The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘Gunpowder, sir! Look to my thatch!’

  ‘Everything needful will be done.’

  ‘Fire could destroy me!’

  ‘That is why we will take the utmost care.’

  ‘I am deeply troubled, Master Bracewell,’ whined the other. ‘My feeling is that you should cancel the play.’

  ‘At this late hour?’

  ‘It bodes ill, sir. It bodes ill.’

  The twitch went on a lightning tour of his face and his eyes enlarged to the size and colour of ripe plums. Nicholas wooed him again, reminding him of the long and fruitful relationship that existed between Westfield’s Men and the Queen’s Head and pointing out that The Merry Devils – like every other new play – had had to be submitted to the Master of the Revels before it was granted a licence. Sir Edmund Tilney had given his approval without censoring a single line. Evidently, he did not consider the piece to be in any way blasphemous. When the morose landlord still protested, Nicholas invited him to watch the morning’s rehearsal so that he could judge for himself, but Marwood declined the offer. He preferred to feed off rumour and instinct, both of which advised him to stop the performance.

  ‘And offer such an insult to Lord Westfield?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Lord Westfield?’

  ‘Our patron will grace your inn with his presence today.’

  ‘Ah …’

  ‘Bringing with him, in his entourage, several other members of the nobility. Can the Queen’s Head afford to turn away such custom, sir? Am I to tell Lord Westfield that you refuse him hospitality?’

  ‘Well, no … that is to say …’

  ‘His lordship might instruct us to withdraw altogether.’

  ‘But we have a contract.’

  ‘Then you must honour it this afternoon.’

  Marwood was thrown into a quandary. It was not his intention to terminate an arrangement which, with all its pitfalls, was a lucrative one for his inn. He now spied danger both in a performance of the new play and in its summary cancellation. Either way he was doomed. He risked arousing the ire of the City authorities or the displeasure of important members of the nobility. It all served to plunge him into a pool of deep melancholy.

  Nicholas Bracewell threw him a rope of salvation.

  ‘Lord Westfield is not without influence.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Were the authorities to object, he would no doubt deal with their objections. They would not proceed against the Queen’s Head with his lordship standing guard over it.’

  ‘Would he so protect us?’ asked the plaintive landlord.

  ‘He has powerful friends at Court.’

  It was a telling argument and it tipped the balance. According to the regulations, the staging of plays within the boundaries of the city was forbidden and theatres had therefore been built in places like Shoreditch and Southwark which were outside the city walls and thus beyond its jurisdiction. Like other establishments with suitable inn yards, the Queen’s Head was breaking a law that was never enforced with any vigour or consistency, in spite of a steady stream of complaints from the Puritan faction. Marwood had always escaped before. Under the pressure of circumstance, he elected to take the chance once again.

  ‘Very well, Master Bracewell. Perform your play.’

  ‘It will put money in your purse, sir.’

  ‘I pray that they do not take it from me in fines.’

  ‘Have faith, Master Marwood.’

  ‘I fear the worst.’

  ‘Nothing will go amiss.’

  ‘Then why do I sense disaster?’

  Turning on his heel, the landlord scurried across the yard and took his determined misery towards the taproom. Resolved on calamity, he would admit no other possibility. Nicholas had done well to stave off the threatened cancellation of the play, but then he had had plenty of practice with such crises. It seemed to him that he spent as much time subduing Marwood’s outbursts as he did in stage managing the company.

  As mine host vanished through a door, Nicholas marvelled yet again at the man’s perverse choice of profession. He was not schooled for a life of riot and revelry. Death and despair were his companions. Perhaps, mused Nicholas, he was waiting to be called to a higher duty and a truer vocation. When God wished to announce the end of the world, he would surely choose no other messenger than Alexander Marwood.

  It was the one job to which he could bring some relish.

