‘I believe that he … saw its promise as well.’
‘And the leading role?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Did it captivate him as I foretold?’
‘To a degree, sir. He recognised the extent of your talent.’
‘Then he wishes to present it?’ asked the poet with a wild laugh. ‘Lord Westfield’s Men will offer me another contract?’
‘Unhappily, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it does not fit in with our plans, sir.’
Roger Bartholomew was stunned. An Enemy Routed had become his obsession and he thought of nothing but the day when it would first be staged. He had put his whole being into the play. If his work was rejected then he himself was being cast aside as well.
‘Are you sure that he read it?’ he demanded.
‘I can vouch for it.’
‘Make him reconsider.’
‘He will not, sir.’
‘But he must!’
‘There’s no point, Master Bartholomew.’
‘There’s every point!’ howled the other. ‘He does not realise what is at stake here. My play is a work of art. It’s his sacred duty to bring it before the public.’
Nicholas reached into the leather bag he was carrying. Taking out one of the manuscripts that lay inside, he held it out to the scholar.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said firmly. ‘Thank you for offering it to us but I’ve been told to return it herewith.’
‘Let me see Master Firethorn.’
‘That would not be wise.’
‘Is the man hiding from me?’
‘Indeed not, sir.’
‘Then I’ll hear this from his own lips.’
‘I strongly advise against it.’
‘You’ll not get in my way this time,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘Make an appointment for me. I mean to have this out with him in person and nothing will stop me.’
Nicholas felt the truth would halt him. His attempt to protect the other from it had failed. It was time for plain speaking.
‘Master Firethorn does not like the play at all, sir.’
‘That cannot be!’ protested the author.
‘His comments were not kind.’
‘I won’t believe this, Nicholas!’
‘He could only bring himself to read a few scenes and he found them without interest. He was especially critical of your rhyming. You may talk with him if you wish, but he will only tell you the same thing in much rounder terms.’
Roger Bartholomew was dazed. Rejection was torment enough but an outright condemnation of him and his work was far worse. His face was ashen and his lip was trembling. He snatched his play back then turned all the venom he could muster upon Nicholas.
‘You lied to me, sir!’
‘I thought to spare you some pain.’
‘You led me astray.’
‘There was never a chance of your play being accepted.’
‘Not while I have friends like you to thank!’
‘We already have a drama about the Armada,’ said Nicholas, indicating his leather bag. ‘I did warn you of that.’
‘You will all suffer for this,’ threatened Bartholomew, lashing out blindly with words. ‘I’ll not be treated this way by anybody, no, not by you, nor Master Firethorn, nor anyone in your vile profession. I want satisfaction for this and, by heaven, sir, I mean to get it!’
Vibrating with fury, he clutched his play to his chest then pushed past Nicholas to rush off at speed. The book holder watched him go then looked down at the leather bag that contained a copy of Gloriana Triumphant. Two plays on the same subject had brought different rewards to their authors.
Once again, he was profoundly grateful that he was not a playwright in such a treacherous world as that of the theatre.
Barnaby Gill had been unhappy at first about the decision to promote Richard Honeydew to the title role of the new play. He had a high opinion of Martin Yeo’s talent and felt that the older boy would bring more regal authority to the part of Gloriana. At the same time, he was ready to recognise the claims of Stephen Judd, who had improved his technique markedly in recent months and who had been an undoubted success in Love and Fortune as a wanton young wife. The lantern jaw of John Tallis put him out of reckoning but the other two were powerful contenders.
Apprenticeship was bound by no formal rules and practices varied with each company, but Barnaby Gill accepted the general principle of seniority. On that count alone, Richard Honeydew had to be excluded. The other three boys had earned the right to be considered before him, and Gill put this point forcefully at a meeting with his colleagues.
Lawrence Firethorn spiked his guns. Edmund Hoode and the other sharers had already been talked around by the wily Firethorn so the decision stood. All that Gill could do was to register his protest and predict that they would rue their mistake. Richard Honeydew was over-parted.
