The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (28 page)

‘As for you, Stephen, do sweeten your song.’

‘Am I too low, master?’ asked Stephen Judd.

‘Indeed, yes. You are a shepherdess, sir, and not a bear in torment. Do not bellow so. Sing softly. Please the ear.’

‘I will try, Master Gill.’

The three apprentices made very convincing females in their skirts, bodices and bonnets. Young, slender and
well-trained
in all the arts of impersonation, they were skilful performers who added to the lustre of the company’s work.
Cupid’s Folly
made no real demands on them. All three took the roles of country wenches who were pursued in vain by the diseased and doddering Rigormortis. Pierced by Cupid’s arrow in the opening scene, the old man fell in love with every woman he saw and yet, ironically, spurned the one female who loved him. This was Ursula, a rural termagant, fat, ugly and slothful but relentless in her wooing. She
chased the object of her desire throughout the play and finally bore off the reluctant groom across her shoulders.

Barnaby Gill luxuriated in the part of Rigormortis. Apart from giving him the chance to display his full comic repertoire, it allowed him a fair amount of licensed groping on stage, particularly of Richard Honeydew, the youngest, prettiest and most tempting of the apprentices. Gill’s proclivities were no secret to Westfield’s Men and they were tolerated because of his talent, but there was a tacit agreement that he would not seduce any of the boys into his strange ways. He had to look outside the company for such sport.
Cupid’s Folly
did not abrogate that rule, but it gave his fantasies some scope.

‘How do I look, Master Gill?’

‘God’s blood!’

‘Am I ill-favoured enough, sir?’

‘You would frighten the eye of a tiger!’

‘When shall I kiss you on stage?’

‘As little as possible.’

The lantern-jawed John Tallis had been padded out as Ursula and fitted with a long bedraggled wig of straw coloured hue. Cosmetics had turned an already unappealing face into a grotesque one. The thought of being embraced by such a hideous creature made Gill shiver.

‘Oh, the sacrifices that I make for my art!’

‘Shall I practise carrying you?’ said Tallis helpfully.

‘Forbear!’

‘I only strive to please, master.’

‘Then keep your distance.’

The voice of Nicholas Bracewell now stilled the hubbub. ‘Stand by, sirs!’

The play was about to start. During its performance, Nicholas ruled the tiring-house. In spite of his leading role, Barnaby Gill was subservient to him. Even Lawrence Firethorn, cast as a frolicsome lord of the manor, acknowledged his primacy. Actors had their hour upon the stage. Behind it – where so much frenetic activity took place – the book holder held sway. The audience would see
Cupid’s Folly
as a riotous comedy that bowled along at high speed, but it was also a complicated technical exercise with countless scene changes, costume changes, entrances and exits. It needed the controlling hand of a Nicholas Bracewell.

The trumpet sounded above and they were away.

After the shortcomings of the Queen’s Head, playing at The Curtain was a pure delight. Located in Shoreditch, it was a tall, purpose-built, circular structure of stout timber. Three storeys of seating galleries jutted out into a circle and this perimeter area was roofed with thatch. Open to the sky, the central space was dominated by an apron stage that thrust out into the pit. High, handsome and rectangular, it commanded the attention of the whole playhouse. At the rear of the acting area was a large canopy supported on heavy pillars that came up through the stage. The smooth inner curve of the arena was broken by a flat wall, at each end of which was a door. Directly behind the wall was the tiring-house.

The place was a superb amphitheatre with attributes
that the Queen’s Head could never offer. There was an additional bonus. It had no Alexander Marwood. There was no prevailing atmosphere of gloom, no long-faced landlord to depress and inhibit them. The Curtain was a theatre designed expressly for the presentation of plays. It conferred status on the actors and their craft.

The opening words of the Prologue set the tone admirably. When Barnaby Gill danced on stage to music, he was given a warm welcome. The audience knew where they were and liked what they saw. Rigormortis was quite irresistible. It was a performance of verbal dexterity, visual brilliance and superb comic timing. As the play progressed, it grew in stature. Each new love affair brought further complications and Gill milked the laughter with practised assiduity.

