The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘I felt it had some things to recommend it.’

  ‘They eluded me, sir. It is one thing to praise the victory over the Armada but you have to sail through the narrow straits of the Revels Office first. That play would founder on the rocks. It would never be allowed through.’

  ‘It was truly as bad as that?’ said the demoralised author.

  ‘What can you expect from a scribbler like Bartholomew?’

  ‘Bartholomew?’

  ‘Who but he would choose a title like An Enemy Routed? That little rogue is the enemy, sir. The enemy of good theatre. He must be routed! I don’t know why Nicholas gave me his miserable play. It was an abomination in rhyming couplets!’

  Edmund Hoode had been saved for the second time. Margery Firethorn and Roger Bartholomew had borne the brunt of an attack which he had thought was aimed at him. He did not wish to press his luck again. Patience was his strong suit. He waited until Firethorn had poured further bile upon the Oxford scholar.

  The meal was served, they began to eat, then the verdict was at last pronounced. Firethorn held up his fork like a sceptre and beamed with royal condescension.

  ‘It’s magnificent, Edmund!’

  ‘You think so?’ stuttered Hoode.

  ‘Your best work without a shadow of a doubt.’

  ‘That is very heartening, Lawrence.’

  ‘The action drives on, the poetry soars, the love scenes are divinely pretty. If Nicholas can devise a way to bring those ships on and off the stage, we will be the talk of London!’

  They fell to discussing the finer points of the drama and an hour sneaked past without their noticing its departure. Firethorn suggested a few alterations but they were so minor that Hoode was glad to agree to them. Long days and even longer nights had gone into the creation of Gloriana Triumphant but the comments it was now receiving made all the suffering worth it.

  ‘There is just one small thing …’

  Edmund Hoode tensed as the familiar phrase sounded. Was there to be a total reworking of the play, after all? His fears proved groundless.

  ‘Who will play the part of Gloriana?’

  ‘I assumed that it would be Martin Yeo.’

  ‘So did I until I read it.’

  ‘Martin has the maturity for the role.’

  ‘I am wondering if that is enough, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘He is our senior apprentice, yes, and brings a wealth of experience but … well, he does have a hardness of feature that is more suited to an older woman.’

  ‘Gloriana is in her fifties,’ reminded Hoode.

  ‘Only in your play. Not when she sits upon the throne of England.’ An affectionate chuckle came. ‘All women are the same, Edmund. They try to defy time. In her heart, Elizabeth is still the young woman she was when she was first crowned.’

  ‘What are you saying, Lawrence?’

  ‘I think we should alter her age. Let her shed some twenty or thirty years. A Virgin Queen with the glow of youth still hanging upon her. It will strengthen the role immeasurably and make her love scenes with me much more convincing.’

  ‘You have a point. It might work to our advantage.’

  ‘It will, sir.’

  ‘In that case, we must cast John Tallis in the part.’

  ‘Indeed we must not.’

  ‘But he has such presence.’

  ‘So does that unfortunate jaw of his,’ returned Firethorn with a low moan. ‘John has talent but it is seen at its best when he is a witch or a lady-in-waiting. We cannot have a queen with a lantern jaw.’

  ‘That leaves Stephen Judd. I would settle for him.’

  ‘You’re forgetting someone, Edmund.’

  ‘Am I?’ He sat up in surprise. ‘Dick Honeydew?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The boy has not been with us long enough. He still has much to learn. And he is so young.’

  ‘That is exactly why I would choose him. He has a quality of frail innocence that is perfect. It enlists the audience’s sympathy at once. They will not see a termagant queen who flings the gauntlet down to her enemies. They will have a vulnerable young woman who will touch the heart.’ He snorted aloud. ‘If John Tallis addresses the troops at Tilbury with his lantern jaw, he will look like a recruiting sergeant in female attire.’

  ‘We have not talked about Stephen Judd.’

  ‘He always has that knowing look. It was ideal for Love and Fortune but not here. I go for Dick.’

