The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (21 page)

‘What is going on, I pray?’

‘Retribution!’ declared Firethorn. ‘We have unmasked an assassin and brought him to justice.’

‘Samuel Ruff?’

‘Villainy incarnate,’ said the other. ‘The man was deep and cunning but he met his match in our book holder. Ruff stage-managed things so cleverly that we were all fooled by him at first. Nick alone was equal to him.’

‘I did what was needful,’ said Nicholas modestly.

‘You were magnificent!’ insisted Firethorn. ‘You won the villain’s confidence and made him believe that you feared a threat from outside the company. Ruff thought that he was undiscovered. It then remained to show him in his true light.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘By creating the very opportunity that he sought.’

‘I begin to see,’ said Hoode. ‘When you asked me to put the execution on stage, you had a definite purpose in mind.’

‘We did, Edmund.’ explained the book holder. ‘By casting Sam in the role of executioner, we knew exactly
when and how he would strike. With the aid of Dick here, we were able to prepare an irresistible trap for him.’

Slightly peeved that he had not been party to it all, Hoode nevertheless congratulated them warmly. There was one particular point that he wanted clarified.

‘What of the theft of
Gloriana Triumphant
?’ he asked.

‘That puzzled me, too,’ said Nicholas. ‘When the book was stolen from me, I thought it was another blow at
Westfield’s
Men. Yet why should Ruff and his accomplice seek to wound the company? It was in their interests to ensure that it thrived.’

‘So what lay behind it?’ wondered Hoode.

‘Religion. Your play was a celebration of the victory over the Spanish Armada and the defeat of Roman Catholicism. It offended them and their faith. That is why they tried to stop the performance.’

‘Nobody can stop a performance by Westfield’s Men!’ asserted Firethorn grandly. ‘We have foiled a plot to kill our own dear Queen and we have rendered our country a sterling service. But we still have unfinished business here. Gentlemen, we play before our sovereign this night. Let us prepare ourselves for this supreme moment in our history. Dick Honeydew has shown us the way. Onward to another royal triumph!’

The Loyal Subject
was staged at midnight with reverberating success. Its themes gained extra resonance from the thwarted assassination attempt and it caught the mood of the hour to perfection. The whole Court
surrendered itself to a unique and stirring experience. Richmond Palace was alive with unstinted praise.

Presiding over it all was Queen Elizabeth herself, who occupied her throne in a spirit of happy gratitude. She was ostentation itself. She wore a dress in the Spanish fashion with a round stiff-laced collar above a dark bodice with satin sleeves which were richly decorated with ribbons, pearls and gems. A veritable waterfall of pearls flowed from her neck and threatened to cascade down on to the dais. As befitted a sovereign, her radiance outshone the entire Court.

To repair the absence of Ruff – and to assauge Tallis’s rampant fears – Nicholas Bracewell took over the small role of the executioner himself. With a measured sweep of the axe, he severed the wax head and sent the head spinning across the floor. The effect was breathtaking. Deathly silence held sway for a full minute before applause broke out. After exhibiting the head of the traitor, Nicholas went off to take up his book again.

Richard Honeydew had played his part already. He now stayed in the tiring-house with the others and sneaked an occasional look at the action on stage. Westfield’s Men were at their best. The music was excellent, the costumes superb and the performances quite remarkable. Martin Yeo won plaudits for his youthful brilliance as the Duchess of Milan, Barnaby Gill supplied some stately comedy as a wrinkled retainer and Edmund Hoode was a suitably judicious judge.

Lawrence Firethorn was charismatic as Lorenzo and he caused many a flutter among the ladies. Constrained by the
presence of her husband, Lady Rosamund Varley could only watch and sigh. Her erstwhile swain was no longer aiming his performance at her. It was directed to a higher station. Lorenzo was patently acting for his Queen and country.

At Firethorn’s request, Hoode had written a new couplet to end the play. It related the capture of Samuel Ruff to the action of the drama. Firethorn made the two lines ring with conviction as he laid them proudly at the feet of his sovereign.

An ovation ensued.

Lord Westfield himself basked in the approval of the Court. The company had markedly improved the standing of their patron with the Queen. By the same token, the Earl of Banbury sat in sour-faced discomfort as he touched his palms together in reluctant applause. Westfield’s Men had carried the day in every sense. His own company was obliterated from the memory.

After taking several bows, the players adjourned to the tiring-house. A communal ecstasy seized them. They had succeeded beyond all expectation. It was a fitting climax to the year’s work.

Firethorn swooped down on his book holder.

‘Stop hiding away in that corner, Nick!’