Firethorn shone, too, as the lively Lord Hayfever, but it was only a supporting role for once. The three apprentices made wonderful nubile shepherdesses and John Tallis was an immediate success as the daunting Ursula. Nor was the
romantic theme neglected. Edmund Hoode wallowed in a pit of poetic anguish and the female section of the audience was visibly touched. Watching from her cushioned seat in the gallery, Isobel Drewry was almost in tears as the lovesick shepherd bewailed his plight. Many of his lines seemed to be directed straight at Grace Napier and she herself was moved by the ardour of his appeal. The more she got to know of Hoode, the more fond of him she became, but it was an affection that was tinged with sadness. He was so ready to commit himself wholeheartedly while Grace felt something holding her back.

Lord Westfield and his cronies preened themselves in their privileged seating and led the laughter at the wit and wordplay. They were particularly diverted by a special effect that had been suggested by Nicholas Bracewell. It came in a scene that was set in the garden of Lord Hayfever’s house and which featured a large conical beehive. The amorous Rigormortis was paying his unwanted attentions to Dorinda, the winsome shepherdess. Refusing to be deflected by her protestations, he pursued her with such vigour around the beehive that his elbow knocked it over. A swarm of bees burst forth – a handful of black powder tossed covertly in the air by Gill himself – and angry buzzing sounds were made by members of the company secreted beneath the stage. Stung in a dozen tender places, Rigormortis ran and jumped his way offstage with a series of yelps and cries that made the audience rock with mirth.

Lord Westfield turned to his nephew to share a joke.

‘Where the bee stings, there sting I!’

‘The fellow will not sit for a week,’ said Francis Jordan.

‘He should not have courted the queen of the hive.’

‘Queen, uncle?’

‘That shepherdess is young
Honey
dew!’

‘Well-buzzed, I say!’

They watched the stage as fresh merriment arrived.

Cupid’s Folly
was always popular with the company but they found another reason to like it that afternoon. It healed their wounds. It blotted out the dark memory of
The Merry Devils
. It restored their shattered morale and put new zest into their playing. A glorious romp and an appreciative audience. Westfield’s Men were wholly revived. Fear no longer lapped at the back of their minds. They were almost home and dry. Then came the final scene.

To end on a note of rural festivity, the playwright had contrived a dance around a huge maypole. Slotted into a hole in the middle of the stage, it looked as solid and upright as the mainmast of a ship. The countryfolk held a ribbon apiece and tripped around the pole to weave intricate patterns. Music drifted down from the gabled attic room where Peter Digby and his musicians were stationed. It was an engaging sight. Colour and movement entranced the spectators.

At the height of the dance, there was a sudden intrusion.

Rigormortis had been rejected by the three shepherdesses and driven away from the area. He now came sprinting back on to the village green with the panting Ursula on his tail. Fresh gales of laughter were produced by the elaborate chase sequence. Unable to outrun his pursuer, Rigormortis took refuge in the one place where she could not follow him
– at the top of the pole. With great nimbleness, he shinned up the maypole and clung to it for dear life. Ursula pawed the ground below and yelled at him to come down.

Her command was obeyed instantly.

There was a loud crack and the pole split in two at a point only a few feet below the old man. Barnaby Gill lost his high eminence and dropped like a stone, landing heavily but rolling over immediately to get back to his feet. John Tallis gaped.

‘Carry me out!’ hissed Gill.

‘What, master?’

‘Over your shoulder, boy!’

Ursula did as she was told and bore Rigormortis offstage to a resounding cheer. The action had been so swift and continuous that it seemed like a rehearsed part of the play. When Barnaby Gill reappeared to take his bow with the company, he was given an ovation. His fall from the maypole had been as dramatic as it had been comic.

He bowed graciously and smiled expansively but Nicholas Bracewell was not deceived. Blood was seeping through the sleeve of Gill’s costume and the man was clearly in pain. The maypole was hewn from old English oak and would never snap of its own accord. Nicholas decided that it had been sawn almost through by someone who concealed his handiwork beneath the coloured ribboning that swathed the pole. Rigormortis was meant to fall from the top. He could have been seriously injured.

