The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (2 page)

All sorts and conditions of men flooded in – lawyers, clerks, tinkers, tailors, yeomen, soldiers, sailors, carriers, apprentices, merchants, butchers, bakers, chapmen, silk-weavers, students from the Inns of Court, aspiring authors, unemployed actors, gaping countrymen, foreign visitors, playhouse gallants, old, young, lords and commoners. Thieves, cutpurses and confidence tricksters mingled with the crowd to ply their trade.

Ladies, wives, mistresses and young girls were fewer in number and, for the most part, masked or veiled. Gentlemen about town pushed and shoved in the galleries to obtain a seat near the women or to consort with the prostitutes who had come up from the Bankside stews in search of clients. Watching the play was only part of the entertainment and a hundred individual dramas were being acted out in the throng.

Some men wore shirts and breeches, others lounged in buff jerkins, others again sported doublet and hose of figured velvet, white ruffs, padded crescent-shaped
epaulets, silk stockings, leather gloves, elaborate hats and short, patterned cloaks. Female attire also ranged from the simple to the extravagant with an emphasis on the latest fashions in the galleries, where stiffened bodices, full petticoats, farthingales, cambric or lawn ruffs, long gowns with hanging sleeves, delicate gloves, and tall, crowned hats or French hoods were the order of the day.

Wine, beer, bread, fruit and nuts were served throughout the afternoon and the cheerful hubbub rarely subsided. The trumpet sounded at two-thirty to announce the start of the play, then the Prologue appeared in his black cloak. The first and last performance of
The Tragical History of Richard the Lionheart
was under way.

Squeezed between two gallants in the middle gallery, Roger Bartholomew craned his neck to see over the feathered hats in front of him. The pint of sack had increased his anger yet rendered it impotent. All he could do was to writhe in agony. This was not
his
play but a grotesque version of it. Lines had been removed, scenes rearranged, battles, duels, sieges and gruesome deaths introduced. There was even a jig for comic effect. What pained the hapless author most was that the changes appealed to the audience.

Lawrence Firethorn held the whole thing together. He compelled attention whenever he was on stage and made the most banal verse soar like sublime poetry:

His gesture and movement were hypnotic but it was his voice that was his chief asset. It could subdue the spectators with a whisper or thrill them with a shout like the report of a cannon. In his own inimitable way, he made yet another play his personal property.

His finest moment came at the climax of the drama. King Richard was besieging the castle of Chalus and he strode up to its walls to assess any weaknesses. An arbalester came out on to the battlements – the balcony at the rear of the stage – and fired his crossbow. The bolt struck Richard between the neck and shoulder where his chain mail was unlaced.

For this vital part of the action, Firethorn used an effect that had been suggested by Nicholas Bracewell. The bolt was hidden up the actor’s sleeve. As the crossbow twanged, he let out a yell of pain and brought both hands up to his neck with the bolt between them. The impact made him stagger across the stage. It was all done with such perfect timing that the audience was convinced they had actually seen the bolt fly through the air.

Richard now proceeded to expire with the aid of a twenty-line speech in halting verse. After writhing in agony on the ground, he died a soldier’s death before being borne off – to the correct funeral music, on cue – by his men.

Thunderous applause greeted the cast when they came out to take their bow and a huge cheer went up when Lawrence Firethorn appeared. He basked in the acclaim for several minutes then gave one last, deep bow and took
his leave. Once again he had wrested an extraordinary performance out of rather ordinary material.

Everyone went home happy. Except Roger Bartholomew.

Nicholas Bracewell had no chance to relax. Having controlled the play from his position in the tiring-house, he now had to take charge of the strike party. Costumes had to be collected, properties gathered up, the stage cleared and the trestles dismantled. Lord Westfield’s Men would not be playing at The Queen’s Head for another week and its yard was needed for its normal traffic of wagons and coaches. The debris left behind by almost a thousand people also had to be cleaned up. Rain added to the problems. Having held off until the audience departed, it now began to fall in earnest.

It was hours before Nicholas finally came to the end of a long day’s work. He adjourned to the taproom for some bread and ale. Alexander Marwood came scurrying across to his table.

‘How much was taken today, Master Bracewell?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘There is the matter of my rent.’

‘You’ll be paid.’

‘When?’

