The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  A second trap had been set. Stationed in the window of the rehearsal room was Stephen Judd. He waved a hand to confirm that both Nicholas Bracewell and Samuel Ruff were fully occupied. Richard was now shorn of his guardians.

  ‘He looks hungry,’ noted Yeo.

  ‘I’ve an apple he can have,’ decided Tallis, pulling it out from his pocket. ‘Here, Dick. You give it to him.’

  ‘Not me, Stephen.’

  ‘He won’t bite you, lad,’ said Yeo. ‘Hold it on the palm of your hand like this.’ He demonstrated with the apple. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m afraid to, Martin.’

  ‘Horses love apples. Feed him.’

  They cajoled the boy together until he eventually agreed. Opening the stable door, Yeo went in a yard or so with Richard. The chestnut was at the rear of the box, tethered to an empty manger and presenting its side to them.

  Richard held the apple on the flat of his hand and approached with hesitant steps. The chestnut shifted its feet slightly and the straw rustled. Richard did not see Yeo move back through the door before closing it. He was now alone in the loose box with the towering animal.

  ‘Give it to him, Dick,’ urged Yeo.

  ‘Hold it under his nose,’ added Tallis.

  ‘Hurry up, lad.’

  As Richard slowly extended his hand, the horse suddenly reared his head, showed the whites of his eyes, laid his ears back, then swung sideways with a loud neigh. His gleaming flank caught the boy hard enough to send him somersaulting into the straw. When the animal bucked wildly and lashed out with his powerful hind quarters, Richard was only inches away from the flashing hooves.

  Martin Yeo was disappointed but Stephen Judd was having second thoughts about it all. Keen as he was for his friend to succeed to the part of Gloriana, he did not want Richard to be kicked to death by a horse.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled an ostler as he came running.

  ‘Dick tried to give him an apple,’ said Yeo.

  Throwing open the stable door, the ostler grabbed Richard and dragged him to safety. Then he lifted the boy up and shook him soundly.

  ‘What did you do that for, you fool!’ he shouted. ‘That horse will only let his master feed him. Do you want to be killed?’

  Richard Honeydew turned crimson and fainted.

  Lady Rosamund Varley expected the impossible and she was never satisfied until she got it. When she had given her dressmaker his orders, the man protested that he needed more time than he was allotted but she had been firm with him. If he wished to retain her custom, he had to obey her instructions. The impossible was once more accomplished, and the dressmaker arrived on time with his assistant at Varley House. She was duly delighted with their work but she had learned never to over-praise her minions. Instead, she found fault.

  ‘I ordered three-inch ribbons.’

  ‘Four, Lady Varley,’ he corrected deferentially. ‘But we can shorten them, of course.’

  ‘I wanted a lawn ruff.’

  ‘Cambric, Lady Varley. But we can change that.’

  ‘The gown is cut too full.’

  ‘My needlewomen are standing by, Lady Varley.’

  The dressmaker was a tall, almost debonair man who made himself look much smaller and meaner by his compulsion to bend and bow. His unctuous manner was further supplemented by a nervous washing of his hands. He absorbed all her criticisms and promised that the mistakes would be rectified.

  ‘I will try it on first,’ she announced.

  ‘When it falls short of your wishes, Lady Varley.’

  ‘Wait here.’

  She retired to her bedchamber with two of her women, who first undressed her then helped their mistress into her new attire. Over her linen chemise, they put on a whalebone corset and a farthingale, which was fastened round the waist to hold the gown out in a becoming semi-circle at the back. Over this came several petticoats, worn beneath a striking bodice of royal blue velvet with gold figure-work. A gown of the same material, slightly darker for contrast, had hanging sleeves of cambric.

  In the fashion of the day, Lady Rosamund’s hair was curled, frizzed and lightened to a golden-red. It was piled high above the forehead and swept away from the sides of her face. A stiff lace cartwheel ruff framed and set off her pale-skinned loveliness. Jewellery, perfume, a hat, gloves, and shoes were added to complete a picture of devastating beauty. Everything fitted perfectly.

