The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (22 page)

The central role enabled Firethorn to dominate the stage and wrest some meaning out of the shambles. He was a rock amid shifting sands, an oasis in a desert, a true professional among rank amateurs. His example fired others and they slowly rallied. Nerves steadied, memories improved, confidence oozed back. With Firethorn leading the way on stage, and with Nicholas Bracewell exerting his usual calming influence in the tiring-house, the play actually began to resemble the text in the prompt book. By the end of Act Five, the saviour of the hour had achieved the superhuman task of pointing the drama in the right direction once more and it was fitting that he should conclude it with a rhyming couplet.

The rest of the company were so relieved to have come safely through the ordeal that they gave their actor-manager a spontaneous round of applause. Relief swiftly turned to apprehension as Firethorn rounded on them with blazing eyes. George Dart quailed, Roper Blundell sobbed, Ned Rankin gulped, Caleb Smythe shivered, Richard Honeydew blushed, Martin Yeo backed away, Edmund Hoode sought invisibility and the other players braced themselves. Even the arrogant Barnaby Gill was fearful.

The comic bleating of Wildboare became the roar of a tiger.

‘That, gentlemen,’ said Firethorn, ‘was a descent into Hell. I have known villainy before but not of such magnitude. I have tasted dregs before but not of such bitterness. Misery I have seen before but never in such hideous degree. Truly, I am ashamed to call you fellows in this enterprise. Were it not for my honesty and self-respect, I would turn my back on the whole pack of you and seek a place with Banbury’s Men, vile and untutored though they be.’

The company winced beneath the insult. The Earl of Banbury’s Men were their deadly rivals and Firethorn had nothing but contempt for them. It was a mark of his disillusion with his own players that he should even consider turning to the despised company of another patron. Before he could speak further, the noonday bell passed on its sonorous message. In two bare hours,
The Merry Devils
had to be fit for presentation before a paying audience. Practicalities intruded. Firethorn sheathed the sword of his anger and issued a peremptory command.

‘Gentlemen, we have work to do. About it straight.’

There was a flurry of grateful activity.

Hunched over a cup of sack, Edmund Hoode stared balefully into the liquid as if it contained the dead bodies of his dearest hopes. He was sitting at a table in the taproom of the Queen’s Head and seemed unaware of the presence of his companion. Ralph Willoughby gave his friend an indulgent smile and emptied a pot of ale. The two men were the co-authors of
The Merry Devils
and they had burned a deal of midnight oil in the course of its composition. Both had invested heavily in its success. Hoode was mortified by the awesome failure of the rehearsal but Willoughby took a more sanguine view.

‘The piece will redeem itself, Edmund,’ he said blithely. ‘Even in this morning’s travesty, there was promise.’

‘Of what?’ returned Hoode sourly. ‘Of complete disgrace?’

‘Rehearsals often mislead.’

‘We face ignominy, Ralph.’

‘It will not come to that.’

‘Our work will be jeered off the stage.’

‘Away with such thoughts!’

‘Truly, I tell you, this life will be the death of me!’

It was strange to hear such a forlorn cry on the lips of Edmund Hoode. He loved the theatre. Tall, thin and cleanshaven, he had been with the company for some years now as its resident poet and a number of plays – thanks to the hectoring of Lawrence Firethorn – had flowed from
his fertile pen. As an actor-sharer with Westfield’s Men, he always took care to create a role for himself; ideally, something with a romantic strain though a wide range of character parts was within his compass. When
The Merry Devils
first began to take shape, he decided to appear as the hapless Droopwell, a lack-lustre wooer whose impotence was exploited for comic effect. Long before the play had been completed, however, and for a reason that was never explained, Hoode insisted on a change of role and now took the stage as Youngthrust, an ardent suitor whose virility was not in doubt. Armed with a codpiece the size of a flying buttress, he whisked away the heroine from beneath the nose of Justice Wildboare.

There was no Youngthrust about him now. Slouched over the table, he reverted to Droopwell once more. He gazed into his sack as yet another corpse floated past and he heaved a sigh of dismay that was almost Marwoodian in its hopelessness.

Willoughby clapped him on the shoulder and grinned.

