‘Disasters come in threes, Edmund.’
‘Do they?’
‘We had Dick Honeydew’s accident. Then the theft of the book.’ His voice explored a lower octave. ‘Now – what is to be the third catastrophe?’
‘Your performance!’ said Samuel Ruff under his breath and set up a few sniggers around him.
In seeking to dispel the tension, Lawrence Firethorn merely increased it. Summoning the whole company together in the tiring-house, he gave them a short speech about the need to fight back at their enemies by raising the level of their performance. His exhortations united them all in a common purpose but disseminated an unease that was strangely akin to stagefright. Only the more experienced actors were immune from it.
‘Samuel …’
‘Yes, lad?’
‘I feel sick.’
‘Take some deep breaths, Martin.’
‘This dress is suffocating me.’
‘Drink some water.’
‘I’ll never be able to stand still on stage.’
‘Of course you will,’ assured the hired man. ‘The moment you step out there, all your worries will disappear. It’s the same before a battle when everyone – no matter how brave – feels afraid and unready. As soon as things start, they get carried away by the thrill and the emotion of it all. Theatre is a form of battle, Martin. You’ll fight well, I know.’
The very fact that Martin Yeo could turn to Samuel Ruff showed the extent of the boy’s discomfort. Three full years with the company had given him a confidence that sometimes spilled over into arrogance, but he was now bereft of all that. With long faces and dry throats all around him, Yeo had sought out a man whom he had always disliked before. Ruff’s composure set him apart from most of the others and the boy drew strength from it. He was even ready to confide a secret.
‘Do you know something, Samuel?’
‘What?’
‘I never thought I’d say this but …’
‘You wish Dick was here to play Gloriana.’
‘Yes! How did you guess?’
‘It was not difficult, lad,’ said Ruff with mild amusement. ‘Shall I tell you something now?’
‘What?’
‘If Dick were in that costume, he’d be wishing that you were taking on the role instead.’
Nicholas Bracewell was grateful for someone like Ruff to act as a calming influence. Cold panic showed in most eyes and Edmund Hoode was a prime victim. After his sterling work throughout the night, he was now in danger of losing his nerve completely. Doubts about his play became uncertainties about himself and widened into questions about the whole validity of the playhouse. Here was creative suffering of a kind that nobody else could understand. Hoode therefore stalked the perimeter of the tiring-house on his own, finding more and more phantoms to assail him.
It was Nicholas himself who was the main antidote to the general hysteria. With his head still swathed in bandages, he exerted his usual cool control in a way that instilled peace. As long as the book holder was there, the company had a solid framework in which to operate. It heartened them. Nicholas went out of his way to pass a remark or two with those most in need of moral support. As people swirled to and fro in the tiring-house, he was there with friendly comments.
‘The music was excellent yesterday, Peter.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It could not be improved upon … Thomas …’
‘Yes, master?’
‘We’ll need to rely on you heavily today.’
‘Oh, dear,’ muttered the old stagekeeper.
‘Your experience will be a rock.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Hugh …’
‘Aye?’ called the tireman, fluffing out petticoats for John Tallis.
‘Those costume changes will need to be quick.’
‘We can manage.’
‘Especially Gloriana in the last act.’
‘Two of us will be standing by.’
‘George …’
‘Here, master,’ said Dart through a spectacular yawn.
‘You were a Trojan last night.’
‘Did Trojans run their legs off as well, then?’
‘Try not to fall asleep too often.’
‘How am I supposed to stay awake, Master Bracewell?’
‘Gregory …’
‘Not here!’
‘Where is he?’
‘Where do you think?’
‘Again?’
The general laughter eased the tension. Everybody knew where the jangled Gregory was and it was his fourth visit. Like every other part of the playhouse, the privy made a significant contribution to the performance.