  Full-length mirrors allowed her to view herself from all angles. She called for a few adjustments to be made then she was content. As she paraded around the room, the former owner of the house popped back into her mind.

  ‘Not even a bishop would be safe from me in this!’

  Sweeping back downstairs, she let the dressmaker and his assistant cluck their praises at her then she clapped her hands to dismiss them.

  ‘Leave your account.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Varley.’

  ‘My husband will pay you when he has a mind to.’

  Alone again, she headed for the nearest mirror. The dress was a sartorial triumph. She could not wait to put it on display at The Curtain for the benefit of Lawrence Firethorn.

  Edmund Hoode stood at the window of the rehearsal room and gazed moodily out at the inn yard. The effort of writing the new play had left him with the usual exhaustion and depression nudged at him. Gloriana Triumphant was an excellent piece of drama but it was also designed as a vehicle in which Lawrence Firethorn could both extend his reputation and further his love life. All that Hoode was left with was some effusive thanks and a small but telling role in the fourth act.

  In such moods as this, he always felt used. His talent had been manipulated for the use of others. The best sonnet that he had written for years had been appropriated by someone else and it pained him. He spoke the lines softly to himself, and wished that the poem could instigate a romance for him. It dawned on him that he had not been in love for months. He missed the sweet sorrow of it. His soul was withering.

  For Edmund Hoode, the thrill of the chase was everything. He was a true idealist who liked nothing better than to commit himself wholeheartedly to a woman and to draw his pleasure from the simple act of being in love. Lawrence Firethorn was very different. To a seasoned voluptuary like him, conquest was all and his standards were high. Hoode was ready to compromise. He would take someone far less grand than Lady Rosamund Varley. In his present despondency, he would take almost anyone.

  Even as he brooded, something came into his field of vision that made him start. It was the landlord’s daughter, tripping lightly across the inn yard with her dark hair streaming behind her. Hoode had noticed her several times before and always with pleasure. No more than twenty, she was happily free from the slightest resemblance to her father and her buxom openness was very refreshing.

  As he watched her now, he discerned qualities that had eluded him before. She was lithe, graceful, vivacious. She was less like a landlord’s daughter than a princess brought up by a woodcutter. Hoode gasped with joy as he realised something else about her.

  Her name was Rose Marwood.

  He began to recite his sonnet over again.

  Nicholas Bracewell’s earlier visit to The Curtain had been well-spent and he had devised some clever ideas for the staging of Gloriana Triumphant. He was anxious to have the chance to put them to the test. The luxury of a full day’s rehearsal at the theatre gave him all the opportunity he needed. Some of his notions had to be scrapped, but the majority – including those for the climactic sea battle – were ingeniously workable. It enabled him to relax. Given the mastery of its technical problems, the play could now take flight. He was confident that there would be no shuffling of feet in the pit this time.

  Though acutely busy throughout the day, he tried to keep an eye on Richard Honeydew. The incident with the horse had rocked him and he was convinced that it had been set up by the other apprentices. They had been in disgrace ever since and no further attacks had been made on Richard. With the supportive vigilance of Samuel Ruff and Marge
ry Firethorn, Nicholas felt he could keep the boy from harm.

  ‘Let us try the end of the battle scene!’ ordered Firethorn.

  ‘Positions!’ called Nicholas.

  ‘We will not fire our cannon,’ decided the actor. ‘We will keep our powder dry.’

  ‘And the sail, master?’

  ‘Oh, we must have that.’

  Where Banbury’s Men had simply used a thick pole to suggest a mast, the other company had constructed a much more elaborate property with a full sail that could be raised and lowered. It was set into a circular wooden base which was self-standing. As the wind picked up, however, the sail began to billow.

  ‘Hold it, Ben!’ directed Nicholas.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Stand beside him just in case, Gregory.’

  ‘Yes, Master Bracewell,’ said a strapping journeyman, the author of God Speed the Fleet. Where the earlier play had spent itself in the naval engagement, Gloriana Triumphant ended with a scene on the deck of the flagship which brought together all the main characters in the drama. The Queen of Albion herself came on board and, with a spontaneous gesture of gratitude, she borrowed a sword to knight her magnificent sea dog.