‘Be of good cheer, Edmund!’

‘To what end?’ groaned the other.

‘Heavens, man, our new piece is about to strut upon the stage. Is that not cause for joy and celebration?’

‘Not if it be howled down by the rougher sort.’

‘Throw aside such imaginings,’ said Willoughby. ‘The whole company is pledged to make amends for this morning. It will be a very different dish that is set before the audience. Nick Bracewell will marshal you behind the scenes and Lawrence will take you into battle at his
accustomed gallop. All things proceed to consummation. Why this blackness?’

‘It is my play, Ralph.’

‘It is my play, too, friend, yet I am not so discomfited.’

‘You are not trapped like a rat in the
dramatis personae
.’

‘Indeed, no,’ said Willoughby. ‘My case is far worse.’

‘How so?’

‘Since I am to be a spectator of the action, I must endure every separate misadventure whereas you only see those in which Youngthrust is involved.’

‘There!’ said Hoode mournfully. ‘You are resolved on humiliation.’

‘I expect a triumph.’

‘After that rehearsal?’

‘
Because
of it, Edmund. Westfield’s Men explored every last avenue of error. There are no mistakes left to be made.’ His carefree laugh rang through the taproom. ‘This afternoon will put our merry devils in the ascendant. It can be no other way.’

Ralph Willoughby was shorter, darker and slightly younger than Hoode, with an air of educated decadence about him and a weakness for the gaudy apparel of a City gallant. His good humour was unwavering, but his relentless optimism was only a mask for darker feelings that he kept to himself. Having abandoned his theological studies at Cambridge, he hurled himself into the whirlpool of London theatre and established a reputation as a gifted, albeit erratic, dramatist.
The Merry Devils
marked his first collaboration with Hoode and his debut with Westfield’s
Men. His jaunty confidence was gradually reviving his colleague.

‘Dare we hope for success?’ said Hoode tentatively.

‘It is assured.’

‘And my portrayal as Youngthrust?’

‘It will carry all before it.’

‘Truly? This weighs heavily with me.’

‘As actor and poet, your reputation will be advanced. I would wager fifty crowns on it – if someone would loan me the money, for I have none to call my own.’

‘This lifts my spirits, Ralph.’

‘Be ruled by me.’

‘Much depends upon today.’

‘All is well, Edmund. All is well.’

Hoode actually managed a pallid smile before downing the last of his drink. It was time to think and behave like a professional man of the theatre and surmount any difficulties. He no longer contemplated the prospect of execution. With luck and effort, he might not die on a scaffold of his own creation after all.

Playbills were on display in prominent places all over the city and they brought a large, eager audience flocking to the Queen’s Head. Gatherers were kept busy collecting admission money and preventing anyone from sneaking in without paying. A penny bought standing room around the stage itself. Those who parted with an extra penny or two gained access to the galleries which ran around the yard and which offered seating, a clearer view and shelter from
any inclement weather. Not that rain or wind threatened
The Merry Devils
. Its premiere was attended by the blazing sunshine of an English summer, warming the mood of the spectators even more than the drink that was on sale.

New plays were always in demand and Westfield’s Men adopted the policy of trying to present more of them each year. By dint of their high standards, they built up a loyal following and rarely disappointed them. Lawrence Firethorn was the talk of the town. Barnaby Gill, the company’s principal comedian, was an evergreen favourite. Supporting players were always more than competent and the name of Edmund Hoode on any drama was a guarantee of worth and craftsmanship. The hundreds of people who were packing the inn yard to capacity had every right to expect something rather special by way of entertainment, but none of them could even guess at the sensation that lay ahead.

Through the window of the taproom, Alexander Marwood watched the hordes arrive and bit his lip in apprehension. Other landlords might drool at the thought of the profits they would make from the sale of wine, beer, bread, fruit and nuts, supplemented as that income would be with the substantial rent for the use of the yard and money from the hiring of rooms where copulation could thrive throughout the afternoon in brief intervals of privacy. Marwood drew no solace from this. To his jaundiced eye, the standees were made up of pickpockets, cutpurses or drunken apprentices spoiling for a fight, the gorgeous ladies who brightened the galleries were all disease-ridden punks
plying their trade, and the flamboyant gallants who puffed at their pipes had come for the express purpose of setting fire to the overhanging thatch.