Nicholas fought off his fatigue and looked around the company. Nerve ends were still raw, mouths were still dry and faces were still lack-lustre; but he sensed that the worst was past. They were professionals. The ordeal of the wait would evanesce into the excitement of the performance, and nobody would let himself down. Lord Westfield’s Men would survive with honour. He actually began to look forward to it.
Resplendent in his Italian doublet and Spanish cape, Lawrence Firethorn sidled over to whisper in his ear.
‘Should I do it again, Nick?’
‘What?’
‘Speak to the troops.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Have I done enough to lift them already?’
‘More than enough,’ said Nicholas tactfully.
‘Good, good.’
‘Lead by example now.’
It was, as ever, sound advice and Firethorn would take it. He walked away and went through his first speech in a hissed gabble. His book holder had just prevented him from causing even further disarray. The fragile calm which had now descended on the tiring-house would be preserved.
Sunshine gilded the tall, cylindrical structure of the playhouse and turned the arena into a chequered arrangement of light and shadow. The warmth of the sun produced more sweat and smell among the penny stinkards in the pit, and promoted the sale of beer, wine and water. By the same token, it caused mild discomfort in the galleries among the over-dressed gallants and the corseted ladies. There was no breeze to alleviate the heat. George Dart would be needed as the west wind.
It was a glittering occasion. In noise, bustle, eagerness, vulgarity, style, colour, character and high fashion, it even outdid God Speed the Fleet. On a glorious afternoon in an English summer, The Curtain was truly a microcosm of the capital. All classes were accounted for, all tastes included. Courtiers displayed themselves above while criminals concealed themselves below. The middling sort were there in profusion. Accents varied, timbres differed. Wit, repartee, banter and foul abuse were in play. High intelligence and bovine illiteracy shared the same space. The wooden circumference enclosed a veritable city.
Lord Westfield was there to enjoy the reflected glory of his company and to toss down patronising smiles and waves to the actors. Dark, stocky and of medium height, he wore a doublet that accentuated his paunch and a hat that prevented anyone behind him from seeing the stage. There was a wilful extravagance about Westfield that showed itself in the excesses of his apparel and the size of his entourage. A cup of wine seemed always in his hand, a smile upon his lips. He was a middle-aged sybarite with all the defects that that implied, but his love of the theatre was genuine and his knowledge of its workings was close.
Sitting diametrically opposite him in another of the lords’ rooms was the Earl of Banbury, there to mock and denigrate rather than to be entertained. He picked fussily at his goatee beard and passed disparaging remarks about the players. His own company was going through a comparatively lean patch and envy was never far away. Catching Westfield’s eye across the playhouse, he gave a dismissive wave with his fingers and turned away, thus missing the expressive scowl on the other’s face.
Lady Rosamund Varley made a startling entrance. As soon as she settled in her seat, necks craned and eyes popped. She was a rich blend of blues and whites and yellows, and there was no dr
ess to match her. Happily conscious of the attention she was getting, she bestowed a radiant smile on the world.
Roger Bartholomew remained stonily silent amid the gathering tumult. Everything he saw fed his hate, everything he heard served to swell his rage. Instead of being a celebrated poet with the acclaim he deserved, he was an unsung nonentity with cruel wounds he did not merit. Something darker than envy, and deeper than vengeance, had wormed its way into his brain. It caused a persistent throb in his veined forehead.
Exiled from the stage that he coveted, he would make his bid for attention. They would all take note of him this time. His plan had the riveting simplicity of its own desperation. It was a searing drama in one unforgettable line. The throbbing in his head got worse. Bartholomew would soon cure it.
Applause greeted the arrival of the trumpeter and the hoisting of the flag. This was no routine performance. Gossip had been at work. Danger lay at the heart of the enterprise. Lord Westfield’s Men had been dogged by fate. A hired man was murdered, a young apprentice was injured, a book holder was attacked, and valuable property was stolen. It all added to the sublime feeling of dread, the possibility that something extraordinary was about to happen.