  ‘You really believe he could bring it off?’

  ‘I do. It may be the title role but it does not involve many speeches. Gloriana exists largely as a symbol. It is her grizzly sea captains like myself who carry the burden of the dialogue.’

  Edmund Hoode tapped his fingers on the table and pondered.

  ‘The other boys will not like this, Lawrence.’

  ‘I don’t care two hoots about them!’ said Firethorn. ‘It will put them in their place. They’ve been hounding poor Dick on the sly since he came here. If he lands the title role over them, they will be duly chastised.’ He pushed his chair back so that he could stretch himself out. ‘Well? What do you think, Edmund?’

  ‘I’m not entirely persuaded.’

  ‘He’ll not let us down – I’m certain of it.’

  ‘We’d have to spend a lot of time on him.’

  ‘As much as you wish. You agree, then?’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Dick Honeydew as Gloriana!’

  The two men lifted their cups in toast.

  Chapter Six

  When Nicholas got back to the house late that night, Anne Hendrik was waiting for him with a smile of welcome. Her pleasure at seeing him home again was mingled with relief that he had come to no harm. Nicholas had been working his way through the Bankside stews once more and she feared for his safety in an area that swarmed with low life. His task was fraught with dangers because it took him to some of the most notorious criminal dens in London.

  ‘How did you fare?’ she asked.

  ‘Not well,’ he admitted. ‘Someone at the Antelope remembered a tall man with a red beard but he was not sure if our sketch bore any likeness to him. The hostess at the Dog and Doublet thought she recognised the face in the drawing but she insists that his beard was black.’

  ‘Did you call at the Cardinal’s Hat?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, rallying, ‘and there was better news. Alice will be discharged from the hospital soon. She’s recovered well and got her wits back, by all accounts. I have great hopes that she will be able to give me more details about Redbeard.’

  ‘What of Samuel Ruff?’

  ‘He continues to search as diligently as me,’ he said. ‘We will run our man to earth in the end.’

  Apprehension flitted across her face and she stepped in close to give him a brief hug. Her eagerness to see the killer brought to justice was tempered by a natural anxiety.

  ‘If you do find him, Nicholas …’

  ‘No question but that we will.’

  ‘You will have the utmost care?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Have no fear, Anne,’ he soothed. ‘I go armed. Redbeard will not have the chance to stab me unawares.’

  He took her in his arms and gave her a reassuring kiss.

  Susan Fowler was no longer staying in his room but he still did not return to it. He and Anne went upstairs together to her bedchamber at the front of the house. It was a large, low room with solid pieces of furniture, tasteful hangings and a small carpet over the shining oak floorboards. Paintings of Dutch interiors hung on the walls as a memento of her late husband’s homeland. Like all parts of the house, it was kept spotlessly clean.

  The four-poster was soft and comfortable, and they made love with a languid tenderness under its linen. Afterwards, they lay in the dark with their arms entwined. Nicholas Bracewell and Anne did not share a bed often. Neither of them was ready to commit themselves to any full or permanent relationship. He was far too independent and she was still wedded to memories of a happy marriage with Jacob
Hendrik. It suited them both to drift in and out of their moments of intimacy, and to see them as occasional delights rather than as a routine habit. The magic was thus retained.

  ‘Nick …’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They both laughed. She dug him playfully in the ribs.

  ‘I was thinking about Will Fowler,’ she continued.

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘Maybe that is the reason he was drawn to the theatre.’

  ‘Reason?’

  ‘It’s a kind of refuge,’ she argued. ‘Actors have to be seen but only as somebody else. Do you understand me? Will Fowler went into the theatre to hide. Just like you.’

  ‘Is that what I did?’ he asked with amusement.

  ‘You tell me, sir.’

  But she knew that he would not. Anne Hendrik had enquired about his past life many times but he had yielded only the barest details. Born and bred in the West Country, he was the son of a well-to-do merchant who ensured that Nicholas had a sound education then took him into the business. It gave him the chance to travel and he made many voyages to Europe.

