The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9

by Edward Marston

  The first and most important task was to determine the composition of the touring company. Preference was given to the sharers-those with a financial stake in Westfield’s Men which gave them certain rights-and to the apprentices. Only a few of the hired men could be taken, and versatility was the key factor.

  ‘My choice falls on Clement Islip,’ said Barnaby Gill.

  ‘We all know that!’ murmured Lawrence Firethorn.

  ‘Clement is a gifted young man.’

  ‘So he should be, Barnaby. You have showered enough gifts on him these past few months. Has he been duly grateful?’

  ‘Clement is a musician,’ reminded Edmund Hoode, ‘and not a player. We need someone who can play an instrument and take his share of the smaller parts.’

  ‘He can do both,’ insisted Gill. ‘He lacks instruction in acting, that is all. Clement will quickly blossom into an actor if I take him in hand.’

  ‘Have you not already done so?’ teased Firethorn.

  ‘That is a gross calumny!’ exploded Gill.

  ‘We are met to choose the best company we can muster. Not to find some simpering bedfellow for you, Barnaby.’

  ‘Clement Islip would be an asset to us.’

  ‘He is a male varlet who plays a viol tolerably well.’

  ‘This is unendurable!’

  ‘Let us forget Clement,’ said Hoode tactfully. ‘He is not the man for this occasion. A fine musician, I grant you, but too young and of too delicate a constitution to withstand the stresses that a long tour will place upon us. I am sorry, Barnaby. My vote is cast for Ralph Groves.’

  ‘My mind inclines that way, too,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Well, mine does not,’ snapped Gill. ‘Ralph Groves is a disgrace to this noble profession of ours. I’ll not take a blundering fool like him to the Imperial Court.’

  ‘Ralph can both act and sing,’ argued Hoode.

  ‘But he can do neither with any distinction.’

  ‘Let’s hear what Nick has to say,’ suggested Firethorn.

  Nicholas Bracewell had remained silent throughout the long and acrimonious debate. As the book-holder, he was merely a hired man with the company, and its decisions lay in the hands of the three major sharers. He only gave his advice when it was sought. The four men were sitting around a table in one of the Eastcheap taverns. Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch was the usual venue for meetings about company policy, but the actor-manager had considerately moved it well out of earshot of his wife on the grounds that a prolonged discussion of his departure from the country would only cause further anguish to Margery. Eastcheap had also been chosen in preference to Gracechurch Street because the hovering presence of its landlord would have made the Queen’s Head a difficult place in which to talk in private.

  ‘Well, Nick?’ prompted Hoode. ‘What’s your opinion?’

  ‘Clement Islip or Ralph Groves?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘Neither,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘Both have their virtues and both have served us well in their own ways at the Queen’s Head. But this tour will make special demands on every one of us and test our resources to the full. I do not believe that either Clement or Ralph would be equal to the challenge.’

  ‘Then who is to come in their place?’ said Gill.

  ‘Adrian Smallwood.’

  ‘Smallwood!’ sneered the other. ‘Can this be serious counsel? Adrian Smallwood has only been with Westfield’s Men for five minutes. And will you promote him over a more worthy and long-serving contender than Clement Islip?’

  ‘Yes,’ returned Nicholas. ‘It is true that Adrian has been with us for less than a month, but in that time he has proved himself beyond question. Not only is he a fine actor, he can also sing, dance and play the lute. He is the most complete man we have and it would be folly to leave him behind.’

  Firethorn nodded. ‘I see your reasoning, Nick, and it is as sound as ever. Because he is such a newcomer, I had not even taken Adrian Smallwood into my calculations. Now that I have, I begin to appreciate his merits.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Hoode thoughtfully. ‘A lutanist will be sorely needed on this tour and I have heard Adrian upon the instrument. He is a trained musician who will give us all that Clement would have given us.’

  ‘That is not true!’ countered Gill.

  ‘No,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘Adrian will certainly not give you what that prancing viol-player would have offered. But his contribution to the company as a whole will be far greater.’