‘I was merely reflecting on events, master.’

‘There is no time for that, dear heart,’ urged the other, pummelling his arm. ‘Her Majesty wishes to favour us. She has asked to meet the principal members of the company.’

‘Who else is there but you?’ teased Nicholas gently.

‘How profoundly true!’ agreed Firethorn without a trace of irony. ‘Take charge, Nick. Be swift, sir.’

‘Whom should I call?’

‘Use your discretion. It has always served us well.’

Nicholas organised a line-up of the principal artistes, making sure that Richard Honeydew was given pride of place. Queen Elizabeth was conducted up on to the stage to be introduced to each one of them in turn by the fawning actor-manager. She praised Edmund Hoode for his play and she congratulated Barnaby Gill on his amusing antics.

When she showered her personal thanks upon Richard, the boy was duly overwhelmed. Being so close to the royal person reduced him to open-mouthed wonder. His performance had helped to save the Queen from the attack yet it now seemed a gross impertinence even to try to impersonate her.

With a becoming lack of modesty, Lawrence Firethorn claimed much of the credit for himself and wished to be remembered as her loyal subject in thought, word and deed. He gave the impression that he alone was responsible for keeping the Queen’s head firmly on her shoulders.

Nicholas Bracewell stayed quietly behind the scenes.

L
ondon was the capital city of noise, a vibrant volatile place, surging with life and clamorous with purpose. Whips cracked, horses neighed, harness jingled, cans rattled, coaches thundered, pots clinked, canvas flapped, hammers pounded, lathes sang, bells tolled, dogs yelped, poultry clucked, cows lowed, pigs squealed and thousands of urgent voices swelled the tumult of the working day. The whole community was in a state of happy uproar. It was morning.

Nicholas Bracewell shouldered his way through the crowd in Gracechurch Street, ducking beneath frequent obstacles and moving past haphazard ranks of market stalls that were bold, colourful and aromatic, competing loudly with each other for the attention of the swirling mass. Tall, well-groomed and dressed in buff jerkin and hose, Nicholas was at once imposing and nondescript, a striking figure
who courted the anonymity of the throng. The weathered face was framed by long fair hair and a beard. The clear blue eyes missed nothing. He combined the physique of a wrestler with the bearing of a gentleman.

As a stout housewife waddled out of a shop and bumped straight into him, he doffed his cap and gave her a polite smile of apology, making light of the fact that she had caused the collision.

‘By your leave, mistress.’

His soft West Country tones were drowned by the strident Cockney vowels all around him but his courteous manner conveyed his meaning. Unaccustomed to such civility, the woman nodded her gratitude before being jostled by cruder elbows and rougher tongues. Nicholas plunged on and made steady progress through the sea of bodies. Ahead of him was the familiar outline of St Benet Grass Church, which had given the street its name, and his gaze dwelt for a moment on its thrusting spire. Then he passed beneath the sign of the Queen’s Head and swung in through its main gates.

Someone was waiting to ambush him in the yard.

‘Thank heavens you have come, Master Bracewell!’

‘How now, Master Marwood?’

‘All may yet be saved!’

‘Saved?’

‘God willing!’

‘What ails you, sir?’

‘I am sore afraid, Master Bracewell.’

‘Of what, pray?’

‘Certain disaster!’

Alexander Marwood had a close acquaintance with certain disaster. In his febrile imagination, it lurked everywhere and his assiduous pessimism obliged him to rush towards it in willing surrender. Short, thin and balding, the landlord of the Queen’s Head was a haunted man with a nervous twitch that animated his gloomy features. It was a face more fit for a charnel house than a taproom and he had none of the geniality associated with his calling.

Nicholas sighed inwardly. He knew what was coming.

‘We are in great danger!’ wailed the landlord.

‘From what source, Master Marwood?’

‘Your play, sir.’

‘
The Merry Devils
?’

‘It is an abomination.’

‘You do the piece a wrong.’

‘An act of blasphemy.’

‘It is wholly free from such a taint.’

‘The play will offend the City authorities.’

‘
All
plays offend them, Master Marwood,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have learned to live and work in the shadow of their displeasure.’

‘Your devilry will provoke the church.’

‘I think not, sir.’

‘You will bring the wrath of God down upon us!’

Nicholas put a soothing hand on his shoulder. He found himself in a situation that was all too common. Marwood’s capacity for sudden panic was boundless and it created stern problems for those who relied on the goodwill of mine
host. Nicholas was the book holder with Lord Westfield’s Men, one of the leading dramatic companies, and his primary function was to stage manage their performances. Another crucial task which had fallen to him was that of mollifying the landlord during his periodic fits of terror. Westfield’s Men used the yard of the Queen’s Head as their regular venue so Alexander Marwood had perforce to be humoured.