  Suddenly, he broke with his family and took service with Drake on his voyage around the world. The experience changed his whole attitude to life and left him a more philosophical man. When he came back to England, his days as a sailor were over. Eventually, he moved to London and began to work in the theatre.

  ‘What exactly did you do, Nick?’ she wondered.

  ‘When?’

  ‘In those years between coming home to your own country and joining Lord Westfield’s Men. You must have done something.’

  ‘I did. I survived.’

  ‘How?’

  He kissed her by way of reply. The missing years in his life had left their mark on him but he would never disclose why. Anne would have to accept him as he was, a quiet, strong-willed person whose self-effacing manner was a form of mask. She might not know everything about him but there was enough to make him very lovable.

  ‘Speak to me,’ she whispered.

  ‘What shall I say?’

  ‘Do you agree with me? About Will Fowler?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And what about Nicholas Bracewell?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘Oh, Nick!’ she sighed, as she tightened her grip on him. ‘I love this closeness but there are times when I wonder who the man I am holding really is.’

  ‘I wonder that myself,’ he confessed.

  He kissed her softly on the lips and began to stroke her dark, lustrous hair. Nestling into his chest, she felt at once soothed and aroused. It was several minutes before she broke the silence.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Anne.’ There was a shrug in his voice.

  ‘Please. Tell me.’

  ‘It was not very cheering.’

  ‘I still want to know.’

  ‘Very well,’ he explained. ‘I was thinking about failure.’

  ‘Failure?’

  ‘High hopes that end in chaos. Noble ambitions that crumble.’

  ‘Is that what happened to your hopes and ambitions?’

  ‘You keep on trying,’ he said with a little laugh, then he became more serious. ‘No, I was thinking about Susan Fowler, poor creature. Her plans have fallen apart. Then there is Samuel Ruff. Failure brought him low as well. Even now there is still a deep sadness in the man that I cannot fathom.’

  There was a long pause. Her voice was a murmur in the pillow.

  ‘Nick …’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘You might go back to your own room tomorrow.’

  ‘I will, Anne.’

  But she was his for some luscious hours yet. His need made him tighten his grip on her and it did not slacken until he at last fell asleep from a lapping fatigue.

  Richard Honeydew was overwhelmed at the news that he was to be cast in the title role of the new play. Performing for the first time at The Curtain would have been thrill enough for him, but to make his debut there as Gloriana, Queen of England, filled him with a blend of excitement and terror. They evidently had great faith in him and that thought helped to steady his nerves and still his self-doubts.

  The other apprentices were outraged and Firethorn had to slap down their complaints ruthlessly. Martin Yeo was wounded the most. A tall, slim, assured boy of fourteen, he had played most of the leading female roles for the company over the past couple of years, and he had come to look upon them as his by right. To be deprived of an outstanding part by a novice was more than his pride could take, and he withdrew into a sullen, watchful silence.

  John Tallis and Stephen Judd did the same. If they had disliked Richard before, they now hated him with vengeful intensity. Every morning, as they sat around the table with him for breakfast, they glared their anger at Richard and were only restrained from attacking him by the vigilance of Margery Firethorn. As a punishment for the way they had tied their victim up, she had put the three of them on reduced rations, so that they had half-empty bellies while the youngest of their number ate from a full plate. In every way, Richard Honeydew was getting more than them.

  ‘I could have killed him!’ asserted John Tallis.

  ‘Yes,’ added Stephen Judd. ‘The worst thing is the way he tries to be friendly with us – as if we could ever be friends with him now!’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ said Martin Yeo simply.

  They had gone back up to their room and they fell easily into a conspiratorial chat. The three boys often had differences among themselves but they had now been united against a common enemy. Tallis was livid, Judd was aching with envy, and Yeo took it as a personal insult. They came together in a solid lump of resentment.