‘Soon,’ promised Nicholas with more confidence than he felt. He knew only too well the difficulty of prising any money out of Lawrence Firethorn and spent a lot of his time explaining away his employer’s meanness. ‘Very soon, Master Marwood.’

‘My wife thinks that I should put the rent up.’

‘Wives are like that.’

Marwood gave a hollow laugh. The landlord of The Queen’s Head was a short, thin, balding man in his fifties with a nervous twitch. His eager pessimism had etched deep lines in his forehead and put dark pouches under his eyes. Anxiety informed everything that he did or said.

Nicholas always took pains to be pleasant to Marwood. Lord Westfield’s Men were trying to persuade the landlord to let them use the inn on a permanent basis and there were sound financial reasons why he might convert his premises to a playhouse. But Marwood had several doubts about the project, not least the fact that a City regulation had been passed in 1574 to forbid the staging of plays at inns. He was terrified that the authorities would descend upon him at any moment. There was another consideration.

‘We had more scuffles in the yard.’

‘Good humoured fun, that’s all,’ said Nicholas. ‘You always get that during a play.’

‘One day it will be much worse,’ feared Marwood. ‘I don’t want an affray at The Queen’s Head. I don’t want a riot. My whole livelihood could be at stake.’ The nervous twitch got to work on his cheek. ‘If I still have a livelihood, that is.’

‘What do you mean, Master Marwood?’

‘The Armada! It could be the end for us all.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ returned Nicholas easily.

‘It’s ready to set sail.’

‘So is the English fleet.’

‘But the Spaniards have bigger and better ships,’ moaned the landlord. ‘They completely outnumber us. Yes, and they have a great army in the Netherlands waiting to invade us.’

‘We have an army, too.’

‘Not strong enough to keep out the might of Spain.’

‘Wait and see.’

‘We’ll all be murdered in our beds.’ Armada fever had been sweeping the country and Marwood had succumbed willingly. He gave in before battle had even commenced. ‘We should never have executed the Queen of Scots.’

‘It’s too late to change that,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘Besides, you were happy enough about it at the time.’

‘Me?
Happy?
’

‘London celebrated for a week or more. You made a tidy profit out of the lady’s death, Master Marwood.’

‘I would give back every penny if it would save us from the Armada. The Queen of Scots was treated cruelly. It was wrong.’

‘It was policy.’

‘Policy!’ croaked Marwood as the nervous twitch spread to his eyelid and made it flutter uncontrollably. ‘Shall I tell you what policy has done to my family, sir? It has knocked us hither and yon.’ He wiped sweaty palms down the front of his apron. ‘When my grandfather first built this inn, it was called The Pope’s Head, serving good ale and fine wines to needy travellers. Then King Henry fell out with the Catholic religion so down comes the sign and we became The King’s Arms instead. When Queen Mary was on the throne, it was Protestants who went to the stake and
Catholics who held sway again. My father quickly hung the Pope back up in Gracechurch Street. No sooner had people got used to our old sign than we had a new queen and a new name.’

‘It has lasted almost thirty years so far,’ said Nicholas with an encouraging smile, ‘and, by God’s grace, it will last many more.’

‘But the Spaniards are coming – thanks to policy!’

‘The Spaniards will
attempt
to come.’

‘We have no hope against them,’ wailed Marwood. ‘My wife thinks we should commission another sign in readiness. Henceforth, we will trade as The Armada Inn.’

‘Save your money,’ counselled Nicholas, ‘and tell your wife to take heart. The Spaniards may have more ships but we have better seamen. Lord Howard of Effingham is a worthy Admiral and Sir John Hawkins has used all his experience to rebuild the fleet.’

‘We are still so few against so many.’

‘Adversity brings out true mettle.’

Marwood shook his head sadly and his brow furrowed even more. Nothing could still his apprehension. Seers had long ago chosen 1588 as a year of disaster and the portents on every side were consistently alarming. The landlord rushed to meet catastrophe with open arms.

‘The Armada Inn! There’s no help for it.’

Nicholas let him wallow in his dread. Like everyone else, he himself was much disturbed at the notion of a huge enemy fleet that was about to bear down on his country, but his fear was tempered by an innate belief in the superiority
of the English navy. He had first-hand knowledge. Nicholas had sailed with Drake on his famous circumnavigation of the globe in the previous decade.