  Everyone took up their positions then Nicholas cued the musicians. Peter Digby led his men in a stately march as the royal personage came on to the vessel. With back erect and voice expressive, Richard Honeydew delivered his longest speech of the play, trying to ignore the flapping havoc that the wind was now causing to his costume. Firethorn went down on one knee to accept his knighthood then kissed the hand of his monarch and went into his monologue.

  He was not destined to reach the end of it. A sudden gust of wind hit the sail and wrenched it out of Benjamin Creech’s grasp. Before Gregory could grab it, the whole mast keeled over across the middle of the stage.

  ‘Look out!’

  ‘Help!’

  ‘Jump, Dick!’

  The Queen of Albion had only a split second to take the advice that Samuel Ruff bawled out. As the mast lunged down at him, Nicholas leapt instinctively off the stage altogether. There was a tremendous crash as the timber hit the deck but at least it had not hit anyone. The cast were in a state of shock but nobody seemed to be hurt.

  ‘Aouw!’

  ‘Are you hurt, Dick?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Stay there!’ advised Nicholas.

  He bounded across the stage and leaped down beside the prone figure of the young apprentice. Richard was in pain. Landing awkwardly after his own jump, he had twisted his ankle so badly that he could put no weight on it. When Nicholas examined the injury, the joint was already beginning to swell.

  The miracle was that the boy had eluded the falling mast. If he had been hampered by his costume, he would never have got out of the way in time and the extravagant finery of the Queen of Albion would now be lying crushed beneath the heavy timber. As it was, Richard had leaped from the deck of the flagship for good. He would never be able to perform next day.

  It was ironic. The other three boys had tried to disable him and failed. Chance contrived what design could not. A gust of wind had just recast the part of Gloriana.

  Nicholas Bracewell lifted the boy up in his arms and turned back to the stage. Looking down at them was Benjamin Creech, who had been holding the mast when it fell. The hired man was impassive but his eyes were slits of pleasure.

  Chapter Nine

  Rejection had wrought deep changes in Master Roger Bartholomew. He felt defiled. When he saw his play about Richard the Lionheart performed at The Queen’s Head, he thought that he had finished with the theatre for ever but his Muse had other ideas. Directed back to the playhouse, he had now suffered such comprehensive rejection that it turned his brain. He discovered a vengeful streak in himself that he had never even suspected before. They had hurt him; he wanted to strike back.

  Lord Westfield’s Men became the target for his obsessive hatred. Other companies had turned him down but Lawrence Firethorn had done far worse than that. He had ruined one play by the young poet then reviled another. To make matters worse, he was playing the leading role in a new drama on exactly the same subject as An Enemy Routed. In his feverish state, Bartholomew wondered if his play had been plundered to fill out the other. It would not be the first time that an author’s work had been pillaged.

  As he stood outside The Curtain, he could hear the voices booming away inside during the rehearsal. He could not make out the words or identify the speakers, but he knew one thing. Gloriana Triumphant had dispossessed him. He reached out to snatch another playbill from its post. If talent and justice meant anything in the theatre, it was his play that should be advertised all over London, and his words that should now be ringing out behind the high walls of the playhouse.

  Bartholomew stood above all things for the primacy of the word, for the natural ascendancy of the poet. Firethorn and his company worked to other rules. They promoted the actor as the central figure in the theatre. A play to them was just a fine garment that they could wear once or twice for effect before discarding. An Enemy Routed had been discarded before it was even worn. No consideration at all had been shown for its author’s feelings.

  Lord Westfield’s Men deserved to be punished for their arrogance. He elected himself to administer that punishment. All that he had to decide was its exact nature.

  Adversity was a rope that bound them more tightly together. In the face of their setbacks, Westfield’s Men responded with speedy resolution. The injured apprentice was taken home and his deputy, Martin Yeo, started to rehearse at once. Even as he was working out on stage, the tiremen were altering Gloriana’s costume to fit him and redressing the red wig that he was to wear. Yeo had already learned the role in readiness and so the eleventh hour substitution was less of a problem than it might have been, but there were still movements to master, entrances and exits to memorise, due note to be taken of the performances of those around the Queen so that he could play off them.

