The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (3 page)

‘Without you, Westfield’s Men would crumble into dust!’

‘I doubt that, Will,’ said Nicholas easily.

‘We all depend upon you entirely.’

‘More fool me, for bearing such an unfair load!’

‘Seek more money. A labourer is worthy of his hire.’

‘I am happy enough with my wage.’

‘You are too modest, Nick!’ chided the other.

‘The same could not be said about you, I fear.’

Will Fowler broke into such irrepressible laughter that he scattered passers-by all around him. Slapping his friend between the shoulder blades, he turned a beaming visage upon him.

‘I have tried to hide my light under a bushel,’ he explained, ‘but I have never been able to find a bushel big enough.’

‘You’re a born actor, Will. You seek an audience.’

‘Applause is my meat and drink. I would starve to death if I was just another Nicholas Bracewell who looks for the shadows. An audience has to
know
that I am a good actor and so I tell them as loud and as often as I can. Why conceal my excellence?’

‘Why indeed?’

Nicholas collected a second slap on the back.

They were crossing the bridge now and had to slow down as traffic thickened at its narrowest point. The massive huddle of houses and shops that made up London Bridge extended itself along the most important street in the city. The buildings stretched out over the river then lurched back in upon each other, closing the thoroughfare down to a width of barely twelve feet. A heavy cart trundled through the press. Nicholas reached forward to lift a young boy out of its path and earned a pale smile by way of thanks.

‘You see?’ continued Fowler. ‘You cannot stop helping others.’

‘The lad would have been hit by that wheel,’ said Nicholas seriously. ‘Too many people are crushed to death in the traffic here. I’m glad to be able to save one victim.’

‘One victim? You save dozens every day.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes!’ urged Fowler. ‘And they are not just careless lads on London Bridge. How many times have you plucked our apprentices from beneath the wheels of that sodden-headed, sheep-faced sharer called Barnaby Gill? That standing yard between his little legs will do far more damage than a heavy cart. You’ve saved Dick Honeydew and the others from being run down. You’ve saved Westfield’s Men no end of times. Most of all, you save me.’

‘From Master Gill?’ teased Nicholas.

‘What!’ roared Fowler with jovial rage. ‘Just let the fellow thrust his weapon at me. I’ll saw it off like a log, so I will, and use it as a club to beat his scurvy head. I’d make him dance a jig, I warrant you!’

‘Even
I
could not save you then, Will.’

They left the bridge, entered Southwark and swung right into Bankside. The Thames was a huge, rippling presence beside them. Nicholas had been invited to a tavern by Fowler in order to meet an old friend of the latter. From the way that his companion had been flattering him, Nicholas knew that he wanted a favour and it was not difficult to guess what that favour was.

‘What is your friend’s name, Will?’

‘Samuel Ruff. As stout a fellow as you could find.’

‘How long is it since you last saw him?’

‘Too long. The years drift by so fast these days.’ He gave a sigh. ‘But they have been kinder to me than to Sam.’

‘Does he know that I’m coming?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Not yet.’

‘I’ve no wish to intrude upon an old friendship.’

‘It’s no intrusion. You’re here to help Sam.’

‘How?’

‘You’ll find a way, Nick. You always do.’

They strode on vigorously through the scuffling dark.

Even though it lay fairly close to his lodging, the Hope and Anchor was not one of Nicholas’s regular haunts. There was something irremediably squalid about the place and its murky interior housed rogues, pimps, punks, thieves, pickpockets, gamblers, cheaters and all manner of masterless men. Ill-lit by a few stinking tallow candles, the tavern ran to rough wooden benches and tables, a settle and a cluster of low stools. Loamed walls were streaked
with grime and the rushes on the stone-flagged floor were old and noisome. A dog snuffled for rats in one corner.

The Hope and Anchor was full and the noise deafening. An old sailor was trying to sing a sea shanty above the din. A card game broke up in a fierce argument. Two drunken watermen thumped on their table for service. Prostitutes laughed shrilly as they blandished their customers. A fug of tobacco and dark purpose filled the whole tavern.

Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler sat side by side on the settle and tried to carry on a conversation with Samuel Ruff, who was perched on a stool on the other side of the table. All three drank bottle-ale. It had a brackish taste.

Nicholas glanced around the place with candid surprise.

‘You
lodge
here, Samuel?’ he said.