  Rehearsals for The Merry Devils had been dogged by setbacks from the start, but those earlier upsets faded into oblivion beside the events of the next two hours. Everything went wrong. Lines were forgotten, entrances were missed, curtains were torn, costumes were damaged, trapdoors refused to open, gunpowder would not explode and the tiring-house was a seething morass of acrimony. Nicholas Bracewell imposed what calm and order he could, but his control could not extend to the stage itself where mishap followed mishap with ascending speed. The play was buried beneath a farrago of incompetence, frayed tempers and brutal misfortune.

  The diminutive George Dart was less than merry as a devil. Covered in confusion and dripping with perspiration, he came lurching into the tiring-house after another bungled exit. His red costume was far too tight for his body and far too warm for the hot weather. He tugged and pulled at it as he went across to the book holder.

  ‘I am sorry, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘Do your best, George. Nobody can demand more.’

  ‘I mislaid my part.’

  ‘Think harder, lad.’

  ‘I tried, master, but all thought went out of my head when I bumped into that post and saw stars. How did that come about?’

  ‘You were on the wrong side of the stage.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Follow Roper next time.’

  ‘But he has no more idea than me.’ He shrugged his shoulders in hopeless resignation. ‘We are not actors, Master Bracewell. We are mere stagekeepers. You do wrong to thrust us out upon the stage.’

  ‘Stand by, George! Your entrance is almost due.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘The banquet scene.’

  ‘Lord help me!’

  Cued by the book holder, the merry devils made another startling entrance but dissipated its effect by colliding with each other. George Dart dropped the goblets he was carrying and Roper Blundell trod so heavily on his own tail that it parted company with his breeches. Mistakes now multiplied at a bewildering rate. The rehearsal was speeding towards complete chaos.

  It was rescued by the efforts of one man. Lawrence Firethorn was the leading actor and the guiding light of Westfield’s Men, a creature of colossal talent and breathtaking audacity whose very presence in the cast of a play enhanced its quality. Single-handed, he pulled The Merry Devils back from the brink of sheer pandemonium. While everything else was falling to pieces around him, he remained quite imperturbable and soared above it all on wings of histrionic genius.

  When accidents happened, he softened their impact by cleverly diverting attention from them. When moves were forgotten, he eased his colleagues into their correct positions in the most unobtrusive way. When huge gaps appeared in the text, he filled them with such loquacious zest that only those familiar with the piece would have realised that memories had faltered. The more desperate the situation, the more immediate was his response. At one point, when someone missed an entrance for a vital scene, Firethorn covered his absence by delivering a soliloquy of such soulful magnificence that it wrung the withers of all who heard it, even though it was culled on the instant from three totally different plays and stitched together for extempore use.

  Lawrence Firethorn was superb in a role that fitted him like a glove. Though he was renowned for his portrayal of wise emperors and warrior kings, and for his incomparable gallery of classical heroes, he could turn his hand to low comedy with devastating brilliance. He was now the gross figure of Justice Wildboare, who, thwarted in love, attempts to get his revenge on his young rival by setting a couple of devils on
him. Once raised, however, the devils prove unready to obey their new master and it is Wildboare who becomes the victim of their merriment.

  The central role enabled Firethorn to dominate the stage and wrest some meaning out of the shambles. He was a rock amid shifting sands, an oasis in a desert, a true professional among rank amateurs. His example fired others and they slowly rallied. Nerves steadied, memories improved, confidence oozed back. With Firethorn leading the way on stage, and with Nicholas Bracewell exerting his usual calming influence in the tiring-house, the play actually began to resemble the text in the prompt book. By the end of Act Five, the saviour of the hour had achieved the superhuman task of pointing the drama in the right direction once more and it was fitting that he should conclude it with a rhyming couplet.

  Henceforth this Wildboare will renounce all evils

  And ne’er again seek pacts with merry devils.

  The rest of the company were so relieved to have come safely through the ordeal that they gave their actor-manager a spontaneous round of applause. Relief swiftly turned to apprehension as Firethorn rounded on them with blazing eyes. George Dart quailed, Roper Blundell sobbed, Ned Rankin gulped, Caleb Smythe shivered, Richard Honeydew blushed, Martin Yeo backed away, Edmund Hoode sought invisibility and the other players braced themselves. Even the arrogant Barnaby Gill was fearful.