Those amazing three years had left an indelible impression upon him and he had disembarked from the
Golden Hind
with severe reservations about the character of the man whom the Spaniards called the Master Thief of the Unknown World. For all this, he still had immense respect for his old captain as a seaman. Whatever the odds, Sir Francis Drake would give a good account of himself in battle.

Darkness was falling when Nicholas left The Queen’s Head to begin the walk home to his lodgings in Bankside. He glanced up at the inn sign to see how his sovereign was responding to the threat of invasion. Buffeted by the wind and lashed by the rain, Queen Elizabeth creaked back and forth on her hinges. But she was not dismayed. Through the gathering gloom, Nicholas Bracewell fancied that he caught a smile of defiance on her lips.

R
umour was on the wing. It flew over the country like a giant bird of prey that swooped on its victims at will. Estimates of the size of the Armada increased daily. The Duke of Parma’s army in the Netherlands was also swelled by report. A papal promise of a million crowns to reward a successful invasion became a guarantee of ten times that amount. Terror even invented a massive force of English Catholics, who would stream out of their hiding places to join forces with Spanish soldiers and to help them hack Protestantism to pieces. The satanic features of King Philip II appeared in many dreams.

England reacted with fortitude. An army of twenty thousand men was assembled at Tilbury under the Earl of Leicester. With the muster in the adjacent counties, it was
a substantial force with the task of opposing any landing. A second army was formed at St James for the defence of the Queen’s person. The martial activity at once reassured and unnerved the citizens of London. They watched armed bands doing their training at Mile End and they heard the gunners of the Tower in Artillery Yard, just outside Bishopsgate, having their weekly practice with their brass ordnance against a great butt of earth. Invasion had a frightening immediacy.

Queen Elizabeth herself did not hide away and pray. She reviewed her troops at Tilbury and fired them with stirring words. But the Armada would not be defeated with speeches and Rumour was still expanding its ranks and boasting about its dark, avenging purpose. On 12
^th
July, the vast flotilla set sail from Corunna. The defence of Queen and country now became an imperative. King Philip of Spain was about to extend his empire.

A week later, the captain of a scout-boat sent news that some Spanish vessels were off the Scillies with their sails struck as they waited for stragglers. On the ebb tide that night, Lord Admiral Howard and Sir Francis Drake brought their ships out of Plymouth Sound, making use of warps, to anchor them in deep water and be ready for action. Howard commanded the
Ark Royal
, the imposing flagship of the English fleet. At dawn the next day, he took fifty-four ships to the leeward of the Eddystone Rock and sailed to the south in order to be able – by working to windward – to double back on the enemy.

Drake was in
Revenge
. That same evening, as he
positioned his eight ships for an attack on the Spanish rear, he caught his first glimpse of the Armada. It was a majestic sight. A hundred and thirty-two vessels, including several galleons and other first-line ships, were moving up the Channel in crescent formation. Their admiral, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, believed so totally in Spanish invincibility that he thought nothing could stop him reaching his support army in the Low Countries.

The English Fleet begged to differ. Staying to windward of the Armada, they hung upon it for nine days as it ran before a westerly wind up the Channel, pounding away with their long-range guns at the lumbering galleons, harrying, tormenting, inflicting constant damage, yet giving the Spaniards little chance to retaliate and no hope of grappling and boarding. The buccaneering skills of Drake and his like had free rein.

When the wind sank on 23
^rd
July, both fleets lay becalmed off Portland Bill. There was a further engagement two days later off the Isle of Wight then Medina Sidonia made the fatal mistake of anchoring his demoralised fleet in Calais Roads.

The Queen’s ships which had been stationed at the eastern end of the Channel now joined the main fleet in the Straits and the whole sea-power of England was combined. Because it was not possible to get safely within gunshot range of the enemy, Howard held a council of war on the
Ark Royal
and a plan of action was decided upon. Eight ships were speedily filled with pitch, tar, dry timber and anything that would easily burn. The guns were left aboard
but were double-shotted so that they would explode from the intense heat.

Before midnight, the fire ships were lashed together and carried by the wind and a strong tide on their voyage. As the blazing vessels penetrated the cordon of fly-boats and pinnaces that guarded the galleons, the Spaniards flew into a panic and cut their cables. The pilotless ships wreaked havoc and the Armada was forced back out to the open sea where it was at the mercy of the English.