  ‘Not merely on the stage,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is another factor we must weigh in the balance here. We are all so keen to reach Bohemia itself that we have forgotten how long and how dangerous the journey there may be. Holland and Germany have their robber bands and masterless men just as we have here. When we travel through open country, we will seem like easy prey to outlaws. We must be able to defend ourselves.’

  ‘My sword is ready,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘And so will yours be, Nick. Owen Elias is a doughty fighter as well, so that gives us three weapons we may call upon.’

  ‘More than that,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have others who can handle a rapier and dagger. James Ingram, for one. Even Edmund here, in extremity. But in Adrian Smallwood we have someone as strong and capable as any of us. There may be situations in which those qualities turn out to be vital.’ He glanced across at Gill. ‘With respect to Clement Islip, I do not believe that he would render the same help in an emergency.’

  Firethorn chuckled. ‘All that Clement could do would be to beat off an ambush with his bow or play a sad melody on his viol while the rest of us were being butchered. No,’ he decided, thumping the table with an authoritative palm, ‘we do not even have to look at Clement Islip or at Ralph Groves. The man of the hour is assuredly Adrian Smallwood.’

  ‘I accept that willingly,’ said Hoode, ‘and we should be grateful to Nick for discerning the value in a man whom we had all overlooked.’

  ‘I am not grateful!’ said Gill sourly.

  ‘Your ingratitude is of no concern here, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn with a dismissive wave. ‘Edmund and I both embrace Nick’s recommendation. Our two voices silence your lone and ridiculous protest. Smallwood is our man, and there’s an end to it.’ He beamed with satisfaction. ‘Now, what’s next to be settled?’

  ‘Our repertoire,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘Until I know which plays we mean to offer, I cannot assemble the costumes and properties which need to travel with us.’

  Firethorn was peremptory. ‘That is easily resolved. We will play Black Antonio, Vincentio’s Revenge, Hector of Troy, The Corrupt Bargain and The Knights of Malta.’ When he saw Gill spluttering with rage, he threw in a concession. ‘To please the rougher palates, we might also perform Cupid’s Folly.’

  ‘No!’ howled Gill. ‘I’ll not permit such an outrage!’

  ‘Then we’ll omit Cupid’s Folly altogether.’

  ‘This is monstrous!’

  ‘I am bound to agree, Lawrence,’ ventured Hoode boldly. ‘Every play you listed is a tragedy in which you take the leading part. Comedy will be more welcome to an audience which may not speak our language, and even a Titan of the stage such as Lawrence Firethorn needs to take a secondary role at times in order to rest himself in readiness for his next great portrayal of a tragic hero.’

  ‘Bohemia must see me at my best!’ boomed Firethorn.

  ‘Why, so it shall. But it also deserves to see Barnaby Gill at his best, and Owen Elias and James Ingram. Even a player of such modest talents as my own has the right to shine a little, and your repertoire forbids me. Cupid’s Folly would be high on my list and not tossed in as an afterthought.’

  ‘It would be first on my list,’ added Gill.

  ‘What!’ cried Firethorn. ‘That low, despicable, rustic comedy stuffed with songs and dances?’

  ‘Those songs and dances are the very reason that it must be included,’ reasoned Nicholas, taking up the argument. ‘They carry their own meaning with them. Stirring rhetoric will be lost on for
eign ears. Edmund is correct. Comedy is a surer way to success. Where tragedy is called for, choose a play that already has a significance for the spectators. They will certainly know the story of Hector of Troy, but I fear that Black Antonio will confuse them, and Vincentio’s Revenge will lead to even deeper bewilderment. Simplicity must be our watchword. The more they understand, the more our audiences will enjoy.’

  ‘Well-spoken, Nicholas!’ said Gill approvingly. It was praise indeed from one who so often maligned the book-holder. ‘You have given us true guidance.’

  ‘I say Amen to that,’ supported Hoode.

  Firethorn sulked. ‘I must be allowed to share some of my glorious roles with our hosts. They will expect it from me. That is why the Emperor invited Westfield’s Men in the first place. He heard of my reputation.’

  ‘Our reputation, Lawrence,’ corrected Hoode. ‘You are not the company in its entirety.’