  The comic bleating of Wildboare became the roar of a tiger.

  ‘That, gentlemen,’ said Firethorn, ‘was a descent into Hell. I have known villainy before but not of such magnitude. I have tasted dregs before but not of such bitterness. Misery I have seen before but never in such hideous degree. Truly, I am ashamed to call you fellows in this enterprise. Were it not for my honesty and self-respect, I would turn my back on the whole pack of you and seek a place with Banbury’s Men, vile and untutored though they be.’

  The company winced beneath the insult. The Earl of Banbury’s Men were their deadly rivals and Firethorn had nothing but contempt for them. It was a mark of his disillusion with his own players that he should even consider turning to the despised company of another patron. Before he could speak further, the noonday bell passed on its sonorous message. In two bare hours, The Merry Devils had to be fit for presentation before a paying audience. Practicalities intruded. Firethorn sheathed the sword of his anger and issued a peremptory command.

  ‘Gentlemen, we have work to do. About it straight.’

  There was a flurry of grateful activity.

  Hunched over a cup of sack, Edmund Hoode stared balefully into the liquid as if it contained the dead bodies of his dearest hopes. He was sitting at a table in the taproom of the Queen’s Head and seemed unaware of the presence of his companion. Ralph Willoughby gave his friend an indulgent smile and emptied a pot of ale. The two men were the co-authors of The Merry Devils and they had burned a deal of midnight oil in the course of its composition. Both had invested heavily in its success. Hoode was mortified by the awesome failure of the rehearsal but Willoughby took a more sanguine view.

  ‘The piece will redeem itself, Edmund,’ he said blithely. ‘Even in this morning’s travesty, there was promise.’

  ‘Of what?’ returned Hoode sourly. ‘Of complete disgrace?’

  ‘Rehearsals often mislead.’

  ‘We face ignominy, Ralph.’

  ‘It will not come to that.’

  ‘Our work will be jeered off the stage.’

  ‘Away with such thoughts!’

  ‘Truly, I tell you, this life will be the death of me!’

  It was strange to hear such a forlorn cry on the lips of Edmund Hoode. He loved the theatre. Tall, thin and cleanshaven, he had been with the company for some years now as its resident poet and a number of plays – thanks to the hectoring of Lawrence Firethorn – had flowed from his fertile pen. As an actor-sharer with Westfield’s Men, he always took care to create a role for himself; ideally, something with a romantic strain though a wide range of character parts was within his compass. When The Merry Devils first began to take shape, he decided to appear as the hapless Droopwell, a lack-lustre wooer whose impotence was exploited for comic effect. Long before the play had been completed, however, and for a reason that was never explained, Hoode insisted on a change of role and now took the stage as Youngthrust, an ardent suitor whose virility was not in doubt. Armed with a codpiece the size of a flying buttress, he whisked away the heroine from beneath the nose of Justice Wildboare.

  There was no Youngthrust about him now. Slouched over the table, he reverted to Droopwell once more. He gazed into his sack as yet another corpse floated past and he heaved a sigh of dismay that was almost Marwoodian in its hopelessness.

  Willoughby clapped him on the shoulder and grinned.

  ‘Be of good cheer, Edmund!’

  ‘To what end?’ groaned the other.

  ‘Heavens, man, our new piece is about to strut upon the stage. Is that not cause for joy and celebration?’

  ‘Not if it be howled down by the rougher sort.’

  ‘Throw aside such imaginings,’ said Willoughby. ‘The whole company is pledged to make amends for this morning. It will be a very different dish that is set before the audience. Nick Bracewell will marshal you behind the scenes and Lawrence will take you into battle at his accustomed gallop. All things proceed to consummation. Why this blackness?’

  ‘It is my play, Ralph.’