‘
The Merry Devils
is a harmless comedy,’ Nicholas told him. ‘It is written by two God-fearing gentlemen and will not raise the slightest blush on the cheeks of Christianity.’ He patted the other’s back. ‘Take heart, Master Marwood. There is no danger here.’

‘I have to look to my livelihood, sir.’

‘We respect that.’

‘I would not fall foul of the authorities.’

‘Nor shall you, believe me.’

‘Your play will put the Queen’s Head in jeopardy.’

‘That would hardly serve our turn.’

‘I have heard,’ said Marwood, eyes bulging and twitch working away, ‘the most dread reports.’

‘Idle rumours, sir. Ignore them.’

‘They say that you bring Satan himself upon the stage.’

‘Then they mislead you cruelly.’

‘They say you show all manner of Vice.’

‘Virtue is our constant theme.’

‘They say …’ The landlord’s voice became an outraged hiss to accommodate the full horror of his final charge. ‘They say that you – raise up devils!’

‘Indeed, we do not,’ said Nicholas reassuringly. ‘We merely summon George Dart and Roper Blundell.’

‘Who, sir?’

‘Two poor, innocent wights who could not frighten a fly between them. These are no real devils, Master Marwood. They are hirelings with the company. Two small lads who are fitted for the parts by their very smallness. Hugh Wegges, our tireman, has costumed them in red with pointed tails and tiny horns, but it is all in jest.’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘Our merry devils will cause more merriment than devilry. And, as they hope to go to heaven, George Dart and Roper Blundell will tell you the same.’

Marwood was not appeased. When he sniffed catastrophe – and it was brought in on every wind that blew – he was not easily put off the scent. To assuage him further, Nicholas patiently explained the whole plot then ushered him across to the rectangle of trestles which jutted out into the yard from one wall and which formed the stage on which Westfield’s Men would perform their new piece. He indicated the two trap-doors through which the devils would make their appearance and even divulged the secret of how each of them would make such an explosive entry. The landlord was given fresh matter for alarm.

‘Gunpowder, sir! Look to my thatch!’

‘Everything needful will be done.’

‘Fire could destroy me!’

‘That is why we will take the utmost care.’

‘I am deeply troubled, Master Bracewell,’ whined the other. ‘My feeling is that you should cancel the play.’

‘At this late hour?’

‘It bodes ill, sir. It bodes ill.’

The twitch went on a lightning tour of his face and his eyes enlarged to the size and colour of ripe plums. Nicholas wooed him again, reminding him of the long and fruitful relationship that existed between Westfield’s Men and the Queen’s Head and pointing out that
The Merry Devils
– like every other new play – had had to be submitted to the Master of the Revels before it was granted a licence. Sir Edmund Tilney had given his approval without censoring a single line. Evidently, he did not consider the piece to be in any way blasphemous. When the morose landlord still protested, Nicholas invited him to watch the morning’s rehearsal so that he could judge for himself, but Marwood declined the offer. He preferred to feed off rumour and instinct, both of which advised him to stop the performance.

‘And offer such an insult to Lord Westfield?’ said Nicholas.

‘Lord Westfield?’

‘Our patron will grace your inn with his presence today.’

‘Ah …’

‘Bringing with him, in his entourage, several other members of the nobility. Can the Queen’s Head afford to turn away such custom, sir? Am I to tell Lord Westfield that you refuse him hospitality?’

‘Well, no … that is to say …’

‘His lordship might instruct us to withdraw altogether.’

‘But we have a contract.’

‘Then you must honour it this afternoon.’

Marwood was thrown into a quandary. It was not his intention to terminate an arrangement which, with all its pitfalls, was a lucrative one for his inn. He now spied danger both in a performance of the new play and in its summary cancellation. Either way he was doomed. He risked arousing the ire of the City authorities or the displeasure of important members of the nobility. It all served to plunge him into a pool of deep melancholy.

Nicholas Bracewell threw him a rope of salvation.

‘Lord Westfield is not without influence.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Were the authorities to object, he would no doubt deal with their objections. They would not proceed against the Queen’s Head with his lordship standing guard over it.’

‘Would he so protect us?’ asked the plaintive landlord.

‘He has powerful friends at Court.’