  Nicholas Bracewell, meanwhile, had taken steps to stabilise the mast and sail. When it was set up now, a series of ropes led down from its top to different parts of the stage and tied off on hooks or cleats. The mast was so solid that it was possible for someone to climb it. Ever the opportunist, Firethorn cast the smallest of the journeymen as a ship boy and told him to shin up the mast. It would be a good effect in performance.

  A bewildering variety of chores kept George Dart on the move throughout the play. At Nicholas’s suggestion, he was given another job as well. Because they could not guarantee that a wind would blow the next afternoon, Dart was handed a long piece of rope that was attached to the heart of the sail. Concealed on the balcony above the stage, he was to tug violently on cue to give the impression that the ship was being blown along by a gale. It was the first time in his young career that he had ever taken on the role of the west wind.

  Even Barnaby Gill pitched in to help with the emergency. He suspended his ultimatum about Samuel Ruff until after the performance, and did what he could to keep up everyone’s spirit. Against all the odds, the play began to come together. Frantic rewriting by Edmund Hoode eliminated the part that Martin Yeo had played before and smoothed out one or two other lumps. Morale was high at the end of an interminable rehearsal.

  ‘Well, Nick. What do you think?’

  ‘I think we’ll get through.’

  ‘We’ll do more than that, dear heart. Dicky may have gone but there are still many other sublime performances. I wager that we’ll hold them in the palm of our hands.’

  ‘It never does to tempt fate,’ warned Nicholas.

  They were standing together on the now almost empty stage at The Curtain, reviewing the day and its vicissitudes. Firethorn suddenly declaimed his first speech, aiming it at the galleries and taking up various positions to do so. Nicholas soon realised what he was doing. The actor was trying to work out precisely where Lady Rosamund Varley would be sitting.

  ‘We’ll show ’em, Nick.’

  �
�Who, master?’

  ‘Giles Randolph and his ilk.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You saw the fellow here last. How did he fare?’

  ‘Indifferently. It was a poor play.’

  ‘A poor play with a poor player. I will act him off the stage, sir!’

  ‘You are without compare,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

  ‘Tomorrow is an important day for us,’ continued the other. ‘We must prove ourselves once and for all. Our dear patron will rely on us to increase his lustre. We must use this new play to stake our claim to the highest honour – an invitation to play at court.’

  ‘It’s long overdue.’

  Firethorn made a deep bow to acknowledge non-existent applause that reverberated in his ears. He was already at court, performing before the Queen and her entourage, receiving royal favour, achieving yet another success in the auditorium of his mind. Nicholas saw that his ambition had another side to it than mere glory. Performance at court would be in front of a small, exclusive, private audience that would include Lady Rosamund Varley. She ruled on the throne of his heart at the moment.

  ‘I would be in Elysium,’ confided Firethorn.

  ‘It will come.’

  ‘Let us ensure it, Nick.’

  When everything had been cleared away and locked up ready for the morrow, they all departed. There was sadness for Richard Honeydew that he had been robbed of his first taste of stardom but the performance had to continue and everyone had bent themselves to that end. Company rivalry was paramount. Banbury’s Men had done themselves less than credit at The Curtain. Lawrence Firethorn and his fellows could dazzle by comparison.

  It was a long, lonely walk back to Bishopsgate and Nicholas still had more than a mile to go when he entered the City. But he was too preoccupied to notice the extent of his journey or the stiff breeze that swept through the dark night. Will Fowler still haunted him as did the actor’s young widow. Two battered prostitutes, one of whom had been subsequently murdered, also had a strong claim on his sympathy. He feared for Samuel Ruff whose place with the company was now in jeopardy. He worried for Richard Honeydew. There was even a vestigial concern for Roger Bartholomew, who had been ousted from the theatre almost before he had got into it. The book holder puzzled over the ruined playbills that George Dart had reported with such trepidation. They had enemies enough without that.