  ‘It is my play, too, friend, yet I am not so discomfited.’

  ‘You are not trapped like a rat in the dramatis personae.’

  ‘Indeed, no,’ said Willoughby. ‘My case is far worse.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Since I am to be a spectator of the action, I must endure every separate misadventure whereas you only see those in which Youngthrust is involved.’

  ‘There!’ said Hoode mournfully. ‘You are resolved on humiliation.’

  ‘I expect a triumph.’

  ‘After that rehearsal?’

  ‘Because of it, Edmund. Westfield’s Men explored every last avenue of error. There are no mistakes left to be made.’ His carefree laugh rang through the taproom. ‘This afternoon will put our merry devils in the ascendant. It can be no other way.’

  Ralph Willoughby was shorter, darker and slightly younger than Hoode, with an air of educated decadence about him and a weakness for the gaudy apparel of a City gallant. His good humour was unwavering, but his relentless optimism was only a mask for darker feelings that he kept to himself. Having abandoned his theological studies at Cambridge, he hurled himself into the whirlpool of London theatre and established a reputation as a gifted, albeit erratic, dramatist. The Merry Devils marked his first collaboration with Hoode and his debut with Westfield’s Men. His jaunty confidence was gradually reviving his colleague.

  ‘Dare we hope for success?’ said Hoode tentatively.

  ‘It is assured.’

  ‘And my portrayal as Youngthrust?’

  ‘It will carry all before it.’

  ‘Truly? This weighs heavily with me.’

  ‘As actor and poet, your reputation will be advanced. I would wager fifty crowns on it – if someone would loan me the money, for I have none to call my own.’

  ‘This lifts my spirits, Ralph.’

  ‘Be ruled by me.’

  ‘Much depends upon today.’

  ‘All is well, Edmund. All is well.’

  Hoode actually managed a pallid smile before downing the last of his drink. It was time to think and behave like a professional man of the theatre and surmount any difficulties. He no longer contemplated the prospect of execution. With luck and effort, he might not die on a scaffold of his own creation after all.

  Playbills were on display in prominent places all over the city and they brought a large, eager audience flocking to the Queen’s Head. Gatherers were kept busy collecting admission money and preventing anyone from sneaking in without paying. A penny bought standing room around the stage itself. Those who parted with an extra penny or two gained access to the galle
ries which ran around the yard and which offered seating, a clearer view and shelter from any inclement weather. Not that rain or wind threatened The Merry Devils. Its premiere was attended by the blazing sunshine of an English summer, warming the mood of the spectators even more than the drink that was on sale.

  New plays were always in demand and Westfield’s Men adopted the policy of trying to present more of them each year. By dint of their high standards, they built up a loyal following and rarely disappointed them. Lawrence Firethorn was the talk of the town. Barnaby Gill, the company’s principal comedian, was an evergreen favourite. Supporting players were always more than competent and the name of Edmund Hoode on any drama was a guarantee of worth and craftsmanship. The hundreds of people who were packing the inn yard to capacity had every right to expect something rather special by way of entertainment, but none of them could even guess at the sensation that lay ahead.

  Through the window of the taproom, Alexander Marwood watched the hordes arrive and bit his lip in apprehension. Other landlords might drool at the thought of the profits they would make from the sale of wine, beer, bread, fruit and nuts, supplemented as that income would be with the substantial rent for the use of the yard and money from the hiring of rooms where copulation could thrive throughout the afternoon in brief intervals of privacy. Marwood drew no solace from this. To his jaundiced eye, the standees were made up of pickpockets, cutpurses or drunken apprentices spoiling for a fight, the gorgeous ladies who brightened the galleries were all disease-ridden punks plying their trade, and the flamboyant gallants who puffed at their pipes had come for the express purpose of setting fire to the overhanging thatch.

  Then there was the play itself, an instrument of wickedness in five acts. When the landlord glanced upwards at the blue sky, he was surprised to see no thunderbolt waiting to be hurled down.