Then there was the play itself, an instrument of wickedness in five acts. When the landlord glanced upwards at the blue sky, he was surprised to see no thunderbolt waiting to be hurled down.

Almost everyone, of whatever degree or disposition, was in a state of high excitement, savouring the occasion and talking happily about it. The buoyant, boisterous atmosphere was infectious. Yet there was one man who shared Marwood’s disapproval. Big, solid, impassive and dressed in sober garb, he paid his money to gain entry, recoiled from the stinking breaths of the groundlings and made his way disconsolately to one of the upper galleries. His grim face was carved from teak, its most startling feature being a long single eyebrow that undulated with such bristling effect that it seemed as if a giant furry caterpillar was slowly making its way across his lower forehead. Cold, grey, judgmental eyes peered out from beneath their hirsute covering. The mouth was closed tight like a steel trap.

Whatever else had brought Isaac Pollard to the Queen’s Head, it was not the pursuit of pleasure.

Wedging himself into a narrow space on a bench, he took stock of the audience and found it severely wanting. Lewd behaviour offended him on every side. Bold glances from powdered whores warmed his cheeks. Profanities assaulted his ears. Foul-smelling tobacco smoke invaded his nostrils. Extra bodies forcing their way on to his bench increased
his discomfort. When he gazed down at the baying crowd below, he sensed incipient riot.

Isaac Pollard fumed with righteous indignation, then found a new target for his hostility. It was Lord Westfield himself. Flanked by his glittering hangers-on, the company’s illustrious patron emerged from a private room to take up a prime position in the lower gallery. A red velvet cushion welcomed his portly frame as he lowered it into his ornate chair. Wearing dresses in the Spanish fashion, two Court beauties sat either side of him and flirted outrageously with the guest of honour from behind their masks. Lord Westfield was in his element. He was a tireless epicurean with a fondness for excess and he outshone his entourage with a doublet of peach-coloured satin trimmed with gold lace, and silver hose with satin and silver panels. An elaborate hat, festooned with jewels and feathers, completed a stunning costume.

The whole assembly turned to admire a noble lord whose love of the drama had provided countless hours of delight for the playgoer. All that Isaac Pollard could see, however, was a symbol of corruption. Lord Westfield was a merry devil.

Separated from their audience by the traverse at the rear of the stage, Westfield’s Men were all too aware of them. It set their nerves on edge. An untried play was always a hazardous undertaking, but they had additional cause for alarm after the rehearsal. Failure on stage would be punished unmercifully. Even the most tolerant spectators could turn on a piece that failed to please them and they
would hurl far more than harsh words at the players. It was no wonder the tiring-house was so full of foreboding. Lawrence Firethorn took his usual positive attitude and Barnaby Gill affected a cheerful nonchalance but the rest of the company were visibly shaking in their shoes.

Nicholas Bracewell moved quietly among them to give advice, to soothe troubled minds and to instil a sense of purpose. He expected apprentices like Richard Honeydew and Martin Yeo to be on edge, but he had never seen Edmund Hoode so keyed up before one of his own plays. Tucked in a corner, he was nervously thumbing through the sides on which his part had been written out by the scrivener. It seemed odd that someone whose memory was so reliable should be so concerned about his lines at the eleventh hour.

Inevitably, the major panic was to be found among those who took the title-roles. George Dart and Roper Blundell were convulsed with fear. Their costumes had been let out slightly so that they could breathe more easily but they were not happy in their work.

Nicholas attempted to boost their sagging morale.

‘Courage, lads. That is all you need.’

‘We have none between us,’ confessed George Dart timorously.

‘No, master,’ said Roper Blundell. ‘We are arrant cowards.’

‘You will carry your parts well,’ Nicholas assured them.

‘Not I,’ said the first devil.

‘Nor I,’ said his colleague.

‘You will feel much better when the play actually begins.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ said George Dart.

‘I don’t know which is more fearsome,’ observed Roper Blundell. ‘Facing an audience or being called to account by Master Firethorn.’