Soon after dawn, battle was joined in earnest and it went on for almost eight hours, a raging conflict at close quarters during which the English showed their superiority over their opponents in handling their ships in difficult water. The Armada was stricken. If the English fleet had not run out of ammunition, hardly a single Spanish vessel would have escaped. As it was, the shattered flotilla fled northwards to face the horrors of a long voyage home around Scotland and thence south past Ireland.

More than five hundred Spanish lives were lost on the return journey. Medina Sidonia limped home with less than half the fleet which had sailed out so proudly. The English had not lost a ship and scarcely a hundred men. The first invasion attempt for over five centuries had been gloriously repelled. Catholicism would never lay at anchor in the Thames.

Weeks passed before the news reached England. Rumour continued to flap its wings and cause sleepless nights. It also flew across to the Continent to spread guileful stories about a Spanish victory. Bells were rung in the Catholic cities of
Europe. Masses of thanksgiving were held in Rome and Venice and Paris. Rejoicing crowds lit bonfires in Madrid and Seville to celebrate the defeat of the heretic, Elizabeth, and the capture of the sea devil, Francis Drake.

Truth then caught up with Rumour and plucked its feathers. Shocked and shamed, the Spanish people went into mourning. Their king would speak to nobody but his confessor. England, by contrast, was delirious with joy. When the news was made public, there was a great upsurge of national pride. London prepared to welcome home its heroes and toast their bravery a thousand times over.

The Queen’s Head got its share of the bounty.

‘It’s agreed then. Edmund is to begin work on the play at once.’

‘I’ve not agreed,’ said Barnaby Gill testily.

‘Nor I,’ added Edmund Hoode.

‘We must seize the time, gentlemen,’ urged Firethorn.

‘You are rushing us into it,’ complained Gill.

‘Speed is of the essence, Barnaby.’

‘Then find someone else to write it,’ suggested Hoode. ‘I’ll not be hurried into this. Plays take much thought and many days, yet Lawrence wants it ready for tomorrow.’

‘I’ll settle for next Sunday,’ said Firethorn with a ripe chuckle. ‘Call upon your Muse, Edmund. Apply yourself.’

The three men were sitting downstairs in Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch. Barnaby Gill was smoking his pipe, Edmund Hoode was drinking a cup of water and the host himself was reclining in his favourite high-backed oak
chair. A meeting had been called to discuss future plans for Lord Westfield’s Men. All three of them were sharers, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for the company and who took the major roles in any performance.

There were four other sharers but Lawrence Firethorn had found it expedient to limit decisions about the repertory to a triumvirate. Barnaby Gill had to be included. He was a short, stocky, pleasantly ugly man of forty with an insatiable appetite for foul-smelling tobacco and
sweet-smelling
boys. Morose and temperamental offstage, he was a gifted comedian once he stepped on to it and his facial expressions could reduce any audience to laughter. It was for his benefit that the comic jig had been inserted into the play about Richard the Lionheart.

Professional jealousy made the relationship between Gill and Firethorn a very uneasy one with regular threats to walk out being made by the former. However, the two men knew that they would never part. The dynamic between them onstage was a vital ingredient in the success of the company. For this reason, Firethorn was ready to make allowances for his colleague’s outbursts and to overlook his indiscretions.

‘I do not like the idea,’ affirmed Gill.

‘Then you’ve not fully understood it,’ rejoined Firethorn.

‘What is there to understand, Lawrence? England defeats the Armada. You seek a play to celebrate it – and every other company in London will be doing the same thing.’

‘That is why we must be
first
, Barnaby.’

‘I’m against it.’

‘You always are.’

‘Unfair, sir!’

‘True, nonetheless.’

‘Why must we ape everyone else?’ demanded Gill, bristling. ‘We should try to do something different.’

‘My performance as Drake will be unique.’

‘Yes, there you have it.’

‘What?’

‘I see no part in this new play for
me
.’

Edmund Hoode listened to the argument with the philosophical half-smile of someone who has heard it all before. As resident poet with the company, he was often caught between the rival claims of the two men. Each wished to outshine the other and Hoode usually ended up pleasing neither.