‘For my sins.’

‘Can it be safe?’

‘I sleep with one hand on my dagger.’

‘And the other on your codpiece,’ said Fowler with a grin. ‘These drabs will give you the pox as soon as they breathe on you, then charge you for the privilege.’

‘I’ve no money to waste on pleasure, Will,’ added Ruff.

‘What pleasure is there in a burning pizzle?’ Fowler’s grin became rueful. ‘There be three things an actor fears – plague, Puritans and pox. I never know which is worse.’

‘I can tell you.’

‘Which one, Sam?’

‘The fourth thing,’ explained Ruff.

‘And what is that?’

‘The greatest fear of all. Being without employ.’

There was such sadness in his voice and such despair in his eyes that the garrulous Fowler was silenced for once. Nicholas had an upsurge of sympathy for Samuel Ruff. He knew what it was to fall on hard times himself and he had a special concern for those who fell by the wayside of a necessarily cruel profession. Ruff was not only evidently in need of work. He had to be helped to believe in himself again. Nicholas showed a genuine interest.

‘How long have you been a player, Samuel?’

‘For more years than I care to remember,’ admitted Ruff with a half-smile. ‘I began with Leicester’s Men, then I toured with smaller companies.’

‘At home or abroad?’

‘Both, sir.’

‘Where have you been on your travels?’

‘My calling has taken me to Germany, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, even Poland. I’ve been hissed at in many languages.’

‘And applauded in many more,’ insisted Fowler loyally. ‘Sam is a fine actor, Nick. Indeed, he is almost as good as myself.’

‘No recommendation could be higher,’ said Nicholas, smiling.

‘We are old fellows, are we not, Sam?’

‘We are, Will.’

‘If memory serves me aright, we first played together in
The Three Sisters of Mantua
at Bristol. They were happy days.’

‘Not for everyone,’ recalled Ruff.

‘How say you?’

‘Have you forgotten, Will? You fetched the trumpeter such a box on the ear that he could not play his instrument properly for a week.’

‘The knave deserved it!’

‘If he’d not ducked in time, you’d have boxed his other ear and taken his breath away for a fortnight.’

‘What was the man’s offence?’ wondered Nicholas.

‘He blew a scurvy trumpet,’ explained Will.

Fowler and Ruff shook with mirth at the shared recollection. As further memoirs were revealed by the former, the other seemed to relax and blossom, secure in the knowledge that there had been a time when his talent had been in demand. Samuel Ruff was older and greyer than Fowler but his build was similar. Nicholas noted the faded attire and the neglected air. He also studied the big, open face with its honest eyes and resolute jaw. There was an integrity about Ruff which had not been beaten out of him by his straitened circumstances, and his pride was intact as well. When Fowler offered him money, he was frankly wounded.

‘Take it back, Will. I can pay my way.’

‘I mean it as a loan and not as charity.’

‘Either would be an insult to me.’

Fowler slipped the coins quickly back into his purse and revived some more memories of their time together. The laughter soon started again but it lacked its earlier warmth. Nicholas had taken a liking to Samuel Ruff but he could not see how he could help him in the immediate future. The number of hired men in the company was kept to a
minimum by Firethorn in order to hold down costs. There was no call for a new player at the moment.

In any case, Ruff did not appear to be in search of a job. Months without work had taken their toll of his spirit and he was now talking of leaving the profession altogether. Will Fowler gasped with shock as he heard the news.

‘What will you do, Sam?’

‘Go back home to Norwich.’

‘Norwich?’

‘My brother has a small farm there. I can work for him.’

‘Sam Ruff on a farm!’ exclaimed Fowler with healthy disgust. ‘Those hands were not made to feed pigs.’

‘He keeps cows.’

‘You’re an
actor
. You belong on the stage.’

‘The playhouse will manage very well without me.’

‘This is treasonable talk, Sam!’ urged Fowler. ‘Actors never give up. They go on acting to the bitter end. Heavens, man, you’re one of
us
!’

‘Not any more, Will.’

‘You will miss the playhouse mightily,’ said Nicholas.

‘Miss it?’ echoed Fowler. ‘It will be like having a limb hacked off.
Two
limbs. Yes, and two of something else as well, Sam. Will you surrender your manhood so easily? How can anyone exist without the theatre?’