‘Well done, Dick.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You have natural grace.’
‘I simply wish to please, sir.’
‘Oh, you do that, boy,’ said Gill. ‘You may prove me wrong yet.’
The more he watched Richard, the more he came to see his unusual gifts as a performer. His voice was clear, his deportment good and his use of gesture effective. With a dancer’s eye, Gill admired his sense of balance, his timing and the easy fluency of movement. Most important of all, the boy had now learned to wear female apparel as if he were himself female and this was a special accomplishment. Richard Honeydew might turn out to be the best choice as Gloriana, after all, and Gill did not in the least mind admitting it.
Lord Westfield’s Men had rented a large room at The Queen’s Head for early rehearsals. Barnaby Gill contrived a word alone with the boy during a break for refreshment.
‘How are you enjoying it, Dick?’
‘Very much, sir.’
‘Have you ever played a queen before?’
‘Never, Master Gill. It’s a great honour.’
‘Who knows?’ he teased softly. ‘You may even outshine our own Gloriana.’
‘Oh, no,’ replied the boy seriously. ‘Nobody could do that, sir. I think that our Queen is the most wonderful person in the world.’
Gill saw a chance to impress the boy and he took it.
‘Yes,’ he said casually. ‘Her Majesty has been gracious to admire my playing on more than one occasion.’
Richard gaped. ‘You’ve met her?’
‘I’ve performed at court a number of times.’
There had, in fact, been only two appearances at the royal palace and they had been some years ago, but Gill disguised all this. He also concealed his true feelings about Queen Elizabeth. Most women filled him with mild distaste but the royal personage had done rather more than that.
Richard Honeydew might worship her along with the rest of her subjects but the fastidious, observant actor had got close enough to her to see her as no more than a middle-aged woman with a ginger wig, black teeth and a habit of using thick raddle on any part of her skin that could not be covered by clothing. Queen Elizabeth was a walking wardrobe. Beneath the flamboyant attire was a mass of wires, stays and struts, which supported the stiff exterior. Gill acknowledged that she had given a striking performance but the ravaged beauty had not won his heart.
‘Will the company play at court again?’ asked Richard.
‘We hope so. It wants but an invitation.’
‘It must be inspiring to play before Her Majesty.’
‘Oh, it is. I was transported, Dick.’
‘Did you dance your jig, Master Gill?’
‘Twice. The Queen insisted that I repeat it.’ He took a step closer to the boy. ‘I would teach you the steps one day if we could find time together.’
‘I would appreciate that, sir.’
‘Swordplay, too,’ continued Gill. ‘I was instructed by a Master of Fence. I know far more about it than Nicholas Bracewell. You would do well to seek my help with a sword in the future.’
‘Nicholas has taught me so much, though.’
‘I will teach you a lot more, Dick. Would you like that?’
The boy hesitated. The avuncular smile was worrying him again. Besides, his first loyalty was to Nicholas. He tried to speak but the actor stopped him with a raised palm.
‘Come to me this evening,’ he wooed. ‘We’ll have a bout then.’
‘That will not be possible, Master Gill,’ said a voice.
‘Who asked you, sir?’ rejoined the actor.
‘Dick will be with me this evening. I am to instruct him in the use of the rapier.’
Richard was surprised to hear this but grateful for the interruption. Samuel Ruff had come to his aid once again. The boy’s relief was not shared by Barnaby Gill.
‘Why must you meddle, sir?’ he snapped.
‘The boy and I have an arrangement.’
‘Is this true, Dick?’
‘Yes, I think so …’
‘Well, I do not think so.’ He rounded on the hired man. ‘And I do not believe that you have ever carried a rapier.’
‘You do me wrong, Master Gill.’
‘Ah!’ mocked the other. ‘Have you been hiding your light under a bushel all this time? Are you a Master of Fence?’
‘No, sir. But I have borne a sword.’
‘Let us see how much you remember.’