When the Prologue had introduced the play, Gloriana Triumphant took a grip on the audience that it never relinquished. Its secret lay in its relevance. Everyone could find themselves and their lives in it. The ancient domain of Albion was such an accurate portrait of the England they knew that some of the lines and conceits made them start. Edmund Hoode had found a rare blend. His play had a soaring purpose with a common touch.
Nicholas Bracewell’s hand was much in evidence, and not just in the smooth stage management of the afternoon. He had been involved in the creation of the play and had supplied Hoode with endless details about the navy, its ships, its language, its traditions. Again, Nicholas had suggested a number of scenes which involved ordinary English seamen and the privations they suffered. It not only gave Hoode an opportunity for low comedy, it threw the world of admirals and captains into sharp relief.
One of the Armada myths of the day was that scarcely a hundred English lives were lost in the engagement. Though technically true, it did not take account of the immediate consequences of the battle. Despite widespread illness from rough seas and stale beer, the English seamen had served bravely. Then their water ran out and they were forced to drink their own urine. Typhus began to kill them like flies and some ships lacked enough men to weigh anchor.
Gloriana Triumphant did not dwell on all this but it was not ignored. A fuller, rounder, more honest picture of life at sea began to emerge. Samuel Ruff and Benjamin Creech were ideal seamen, tough, comic, long-suffering and endlessly loyal. The standees in the pit connected with the men at once.
But the real hero of the play and the afternoon was Lawrence Firethorn in a part that enabled him to use all his wolfish energy and all his technical tricks. He was by turns rough, romantic, outspoken, tongue-tied, base and noble. His wooing of the Queen was a mixture of subtle comedy and surging passion, and it was at this point that his performance was directed up at Lady Rosamund Varley. It was quite hypnotic.
Lady Rosamund was enthralled and Lord Westfield was enraptured. Even the Earl of Banbury was reduced to impotent silence. Roger Bartholomew was captivated in another way. The sight of Firethorn at once sharpened his urge to act and delayed the moment. It was as if Bartholomew wanted to build up maximum fury before he moved. His chance came in the fifth act.
Nicholas Bracewell had spent a long time devising the sea battle and it had a whole battery of complex effects. Agile stagekeepers were kept running around to provide various effects and George Dart was the western wind on a blustery day. Firethorn stood on the poop deck and yelled his orders. Ruff, Creech and the other seamen sweated on the gun deck below. The mast was secured by the ropes. The cannons were positioned on both sides of the vessel.
Through the open trap door in the middle of the stage could be heard the swishing of water. As the battle intensified, water was thrown up on stage to splash and soak and run. One of the seamen, apparently hit by a cannon ball, was knocked through the trap door and into the sea. It was a simple device but it pleased the audience and worked well.
Action became more frenetic as the play moved towards its climax. Firethorn shouted and bellowed to fine effect as his vessel came under intense bombardment. At the pull of a rope, half the rigging on the mast came adrift and fell to the stage. Explosions, fireworks, drums, cymbals, gongs and trumpets were used to augment the sound and din the ears. Metal trays of fire were slid onstage to suggest areas of the deck that had been hit. Buckets of water filled from the trap door were thrown over the flames to douse them.
Firethorn now gave the command and the cannon went off, not one as in the earlier play, but four in ascending order of volume. Even this effect was topped. As the booming echoed and reverberated around the playhouse, the figure of a small man in black climbed on to the balcony of the second gallery and launched himself off with a wild cry of despair.
Misjudging his leap, he landed in the folds of the sail, which broke his fall before hurtling him to the stage with sufficient force to knock him unconscious. It was a breathtaking moment and the audience had never seen anything like it. Neither had Lawrence Firethorn but he coped with the situation magnificently. Everyone believed it was part of the play and he did not break faith with them. With two extempore lines, he ordered his men to gather up the body of the Spanish dog and throw it overboard. Roger Bartholomew was lowered unceremoniously through the trap door.