  Some companies actually paid their apprentices a wage, but Lord Westfield’s Men did not. In return for their commitment to the company, the boys were given board, lodging, clothing and regular training in all the arts of the playhouse. The arrangement had been satisfactory until Richard Honeydew appeared. He had unwittingly upset the balance of power within the Firethorn household, and within the company, and he had to pay for it.

  ‘What are we going to do about it?’ asked Tallis.

  ‘There’s nothing much we can do,’ admitted Judd. ‘He’s got Samuel Ruff and Nick Bracewell on his side now.’

  ‘He’ll need more than them,’ warned Yeo.

  ‘You should have that part, Martin,’ said Tallis.

  ‘I know – and I will.’

  ‘How?’ asked Judd eagerly.

  ‘We’ll have to work that out.’

  ‘Can we get rid of him altogether?’ urged Tallis.

  ‘Why not?’ said Yeo.

  The conspirators shared a cosy snigger. Richard Honeydew was riding high at the moment but they would bring him down with a bump when he least expected it. All that they had to do was to devise a plan.

  Back in his own room, Nicholas Bracewell reached under the bed and pulled out a large battered leather chest. As well as being the book holder he was, literally, the book keeper. It was his function to keep the books of all the plays that the company used, new, old or renovated. The play chest was an invaluable item that had to be kept safe at all times. With so much piracy of plays going on, it behoved every company to guard its property with the utmost care.

  Nicholas unlocked the chest with a key then lifted up the lid to reveal a confused welter of parchment and scrolls. The history of his involvement with Lord Westfield’s Men was all there, written out in various hands then annotated by himself. As he ran his eye over the myriad prompt copies, a hundred memories came surging back at him from his past. He quickly reached for the manuscripts that lay on the very top of the pile then closed the lid firmly. When the chest had been locked, he pushed it back to its home beneath the bed.

  After taking his leave of Anne, he walked across to the nearby wharf to be ferried by boat across the river. The Thames w
as thronged by craft of all sizes and they zigzagged their way across the busiest and oldest thoroughfare in London. Nicholas loved the exuberance of it all, the hectic bustle, the flapping sails, the surging colour, the distinctive tang and the continuous din that was punctuated by cries of ‘Westward Ho!’ and ‘Eastward Ho!’ from vociferous boatmen advertising their routes.

  He had seen many astonishing sights in his travels but he could still be impressed anew by the single bridge that spanned the Thames. Supported by twenty arches, it was a miniature city in itself, a glorious jumble of timber-framed buildings that jutted out perilously over the river below. A huge water wheel of Dutch construction stood beneath the first arch, harnessing the fierce current that raced through the narrow opening and pumping water to nearby dwellings.

  On the Bridge itself, it was Nonesuch House that dominated, a vast, ornate and highly expensive wooden building which had been shipped from Holland and reassembled on its stone foundations. A more grisly feature could be seen above the gatehouse tower where the heads of executed traitors were displayed on poles. Nicholas counted almost twenty of them, rotting in the morning sun as scavenger kites wheeled down to peck hungrily at the mouldering flesh. London Bridge was truly one of the sights of Europe but it embodied warning as well as wonder.

  When he alighted on the other bank, Nicholas paid and tipped his boatman then made his way to the teeming Gracechurch Street. Roger Bartholomew was waiting for him outside The Queen’s Head in a state of high anxiety.

  ‘I got your message, Nicholas.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Did he read my play?’

  ‘Yes, Master Bartholomew. So did I.’

  ‘Well?’ The poet was on tenterhooks.

  ‘It’s a fine piece,’ praised Nicholas, trying to find something positive to say that would cushion the disappointment. ‘It has memorable speeches and stirring moments. The account of the battle itself is very striking.’

  ‘Thank you. But what of Lawrence Firethorn?’

  Everything hung on the decision. For Roger Bartholomew, it was the last hope of a career as a playwright. Acceptance would nourish him and rejection would destroy. Nicholas hated to be the one to deal the blow. What he could do was to conceal the virulence of Firethorn’s attack on the play.