‘Cows have their own consolation,’ suggested Ruff.

‘Leave off this arrant nonsense about a farm!’ ordered his friend with a peremptory wave of his arm. ‘You’ll not desert us. D’you know what Nick and I talked about as we walked here tonight? We spoke about the acting profession.
All its pain and setback and stabbing horror. Why do we put up with it?’

‘Why, indeed?’ said Ruff gloomily.

‘Nick had the answer. On compulsion. It answers a need in us, Sam, and I’ve just realised what that need is.’

‘Have you?’

‘Danger.’

‘Danger?’

‘You’ve felt it every bit as much as I have, Sam,’ said Fowler with eyes aglow. ‘The danger of testing yourself in front of a live audience, of risking their displeasure, of taking chances, of being out there with nothing but a gaudy costume and a few lines of verse to hold them. That’s why I do it, Sam, to have that feeling of dread coursing through my veins, to know that excitement, to face that danger! It makes it all worthwhile.’

‘Only if you are employed, Will,’ observed Ruff.

‘Where will you get your
danger
, Sam?’

‘A cow can give a man a nasty kick at times.’

‘I’ll give
you
a nasty kick if you persist like this!’

‘My mind is made up, Will.’

Further argument was futile. No matter how hard he tried, Fowler could not deflect his friend from his purpose. Nicholas was brought in to add the weight of his persuasion but it was in vain. Samuel Ruff had decided to return to Norwich. It would be a hard life but he would have a softer lodging than the Hope and Anchor.

Nicholas watched the two men carefully. They were middle-aged actors in a profession which handled its
members with callous indifference. Both had met the impossible demands made upon them for a number of years, but one had now been discarded. It was a sobering sight. Will Fowler’s exuberance came in such sharp contrast to Ruff’s quiet despair. Taken together, the two friends seemed to embody the essence of theatre with its blend of extremes and its death-grapple between love and hate.

There was something else that Nicholas observed and it made him feel sorry for his friend. Will Fowler had looked forward to the meeting with Samuel Ruff and placed a lot of importance upon it, but it was ending in disappointment. The man he had known in palmier days no longer existed. What was left was a pale reminder of his old friend, a few flashes of the real Samuel Ruff. An actor who had once shared his blind faith in the theatre had now become a heretic. It hurt Fowler and Nicholas shared that pain.

‘Can
nothing
make you change your mind?’ pleaded Fowler.

‘Nothing, Will.’

‘So be it.’

They finished their ale in a desultory way then Nicholas went across to the hostess to pay the reckoning. It was even more rowdy now and the air was charged with a dozen pungent odours. Couples groped their way up the narrow stairs to uncertain joy, raucous jeers rose from a game of dice and the old sailor, swaying like a mainmast in a gale, tried to sing a ballad about the defeat of the Armada. The dog barked and someone vomited in the hearth.

Nicholas was glad that they were about to leave. He
sensed trouble. The Hope and Anchor was a tinderbox that could ignite at any moment. Though more than able to take care of himself in a brawl, he did not look for a fight and it worried him that he had come to the tavern with someone who often did. A buoyant Fowler was problem enough but a jaded one was highly volatile. Nicholas paid the bill and turned to go.

But he was already too late.

‘Away, sir!’

‘Will you bandy words with me?’

‘No, sir. I’ll break your crown!’

‘I have something here to split yours asunder!’

‘Stand off!’

‘Draw!’

Will Fowler was being challenged by a tall, hulking man with a red beard and a sword in his hand. The actor jumped up from the settle and grabbed his own blade. A space immediately cleared in the middle of the room as tables were pushed hurriedly away, then the two men circled each other. Before Nicholas could move, Samuel Ruff interceded.

‘Put up your sword, Will,’ he implored.

‘Stand aside, Sam.’

‘There is no occasion for this quarrel.’

‘I mean to have blood here.’

Ruff swung around to confront the stranger. Unarmed but quite unafraid, he leapt between the two combatants and held out his arms, shielding his friend with his body.

‘Let us settle this over a pint of ale, sir.’

‘No!’ snarled the other.

‘Mend your differences,’ advised Ruff.

The stranger was not deterred. He saw the chance to catch his adversary off guard and he took it. With a lightning thrust, his sword passed under Ruff’s arm and went deep into Fowler’s stomach. The fight was over.