It was a telling argument and it tipped the balance. According to the regulations, the staging of plays within the boundaries of the city was forbidden and theatres had therefore been built in places like Shoreditch and Southwark which were outside the city walls and thus beyond its jurisdiction. Like other establishments with suitable inn yards, the Queen’s Head was breaking a law that was never enforced with any vigour or consistency, in spite of a steady stream of complaints from the Puritan faction. Marwood had always escaped before. Under the pressure of circumstance, he elected to take the chance once again.

‘Very well, Master Bracewell. Perform your play.’

‘It will put money in your purse, sir.’

‘I pray that they do not take it from me in fines.’

‘Have faith, Master Marwood.’

‘I fear the worst.’

‘Nothing will go amiss.’

‘Then why do I sense disaster?’

Turning on his heel, the landlord scurried across the yard and took his determined misery towards the taproom. Resolved on calamity, he would admit no other possibility. Nicholas had done well to stave off the threatened cancellation of the play, but then he had had plenty of practice with such crises. It seemed to him that he spent as much time subduing Marwood’s outbursts as he did in stage managing the company.

As mine host vanished through a door, Nicholas marvelled yet again at the man’s perverse choice of profession. He was not schooled for a life of riot and revelry. Death and despair were his companions. Perhaps, mused Nicholas, he was waiting to be called to a higher duty and a truer vocation. When God wished to announce the end of the world, he would surely choose no other messenger than Alexander Marwood.

It was the one job to which he could bring some relish.

Rehearsals for
The Merry Devils
had been dogged by setbacks from the start, but those earlier upsets faded into oblivion beside the events of the next two hours. Everything went wrong. Lines were forgotten, entrances were missed, curtains were torn, costumes were damaged, trapdoors refused to open, gunpowder would not explode and the
tiring-house was a seething morass of acrimony. Nicholas Bracewell imposed what calm and order he could, but his control could not extend to the stage itself where mishap followed mishap with ascending speed. The play was buried beneath a farrago of incompetence, frayed tempers and brutal misfortune.

The diminutive George Dart was less than merry as a devil. Covered in confusion and dripping with perspiration, he came lurching into the tiring-house after another bungled exit. His red costume was far too tight for his body and far too warm for the hot weather. He tugged and pulled at it as he went across to the book holder.

‘I am sorry, Master Bracewell.’

‘Do your best, George. Nobody can demand more.’

‘I mislaid my part.’

‘Think harder, lad.’

‘I tried, master, but all thought went out of my head when I bumped into that post and saw stars. How did that come about?’

‘You were on the wrong side of the stage.’

‘Was I?’

‘Follow Roper next time.’

‘But he has no more idea than me.’ He shrugged his shoulders in hopeless resignation. ‘We are not actors, Master Bracewell. We are mere stagekeepers. You do wrong to thrust us out upon the stage.’

‘Stand by, George! Your entrance is almost due.’

‘
Again
?’

‘The banquet scene.’

‘Lord help me!’

Cued by the book holder, the merry devils made another startling entrance but dissipated its effect by colliding with each other. George Dart dropped the goblets he was carrying and Roper Blundell trod so heavily on his own tail that it parted company with his breeches. Mistakes now multiplied at a bewildering rate. The rehearsal was speeding towards complete chaos.

It was rescued by the efforts of one man. Lawrence Firethorn was the leading actor and the guiding light of Westfield’s Men, a creature of colossal talent and breathtaking audacity whose very presence in the cast of a play enhanced its quality. Single-handed, he pulled
The Merry Devils
back from the brink of sheer pandemonium. While everything else was falling to pieces around him, he remained quite imperturbable and soared above it all on wings of histrionic genius.

When accidents happened, he softened their impact by cleverly diverting attention from them. When moves were forgotten, he eased his colleagues into their correct positions in the most unobtrusive way. When huge gaps appeared in the text, he filled them with such loquacious zest that only those familiar with the piece would have realised that memories had faltered. The more desperate the situation, the more immediate was his response. At one point, when someone missed an entrance for a vital scene, Firethorn covered his absence by delivering a soliloquy of such soulful magnificence that it wrung the withers of all who heard it, even though it was culled on the instant
from three totally different plays and stitched together for extempore use.

Lawrence Firethorn was superb in a role that fitted him like a glove. Though he was renowned for his portrayal of wise emperors and warrior kings, and for his incomparable gallery of classical heroes, he could turn his hand to low comedy with devastating brilliance. He was now the gross figure of Justice Wildboare, who, thwarted in love, attempts to get his revenge on his young rival by setting a couple of devils on him. Once raised, however, the devils prove unready to obey their new master and it is Wildboare who becomes the victim of their merriment.