Ruff’s intercession had annoyed Gill intensely and he wanted to teach the man a lesson. There would be the additional bonus of being able to show off in front of Richard. Crossing to a table, Gill snatched up two rehearsal foils and offered one of the bell-like handles to Ruff.
‘Not a rapier, sir, but it will serve.’
‘I do not wish to have a bout with you, Master Gill.’
‘Are you afeard, then?’
‘No, sir. But it would not be wise.’
‘Who asks for wisdom out of swordplay?’
‘Somebody might get hurt,’ explained Ruff. ‘Even with a button on, a foil can cause injury.’
‘Oh, I forgot,’ teased Gill. ‘You have wounds enough already.’
‘My arm is mended, sir. That is not the reason.’
‘Then what is?’
‘Common sense.’
‘Common sense or cowardice?’
Samuel Ruff was stung by the gibe. He had no wish to fence with Gill but the insult could not be ignored. Slipping off his jerkin, he handed it to Richard and accepted the foil from his adversary. The latter gave him an oily grin. He was going to enjoy humiliating this troublesome hired man and would not even bother to remove his doublet to do so.
Others in the room quickly came over to watch the bout. Benjamin Creech shouted words of encouragement to Ruff but the general feeling was that he had little chance. The three older apprentices lent their support to Barnaby Gill. They wanted to see Richard Honeydew’s friend humbled.
‘Instruct him, Master Gill,’ urged Martin Yeo.
‘I’ll wager a penny you have the first hit,’ said Stephen Judd. ‘Tuppence. Will you back your man, Dick?’
‘I have no money, Stephen.’
‘Owe it to me. The wager stands.’
Barnaby Gill held the tight, slender foil and swished it through the air a few times before taking up his stance. His opponent held his weapon ready. The hired man was bigger and sturdier but Gill was much lighter on his feet.
‘Come, Samuel,’ he invited. ‘Let me trim your ruff!’
The three apprentices sniggered but Richard was frightened, sensing that his friend was in real danger. Gill had been involved in a sword fight on stage during the play about Richard the Lionheart and had shown himself to be an expert. The boy quailed. Anxious for the duel to be prevented, his spirits rose when the book holder came striding into the room.
‘Stop them, Master Bracewell!’ he begged.
‘What is going on?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Keep out of this!’ ordered Gill.
‘Is this a quarrel?’
‘Stand off, Nick,’ said Ruff. ‘It is only in play.’
Before Nicholas could make any move, the duel had begun. The foils clashed in a brief passage of thrust, parry and counter-thrust. They started again. Barnaby Gill forced the pace of the bout, keeping his opponent under constant attack, lunging with vicious intent and using all his tricks to entertain the audience. Ruff could do little but defend and he went through all eight parries time and again. Gill circled him, first one way and then the other, baiting him like a dog with a bull.
Yet somehow he could not score a hit to appease his burning resentment of the man. Remise, reprise and flanconade were used but Ruff somehow held him at bay. Gill speeded up his attack and found an opening to slash at his opponent’s left arm. The hired man was quick enough to elude injury but the button opened up the sleeve of his shirt and a bandage showed through.
‘A hit!’ cried Stephen. ‘You owe me tuppence, Dick!’
‘No hit,’ insisted Ruff. ‘A touch.’
Gill cackled. ‘Here comes your wager, Stephen.’
He attacked again with his wrists flashing, thrusting in quarte and tierce, setting up another opening for himself. Crouching low as he lunged towards his adversary’s stomach, he was astonished when his foil was deftly twisted out of his hand and sent spinning through the air. Unable to save himself, Barnaby Gill ended up flat on his back with the point of Ruff’s weapon under his chin. It was the hired man’s turn to use the well-tried pun.
‘You have a Ruff at your throat now, sir.’
A tense silence ensued. The apprentices were nonplussed, Creech and his fellows were astounded, and Nicholas Bracewell was delighted. Barnaby Gill was seething. Instead of humiliating Samuel Ruff, he had been chastened in public himself and his pride had taken a powerful blow. He would not forget or forgive.