  ‘Indeed, no,’ said Gill, seizing on the chance to laud it over his rival. ‘Let us be candid. Why have we been invited to play in Prague by a sovereign who has never been within a hundred miles of our work? Because he has been told about us. And by whom? Why, by his great-niece. By that dear creature who so applauded my performance in The Knights of Malta that her palms must have smarted for a week.’ He sat up straight and preened himself. ‘I am the reason this honour has befallen us. She begged this favour of her great-uncle because she is so desperate to see my art sparkle on a stage again.’

  ‘Any woman who is desperate to see you will only meet with further desperation,’ said Firethorn pointedly. ‘I know full well that it is the beauteous Sophia Magdalena who is the source of this invitation to the Imperial Court. But it is not your Maltese capering which has stayed in her mind. It is my portrayal of Jean de Valette. A Grand Master fit for this grand mistress.’ He inflated his barrel chest. ‘Whatever we omit, it will not be The Knights of Malta.’

  ‘Perforce, it must be,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Never!’

  ‘The decision is already taken.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By you, by Edmund, and by Master Gill. In reducing the size of the company, you make such a piece impossible to stage. We do not have enough actors to do it justice. Besides,’ said Nicholas, ‘it is not a suitable play for our audiences. It touches on religious and political themes that may give offence to our hosts if they manage to understand them. We are guests in foreign courts and that imposes discretion upon us. Mock their religion or pour scorn upon their government and our visit would swiftly be curtailed.’

  ‘I had not thought of that,’ admitted Firethorn.

  ‘Choose our plays with the utmost care,’ said Hoode.

  Gill nodded. ‘Let Cupid’s Folly take pride of place.’

  Lawrence Firethorn lapsed into a brooding silence. Nicholas Bracewell was his most trusted colleague, yet it was the book-holder who had dealt him the blow to his pride. When the company embarked on its tour abroad, some of the actor’s finest roles would be left behind in England. Firethorn felt like a gladiator who is deprived of his weapons as he is about to encounter the most testing adversary of his career.

  ‘Sophia wants me,’ he sighed. ‘She has persuaded her great-uncle to summon us to his court so that she may feast on my genius. I must have something remarkable to set before her gaze. She must see Lawrence Firethorn in his prime.’

  ‘And so she shall,’ reassured Hoode.

  ‘Not in some base, barren piece like Cupid’s Folly.’

  Nicholas intervened. ‘I have a suggestion that may answer all needs,’ he said. ‘If we are to be guests at the Court of the Holy Roman Empire, we should at least take an appropriate gift with us. What better gift from a theatre company than a new play? And what better play than one which celebrates one of the illustrious spectators who will be present?’

  ‘Rudolph himself?’ asked Gill.

  ‘No. The generous lady who has made our visit possible. Sophia Magdalena, the great-niece of the Emperor. A play in honour of her would delight our hosts and enable us to give our due thanks for the honour accorded us.’

  ‘A wonderful idea!’ said Firethorn, reviving as he saw the potential benefits. ‘A sprightly comedy written to enchant her and to give free rein to my superlative skills upon the stage. God bless you, Nick! This meets all needs. Edmund will write the play and we will lay it at her feet as our offering.’

  ‘You are more likely to lay me at her feet,’ moaned Hoode. ‘If I am to spend the journey to Prague in the devising of some new drama, I will be exhausted by the time we get there. It is a hopeless commission. There is no way that I may accomplish it.’

  ‘There is, Edmund,’ said Nicholas evenly.

  ‘A new play would take me months to write.’

  ‘That is why it will not be entirely new.’

  ‘But that was your argument.’

  ‘What I spoke of was a play that celebrated the kind lady who has looked so favourably upon us. It already exists.’

  ‘Who is its author?’

  ‘Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘You are talking in riddles, Nick.’

  ‘Am I?’ said the other with a grin. ‘Have you so soon forgotten The Chaste Maid of Wapping?’

  ‘But that has no bearing upon Bohemia and no relevance whatsoever to Sophia Magdalena.’