He was a tall, slim man in his early thirties with a round, clean-shaven face that still retained a vestige of youthful innocence. His curly brown hair and pale skin gave him an almost cherubic look. Hoode excelled in writing poems to the latest love in his life. What he found himself doing was producing hasty, if workmanlike, plays at a rate that moved him closer to nervous collapse each time. The one consolation was that he was always able to give himself a telling cameo role with romantic interest.

‘How soon will you have something to show us, Edmund?’

‘Christmas.’

‘I’m serious about this.’

‘So am I, Lawrence.’

‘We ask you as a special favour,’ purred Firethorn.

‘You expect too much of me.’

‘Only because you always deliver it, dear fellow.’

‘He’s wooing you,’ warned Gill cynically.

‘It will not serve,’ said Hoode.

‘I have your title,’ explained Firethorn. ‘It will leap off the playbills along with your name.
Gloriana Triumphant!
’

‘An ill-favoured thing, to be sure,’ noted Gill, wincing.

‘Be quiet, sir!’

‘I’m entitled to my opinion, Lawrence.’

‘You’re being peevish.’

‘I simply wish to choose another play.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hoode. ‘Another play by another author.’

Lawrence Firethorn regarded them through narrowed eyes. He had anticipated opposition and he had the means to remove it at a stroke. His chuckle alerted them to the danger.

‘The decision has already been taken, gentlemen.’

‘By you?’ challenged Gill.

‘By Lord Westfield.’

There was nothing more to be said. The company owed its existence to its patron. Under the notorious Act for the Punishment of Vagabonds, the acting profession had been effectively outlawed. The only dramatic companies that were permitted were those which were authorised by one noble and two judicial dignitaries of the realm. All other players were deemed to be rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars, making them liable to arrest. Lord Westfield had saved Firethorn and his fellows from that indignity. The
patron’s word therefore carried enormous weight.

‘Start work immediately, Edmund,’ ordered his host.

‘Very well,’ sighed Hoode. ‘Draw up the contract.’

‘I have already done so.’

‘You take too much upon yourself,’ accused Gill.

‘Someone has to, Barnaby.’

‘We are sharers, too. We have rights.’

‘So does Lord Westfield.’

Barnaby Gill summoned up his fiercest grimace. Not for the first time, he had been outwitted by Firethorn and it stoked his resentment even more. Edmund Hoode turned wearily to his new task.

‘I must talk with Nicholas.’

‘Do, do,’ encouraged Firethorn. ‘Use his knowledge of seamanship. Nicholas could be of great help to us here.’

‘We lean on him too much,’ said Gill irritably. ‘Master Bracewell is only a hired man. We should treat him as such and not deal with him as an equal.’

‘Our book holder has rare talents,’ countered Firethorn. ‘Accept that and be truly grateful.’ He turned to Hoode. ‘Make full use of Nicholas.’

‘I always do,’ answered the other. ‘I often think that Nicholas Bracewell is the most important person in the company.’

Firethorn and Gill snorted in unison. Truth is no respecter of inordinate pride.

London by night was the same seething, stinking, clamorous place that it was by day. As the two men made their way
down Gracechurch Street, there was pulsing life and pounding noise all around them. They were so accustomed to the turmoil of their city that they did not give it a second thought. Ignoring the constant brush of shoulders against their own, they inhaled the reek of fresh manure without complaint and somehow made their voices heard above the babble.

‘Demand a higher wage from them, Nick.’

‘It would never be granted.’

‘But you deserve it, you bawcock.’

‘Few men are used according to their deserts, Will.’

‘Aye!’ said his companion with feeling. ‘Look at this damnable profession of ours. We are foully treated most of the time. They mock us, fear us, revile us, hound us, even imprison us, and when we actually please them with a play for two hours of their whoreson lives, they reward us with a few claps and a few coins before they start to rail at us again. How do we bear such a life?’

‘On compulsion.’

‘Compulsion?’

‘It answers a need within us.’

‘A fair fat wench can do that, Nick.’

‘I talk of deeper needs, Will. Think on it.’

Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler were close friends as well as colleagues. The book holder had great respect and affection for the actor even though the latter caused him many problems. Will Fowler was a burly, boisterous character of medium height whose many sterling qualities were betrayed by a short temper and a readiness to trade
blows. Nicholas loved him for his ebullience, his wicked sense of humour and his generosity. Because he admired Fowler so much as an actor, he defended him and helped him time and again. It was Nicholas who kept Fowler in a job and it strengthened their bond.