Westfield’s Men evidently had a dangerous enemy.

Margery Firethorn clucked solicitously over the patient like a mother hen.

‘Dear, dear! There, there! How now, sir?’

‘I believe I will recover,’ said Gill wearily.

‘Would you care for some wine?’ she asked.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Some ale, then? Some other beverage of your choice?’

‘I could touch nothing in my present state, Margery.’

‘You suffer much in the cause of your profession, sir.’

‘It is needful.’

‘Is there pain still?’

‘Sufficient.’

He winced and set off another round of maternal clucking.

Barnaby Gill was making the most of it. A surgeon had been called to dress the wound in his arm then he had been brought back to Firethorn’s house because of its proximity to the theatre. Apart from the small gash which had produced the blood, he had sustained only a few bruises and abrasions. Reclining in a chair, he had now got over the accident, but he did not tell that to Margery Firethorn. He was enjoying far too much the chance to exploit her gushing sympathy.

‘Did the surgeon give you physic, Barnaby?’ she said.

‘He prescribed rest, that is all.’

‘Call on us, sir. Your needs will be provided.’

‘I value that kindness.’

‘Do not fear to ask for anything.’

‘I will not, Margery.’

‘If you wish to stay here, a bed can be found.’

‘That will not be necessary, my angel,’ said Firethorn, butting in on the conversation because he was no longer the centre of attention in his own house. ‘It is only Barnaby’s arm that is grazed, my dove. His legs are still sturdy enough to carry him back to his lodging. Besides, he has too much pride to impose on us.’

Gill shot him a hurt look. He was not so enamoured of Margery as to seek her hospitality for a few days, but he relished the idea of sleeping under the same roof as the four apprentices and having the opportunity to play on their sympathies. His invitation had now been summarily cancelled by his host.

Margery Firethorn shifted her interest to the accident. ‘How came that maypole to break in such a manner?’

‘Act of God,’ said Gill ruefully.

‘Of the devil, you mean,’ corrected Firethorn. ‘Someone had cut through the oak to weaken it. Nick Bracewell showed me how it was done.’

‘Master Bracewell must bear some of the blame,’ said Gill sourly. ‘It is his job to check that all our properties and stage furniture are safe. There has been laxity.’

‘He saw the maypole do its duty during the rehearsal,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick found it secure enough then. He did not realise that it was later tampered with by some villain.’

‘My life was put at risk, Lawrence. He should be upbraided.’

‘He has already upbraided himself.’

‘This calls for a stern warning from you.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Barnaby.’

‘If it was left to me, I’d dismiss the fellow.’

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Margery.

‘I would sooner dismiss myself,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick has no peer among book holders and I have known dozens. Westfield’s Men owe him an enormous debt.’

‘I do not share that sense of obligation, Lawrence.’

Barnaby Gill had always disliked the book holder, resenting the way that he took on more and more responsibility in the company. He could not bear to see Nicholas being treated like a sharer when the latter was only a hired man.

‘You involve him too much in our councils.’

‘Thank goodness I do. He has saved us many a time.’

‘He did not save me up that maypole.’

‘Nor was he the cause of your fall,’ said Firethorn testily. ‘Someone plotted your accident and only Nick Bracewell will be able to find out who it is. We need him more than ever.’

‘Besides,’ said Margery fondly, ‘he is a true gentleman.’

Gill snorted. Abandoning all hope of persuading them, he announced that he felt well enough to return to his own lodging. He pretended that he was still in intense pain but said he would endure it with Stoic demeanour rather than be a nuisance to them. Margery pressed him to stay but her husband countermanded the offer.

‘Go early to your bed, Barnaby.’

‘I may not leave it for days.’

‘We have another performance tomorrow. Be mindful.’

‘Today’s play still weighs upon me, sir.’

‘We’ll find the culprit,’ said Firethorn confidently.

‘Some minion employed by Banbury’s Men no doubt.’