In trying to ruin the play and achieve immortality by his public act of suicide, the tormented poet had enhanced the drama and simply given himself a worse headache.
Martin Yeo came on to knight her faithful sea dog then the piece ended to sustained applause and cheering. The whole company had been superb and overcome all their problems.
Nobody noticed that Bartholomew missed his bow.
Lady Rosamund Varley waited with friends in a private room and marvelled afresh at the remarkable stunt they had seen. Gloriana Triumphant was well-named. It had consigned God Speed the Fleet to a watery grave. Edmund Hoode’s play would rule the waves.
Refreshments were served while the chat continued, then Lord Westfield brought in Lawrence Firethorn. He began with an elegant bow to Lady Rosamund and her radiant smile shone for him alone. Though he was introduced to the others in the room, he hardly heard their names. Only one person existed for him.
She extended a gloved hand for him to kiss.
‘You were superb, Master Firethorn,’ she congratulated.
‘I was inspired by your presence, Lady Varley.’
‘You know how to flatter, sir.’
‘Truth needs no embellishment.’
Her brittle laugh rang out then she moved in closer.
‘What is your next play to be?’ she asked.
‘Whatever you wish, Lady Varley.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘We have a large repertory. How would you care to see me?’
‘As Hector.’
Their eyes were conversing freely and they talked with a pleasing directness. Firethorn was entranced by her coquettish manner and she was fascinated by his boldness.
‘When would you have me play, Lady Varley?’
‘As soon as it may suit you, sir.’
‘The performance will be dedicated to you.’
‘I would regard that as a signal honour, Master Firethorn.’
‘Shall I send word when a date has been set?’
‘I will be mortified if you do not.’
‘Then it will be soon, that I can promise you.’
‘Good,’ she said evenly. ‘I’ll hold you to that, sir.’
‘And I will hold you, Lady Varley.’
The assignation was made. In a crowded room, and at the first time of meeting, they had agreed to a tryst. He was quite transported. The afternoon had blessed him. It is not given to many men to
defeat the Spanish Armada and conquer Lady Rosamund Varley within the space of a few hours.
Benjamin Creech left the playhouse with some of his fellows but he soon left them to head off on his own. Like the rest of the company, he had enjoyed the exhilaration of performance and it had left him with the same feeling of release. In his case, however, that feeling was tempered by something else. A man with divided loyalties finds it difficult to rejoice.
Nobody knew the taverns of London as intimately and as comprehensively as he did, so he had no difficulty in finding the one to which he had been summoned. A stroll along Eastcheap, a left turn, then a right, and he was there. At the sign of the Beetle and Wedge. Feeling his thirst deepen, he went in through the door and ducked beneath the low beam.
‘Hello, Ben. Thank you for coming.’
‘Aye.’
‘Let me buy you a drink, old fellow. Wine or beer?’
‘Beer.’
‘You haven’t changed, I see. Come and sit down.’
‘Aye.’
Creech lowered himself into a chair opposite his host and looked up into the dark, satanic features. When the drinks were served, they raised their cups and clinked them together.
‘To the future!’ said his companion.
‘That’s as may be, sir.’
‘You are in a position to help us a great deal, Ben.’
‘Aye.’
‘We are grateful.’
Creech watched him carefully and waited for him to make the first move. They had known each other for some years now. The man was clever, persuasive and resourceful with a dark streak in his nature that commended him to Creech. It gave the two of them something in common. He liked Giles Randolph.
Anne Hendrik was dining at home with her lodger and hearing about the extraordinary events at The Curtain that afternoon. She put her cutlery aside in astonishment when she heard about the dive that Roger Bartholomew had made from the second gallery.
‘Was he badly hurt?’ she said with concern.
‘The surgeon recovered him,’ explained Nicholas. ‘He was taken back to his lodging to rest.’
‘Why on earth did he do such a thing?’
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 15