It was left to Richard Honeydew to speak first.
‘I will claim my wager now, Stephen.’
The cardinal’s hat presented a sorry sight to the morning sun. Long splinters of wood had been hacked away and much of the paint had been scored. On one side of the tavern sign at least, the hat was very much the worse for wear. No wind disturbed Bankside. The cardinal’s hat hung limp and forlorn.
Nicholas Bracewell looked up to assess the damage that Redbeard had caused. There was a window adjacent to the sign and he supposed that it was in the room belonging to Alice. He was soon given confirmation of this.
‘She is upstairs now, sir.’
‘May I see her?’
The landlord looked even more like a polecat in daylight. His narrowed eyes went to his visitor’s purse. Nicholas produced a few coins and tossed them on to the counter.
‘Follow me, sir.’
‘Is the girl fully recovered now?’ said Nicholas, as he went up the winding staircase with the man.
‘Alice? No, sir. Not yet.’
‘What are her injuries?’
‘Nothing much,’ replied the landlord callously. ‘One of her arms must stay bound up for a week or more and she still limps badly.’
They reached the first landing and walked along a dingy passageway. Nicholas glanced around with misgivings.
‘Will the girl get proper rest here?’
‘Rest!’ The polecat drew back his teeth in a harsh laugh. ‘Alice came back to work, sir, not to rest. She was as busy as ever in the service last night.’
The sleeping figure of an old man now blocked their way. Kicking him awake with the toe of his shoe, the landlord stepped over him and went on to a door. He banged hard on it.
‘Alice!’
There was no sound from within so he peered through the keyhole. He used his fist to beat a tattoo on the timber.
‘Are you alone in there, Alice?’
With a shrug of his shoulders, he grabbed the latch of the door and lifted it. Nicholas was led into a small, filthy, cobwebbed room with peeling walls and a rising stench that hit his nostrils. A mattress lay on the floor with a ragged blanket over it. Under the blanket was a sma
ll head that the landlord nudged with his foot.
‘Wake up, girl. You’ve a visitor.’
‘Perhaps this was not a good time to call,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘She plainly needs her sleep.’
‘I’ll rouse her, sir, have no fear,’ said the landlord.
After shaking her roughly by the shoulder, he took hold of the blanket and pulled it right away from her. The sight which met them made Nicholas quake. Lying on the mattress at a distorted angle was the naked body of a young woman in her early twenties. One arm was heavily strapped, one ankle covered with a grimy bandage. Eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. The mouth was wide open to issue a silent scream for mercy.
Alice would not be able to tell Nicholas Bracewell anything. Her throat had been cut and the blood had gushed in a torrent down her body. The stink of death was already upon her.
Chapter Seven
Lawrence Firethorn slowly began to make headway against his domestic oppression. His wife continued to watch him like a hawk and abuse him at every turn but he bore it all with Stoic mien and never struck back. Even the nightly horror of the bedchamber failed to break him. His studied patience at last had its effect. Margery listened to – if she did not believe – his protestations. She permitted his little acts of kindness and concern. She allowed herself to think of him once more as her husband.
Her suspicions did not vanish but they were gradually smothered beneath the pillow of his subtlety. Firethorn smiled, flattered, promised and pretended until he had insinuated his way back into the outer suburbs of her affections. With a skill born of long practice, he chose his moment carefully.
‘Lawrence!’
‘Open it, my sweet.’
‘But why have you bought me a present, sir?’
‘Why else, my angel? To show you that I love you.’
Margery Firethorn could not contain her almost girlish curiosity and excitement. She opened the little box and let out a gasp of wonder. Her husband had just given her a pendant that hung from a gold chain.
‘This is for me?’
‘I had been saving it for your birthday, my dove,’ he lied, ‘but it seemed a more appropriate moment. I wanted you to know how deep my feelings are for you in spite of your cruelty to me.’
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 10