now only a distant memory in their marriage. Instead of coming home to a loving wife, he was staring into the eyes of Medusa.

Margery guessed at once what lay behind the subterfuge. Reining in her fury, she spoke with an elaborate sweetness.

‘What is her name, Lawrence?’

‘Hold still now,’ said Anne Hendrik. ‘Let me bathe it properly.’

‘I’m fine now. Tie the bandage.’

‘This wound needs a surgeon.’

‘I have no time to stay.’

‘Let me send for one, Nick.’

‘The pain is easing now,’ he lied.

They were at the house in Bankside and Nicholas
Bracewell
was sitting on a chair while his landlady dressed the gash on the back of his head. As soon as he had recovered consciousness in the street, he had dragged himself up from the ground and staggered on as far as his front door. His hat was sodden with blood, his mind blurred and his whole body was one pounding ache.

When the servant answered his knock on the door, she let out a scream of fright at the condition he was in. Anne Hendrik had rushed out and the two women had carried Nicholas to a chair. Left alone with him, Anne now tended his wound with the utmost care and sympathy. She was almost overwhelmed by apprehension.

‘You believe it was the same man?’ she asked.

‘I know it was.’

‘It was dark, Nick. How can you be certain?’

‘I would recognise him anywhere. It was Redbeard.’

‘A murderous villain, lying in wait for you!’ she said with trembling anxiety. ‘It does not bear thinking about!’

‘I survived, Anne,’ he reminded her.

‘Only by the grace of God! You are lucky to be alive!’

‘They were not after me,’ decided Nicholas, trying to make sense of what had happened. ‘I would be lying dead in that street now if they had wanted to kill me. No, they were after something else.’

‘Your purse?’

‘They left that, Anne. What they stole was my satchel.’

‘With your prompt book in it?’ she gasped.

‘Yes. That is what they wanted –
Gloriana Triumphant
.’

Anne Hendrik saw the implications at once and she blenched. The one complete copy of the play had now disappeared and there was no way that Nicholas could control the performance without it.

‘This is terrible!’ she exclaimed. ‘You will have to cancel the play tomorrow.’

‘That is their intention, Anne.’