  ‘It could have. A subtle pen like yours could make the necessary changes in a matter of days. Your chaste maid is brought up in the belief that the humble folk of Wapping with whom she lives are her true family. It is only at the end of the play that she discovers she is really the daughter of an earl, stolen from her cradle at birth but reunited with her real father at the end.’

  ‘Go on,’ encouraged Firethorn. ‘There’s matter in this.’

  ‘Move from Wapping to Prague at a stroke and the story takes on a new meaning. Change this chaste maid into Sophia Magdalena and make her undergo all the trials that she does in the original drama.’ He put a hand on Hoode’s shoulder. ‘It can be done, Edmund. You are a most proficient cobbler. Put a new sole and heel on this play and we have a drama that will dance joyfully across the stage in Prague.’

  ‘Nicholas may have hit the mark,’ said Gill.

  ‘It might be done,’ conceded Hoode, thinking it through. ‘Changes of name and place. A new song or two. The girl brought up as a peasant in the countryside outside Prague. Yes, it might indeed be done.’

  ‘It shall be done!’ insisted Firethorn with a ripe chuckle. ‘About it straight, Edmund! Dick Honeydew will play the girl and I will be her rightful father, the Earl. This is a brilliant notion, Nick. All we need is a new title.’

  ‘I have thought of that already.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Fair Maid of Bohemia.’

  ***

  A perverse contentment had settled on Alexander Marwood. He now had something about which he could be truly unhappy. Instead of circling the Queen’s Head like the lost soul, fearing the worst at every turn and viewing even the intermittent moments of good fortune as warnings of some future evil, he had a genuine cause for grief. Plague had not only emptied his innyard of playgoers, it had drastically reduced the number of visitors to London and thus depleted the traffic which came his way. Stables were bare, ostlers stood idle. Servingmen had little to occupy them in the taproom. Many regular patrons of the inn had either left the city or were keeping away from a public place where the lethal infection might conceivably lurk.

  Personal inconveniences added to Marwood’s professional difficulties. His wife, Sybil, and his daughter, Rose, had joined the flight from London and were staying in Buckingham with his sister-in-law. Sleeping alone was only marginally less painful than sharing a bed with a cold, indifferent partner, but he missed Sybil’s commanding presence in the taproom, where she could quell unruly behaviour with her glare and ensure that nobody consumed ale without paying for it. Rose’s departure caused him greater sorrow because she was the one person in his life
who brought him a spectre of pleasure and whose uncritical love stayed him throughout the recurring miseries of his lot.

  He was in the cellar when he heard the commotion above and it sent him scurrying up the stone steps. The taproom was only half-full, but the atmosphere was taut. In the far corner, six or seven men were engaged in a violent argument which just stopped short of blows. They were actors from Westfield’s Men and there was an element of performance in their rowdiness but that did not lessen its potential danger. Such an outburst would never have happened when Sybil Marwood was in control. Lacking her authority, her husband looked around for the one man who could restore calm among his fellows.

  Marwood saw him on the other side of the room. Nicholas Bracewell had his back to him, but the broad shoulders and the long fair hair were unmistakable. The landlord trotted over.

  ‘Stop them, Master Bracewell!’ he bleated, tapping the other man on the arm. ‘Stop them before this turns into a brawl.’

  ‘They would not listen to me, my friend.’

  ‘It is your duty to prevent an affray.’

  ‘I do that best by staying clear of it, sir.’

  The burly figure turned to face him and Marwood realised that it was not Nicholas Bracewell at all. It was Adrian Smallwood, a younger man but with the same sturdy frame and the same weathered face. Smallwood’s vanity led him to trim his beard while Nicholas allowed his own more liberty, and the book-holder’s warm smile was not dimmed by two missing teeth, as was the case with his colleague. Seen together, the two men would never be taken for each other. When apart, however, the resemblance seemed somehow closer.

  Their voices separated them completely. Nicholas had the soft burr of the West Country while Smallwood’s deeper tone had a distinctively northern ring to it.

  ‘Stand aside, sir,’ he advised Marwood. ‘These are only threats they exchange and not punches.’